Tristan had never seen anything quite like the woman who stood in front of him. He moved toward her for a closer look. He understood now why his men acted as if they’d seen a selkie. But while she was wet from top to bottom and clearly disoriented, she was nevertheless very human.

His eyes lingered on her shapely, nearly bare legs, clothed only in a pair of short, form-fitting braies, before he forced his gaze upward. Her dark hair clung to her shoulders, framing a perfectly shaped face. Full lips made for kissing. Eyes a clear, crisp blue so startling against her olive skin that he could imagine staring into them for hours and never becoming bored. His eyes dipped to the strange garment bunched in her hands.

“What are you?”

It was the most ridiculous question he could have asked. Surely she was a woman. And yet, she was also something more . . .

“Excuse me?”

“Where are you from? Your accent—”

Blinking and taking a deep breath, she asked again, “Where am I?”

“Are you injured?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

Had she hit her head? The only time Tristan could remember anyone acting this disoriented was after a head injury. They could be dangerous, fatal even. He lowered his hand to her head without preamble and, as gently as he could, began to feel around for a bump or wound that would explain her condition.

“What are you doing?”

He ignored her and continued checking her scalp. Nothing.

“Why are you all dressed like that?” she asked. “Do they have that Society for Creative—”

“Who are you?” he demanded in a tone that should have provoked an answer.

Instead, she raised her chin. “OK, so you’re owner of this place? I guess you’re in the middle of some kind of . . . reenactment. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. But will you please tell me where we are? I need to find my sisters. I need to get back, our flight—”

“I can’t understand your words.” She spoke so fast and many of her words were completely unfamiliar. Tristan switched to French and repeated his question.

“I don’t speak French,” she said.

Tristan didn’t know if he should lock her in his dungeon . . . or his bedchamber. A fascinating woman to be sure. But until she was a bit more forthcoming about how she’d breached their defenses, he had no choice but to detain her.

He reached for her wrist, deciding on the spot he’d have to question her himself as the men seemed to be—

“Get your hands off me!”

Tristan had expected resistance. Not to be kicked in the leg. He’d never met a woman so bold.

“God’s bones,” he muttered, “be still—”

“Get. Your hands. Off me.”

Though she was clearly terrified, his captive spewed venom with her words and her eyes. Anger had darkened them from their usual ice blue.

Tristan reached down and patted her sides, attempting to ignore the curves beneath his hands. No weapons.

“What kind of person treats a tourist this way? Do you honestly believe—”

“Tourist?”

He repeated the word as he mounted, indicating the others should go ahead of him. “I will take her,” he said, pulling the woman up in front of him before she could object. With a loud “Umph,” she landed nearly in his lap.

They rode toward the castle, the gentle slope dotted with tall grass and rocks. This well-worn path was the only one that led to the shoreline, and with Castle Saxford the only building for nearly a half-day’s ride, Tristan still could not understand how she’d come to be here. Or where she’d come from. He’d never before believed in witchcraft but . . .

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, attempting to push away from him. Did she not realize a fall from here would break her neck? Tristan shifted, attempting to put more distance between them. Inadvertently, he inhaled deeply, and her scent was intriguing enough that he leaned closer to smell her hair again.

“Did you just smell my hair?”

“How did you get down there?” he asked.

Without warning, she reached down into the pocket of her odd braies, something he’d never seen a woman wear before today, and pulled out a black rectangle. She looked at it and used a most unladylike epithet.

“Dead. Of course,” she muttered.

When he halted, his men did the same.

“Go,” he said. “I will be along.”

Though they looked reluctant to follow his orders, the others rode ahead. He watched them ride around the east tower and toward the gatehouse. Reaching down, he snatched the item from her hands before she could protest.

“Hey, what are you—”

“What . . . is this? And why did you say that it had died as if it were an animal?”

It was hard to the touch, shiny on one side and smooth on the other, and completely unlike anything Tristan had ever seen.

“I really need to get this in a bowl of rice.”

He had no idea how to respond to that.

“What . . . are you serious? You’re telling me you don’t have cell phones here? It doesn’t seem that remote. Edinburgh—”

“Edinburgh,” he repeated, pronouncing it the correct way. She was certainly a foreigner, but from where?

“Whatever. We aren’t that far away, and—”

“We are more than two days’ ride from Edinburgh,” he said, still looking at the black box. It was smooth and shiny, like the side of a black rock. But with indentations on its edges.

“Two days’ ride? You mean drive? How is that possible? It took less than an hour to get to Leannan Falls, and we must be near there, right?”

She’d turned to look at him, her eyes wide again. He looked down to where her shirt clung to her very prominent breasts. What matter of costume was it that she should reveal so much?

“Ahem.”

He looked up.

“OK, what the hell is going on? Did you kidnap me from Leannan or something? If so, you are the worst kidnapper in the world. And what’s with the outfit?” Her voice increased in pitch as she spoke.

“Kidnapping? Do you take me for a reiver?”

“A . . . what?”

Tristan’s headache was returning with a vengeance. Had he not been so tired and hungry and out of sorts, he might have had a bit more patience.

Handing the odd object back to her, he said, “You will stay at Saxford until I can determine how you were able to breach our defenses. And you will explain your odd attire and—”

“‘Odd attire’?” She gasped. “You show up looking like some guy from Medieval Times and call my ‘attire’ odd? I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’m sick to death of it. The last thing I remember is jumping into that waterfall. I need to find my sisters, especially Caroline so I can wring her pretty little neck for making us do something so stupid. But I most certainly can’t stay here.” She nodded to the castle. “I have a flight to catch tomorrow. So”—her eyes narrowed—“will you please tell me where I am and who you are so I can get back to the inn immediately?”

Remarkable. He hadn’t understood everything, but there was no mistaking her tone, somewhere between derision and fear. Though he knew plenty of men who’d have tossed her back onto that beach by now, Tristan was not the sort to shy away from a challenge. And she was most certainly going to be just that.

He spurred their mount forward and responded, though surely she must know more than she pretended to. Unless she really had hit her head and did not realize it.

“You are at Saxford Castle—”

She shook her head. “No, that’s not possible. I saw that on the map. That’s in England.”

“Northumbria.”

“I thought it was Northumberland? And we can’t be in England.”

They’d reached the gatehouse. Tristan looked up to the guards, who immediately opened the portcullis. His companion stopped talking as they passed through the thick stone walls. Once they reached the courtyard, they were greeted by his new squire, who had clearly been waiting for him.

“Durwin,” he said, dismounting and reaching up to help—“What name are you called?”

She wasn’t looking at him. In fact, she wasn’t looking at anyone. Whereas she’d been arguing with him the moment before, her eyes were now closed. And if he hadn’t been there to catch her, his guest would have fallen and broken her neck. She slid right into his arms, limp and motionless.

“Is she dead, my lord?” Durwin’s eyes widened, with good cause.

He leaned down and felt her breath on his cheek.

“Nay, Durwin, she is not.”

“What is she wearing?”

He knew not. Nor did he know where she came from, or what strange manner of an object she carried in her hand. But Tristan was determined to find out.

For the second time that day, Hannah struggled to remember where she was. It felt as if she were being—

“Where are you taking me?”

The brute from the beach was carrying her over his shoulder, her head facing his chest, as if she were a bag of flour. She was still in this strange place, with this strange—if handsome—man. The memory of the courtyard they’d just ridden through slammed into her. It had looked like something out of the Middle Ages. Boys playing with wooden swords, horses being led into a stable, people dressed like servants scurrying around. For a moment she’d actually thought she’d left the twenty-first century.

Ridiculous.

“Please put me down.”

They were climbing up a stone stairwell lit by torches in brackets. It finally occurred to Hannah that she was in serious trouble. She was in a bizarre place in a foreign country, far from the waterfall, if he told the truth, with no recollection of how she’d come to be here. Her lack of memory implied she’d been roofied, but if this man had abducted her, why had she woken up alone on the beach?

“Stop!” she screamed, her hands shaking as she struggled to get away from him. His face and body were almost too perfect, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t an axe murderer. She punched him in the chest, though it was like punching the stone wall that surrounded them. Surprisingly, he did put her down, and she promptly scrambled up and away from him. Sitting on the stone stair, she tried to catch her breath. Hannah had never had a panic attack before—not even her parents’ deaths had induced what her best friend described as ‘a night terror in the middle of the day.’ But she knew the signs well and was pretty sure it was happening to her now.

“You need to lie down.”

“I need to know where I am and what is going on,” she managed to say.

Hannah could not catch her breath.

“You really don’t know where you are?”

Why did he seem so surprised by that? And why did he talk so strangely? He thought she had an accent, but he sounded like a cross between a British actor and her Latin professor in college when he was trying to impress the class.

“Please. Please tell me what is happening. Why is everyone dressed like that?” She indicated his medieval garb. “Who are you?”

Her kidnapper looked awfully sympathetic for someone who had orchestrated such an elaborate scheme.

“I am lord of Saxford Castle—”

“Right. And why is everyone dressed up?”

His eyebrows drew together as he continued to stare at her. “Let me take you abovestairs—”

She was dreaming! This did feel very real, but there was no other explanation. Maybe she’d hit her head in the jump from the falls, and this was all a long fever dream, like with Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.

“I’m dreaming,” she said, finally able to draw a deep breath.

“What do your parents call you?”

“My parents?” They didn’t call her anything. Not since last year anyway. What an odd way to ask her name. “My name is Hannah,” she said, pinching her arm. Ouch! So that trick apparently didn’t work.

“Hannah?”

She looked at him again. Of course! Where was she likely to meet a tall man with the physique of a Highland hero if not in a dream?

“Hannah Sutton.” She might as well play along. “From Maine. My sisters and I went to Scotland to honor our mom and dad’s wishes. You know, take the trip they were never able to take. Except Caroline decided a simple hike wasn’t enough for our last day. She convinced us jumping into the falls would be the perfect way to start a new chapter in our lives. God, if only she hadn’t read Alice in Wonderland too many times as a kid. New chapter, my ass.”

He was looking at her as if she had a screw loose. Perhaps she did. Hannah was sitting in a circular stairwell, after all, talking to a man who was likely a figment of her own imagination. But what other explanation was there? When he’d first ridden into the courtyard, she’d thought they were in a different century.

Which was, of course, ridiculous.

“I need to leave,” she said, less and less convinced this truly was a dream. The smell of roasted meat drifting down the stairs seemed very, very real, and the stone beneath her was convincingly cold. Which meant she was back to square one.

He didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes narrowed. “Hannah Sutton.” He said her name as if it were a curse. “You are not leaving until I know how you came to be here.”

She stood, exasperated. “I told you, I have no idea how I came to be here,” she said, mimicking his formal speech.

“What is this?” He pointed to the cell phone she’d taken out of her pocket before remembering it was dead. “And where is this Maine you speak of?”

Oh God, she really had no time for this. Light from the closest torch caught her eye, and it occurred to her that this whole place was a major fire hazard.

“Is that safe? Oh, never mind,” she said when she saw his puzzled expression. “Maine. The United States. In the Northeast, near Canada.”

He stared at her blankly.

“You don’t know what a cell phone is. You’ve never heard of Maine—”

“United States?”

OK, so this guy was definitely some kind of nut. Too bad. He really was quite good-looking. Fearsome, but hot.

“Listen, I don’t know what game you’re trying to play—”

“My lord?” The boy who’d greeted them earlier, before Hannah fainted like an eighteenth-century heroine, peered his head around the curved stretch of steps beneath them. “Is she well?”

“Quite,” the lord said dryly.

“Dinner is served. Walter and Gerard are inquiring after you. Shall I tell them—”

“I will join them momentarily.”

“Very good, my lord.”

When he scampered back down the stairs, Hannah stared after him.

“Is there some kind of festival here or something?” She had to give it to them. Their devotion to the illusion was admirable and their costumes were superb. In fact, she had planned plenty of themed events, but never one quite this authentic. The attention to detail was amazing. Whoever designed the costumes and décor should be commended. The very first event she ever planned after starting the business was medieval-themed, but compared to this, her own seemed more like a kids’ birthday party.

“Festival?”

“Like the one at Alnwick Castle. Is that why everyone is dressed up?”

The man looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. “What cause did you have to be at Alnwick Castle?”

Hannah laughed then. In fact, once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop. The events of the day were suddenly just too much.

Except the look on his face was so serious. This guy who looked and acted like he was from the Middle Ages wasn’t just messing with her. He’d never heard of the United States. Or cell phones. But wouldn’t that mean . . .

Of course, that wasn’t possible. Hannah turned and ran before he could stop her. She followed the smell, up and up, until she came to a landing. She ran down a corridor, hardly noticing her surroundings, until she reached an archway.

Hannah took one look inside the hall in front of her and froze.

Tristan nearly ran into her.

And for the first time since this strange encounter had begun, he was genuinely worried. The look on her face was one he’d never forget. Preparations for the meal were nearly complete, and though he spied nothing unusual, she certainly seemed agitated by the scene. He couldn’t explain why he felt the need to protect her, but he did.

Grabbing her arm none too gently, he led her back to the stairwell and then up to the next floor. That she did not protest told Tristan what he already knew. He’d seen that look on the battlefield plenty of times, though it usually came just after a man caught his first glimpse of a few hundred mounted, armed knights sitting across the open field.

He’d planned to bring her to the constable’s tower, but instead he guided her to a wall-walk outside the keep that led to the great chamber. The others knew she was here and would be looking for him. But he needed answers first.

He opened the door to the chamber where he’d laid his head these past ten years. Tristan moved to a trunk, pulled out a woolen cloak, and handed it to her. She really should remove those wet clothes, but he didn’t think she’d be amenable to the suggestion. He led Hannah to a wooden chair, its plush red velvet cushion one of the remnants of the former lord, an Englishman whose extravagance had known no bounds.

Grabbing a pitcher from a table next to it, he poured goblets of wine for them both.

“Drink.”

Surprisingly, she listened.

“Did you remember something?”

She shook her head but didn’t answer.

“Do you know why you’re here? Did Sutherland send you?” It didn’t seem likely his enemy would use this woman to kill him, and when she looked at him with the same vacant stare with which she’d regarded the hall, Tristan had his answer.

Already finished with the wine, she placed her goblet on the table next to her.

“What year is it?” she asked.

So she had injured her head after all. He suspected from the look on her face that she’d not listen to him, or answer his questions, until she had answers of her own. So he stopped trying for the moment. “The year of our Lord thirteen hundred and ninety-four.”

“And I am in England?”

“Saxford Castle, Northumbria, just south of the border.”

Hannah took a deep breath, let it out and frowned, the creases at the corners of her mouth not marring her beauty in the least. All the ferocity and fight in her appeared to have bled away. The change in her, frankly, worried him.

Ignoring the knock at the door, he said, “Tell me. Everything.”

She opened her mouth but didn’t speak. The look she gave Tristan told him she didn’t trust him. Nor should she. But she had no other choice.

“Let me help you. I would not presume to hurt an innocent woman, no matter her manner of dress. Or speech.”

“You would help me?” The vixen who’d kicked him with such conviction on the stairs sounded almost plaintive. It didn’t fail to move him, and he found himself saying, “Aye, I would.”

“Dry clothing.” She looked down at the fur-lined cloak. “I could use some dry clothing please.”

This he could not manage on his own. But he knew who could. “Done.”

“And I need to get back to Leannan Falls as soon as possible.”

With war on the horizon, his men would be particularly suspicious of her—her motives, her strange clothes and words—and Tristan knew too little about her to allay their fears. But either she was the least-trained spy he’d ever met, or she was in need of his assistance. Though he had many questions for her, he had no doubt she was genuinely panicked and confused. No one could feign the kind of response she’d had in front of the hall.

“You said it is near Edinburgh?” He’d not heard of the place himself, but as long as it was not on Sutherland’s property, bringing her there should not be a problem.

She nodded.

“Will you eat first?”

Again, she nodded.

Tristan stood. “I will be back,” he said, turning.

“Wait!”

She’d made to come after him but stopped abruptly when he looked back at her.

“No one else can see me like this,” she said, opening the cloak.

“Where is this ‘Maine’ where they wear no clothing?” If she didn’t close the cloak, Tristan would do it for her. He really did need to find her something she could use to cover herself.

“Italy.”

He was so distracted, Tristan forgot his question.

“Maine is a small village in Venetia.”

“Italia?”

Tristan had never been there himself, but he’d met enough Venetians to know this was most certainly not how they dressed.

Why does she lie?

“I will find clothing,” he said finally, “if you promise to tell me the truth.”

He nearly laughed at her confused expression. She was not a very good liar.

“You may pretend not to understand, but if you care to return to your falls, then you must think of a better lie than that. Or the truth will do. Either way, I will have answers.”

Before she could open the cloak again, Tristan left to seek Durwin, only to find his trusted squire awaiting him outside the door.

“Who is she, my lord?” Durwin said in a hushed voice. “The men say they found her on the shore, lying there—”

“Listen to me, and listen well,” Tristan said. “You will tell no one of the woman’s arrival. Do you hear me?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“And find Joan. Tell her to come immediately.”

“The laundress, my lord?”

Rather than answer, Tristan gave Durwin a moment to think about how few females served at Saxford and how many of those were named Joan.

“Aye, my lord.” Durwin bowed and hurried off to do his bidding.

Such a good lad. Tristan was about to go back inside, but his hand froze above the iron handle of the door. The ten-year truce was coming to an end in less than a month. Tristan had a battle to prepare for, and there would be a visit from his ally Lord Kenton any day now. He had no time to play nursemaid to a woman who’d washed up on the shore and could hardly keep her wits about her. Tomorrow, he would send her north with an escort and be done with it. In the meantime, he would keep watch on her himself, just in case he was wrong and she had been sent here as a spy after all.

Either way, he’d be rid of her soon. A shame, for his mysterious woman really was quite comely. He did not know how much time had passed that he’d been thinking of the beautiful stranger when Joan came upon him suddenly.

“My lord, you sent for me?” The laundress rounded the corner much more quickly than he’d expected her.

“There is a woman inside my chamber.” He ignored Joan’s frown. “Not that kind of woman.” But as soon as he said it, he thought of Hannah’s long, bare legs and imagined them wrapped around his waist.

“My lord.”

Joan had served at Saxford longer than Tristan had been lord here, and she’d been one of the first of the previous lord’s servants to accept him. For that he owed her his gratitude, but not an apology for his wayward thoughts. So he continued instead, “Find something suitable for her to wear. Assist her in preparing for the meal.”

In the meantime, he needed to find the rest of the men who knew Hannah was here so he could ensure they kept that knowledge to themselves.

“Lord . . .”

He’d already turned and left Joan to her duties. “I must go—”

“But, my lord, what manner of woman is she?”

He stopped. I know not would not be an acceptable answer, though it had the benefit of being true.

“A lady,” he said finally, not believing his own words. No lady would ever expose herself as Hannah had done, and yet she had not seemed ashamed by her lack of clothing. No common woman spoke to a lord as she had either. Without anything more to offer, he turned to leave.

He could feel Joan’s gaze on him still, but Tristan could not explain what he did not understand.

But he did intend to get answers as soon as Hannah joined him at the meal.