“My lady?”

Hannah opened her eyes, blinking against the light that peeked through the shuttered window of her chamber. She should be grateful to even have a window, since many areas of the castle did not.

Instead, she wanted nothing more than to go back to bed.

Two days had passed since they’d returned from Leannan Falls. She kept hoping to wake up and realize this was all just a dream. But it wasn’t, and if her sisters were indeed marooned in the past with her, there was no sign of them.

“Aye, Joan, I’m getting up.”

Waking. That would have been the preferable thing to say. Every time Hannah opened her mouth, it seemed she spoke a word or phrase that was foreign to the fourteenth century. Her presence was already a circus sideshow, and she didn’t need to bring additional attention to herself. But she simply couldn’t help it.

From the way she ate to the words she spoke, everything about her seemed strange to Tristan’s people. He had told them she was a widow, but apparently that had done little to sway them. Hannah wasn’t stupid. There were not many women here, and all of them shot her scornful looks that told her how inappropriate it was for her to be here, alone and unchaperoned.

As for the men . . . they either seemed to hold her in suspicion or want to sleep with her. She’d had to swat away more than one wayward hand.

So much for the chivalric code.

But it was Gerard, Tristan’s steward, who appeared to trust her the least. He eyed her with suspicion, as if she would take his job. Or perhaps she only imagined it knowing his duties most closely aligned to her skill set. Gerard was one of the first people Tristan had met when he began to train under Lord Kenton. Perhaps it was simply their close bond that made the man so leery of her.

Back home, his attitude would have mattered. Hannah liked to be liked. But here she was an outsider. An unwelcome guest. An interloper who wanted nothing more than to leave and never come back. She did not belong, and so the usual rules did not apply.

And yet . . . at least one person seemed happy to have her here.

Tristan had been an utter gentleman since their trip to the falls. True to his promise, he’d sent his men on a mission that she hoped, prayed, would find some answers. In the meantime, she waited. And tried her best to acclimate to life at Saxford Castle.

Hannah had spaced out while Joan helped her dress up in her newest doll-like outfit—a silken chemise and cranberry velvet gown. When she snapped back to attention, Joan was saying, “With Kenton comin’, Cook is as irritable as ever.”

“Kenton?”

“Aye, my lady. Lord Kenton is coming to Saxford.”

Tristan hadn’t mentioned his mentor would be visiting. Although she’d hardly seen him, so maybe she shouldn’t be surprised.

“Why does that make Cook irritable?”

Joan’s eyes widened. “You’ve not met ’im yet?”

Hannah shook her head. “No. And I don’t believe I care to if he’s that irritable.”

“Aye, you’d do well to avoid him.”

Hannah smiled. “Duly noted.” Dammit. “I meant to say, very well. Thank you.”

Joan wasn’t fooled. But for some reason, she didn’t seem to hold Hannah’s strangeness against her.

“May I ask you something, Joan?”

Hannah turned as Joan began to work on her hair. She’d tried to tell the woman she was perfectly capable of brushing her own hair, but she’d have none of it. Apparently she had been assigned to Hannah’s care, and from what she could tell, it was a job that was taken seriously, even if the “lady” was of questionable moral standards.

“Of course, my lady.”

She would never get used to that. Though Tristan had explained it was an address of respect more than one that denoted a title, which, of course, she didn’t have, it rang false to her ears.

“Why are you so kind to me?”

The question seemed to surprise the older woman.

“I mean, everyone else treats me like a leper.”

Joan shrugged. “They do not know you, my lady.”

“But you hardly know me either.”

Finished, the maid spun her around and smiled at her own handiwork.

“Aye, but I know enough. I know you are kind, and that you make my lord smile.”

Joan picked up Hannah’s discarded nightdress, a satin chemise, and shooed her from the room.

“Go now, my lord is waitin’ on you.”

“Tristan?”

Joan frowned. Apparently no one else called him that. But she’d be damned if she called him anything but. It was the only semblance of normalcy she had around here.

“Aye, my lady. He’s in the hall.”

Odd. Since their return, she usually only saw him at supper, and she’d begun to think he was avoiding her. Hannah had told herself it was fine. The last thing she needed was an attachment to a man who lived in a different century.

So why was she so excited to hear he’d sent for her?

Tristan had never acted like such a coward in his life. Each night he dreamed of Hannah, and each morning he awoke from a deep slumber with the feel of her lips on his own. But his feelings for her scared him, and so he’d walked away from them—and her. It helped that there were plenty of preparations that had required his attention. Now that his men were ready and his allies on alert, he needed only to await the raids, and likely attacks, that would be forthcoming once the truce with Sutherland ended.

His thoughts had lingered more and more on Hannah, and he’d realized it had been a mistake to stay away. And so he’d devised a plan to make it up to her.

As she walked into the great hall now, he made his way toward her, trying to ignore the fact that every man present was fixated on her.

“Good morn, my lady,” he said.

“Tris . . . my lord.”

He knew they were being watched. Counted on it in fact.

“Tristan,” he said, his voice firm. Though it would invite further speculation, the familiarity would also ensure Hannah was not treated poorly. At least overtly. Tristan was aware how Hannah had been treated thus far at Saxford. He’d attempted to mitigate the worst of it, but it wasn’t enough. He, more than anyone, was aware of the stigma that came with even the merest perception of impropriety. Hannah had arrived under dubious circumstances, unchaperoned, and with nothing but the force of her personality. His people had taken notice.

“I have a proposal, my lady.” He would only call her Hannah in private. That she was given leave to use his given name, but that he did not do so in return, was also a message of respect.

Hannah appeared just as she had since that day at the falls. Sad. Defeated. Unlike the woman he’d met that first day on the beach. And not at all the same as the one who had kissed him at their camp.

Which is why this day was not likely the best of his ideas. But necessary nonetheless.

“I’d like to take you to the village,” he said. “You’ve met so few . . .” He almost said, of us, but he had to give care to how he spoke to Hannah around others. No one, not even Gerard, whom he trusted with his life, could know the truth. It was simply too fantastical. Too dangerous.

“You’ve met so few people here.”

“Why?”

Indeed. A good question that warranted an answer. The truth would not do. Instead, he said, “I thought it might be . . . of interest.”

She didn’t trust him. Why would she in light of how he’d abandoned her? But as she cocked her head to the side, Tristan found himself praying she agreed.

“Very well,” she said.

Tristan smiled.

“Good. Come.”

He strode from the hall at a brisk pace, assuming Hannah would follow. It was only when he began to descend the stairs to the ground floor that he looked behind him. Where was she?

“Right now?” she said, rounding the corner. He was pleased to see the hint of a smile on her face. “Will we not break our fast first?”

He laughed. “At least you have the right of it today. When I first heard the term breakfast—”

“And don’t forget lunch.”

He shook his head as he continued down the steps. “It truly is as if we speak different languages at times.”

“Honestly,” she called from above him. “It doesn’t much matter what you call it. I’m famished.”

He assumed that meant some form of hunger.

“I’ve had Cook prepare food for us,” he said as they exited the main keep. He pointed to their mounts. “There.”

Hannah stopped. “I cannot ride myself. You know I do not—”

“We will take it slow,” he said, thanking the groom who had chosen the perfect horse for Hannah. “Her name is Arwen.”

For someone who had no experience with horses, Hannah had done well on their journey—enough so that she was likely ready to ride herself. At least he hoped she was ready. He couldn’t bear the torture of having her body cradled so close to his.

“She was a gift from Kenton,” he said. “To my mother.”

Hannah’s hand froze on the Spanish mare’s shoulder.

“Your . . .”

“Mother,” he repeated. Nodding to the groom, who helped Hannah mount, Tristan climbed atop his horse. “That’s it,” he said. “Sit up straight, just as you did with me. Hold the reins only as firmly as needed.”

Hannah glanced over at him, and Tristan could not hold his laughter at her expression.

“Well done,” he said, despite her glare. And it was true—her posture was perfect. “Now squeeze with your heels and tell her to walk.”

Hannah did exactly as he instructed. “Keep your chin up and look forward.”

As he rode alongside her, instructing her on how to guide the horse’s movement—“Press your calf gently on the right.” “And now the left.” “Stay with her.”— an audience began to form. Someone shouted a word of encouragement while another clapped as she began to get the hang of the horse’s movements.

Once she had mastered a few basics, they rode toward the gatehouse, cheers echoing in their ears. If his people thought it odd a lady did not know how to ride, they would know better than to comment on it in his hearing.

“Now squeeze your thighs.”

Tristan inhaled. Best not to visualize that. “See? She is slowing down.”

“To stop completely, pull back on the reins,” he said as they rode through another gate along the North Mere. Saxford was surrounded by the North Sea on one side and three meres on the others. Additional gatehouses guarded the small areas between each of the lakes.

“Don’t pull back too quickly,” he said. “Easy . . . there you go.”

She looked at him as if she’d been granted a boon. “I’m doing it. I’m really doing it!”

Indeed, she was. She looked magnificent atop Arwen’s back, her eyes sparkling and her back straight.

“Remember,” he said when Arwen reared a bit. “Every movement should be slow, deliberate.” If his voice sounded different, it was because his imagination had conjured an image of her riding him. Tristan looked away, concentrating on the landscape in front of them. “Are you hungry?” he asked, remembering that she’d asked him about food.

“No . . . nay,” she said. “I’m too excited to eat.”

A comfortable silence fell between them as they rode side by side, enjoying the warm weather. They would not reach the village until midmorning, but he waited until Hannah looked comfortable enough to talk.

“She likes you.” He nodded to Arwen.

“I like her too,” she said, glancing at him. “I’d love to know more about her previous owner.”

The look in her eyes told him she meant every word. She wanted to hear more about his mother, and for the first time in a long while, Tristan felt compelled to talk about her.

“She died two years ago,” he said. “Just after she agreed to move here with me.”

“I’m sorry, Tristan.”

“Her life was a difficult one,” he said. “I would have enjoyed giving her the security Saxford could offer.”

“She didn’t want to come earlier?” Hannah asked, navigating Arwen as if she were an expert horsewoman. The road to the nearest village was flat, a perfect first ride for her.

“The Swan was the only establishment of its kind not under the control of the church,” he said. “She worried what would become of it if she left. My mother selected the women carefully; all were examined to ensure their humors were balanced before working for her. But she took care to treat them well, something other stewhouses were not always reputed to do.”

“She sounds like a caring, ambitious woman.”

Her tone lacked any hint of derision.

“Aye, she was . . . perfect.”

Maybe not to the world, but to him.

“She died in her sleep. The ladies said a pain in her arm and vomiting sent her to an early bed. And, it seems, an early grave. She should have been at Saxford. With me.”

Hannah grew quiet suddenly, and Tristan ventured to ask her the same question she’d asked him.

“Will you speak of your parents?”

When Arwen suddenly reared, Tristan shouted, “Keep your weight forward. Don’t pull on the reins.”

She did as instructed, and the horse quickly calmed. “That’s it,” he said, grateful he’d chosen a horse with such an easy temperament. “She sensed your unease. You may have pulled back or tightened your legs without realizing you’d done so.”

Hannah took a deep breath and finally looked over at him. “I believe I did just that.”

Neither of them needed to say it aloud—the subject of her parents had clearly upset her. Tristan didn’t bring it up again, instead finding ways to distract her. They spoke at greater length of the differences between their times, though much of what she said was difficult to believe.

Time passed like water with Hannah, and before Tristan knew it, they’d reached the gentle ridge leading in to the village. What would she think of it?

“Slow down,” he said as they reached the top. “And look.”

He watched as Hannah looked down and gasped.