How could he have ever asked Hannah to stay on the eve of certain war?

More messengers had arrived after the first group, and the situation was worse than he had first thought.

The treaty was over.

It seemed the chief wasn’t concerned with particulars such as the date of the truce’s expiration. This time, the messengers were not reivers spreading possible rumors, but two of Tristan’s own clansmen. That Sutherland had announced his decision so openly, so publicly, was a fatal blow to the ten years’ peace.

The border between Saxford and Sutherland was about to descend into chaos again. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Having missed both meals, Tristan climbed down the stone stairs to see what Cook could muster up for him. Even though the sun had set hours ago, he knew the man would still be hard at work. The smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the kitchen confirmed it.

The soft light of the oven’s fire greeted him. As expected, Cook stood alone in the center of the large space, kneading dough.

Of course Hannah would not be here at this time of night. “You’ve no one to help you finish?”

The gray-haired servant did not look up.

“Finish? Why?” he asked gruffly, continuing his task.

“So you can rest.”

As soon as he said it, Tristan could have kicked himself. Cook had told him more than once why he spent every waking moment in the kitchen. But still, he always hoped something . . . someone . . . would change the old man’s mind.

“Rest,” Cook scoffed.

Tristan reached for a finished loaf of rye bread and, to Cook’s obvious dismay, tore off half of it.

“Take it all,” the older man said. “What am I to do with the rest of it?”

Tristan returned the remainder of the loaf to the table. “Serve it. Eat it. It is, after all, what you typically do—”

“Not like that.”

Finally, Cook looked up. His brown eyes were tired, and perhaps resigned. So many of Saxford’s people had lived their entire lives here. They and their families had watched it change hands over the last hundred years. Scottish . . . English . . . and then an absentee English lord until Kenton finally obtained it from the king. Tristan vowed the people of Saxford would never worry for their safety again.

“I will not let them take Saxford,” he said.

And meant it.

Cook sighed, pulled his hands away from his work and looked up once again. And then the most miraculous thing happened. The corner of his mouth actually lifted, if only slightly.

A smile?

“I know,” Cook said.

The half-smile was gone. But it had been there, and Tristan considered it a victory. Perhaps he should leave it at that. After all, Tristan had not been here when Cook’s wife and newborn daughter died during childbirth. But the man’s losses still affected him these many years later, and Tristan had never spoken of it to him. Perhaps it was time.

“You’re a good man,” he said honestly. “And a talented one. They would have been proud.”

Cook didn’t respond, but neither did he throw a pot or growl. It felt like another victory, and Tristan turned to leave.

“She said the same. Just this mornin’.”

Tristan stopped just as he hunched under the arched opening to the stairwell that led back outside.

“She?” he asked without turning around.

“My lady,” Cook said, the affection in his voice unmistakable.

Tristan’s chest swelled with pride as he turned around. This time, there was no mistaking it. Cook grinned like a squire the day before his dubbing ceremony.

“They sent her,” he said. Tristan’s feet were weighed to the ground. He couldn’t move. He could hardly breathe. Something about Cook’s words . . . the idea was as absurd as, well, her being here at all. Yet somehow Tristan knew it was true. Whether it was their spirit, some strange magic at the waterfall, or both, Hannah was meant to be here. With him.

He couldn’t answer, so instead Tristan attempted a smile before taking his leave. And though he’d once convinced himself that leaving Saxford might be best for Hannah after all, he no longer believed as much.

He needed to see her.

Immediately.

Hannah had not meant to leave the hall prematurely, but she didn’t feel like returning after her talk with the two maids. Privacy was difficult to come by in a castle, with the exception of the bedchambers, which were afforded to very few. Not ready to return to her room, she found herself wandering the corridors.

Toward Tristan.

Hannah stopped, waiting for some kind of divine intervention to guide her. She wasn’t one to trust herself to the hand of fate or astronomy or any other superstitious nonsense . . . but then again, she had traveled back in time.

Despite herself, she had begun to imagine what saying yes to Tristan’s unconventional proposal would be like. The idea was not an unpleasant one. In fact, there was much to recommend it. Including Tristan himself. On the other hand, even if—and that was a big if—she decided to stay, would she still wish to do so if her sisters were found and wanted to return if such a thing were possible? And these were obviously dangerous times, and she remembered quite clearly that life expectancy had been much shorter in the Middle Ages. Could she stay here, without antibiotics or safe birthing practices, and give up all that she’d built back home?

“Finally . . .” Tristan’s squire panted as he ran up to her. Beads of sweat dotted his brow.

“What is it?” Something was very wrong.

“I looked in your chamber and in the kitchens. My lord was beginning to worry . . . the men are back . . . he couldn’t find you.” The boy’s words jumbled into each other.

“What did you say?” She held her breath as she waited for him to speak.

“I looked everywhere—”

“Nay, about the men?”

Durwin blinked as he finally caught his breath. They both looked up to a wall torch that flickered as if a gust of wind had caught it. What the hell was that? They were indoors and far from any window or door.

“Aye, the men. My lord requests your presence immediately.”

Calm down, Hannah. They probably did not discover anything.

“Take me to him,” she said, picking up her overly elaborate skirts.

They practically ran to Tristan’s solar, a room she’d only been to once before. Just as they arrived, Hannah felt his presence behind them.

“Thank you, Durwin,” he said, his greeting also a dismissal. The boy bowed and left as she turned around.

Hannah prided herself on being independent. She didn’t need a man, could manage very well all by her lonesome. But her body had apparently not received the message, because when Tristan looked at her that way—like she was the only woman in this or any time—she wanted to wrap her arms around him and stay by his side for eternity.

“Are you ready?”

She swallowed. No, not really. “I suppose.”

He took a step toward her, giving her a better view of his face, and she saw faint lines around his eyes where there were usually none. Was he tired? Worried? What was it like to know you would be leading your men to battle at any time? It wasn’t a responsibility she envied.

“Are they in there?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Tristan nodded. When he reached for her, Hannah’s shoulders relaxed, the tension instantly melting away.

Her pulse raced as he leaned down to kiss her, the tender caress most welcome.

After the too-quick kiss, Tristan pulled back. He wanted to say something, and she did as well, yet neither of them did. They stood just inches apart, silent, until he finally took a step back. The air around them seemed to crackle with energy.

“Come,” he said, stepping in front of her. Hannah held her breath as he pushed the door open.