For a few glorious seconds when Fiona awoke, she thought she was back in her room at the bed-and-breakfast in Inverness, and the events of the previous day were just a weird twisted dream. But as she opened her eyes and found that she was in a large bed in a medieval chamber, she wanted to scream. She remembered the Gorgeous Scot—Eadan—telling her, with a straight face and absolute sincerity, that the year was 1390.

She sat up and nearly jumped from her skin at the sight of Eadan at her bedside, seated on a chair. His partially opened tunic revealed a hint of muscular torso, and his dark hair was rumpled, as if he’d raked his hands through it several times. His cerulean blue eyes, filled with caution, studied her as if she were a rabid animal on the verge of attack.

Fiona ignored the surge of desire that flowed through her, taking a breath. She had the horrible feeling that this was no reenactment, and that Eadan spoke the truth. She was somehow, inexplicably in the year 1390.

"Morning, lass," Eadan said, his tone as cautious as his expression. "I take it ye slept well."

"I—I need to leave. Please," she said, stumbling out of bed on shaky legs.

If she was indeed in 1390, she had to figure out how to get back. She’d arrived in the cellar of the castle. Maybe that was where—the portal was? She had to stifle a hysterical laugh at the thought, but if she'd arrived in the fourteenth century, it had been through some sort of portal. Unless she just had a complete breakdown and this entire situation was in her head.

“I doonae think so," Eadan said, getting to his feet. "No one besides myself and my cousin ken ye’re here. If ye go wandering about the castle, my father and the other clan nobles will want tae question ye.”

Panic flooded her body, and she took several calming breaths. Don’t panic, she urged herself. Think.

"May—may I look out the window?" she asked, speaking past dry lips.

Eadan gave her a puzzled look, but he nodded. She moved past him and peered out the window.

Outside, there were no ruins of a medieval village, her car, or any hint of modernity. Instead, there was a large circular courtyard surrounded on all sides by the castle. Servants in medieval clothing bustled to and fro—a stable boy led two horses toward the gate, two chambermaids carried a large bucket in between them, several male servants carried sacks of what looked like wheat into the side entrance of the castle.

Beyond the courtyard, there was no sign of tourists, cars, cement-paved roads, or any signs of the twenty first century.

Fiona swayed on her feet, clutching the side of the window. Eadan was instantly at her side, helping her back to the chair as he’d done the night before.

To her relief, he said nothing, allowing her to lean forward to press her fingertips to her forehead. Her mind spun, even as she tried to keep calm. Thirteen ninety. How was this even possible?

She dimly realized that Eadan was now speaking, and she had to force herself to concentrate on his words.

“I still doonae believe yer story, but I doubt ye’re a spy. I do believe ye’re eager to leave, and I can help ye with that."

She looked up at him, her heart hammering. “Thank you.”

“But the terms haven’t changed,” he said, holding her gaze. “Ye must help me first.”

Dread curled around her spine as she remembered his insane proposition from the night before. A part of her had hoped she hadn’t remembered that correctly, that traveling through time had messed with her memory.

“No,” she said, at the same time that he said, “I need ye tae pose as my bride."

Fiona glared at him. She was still trying to come to terms with the fact that she might be in another time—and he wanted her to pose as his bride?

"Are you out of your mind?" she demanded. "I'm leaving here, and—“

"I'm giving ye a choice, lass; I willnae force ye tae stay. But if ye try tae leave on yer own, without a penny to yer name, ye’ll find it difficult. Someone will stop ye, and bring ye back to me, or to my father, and as I've said before, ye’ll have tae deal with stern questions from the other nobles who aren’t as patient as me. Tensions are high between our clans, they willnae believe yer story of just happening to arrive here. I'm guessing ye willnae get very far. Or,” he continued, his tone softening, “ye can let me help ye. It willnae be a real marriage, just for show, so I can end my betrothal and get tae the bottom of something. If ye help me, I'll help ye get back. Ye have my vow.”

Fiona closed her eyes, dazed. When he laid it out like that, it almost seemed rational. Can you get me six hundred years into the future? she thought, dazed.

There was still a part of her that clung to the hope of a logical conclusion—that she was dreaming, in some twisted reenactment, or that Eadan, Ronan, and the people in medieval clothing milling around the castle grounds were all crazy.

She needed proof first. Proof that she was indeed in 1390. If so, his proposition was . . . logical. She had no other allies in this time, no other ways of getting out of here. Eadan hadn’t harmed her, and he seemed genuine.

“I—I need to confirm something first," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. She didn’t want to tell him she was from the future; she had the feeling that wouldn’t go over well. She’d have to stick to her made-up-on-the-spot story. "I want you to take me to the nearest village. I—I don't need to talk to anyone. I just need to look around. Please,” she said, as he studied her with suspicion. “And then—” Fiona took a breath. She couldn’t believe she was saying this, but what choice did she have? “And then I’ll pose as your bride.”

He relaxed and nodded.

"I'll have tae get ye some clothes," he said, his eyes raking over her, and her face flamed at his critical appraisal. "If anyone stops us, ye’re tae say nothing, understand? We'll stay tae the back of the grounds tae avoid being seen."

She nodded, relief flowing through her as he left. As soon as he was gone, she checked every square inch of the room, but there was not a single outlet or hint of anything modern.

Eadan returned more quickly than she’d thought, with a white tunic, an underdress, a green gown, and plaid fabric that she could use as a cloak, something Eadan called an airisaidh.

“Had tae tell quite the story tae get those clothes,” he grumbled, before leaving the room to allow her to change.

Fiona looked down at the clothes, nervous. She was used to simple maxi dresses or jeans and button-down shirts. But getting dressed was intuitive, and she slipped into the underdress and tunic before stepping into the green gown. She took special care to wrap the plaid cloak around herself, wanting to be as unobtrusive as possible.

She went to the door and swung it open. Eadan's gaze raked over her, a strange look filling his eyes. Desire? But it was gone before she could interpret it. But that didn't stop her mouth going dry, and a hot spiral of arousal from coiling through her as his eyes locked with hers.

What the hell was wrong with her? She needed to come to terms with this whole time travel thing, not get distracted by the handsome Scot.

"Remember, say nothing,” he said. “When we return, we come straight back tae my chamber.”

"Agreed."

They took the back entrance out of the castle, and she kept her head bowed low beneath her cloak. He led her out of the the courtyard toward the stables where he fetched a horse from a stable boy who gave her a curious look.

Eadan gently helped her up onto his horse, and she tried not to react to his closeness when he placed his arms around her, holding her close as they rode away from the castle.

Fiona took in their surroundings as they rode, and her heart sank. They were on a winding dirt road that cut through endless fields of green; there was no sign of modern paved roads, signs, or cars. In the far distance, she could make out manor homes and villages dotting the surrounding lands.

Eadan slowed the horse as they reached the outskirts of a small yet bustling medieval village. Fiona took in the cobblestoned streets, the thatch-roofed cottages, blacksmith and carpenter’s shops, and an ale house. The villagers who roamed through the streets and tended to the surrounding fields with horses and plows all wore medieval clothing—long tunics, plain gowns, and breeches.

She could try to convince herself that this was an elaborate reenactment; there were plenty of authentic medieval villages in Scotland. But Fiona took in the faces of the villagers, their expressions ranging from neutral to blank to weary. They weren’t playacting. This wasn’t some elaborate joke, or reenactment. This was real life. She was in the year 1390.

"Lass," Eadan said, his voice rumbling in her ear. He must have felt the tension in her body. "I assume this isnae where ye meant tae arrive?"

"You can say that," Fiona replied, taking a steadying breath.

He turned the horse and took them back to the castle. Fiona clenched her shaking hands at her sides as a stable boy took the horse from them, and they headed inside the castle through the rear entrance. She was so consumed by her turbulent thoughts that she barely noticed the servant who stopped them.

“Dughall wishes tae speak tae ye, Laird Macleay,” he said, his eyes straining toward Fiona with curiosity. At her side, Eadan stiffened.

“I’ll be right there.”

Eadan gripped her arm, leading her back to his chamber, and she was glad for his firm hand. Her disorientation made it difficult to walk.

Once they arrived in his chamber, he closed the door behind them. Fiona walked to the bed on shaky legs and sank down into it, taking a deep breath.

“I have tae take my leave, but I’ll be back shortly,” Eadan said. He gestured to a table in the center of the room, where a chambermaid had left a tray of food. “There’s food and drink if ye’re hungry.”

Fiona gave him a brief nod of thanks. Eadan continued to study her. Though his body was tense, his voice remained gentle.

“Have ye decided? Will ye pose as my bride? Or do ye want tae take a chance on yer own?"

Fiona pressed her fingers to her temple. She'd fallen through time to end up in 1390. Thus far, Eadan was her only ally, and potentially the only one who could help her.

"I'll pose as your bride," Fiona whispered.