Hannah had visited “medieval” villages while in Scotland, full of Tudor-style homes and quaint shops, and this looked nothing like them. This was a real medieval village, not some re-creation or throwback to an earlier time.

Frankly, it terrified her.

She should be used to the shock by now, but every time she was confronted with new evidence of the time jump, Hannah’s brain went into overdrive. She couldn’t speak . . . could hardly breathe.

Holy shit, she was sitting astride a horse, next to a knight, above a medieval village filled with huts. She was living in the fourteenth century.

“Hannah?”

“I’m fine.”

“Clearly you are not,” Tristan said next to her.

“I will be.”

“Come,” he said, spurring his mount forward.

“The most fertile fields are that way,” he said, pointing beyond the village. “The marshlands we rode through are good for grazing, but not much else.”

Not surprising. They’d passed a windmill, but other than that, there’d been no signs of life.

They rode down a slight decline, Hannah trying not to grip the reins too tightly.

“Though small, Saxford Village serves the people well.”

As they approached the village, Tristan’s face lit up. “There is the church,” he said, pointing to the only building that had an actual roof rather than some clay-straw hybrid. “And that building, the forge. Our smith is quite skilled, but he’s had some help.”

Tristan was clearly proud of the skills that had gotten him noticed by Lord Kenton. Rightly so.

“Are a smith and an armorer the same thing?”

Tristan led her to a building not far from the forge. He dismounted, helped her to do the same, and then tied their horses to a wooden post.

“Nay, they are not.”

He didn’t elaborate. “Wait here.”

A stable. She couldn’t tell from her earlier angle, but as Hannah moved around the building, the sounds and smells from within revealed its purpose. She turned toward the center of the village and watched children playing with a ball that looked like it was made of string. They paid her no mind, but the same could not be said for the adults.

Hannah had always assumed peasants, if that was what these people were, would not be well-dressed. In movies, they always looked like their clothes were about to fall off their bodies. But there were a few young women in the crowd, and the only real difference between their dresses and hers was their gowns’ fabric and lack of adornments. Otherwise, they were styled similarly.

She felt Tristan behind her before he spoke. Awareness of him washed over her, sending a shiver down her spine. Hannah had been so nervous and excited to ride all on her own, she’d nearly forgotten her attraction to him.

Nearly, but not quite.

There was no use denying it. Not that it mattered much since this was only a temporary home for her. Hannah chuckled aloud at the thought of returning to Boston pregnant, fielding questions about the baby’s father.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice so close to her ear it sent another shiver through her.

“Nothing,” she said, turning. “Where to?”

“Afternoon, my lord.”

“Albert,” Tristan said to a short, bearded man headed in the opposite direction. They walked past the forge, away from the playing children, and Tristan exchanged greetings with several more of the townspeople.

“This isn’t at all what I expected,” Hannah said, turning to see the women still staring at her.

“No?”

Tristan was looking at her the way he always did. Boldly and straight into her eyes.

“No.” She pointed off into the distance to a structure she could not identify from here. “What is that?”

“The mill,” he said as they approached a two-story building. While the lower roof was made of stone, the upper layer was some sort of clay that seemed to have been mixed with hay. A sign depicted a fox and a goose, though it gave no other indication of what was inside.

“What is it?” she asked as he opened the door.

“A tavern,” he said. “The Fox and Goose.”

She turned back to give him a look that said, Seriously? That was the name of the tavern? Apparently he was. The name was as clever as the one Allie had given to the family cat when they were kids. She and Caroline teased their little sister mercilessly for naming her “Kitty.” But to be fair, they had gone along with it.

When she stepped inside, Hannah smiled. For a moment, she felt like she was back home. At least the old-style taverns in Boston had gotten something right. Wood everywhere and a stone fireplace, which adorned one wall, made it distinctly British-looking. Darker than it should be given that it was daytime, it was also much busier than she expected. Shouldn’t the men be working in the field?

“So many people here,” she whispered.

“During high season, it might be unusual for such a crowd this time of the day. But during low season?” He shrugged. “And it’s nearly time for dinner,” he said.

“You mean lunch,” Hannah teased.

“My lord.” A serving girl winked at him as she walked by.

“She literally winked at you.” Hannah sat opposite Tristan at a small table near the back of the hall.

“I won’t ask what that means,” he said, raising his hand in the air.

A moment later, another woman, this one much older, approached them.

“My lord?” she said. “Ale and a meal?”

“Aye,” Tristan said, his smile making the serving maid flush. She couldn’t be a year younger than fifty, but his appeal was ageless.

“It means,” she whispered as Tristan seemed to nod and smile at every single person in the room, “that she likes you.”

He turned his attention to her. “Does it now?”

Was he really that dense? “People don’t just go around winking at each other willy-nilly. And certainly not at the lord, unless . . .” She stopped talking. “Oh.”

Of course, she couldn’t care less if they’d already slept together. Hannah only glanced back at the girl . . . nay, she was very much a woman . . . out of curiosity. When she shifted her attention back to the table, Tristan was looking at her.

She didn’t like that look. God help her, she could not resist that look.

“Aye?” she asked. Hannah loved that word. If she ever made it back home, she was taking it with her. She smiled. Everyone would think she had gone batshit crazy.

“We are at the tavern. Now what do we do?”

“What do you mean, now—”

The cad.

Tristan sat back and crossed his arms, waiting for her to understand what he’d done. She couldn’t resist the smile that spread across her face.

“A date,” she said, though it wasn’t quite a question. “You think we’re on a date?”

Hannah’s pulse pounded as the day took on a whole new meaning. So he’d intended this from the start? Why?

Why else do people date, Hannah? Don’t be thick.

“Are we not?”

She could have objected to the arrangement, told him that two people have to agree to be on a date in order for it to qualify as such. Or that plopping her in the heart of a medieval freakin’ village was not a date, it was the basis for a movie. But what came out of her mouth was far removed from either of those things.

“Aye, Tristan. I suppose we are.”

God, she hoped she wouldn’t regret this.

Tristan couldn’t remember ever enjoying himself this much.

The look on Hannah’s face when she surmised they were on a “date,” as she called it, was surpassed only by the outrageous impressions of him and his men she’d done after drinking three mugs of ale. She had so mastered Gerard’s direct, gruff manner that if he closed his eyes, Tristan could imagine his marshal was sitting at the Fox and Goose with him. He had been surprised when she expressed concern that Gerard, and others, may not look kindly toward her.

Aside from that brief moment, their conversation remained lighthearted. And enjoyable. His urge to consummate their desire grew, but he would not do so lest she did find a way back to her time. There were ways, of course, to prevent a babe. But Tristan had seen too many of The Swan’s women use them and become mothers anyway. But could they not find enjoyment in other ways?

“I think it best we leave before you have difficulty riding back,” he said after Hannah finished her fourth mug of ale.

“A whole new notion of drunk driving,” she muttered. Hannah often said things that made no sense to him, and he’d learned when to ignore her strange comments.

They left, walking back to the stable in another companionable silence. Hannah smiled at everyone, and to his delight, they smiled back. If she stayed, they would warm to her, accept her. Tristan was sure of it.

“I’ll retrieve the horses,” he said, disappearing into the stable. She nodded her assent, but when he emerged with their mounts, she was gone.

“Hannah?” he called.

Tying the horses to an iron ring beside the stable, Tristan began walking, telling himself she was nearby. Could she have gone back home? But how? There were no falls here . . . and her last jump had only landed her in a pool of cold water—

“Tristan, in here.” Relief nearly brought him to his knees when she waved to him from the door of the blacksmith’s forge and then slipped back inside.

“I met George,” she said, her eyes bright, as he followed her inside. “He is quite skilled.”

The blacksmith did not look up, but Tristan saw the slight smile the old man tried to hide. Hunched over the anvil, he pounded away at the orange steel he was working.

“What is he making?” Hannah asked over the noise.

Tristan took a step toward George and watched as he pounded away.

“A broadsword,” he said as the old man looked up. Beads of sweat dripped from his withered brow. “Where is your new apprentice?”

George frowned. “Quit, he did. Said he missed his ma.”

He had not seen the smithy in too many moons, and he looked to have aged quite a bit. Tristan rolled up his sleeves, took an apron from the wall, and found a pair of gloves.

“What in the name of—”

“Move over,” he said, knowing if it didn’t come as an order, the other man would hammer all evening, tired or not.

When he reached out, George gave him the piece of iron and hammer. He went to work before it could cool and only looked up once to find Hannah watching him intently. By the time he finished, the piece of iron had begun to take shape. It would need two, perhaps three more days before it was finished.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said to George, handing him the iron.

“My lord, you—”

“Will finish the weapon now that I’ve started it.”

George grinned like a squire. “Thank you, my lord.”

Then, turning to Hannah, he said, “And thank you for bringing ’im here, my lady.”

Tristan reached out, without thinking, and offered Hannah his hand. As soon as they emerged, he realized what he’d done and released it.

“That was amazing,” she said.

“It was just a sword,” he said, though he didn’t quite mean it. Every piece was unique, and it had felt good to be back inside the forge. “What made you go in there?”

They approached the horses, and Tristan assisted Hannah, careful not to allow his touch to linger, and then mounted himself. They began the ride back.

“I heard the hammering,” she shrugged. “And wanted to see what it was that you did exactly. Though I still don’t see the difference between the two positions.” Pink rose on her smooth cheeks. “In terms of being a blacksmith and an armorer, I mean.”

He could say something bawdy but decided against it.

“I made only armor. George forges swords, daggers, even jewelry.”

“But that was a sword, and you knew how to—”

“An armorer can make weapons, and a blacksmith can make armor.”

Hannah made a face. “Perhaps some things in our times are just too different to comprehend.”

Tristan thought about that for a time, and likely Hannah did the same. He had not intended to stay so long in the village, but as he watched the sun dip in the sky, Tristan suddenly had an idea. Something he thought Hannah would enjoy. If they were going to make it, they would have to hurry.

“Do you think you’re ready to trot?”

Hannah shook her head.

“Good, follow me.”

“Tristan!”

Sometimes the best way to learn was just to do. And when he turned back to see her cantering along as easily as if she’d been raised riding, he smiled. He navigated off the main road and slowed down as trees began to appear. If he was correct . . .

“This way,” he shouted back. This was it. Tristan dismounted and turned to help Hannah do the same. After tying up both horses, he took her hand for the second time that day and led her to a break in the trees.

Just in time.

They watched, hand in hand, as the sun set in a magical display of reds, oranges, and pinks. It would make a beautiful memory, Tristan thought—for her, hopefully, and for him. Years after she went back to her own time, he would remember her easy laughter and strange ideas. He would remember this.

But she isn’t gone just yet.

And he was no monk.

Pulling her toward him with their joined hands, Tristan brought his lips down on hers and waited until Hannah opened herself completely. Though he plundered her mouth, his tongue tussling with hers in a dance common to both of their times, it wasn’t enough.

Groaning, he pulled her closer until he could feel her luscious breasts pressing against him. He kissed her harder, then trailed a line of kisses down to her jaw, her neck. Hannah responded by lifting her head to give him better access. He trailed his lips down, lower and lower, until the valley he sought was within reach. He slowed then, giving deference to the sacred place he was about to enter.

With one hand, he pushed the material of her gown aside, and with the other, he gripped the small of her back. Though he could not reach her nipple, the soft, warm mound under his lips gave him enough of a taste to know he wanted more.

Much more.

He stood and looked down at her partially exposed breast, her swollen lips, and her bemused expression.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Hannah swallowed. “No . . . nay. I’d rather you not.”