Hannah strained her neck to see what was happening as Tristan stood and made his way toward a group of men, newcomers, entering the hall.

“Kenton,” Tristan exclaimed loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

So this was the famous Lord Kenton.

Hannah couldn’t hear the man’s response from across the hall, but when Tristan and his mentor turned toward her a few moments later, she had no doubt whom they were discussing. Gerard led the other men away while Tristan and his mentor made their way toward her.

Kenton was not at all what she had expected. Even if Tristan had not called him an old man, he spoke of him with such respect and deference she would have expected him to be much older. He was no more than fifty with not a gray hair to be found. His close-shaven but full beard, as black as the hair on his head, made him look as fierce as Tristan had upon their first meeting.

Kenton’s expression didn’t help matters.

It wasn’t his lack of a smile that unnerved her. He met her eyes as he approached the dais, and his serious gaze, coupled with his unwavering eye contact, would have made a younger Hannah shift in her seat. As it was, she’d dealt with celebrity clients and CEOs who could, and had, made their interns cry. Dealing with him would take finesse, something she had in spades.

She stood.

The social norms of this period eluded her still, but Hannah had been taught never to shake hands from a seated position. She hoped the same was true of bowing, since she would be required to honor Kenton’s elevated station—the only useful tidbit of information she’d absorbed from her tours of Scottish castles was that the motions of bowing and curtseying had been basically the same before the seventeenth century.

“Kenton, I would like you to meet Lady Hannah Sutton.”

“Good evening to you, my lord,” she said with a bow.

“This is the man I told you was passably good at wielding a sword,” Tristan said with a smirk.

In fact, Tristan had told her Kenton was an excellent swordsman—in his prime, he’d claimed more than his share of honors in tournaments throughout England.

“The pleasure is mine,” he said, nodding to her seat. Hannah sat back down and watched as Kenton took a seat on the other side of Tristan. Below them, Gerard had led the others to their seats, and the servants were already coming around with soup for the newcomers.

The first time she won the New England Award of Excellence in Business, Hannah had felt as she did now—distinctly out of place. She hadn’t allowed her nerves to rattle her then, and she certainly would not do so now.

Once he was settled, the older man leaned forward to meet her eyes once again. “Tristan says you are visiting from overseas, my lady?”

They really needed a better cover story if she was going to stay here for any length of time. Though she fully expected, somehow, to get swept back to her time—or at least to her sisters—she had no idea what the timeline would be.

“Aye, my lord,” she said, hoping Tristan hadn’t left the details of the lie to discretion.

“How long were you in Venice?”

Hannah nearly spat out her wine. It took every ounce of self-control not to laugh at Tristan, who was the picture of innocence at the moment.

Hopefully Kenton was not as versed in Italian as his former ward.

“Not long,” she said. “When my parents died, I vowed to become a student of the world. You see, my father always wanted to travel and never had the opportunity,” she said, sticking to the truth as much as possible. “In their honor, I have been moving from place to place. Lord Saxford was kind enough to allow me to stay here as I mourn the loss of Kitty.”

Now both men appeared confused. “My lady’s maid,” she clarified.

Lord forgive her for lying. And for not thinking of a better name for her nonexistent maid. Her cat had indeed died, so there was that.

“Ahh.”

“How goes Kenton Castle?” Tristan interjected. “And Berwick?”

Hannah pasted a smile on her face, grateful to Tristan for redirecting Kenton’s attention.

“Restless. The end of the truce and the lack of interest from the wardens thanks to the growing power of the noble magnates, a distraction for the king, guarantees a renewed volatility courtesy of Clan Sutherland.”

“I made a vow that day that I intended to keep,” Tristan answered.

That day . . . the one where Kenton had granted him Saxford in exchange for his protection of one of the most contentious regions along the border. She supposed it was a good deal, but after what she’d seen in the forge, maybe Tristan would have been just as happy as an armorer.

He would certainly have been safer.

As the men discussed Tristan’s preparation for the expiration of the truce, Hannah’s thoughts drifted far away. The talk of Sutherland had reminded her of a weekend trip she’d taken in college. She and three of her friends had visited West Virginia, the home state of one of the girls. They’d gone to a festival celebrating the end of the rivalry between the Hatfields and McCoys. One of the famous families’ surviving relatives—Hannah couldn’t remember from which side—spoke just before the lead band played in the evening. He said that the reconciliation of their two families was proof that anyone could reach an accord.

Or something like that.

Was a lasting peace truly out of the question? She would have to tell the story to Tristan.

He looked worried. A week ago she would have missed the signs—the way he bit the inside of his cheeks and ground his teeth so subtly it was hardly noticeable. How safe were they here at Saxford? Would she be in danger if she remained here much longer? Could she truly leave never knowing Tristan’s fate? Or having to look it up as a part of distant history?

“Lady Hannah,” Kenton said, breaking her out of her reverie. “How long do you plan to stay in England?”

Did the man read minds?

As Tristan watched her, waiting for an answer, Hannah struggled with what to say. She’d planned to say “not long,” but the intensity of Tristan’s gaze changed her mind.

“I’m still not sure,” she said, keenly aware her modern-sounding language made her stick out like a sore thumb. Kenton gave her a strange look, but there was nothing she could do to take back what she’d already said. All she could do was put forth her most proper manners.

For Tristan’s sake.

“I will say, the circumstances by which I find myself here are second only to the tale of how Lord Saxford came to be here himself.”

Kenton set down his soup spoon, glancing at Tristan with fatherly pride.

“He told you of the battle, I presume? He was too modest, I am sure.”

Tristan rolled his eyes and directed his attention toward his meal.

“In all my days I’d never seen a man fight like that. I was only glad the king recognized his bravery and service.”

“Enough talk of battle and bravery,” Tristan said. “Lady Hannah has heard of nothing else since she arrived.”

Though it was true, Hannah did not tire of it. She liked to hear of Tristan’s successes. Certainly, his stories were a far cry from life in Boston or Mayport Bay.

“Aye,” Kenton said. “Let us discuss something more appropriate for your guest.” He raised his mug to her, drank deeply, and planted it back on the table. “My niece is staying with us for a time,” he said. “Her needlework is quite fine. I trust you enjoy embroidery, Lady Hannah?”

She stared at the man in horror. Though her grandmother had made her mother’s wedding gown by hand, Grandma’s talent with a needle had not passed down through the generations. Not to Hannah, at least.

“An instrument, then?”

Hannah shot a look at Tristan, who appeared to catch on to her dismay.

“Lady Hannah finds . . . out-of-door pursuits more to her liking,” Tristan said.

This ought to be good.

“Indeed?” Kenton was trying his best to feign polite interest. “Hawking, then?”

Uh, not exactly. She shot Tristan another, more desperate, look.

“Walks in the woods,” he blurted. “And riding.”

When Kenton looked back at her, Hannah was the epitome of good grace. She smiled and nodded, trying hard not to laugh.

Their conversation shifted back to the conflict with Sutherland, thankfully, and she allowed herself to drift again.

Embroidery? Music? Hawking?

Was that what a life of a lady entailed?

Of course it did. This was not the twenty-first century, and if women had a place of importance here, it was the exception and not the rule. Even the allure of staying with Tristan couldn’t compensate for that dreadful fact.

Staying with Tristan? Impossible.

Still, there was no denying the idea had crossed her mind. What if she discovered Caroline and Allie had come through time as well? Would they want to stay or go back if such a thing were even possible?

Don’t be ridiculous. Even on the off chance they did want to stay, she could not. She’d spent the past several years building a successful business, and the very idea of subjecting herself to these fourteenth-century notions of womanhood . . . nay, it was a silly idea.

She could never, ever stay here. Not in a million years.

“Don’t go back.”

Tristan stood beside her at the falls, knowing she was prepared to jump. Knowing, somehow, that it would work this time.

“Tristan, I . . . I must.” With that, she took a step toward the edge of the falls, and he knew he was about to lose her, he knew . . .

“Tristan.”

This time, his name was in Gerard’s voice, and the image of Hannah on the precipice of the falls faded from his vision. A dream, then. But hadn’t his mother always told him dreams told the truth?

After four days with them, Kenton had left that afternoon. They’d spent most of the night before continuing their discussion of the Sutherland threat, and after a long day of training, Tristan must have fallen asleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept during the day.

“How long did I sleep?”

Gerard crossed his arms. “You missed supper,” he said, “which I thought was most unusual.”

Damn.

He had seen little of Hannah these last few days. After the first night of Kenton’s visit, she had avoided taking an active part in their talk at dinner. He could tell she’d been frustrated with the older man’s questions. Coupled with the fact that the men he’d sent to scout for her sisters—or any information about Leannan Falls—were due back any day, she was not herself.

In the meantime, her easy manner had accomplished the impossible. It seemed Hannah found an unlikely friend. She and Cook, known for his surliness, had apparently been inseparable these last few days. Tristan was curious about that rumor and anxious to mitigate the damage Kenton had done.

He loved the man like a father, but he could be difficult at times. Tristan’s mother had always commented on the lord’s high-handedness, however grateful she’d been for his role in Tristan’s life.

“As long as you are well,” Gerard said, “I will take my leave. Good eve, my lord.”

His steward grinned, knowing how much the title annoyed him, especially when used in private. He was well past caring about appearance, and anyone who knew Tristan’s history knew better than to expect conventionality to reign at Saxford. It was why his people had accepted Hannah so quickly.

A few moments later, a servant arrived with a wooden tray. Gerard had evidently ordered the meal, but Tristan wasn’t hungry.

For food at least.

He’d thought about going to Hannah nearly every single night, only to remember all the reasons he should not.

But Tristan no longer cared about convention or propriety or all the differences that stood between them.

Hannah was in his blood. The memory of their day in the village would not leave him. He awoke each morning feeling the phantom pleasure of her body pressed against his. When she smiled at anyone but him, Tristan wanted to pull her into his arms and make her forget anyone else existed.

His will had been tested every day and night, and tonight it failed him.

He needed to see her.

Now.