When Eadan first told Fiona his plan, she’d thought it was crazy, but he’d asked her to trust him. He told her they would most likely want to question her, and she’d tried to remain calm as she waited outside the hall while Eadan addressed the nobles.

Eadan's kiss had thoroughly disoriented her; on top of that, she had to convince a group of fourteenth-century Highlanders that she was a fallen English woman in need of a home. She’d always been a terrible liar, but she was determined to wing it. She needed Eadan as an ally in this time; he seemed to be her only way of getting back.

When she’d entered the room filled with the nobles of two clans—people who’d been dead for centuries in her time, she’d fought to keep her bearings. But she stuck to her tactic of sticking as close to the truth as possible, and as the craziness of her circumstances hit her; the tears had been real. She didn’t need to pretend that she was scared and overwhelmed. She had no idea how she’d gotten to be in 1390 and “married” to a Highland laird—however gorgeous he was. She just wanted to get back to her own time.

Most of the nobles seemed to believe her story, and she saw relief in Eadan’s blue eyes as he escorted her from the hall. A ripple of electricity flowed through her at his nearness, and she forced herself to step out of his grasp. A brief flash of something—perhaps hurt—flashed in Eadan’s eyes, and he dropped his hands to his side as she followed him down the corridor and up a winding set of stairs.

When they reached the top landing, he glanced around to make certain they were alone, before lowering his voice.

“Ye did well,” Eadan said. His tone softened, as he continued, “And I meant what I said—I’ll help ye get tae wherever ye need tae go once this is all over.”

His eyes were sincere, and she relaxed. It wasn’t like he wasn’t offering to help her for nothing in return, but a rush of gratitude still coursed through her, though she had no idea how he'd help her get back to the present.

Eadan turned, continuing down the hall until they reached a large chamber at the far end. Inside, an elderly woman with gray-streaked, blond hair and kind eyes stood. From her plan gown and apron, Fiona guessed she was a servant. The woman gave Fiona a warm smile.

“This is Una. She’ll help ye get settled and show ye around the castle. I’ll come by tae collect ye before supper,” he said, holding her gaze, and she understood his meaning. Eadan would need to prep her before she sat down for a meal with the other guests.

Eadan left them alone, and Fiona looked around. The chamber seemed even larger than Eadan’s, complete with a fireplace, a large arched window through which sunlight filtered in, and a massive curtained bed in the center. It was way too big of a room for just her.

“Ye’re wife of the laird,” Una said, as if reading her mind, giving her a warm smile. “Tis your home while ye’re here.”

“For now,” Fiona said hastily.

“No one would be bothered if ye stayed, m’lady,” Una said, moving over to the large bed, where a gown lay. “Magaidh is a devil in a lass’s body. She hates the laird, everyone can see it. I’m a feared she’ll kill him in his sleep.”

Fiona blinked, surprised that Una was being so open with her, a virtual stranger.

“But ye’re different, I can already tell. There’s a kindness tae ye, and ye’re quite bonnie. I can see why the laird fell for ye. It’s my hope that the laird keeps ye here.”

Fiona shook her head; she needed to make it clear she had no intention of staying.

“I—I have every intention of going to the nunnery,” Fiona said. “I’ve no plans to interfere with his betrothal.”

Una pressed her lips together but nodded, turning her focus to the gown on the bed.

“The gown ye’re wearing isn’t suitable for the wife of the laird. I’ll help ye get dressed, and then—"

“That’s not necessary,” Fiona said. She already found having a dedicated servant odd—it would be even weirder to have someone help her get dressed.

Una studied her, surprised, before her lips curved into a smile.

“When Magaidh comes tae visit, she insists on having three chambermaids tae help her dress,” she said, shaking her head. “I suppose ye’re different. I’ll be waiting in the hall while ye dress. When ye’re ready, I can show ye around the castle.”

Una left, and Fiona sighed. She had no desire to get into a rivalry with this Magaidh woman, but Una already seemed to like her more. It might be harder to stay out of the Eadan-Magaidh betrothal drama than she’d thought.

Una left the room, and Fiona got dressed, her hands trembling as she slipped on the underdress, then the tunic, and then the gown, which was deep blue and made of a finer fabric than the one she previously wore.

As she dressed, her mind whirled. The events of the day had flown by with such swiftness she'd barely had time to process it all. Now, the biggest question of all loomed in her mind—how had she come here? She recalled the rush of wind—and that woman. The same woman she’d seen in the museum, and at the ruins of the castle. That woman had something to do with her time travel, she was certain of it.

Fiona expelled a breath. If she went back to the cellar, she could see if the portal was still there. Una’s tour of the castle couldn’t have come at a better time.

After she'd dressed, Una looked her over, giving her a nod of approval before showing her around the castle, pointing out the upstairs chambers, then the great hall, the kitchens, and the inner courtyard. As they walked, the servants they passed studied her with curious gazes; she suspected the news of her arrival had already swept over the castle.

Once Una led her to the outer courtyard, pointing out the nearby stables, it truly hit her—she was in an actual thriving fourteenth-century castle. For the first time since she’d arrived, she allowed a sense of awe to sweep over her as she took in her surroundings. Macleay Castle was made of gray stone, its turreted towers winding toward the clear blue sky, surrounded by lush forests, overlooking a nearby lake. The castle could have been on a postcard for Scotland in her own time.

My own time, Fiona thought, reality seizing her by the throat. She needed to find a way to get back to her own time. She realized that Una hadn't shown her the lower part of the castle—the cellar, where she'd arrived.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to walk around a bit. Just—to clear my head. A lot has happened,” she said, as Una started to lead her back to her chamber.

“Of course, m’lady. Ye can find me in the kitchens if ye need anything.”

Fiona turned, pretending to head back to the courtyard. Once Una was out of sight, she turned, making her way down the long corridor past the great hall, reaching the stairwell that led to the cellar.

She paused, listening, but heard no one below. She descended the stairs, lifting up her skirts to avoid tripping.

Her heart slammed against her ribcage as she stepped inside the cellar, looking around.

But . . . it was an ordinary cellar. Just filled with stores of herbs, spices, and barrels of wine and ale. No vortex of wind. No strange woman. No telltale sign of anything odd or supernatural.

I’m trapped. A surge of frustration paired with fear filled her, and she leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. She stilled when she heard voices from above, just as she’d heard the night she arrived.

“And is she staying in yer bed, then?”

“No, Magaidh. Of course not.”

Fiona stilled. It was Eadan—Eadan and that woman he was betrothed to, Magaidh. She knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop, but something compelled her to the base of the stairs where she listened intently.

“Our marriage was never consummated. I’m only showing her kindness now. She means nothing tae me—I’ve every intention of wedding ye.”

“My father said she’s bonnie. Are ye certain ye’re not using her tae end our betrothal?”

There was a hint of warning in Magaidh’s seductive tone.

“No,” he said fiercely. From where she stood, Fiona could see their shadows move. She suspected Eadan was touching her cheek, and an inappropriate rush of jealousy flowed through her. “I—" His voice wavered, as if he were forcing himself to continue— “I wish to marry ye.”

“Good,” Magaidh said, satisfaction shaping her words.

Fiona held herself still as their footfalls disappeared, pushing aside her jealousy. What Eadan said—or did—with Magaidh was none of her concern. She was only posing as his bride until she could figure out how to get the hell out of 1390 and back to her own time. And that was what she would do. Somehow.