Hannah closed the door behind Joan and turned back toward her bedchamber. She’d asked for a fire even though it was high summer. Summers in Maine could be cool, but a constant chill lingered in the castle—one of many things Hannah struggled to adjust to.

The list was extensive.

And yet . . . these past few days she had settled into more of a routine than she’d thought possible. Kenton, who’d inadvertently reminded her of how out of place she was in the fourteenth century, had reminded her of all the reasons why she could never stay here. Despite . . . well . . . him.

But she’d decided to make herself useful for the rest of her time in Saxford, and since Tristan had been closeted away with Kenton and his marshal, she’d decided to start with the next most important person in the household.

Cook, known by no other name, was everything she’d expected. Burly, gruff, and completely uninterested in her meddling, he’d kicked her out of the kitchen no less than three times before she made any headway.

Eventually she wore him down the same way she would any difficult client. By being helpful. Ignoring the strange looks she attracted, she donned an apron and refused to leave the kitchen. And while Cook continued to present his unapologetic rough manners, Hannah ignored his blustering. She’d actually elicited a smile from him later that first day. And hugs from no less than two kitchen maids, who’d thanked her for “such a miracle.”

Since then she had showed him new dishes, at least ones that were possible with the ingredients at hand. Although she did not cater events herself, Hannah knew enough about them to understand how large amounts of food could be made, and served, efficiently. Cook had been much more open to her suggestions as the days wore on, and she found herself enjoying their time together.

Walking toward the hearth and reaching out her hands to warm them, Hannah sighed in contentment. It was actually kind of cozy with the fire.

She almost hated the thought of going back to the bright lamps and fluorescent lighting of her office. Her room, like the rest of the castle, was lit by the soft, warm glow of candles and wall torches, which gave it all a very . . . medieval feel.

The knock at the door couldn’t have startled her more if it had been a tractor trailer barreling through her room. She’d never been so on edge back home. Not before the accident anyway.

Assuming it was Joan, Hannah pulled the door open without hesitation. “Did you forget—”

“Oh,” she said, shocked to see Tristan filling the doorway. As many times as she’d thought of going to him, or imagined him appearing at her door, she should have been more prepared. Instead, she simply stared. Allie would certainly not call her a “paragon of politeness” if she could see her mouth agape just now. Something about him made her much more expressive, even outspoken, than normal.

When his gaze dropped to take in the white silk chemise Joan had chosen for her, Hannah’s heart thudded in her chest.

“May I come in?”

It was not a good idea. In fact, it was a terrible one. But there was no chance in hell she would say no.

“Aye.”

Hannah stepped aside and Tristan entered the room, which immediately felt half as big, and closed the door behind him.

“Nice of you to bring two,” she said, pointing to the sole goblet he held.

“Gerard had it sent to me when I missed the meal. Care to share?”

She didn’t answer and instead watched as Tristan strode to the small table against the wall.

Hannah could not help staring at Tristan’s backside as he poured the wine. The thin material of his hose did little to hide a very shapely—

She jerked her head up when Tristan cleared his throat. A younger Hannah would have been quite embarrassed to have been caught staring. Now she felt invigorated.

He handed her the wine, ever a gentleman, and Hannah took a sip, attempting to slow her racing pulse as their fingers touched. Normally she hated sweet wine, but even the sweetest of Saxford’s vintages would be considered dry by modern standards. Though different than what she was used to, it was not altogether bad.

Hannah handed the wine back to him.

“I’ve not slept during the day,” he said, his voice deep and low, “as far back as I can remember. After staying up with Kenton . . .” He stopped and took another sip of wine. “I was sorry to have missed a moment alone with you.”

When he handed back the goblet this time, Hannah took a healthier swig of it.

“He cares for you,” she said. To her mind, it was the one quality that recommended Kenton.

“But you do not care for him.”

Not usually one to be self-conscious, Hannah nevertheless found herself squirming under his gaze. She walked over to one of the two chairs in front of the fire and sat.

Tristan sat across from her, watching her and waiting, apparently, for her to continue.

“In my time, he would be called a male chauvinist.”

Seeing his confused expression, she attempted to explain. “A man who believes females are inferior.”

Tristan appeared to consider her words. “He does believe as much,” he finally said. “Though I do not.”

“I know.” If he had thought so, Hannah would have never, not even briefly, allowed herself to imagine what a life at Saxford would be like.

Not that he’d asked her to stay. Or that she could ever, ever consider such a thing, not knowing if her sisters were safe.

“But there are many men like Kenton.”

“In my day as well. Women have more rights in the future, but still . . .” She shrugged. “My mother warned me before college that it was still a man’s world in many ways, as if I needed the warning.”

“You have spent your life trying to prove the opposite.”

Hannah froze.

She had to think about what Tristan had just said. She replayed the words in her mind. Some part of her wanted to deny it, but she took a sip of wine instead.

“The biggest fight I ever had with my sister, the middle one—”

“Allie?”

Hannah smiled, pleased he had remembered.

“Allison, but yes, we call her Allie. Mostly because I wasn’t able to say her full name when she was born. Anyway, when Mom and Dad died, we assumed Caroline would take over their shop. When she didn’t, Allie suggested I move back home. She wanted me to sell my own business and take it on myself. ‘I would do it,’ she said, ‘but what does a nurse know about running a business?’ And she would have. Putting that ‘for sale’ sign up was difficult for her. For all of us.” She paused for a moment, remembering the conversation. She’d been so angry with Allie for implying she should give up her career as if it were nothing. That she should just give up and go home after all the endless hours she’d poured into it.

“She accused me of much the same,” she finally said. “She knew I loved my business but wished I could bring it to Maine, where my clients would be much less demanding. But also less . . .” Hannah stopped. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You told Kenton your father had always wanted to travel.”

He knew she wanted to change the topic. God bless him, the man was astute.

“There was truth to what you said to him,” he observed.

Hannah prayed for strength. She was going to need it.

“His family was originally from Scotland. He’d dreamed of a vacation to his ‘homeland’ for his entire life. But their business made it difficult for them to get away, and there was just never a good time.” She took a deep breath. “So when they were killed in a car accident, we decided to come here for them.”

Hannah stared at her hand, which now had a white-knuckled grip on the goblet. “We took some of the money from the sale of the shop and agreed to come here on the one-year anniversary of the accident. We all needed it, but Caroline did the most. We worried about her . . .”

Hannah trailed off.

She sensed him before she saw him. The great hulk of an English knight lifted her chin ever so gently, until their eyes met.

“I am sorry about your parents.”

Not as sorry as I am.

“We will find your sisters, Hannah. I promise you. We will not stop looking.”

When he leaned forward, Hannah welcomed his touch. She wanted it . . . nay, needed it. The soft brush of his lips was meant to soothe. To comfort, not caress. But that small taste of him was not enough.

She leaned forward and invited another, which he happily accommodated. This time, his kiss was more insistent. When she opened for him, Tristan’s tongue swept inside as if it belonged there.

Perhaps it did.

He took the goblet from her hand as they both stood. What had begun as something tender and sweet was quickly turning into much, much more.

When he broke away and placed the goblet on the table, Tristan did not come back to her immediately.

“I cannot stay away,” he said, as if he were confessing some grave sin.

“Then don’t.”

Such an easy solution. She’d spent days thinking of all the reasons they should stay away from each other, but now she couldn’t think of a single one.

He looked like he was going to argue with her, but instead Tristan strode toward her and slammed his mouth against hers in a kiss that was as passionate and possessive as the first one had been gentle. Within seconds their tongues tangled as they spiraled down a dangerous slope that Hannah knew she would be powerless to stop.

Before she could form a coherent thought, Tristan swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. He didn’t break contact as he lowered her and continued the delicious assault. She clamored to get his shirt off, eager to see how accurate her imagination had been. Complying, Tristan yanked it off over his head.

Her mouth dropped open.

Sitting beside her was a perfect specimen, the epitome of manliness. Unlike the muscle-heads who lifted next to her in the gym, Tristan’s muscles were formed more naturally. Years of training had brought them out in all the right places without looking . . . artificial.

She couldn’t help it. Hannah reached up and laid her hand on his upper arm. When the muscles beneath her fingers twitched, she let her fingers continue their exploration until his groan alerted her that her time was up.

“Your turn,” he said, reaching down to the fabric beneath her knee. His hand glided up ever so slowly, moving up toward her inner thigh where no barrier stood in his way. The combination of his rough hand and the smooth silk of her chemise elicited an involuntary shudder.

“One of many, I hope.”

She’d have answered, but his fingers found her at that precise moment. Hannah lifted her knees to give him the access he sought.

“Is this type of caress common in your time?” he asked, his deep voice only adding to his appeal.

He entered and withdrew, teased and tormented as if he’d been trained by the author of the Kama Sutra himself.

Hannah nodded.

As he brought her to the brink of climax literally seconds later, he asked, “And this?”

She was undone, unable to answer. Hannah closed her eyes and allowed herself the pleasure of a sweet release and the aftermath. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know Tristan had lowered himself beside her.

When she did open them, his head was propped up on his hand, his perfect, naked torso splayed out in front of her, begging to be touched.

And so she complied.

“So these are what real muscles look like?”

Tristan raised his brows. “Real muscles?”

Not in the mood to explain a gym, she said, “You are . . . magnificent.”

The word sounded hollow. Silly, really. But he was, and Hannah couldn’t think of any other word to describe him.

“Stay,” he said in response.

She froze. “What did you say?”

He leaned down and kissed her, his lips silencing her protest in the most enticing way possible. When he pulled away, she simply stared at him.

“Don’t answer me now. I know what you will say.”

Indeed, the only answer could be no if there was a way for her to go back and find her sisters.

“But just think on it. When my men return . . . answer me then.”

He slipped his hand underneath her chemise again, and this time it did not stop. It trailed over her hips and toward her breast, where it finally paused.

Tristan’s groan emboldened her. She moved her hand toward the evidence of his need.

“Let me pleasure you, Tristan.”

He’d given without taking, but now it was his turn.

His hand stilled on her breast.

The need to pleasure him roared through her body. “What is it?”

Her words had affected him in some way—on some level beyond mere pleasure. Maybe he would explain it to her, maybe not. But she intended to show him how he affected her.

Hannah pulled his hand down so it rested at his side. Then, taking him by surprise, which was the only way she’d be able to overpower him, Hannah pushed him flat on the bed and straddled him.

“I’d like nothing more than to feel you inside me, Tristan.”

How was that for honesty?

“But we both know that can’t happen,” she added.

She began to move against him, the hardness she felt even more pronounced against the sensitive spot that he had just brought to an exquisite climax.

“I’d have nabbed a condom had I known . . .” She shook her head at his confusion. “Never mind.”

Hannah reached down and untied the laces that would free him from confinement. These were nothing like the skintight pantyhose women wore in the twenty-first. Much looser, though still tight enough to accentuate every muscle, they were also tied at the top. Elastic was apparently still a thing of the future.

He watched her the entire time, and Hannah wished she could take back her words. She’d never been this turned on in her life. Even lying prone on the bed, in arguably the most compromising position there was, Tristan exuded strength and confidence.

But at this moment, he was at her mercy.

She stopped just before her hand slipped inside his hose. Jumping up, she ran to the washstand and brought back a cloth and laid it strategically on top of him.

“Hannah Sutton . . . where did you come from?”

She smiled, a wicked side she didn’t know she possessed suddenly wanting to tease him a bit. “You know the answer to that.”

Even so, he looked at her as if this was the first time a woman had done this to him. Which, of course, could not be true given where he’d been raised and how he’d acquired his considerable skills.

She allowed only the tips of her fingers to slip inside, barely touching the flesh beneath. He knew what she was about, but he didn’t move. He didn’t attempt to guide her hand as most men would have done by now. His restrained response sent a jolt of desire down to her very core.

“Are women not so . . . forward . . . in your time?”

His eyes narrowed. “No. Most are not.”

She inched her fingertips just a bit lower. This time, she reached inside and pulled down the cloth that separated them. Hannah couldn’t help but look down. And while there was only a dim flicker of light in the darkened room, it was enough.

She swallowed and met his eyes once again. Hannah had thought she was the one in control, but she wasn’t so sure anymore. Right now, if he asked her again to stay, she might be tempted to say yes. There was more than lust in his eyes as he calmly waited for her to continue.

She knew that look. In the past, it had always scared her, but now . . .

Wrapping her hand around him, she was finally rewarded with the slightest crack in his armor. When she began to move her hand, Tristan lifted his chin just slightly. She took her cues from his expression, watching as carefully as possible for the slightest changes so she could do more of what he seemed to like. When he finally closed his eyes, his hips moving into her, Hannah dealt him the ultimate blow.

“Tristan?”

He opened his eyes and looked at her.

She didn’t stop.

But Hannah did open her mouth, just slightly, suggestively. She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip and enjoyed watching Tristan come apart.

And she’d thought him magnificent before.

They say true seduction comes from giving, not receiving, but Hannah had never been convinced of that before this moment.

The man splayed beneath her had walked casually back to their camp with blood dripping from his sword . . . He’d earned respect, despite his humble beginnings, from dozens of men who’d pledged to follow him into battle . . .

Watching him, pleasuring him, making him gasp . . . Hannah had never felt as powerful in her life. Which went against everything she believed. She didn’t need a man to feel complete. And certainly her greatest accomplishment had been getting into Yale. Or running a successful business. Not . . . this. Why should she feel so—

No. No, no, no, no, no!

Hannah was not in love with him. Most certainly not.

“Hannah?”

He brought her attention back to him.

“Aye, Tristan?”

He looked at her with such intensity her belly jittered with anticipation.

“You’re not going back.”