Hannah stared at her folded hands. This could not be happening.

“My lady?”

She looked up at Joan, unsure of what the older woman was asking. Hadn’t she done everything that had been asked of her? Indeed, she’d allowed herself to be trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey without so much as a word, which was not like her at all. If her sisters could only see this gown, its long sleeves that nearly touched the ground and soft, deep-green velvet that felt as luxurious as anything she owned . . . But what could she possibly say to the woman? That the outfit looked like a costume and she suspected she may have traveled back in time some six hundred years?

No, that was a risk she didn’t want to take. The guide on one of the castle tours she and her sisters had taken had insisted women weren’t burned at the stake for being witches in medieval Scotland. Even if it was true and witch hysteria hadn’t begun until the sixteenth century, she wasn’t taking any chances.

“Shall I escort my lady to the hall?”

Joan reminded her of the housekeeper her parents had hired just before they died. Hannah had only met her once on a weekend visit, but her kind face and ever-present smile had made her immediately likable.

“I suppose,” she said, trying hard not to be ungracious. Though her stomach roiled and her hands could not stop trembling, Hannah stood and followed Joan from the bedroom. Or whatever this monstrosity of a room was called. The only time she’d ever seen a bedroom this big and ornate was on a tour of the mansions in Newport, Rhode Island. It was easily the same size as her apartment and half the size of the house where she’d been raised.

She followed Joan back outside onto the wall-walk, and as they passed the courtyard, Hannah stared down at it with wide eyes.

How could she truly have believed Tristan and his men were playacting? Her mind must have known before she did. Preservation?

There was no way all of this could have been recreated. Just as before, men were sparring down below. Other people bustled back and forth, dressed in everything from armor to what amounted to glorified flour sacks, their garments stained and worn from real use. A wagon filled with hay . . . chickens and pigs mingling with their owners.

She was going to faint again.

Hannah stopped and held onto the stone wall lest she topple over the side.

“My lady, are you well?”

“No,” she managed. “No, I am not.”

Oh God, please do not pass out again. The scene below blurred and Hannah called upon the yoga classes she’d taken in an attempt to steady her breathing. Another panic attack? Please, no.

Is this even possible?

Time travel was the stuff of science-fiction novels, not real life, and it certainly shouldn’t be happening to her.

Well, then how do you explain—

“Hannah?”

When she looked up, Tristan stood next to her. Where had he come from?

Looking at the sword strapped to his shoulder, it suddenly struck her that he was an actual, honest-to-God knight. A lord of some sort. And she’d been so rude . . . She was lucky he hadn’t ordered her execution or something. As an event planner to the rich and famous, she was accustomed to dealing with powerful men. And yet, she had not acted as she would if she knew he was a lord. The even-keeled Hannah who would have been much more deferential gave way, nearly the moment they met, to the feistiest one reserved for friends and family.

“I’m fine,” she said. A blatant lie. “I am just slightly afraid of heights.”

That much was true.

“Indeed,” he said, watching her. The wave of nausea left, and her breathing had returned to normal. He’d changed, and his hair was damp. It looked darker now, less blond than brown. And short. The other men had much longer hair, and nearly all of them were bearded. His beard had been shaved to heavy stubble. His lips were full for a man, and really, she should not be staring at his lips. She’d traveled through time for God’s sake!

Her lie about Venice hadn’t convinced him, of course it hadn’t, but it was the first thing that had popped into her mind. She clearly was not English, and she didn’t speak French. At least she’d been to Italy before, twice. But she hadn’t thought the plan through.

She didn’t speak Italian any more than she did French.

“Hannah, you need to talk to me. I can’t help you otherwise.”

“I’m sorry if I’m not inclined to accept help from a man who detained me against my will.”

“I worried you might have been a spy for Sutherland.”

Now it was her turn to be confused. He’d mentioned that name before, and it had meant as little to her then as it did now.

“A Scotsman,” he clarified. “Our enemy.”

“Our?”

“He is an enemy to my overlord, and therefore, one to Saxford as well.”

“I see. And you no longer think I am also your enemy?”

This time, his gaze was slow and deliberate as it raked up and down her body, leaving a tingling sensation in its path. Right now, it didn’t matter that he was a knight or a lord or her captor. He was just a man—and she wanted him to kiss her.

Hannah! Seriously?

But those lips . . .

“Nay, I do not,” he finally said. “Though I would like to know what you saw in the hall that scared you. And why you lied about being from Venetia.”

Shit.

“Sei straordinariamente bella.”

Yeah, this wasn’t going to work. Sometimes she really did wonder how she’d managed to squeak her way into Yale as a graduate student.

Wait . . . bella. She knew what that meant.

“Let me help you,” he pressed.

Part of her wanted to tell him the truth, yet she knew she could not. She wouldn’t have believed it herself had there been any other possible explanation. He’d either be afraid of her and think her a witch or decide she was mad.

I just need to get him to take me to the waterfall.

If Caroline and Allie had been transported too, they’d find a way to meet her there. And there had to be a way for them to get back home. If the falls had sent them here, they could send them back too. Some way.

“I . . . I can’t tell you.”

He crossed his arms. Even with a shirt and some padded coat-looking thing with a crest on it, Hannah could tell he was heavily muscled.

“Look, I really can’t. I just need to get back to Leannan Falls. I was with my sisters when . . . when I must have hit my head or something. Maybe someone took me and dumped me on that beach. I don’t know. But I have to find Caroline and Allie.”

He knew she wasn’t being completely straightforward with him. If only she’d realized earlier what was happening, maybe she could have come up with a more plausible story. One time Hannah had stepped on a glass Christmas ornament, her mother’s favorite, and sliced her foot. She’d taken off all of her clothes before anyone could find her. Literally. Every single stitch. To this day she didn’t know why—her mother said she must have been in shock. But her sisters still teased her about her literal inability to think on her feet.

“I will send you there with an escort.” If Leannan Falls was anywhere near Sutherland’s land, he’d be signing his own death warrant if he brought her himself.

“Then what does it matter—”

“It matters because . . .” When he took a step toward her, Hannah did not move away.

“Maybe I can help.”

“And why would you want to help me?”

He shrugged. “Because you need it.”

He seemed so genuine. She was still concerned about the whole witch thing, but something told her he deserved her honesty. Surely this was another really, really bad decision, but she was going to do it.

“I am from Maine, like I said originally. In the United States. You don’t know of it yet. Apparently some Vikings may be there, but it won’t be until the late fifteenth century—actually, more like the sixteenth century—before the English are involved—”

“Hannah, what in the bloody name of Saint Thomas—”

She took a deep breath, liking this idea less and less. Unfortunately, she’d never been much of a poker player. She had no choice but to see it through.

“The twenty-first century. I am from the twenty-first century.”

The look on his face was exactly what she would have expected, so Hannah talked fast.

“My sisters and I came to Scotland on the one-year anniversary of my parents’ death. They died in a car accident—you wouldn’t know what that is, but . . . never mind. We were supposed to go home tomorrow and wanted one last sightseeing excursion. We’d heard Leannan Falls had some kind of ‘healing properties.’ Of course, I didn’t believe that, but Caroline, that’s my youngest sister, can be pretty persuasive. And not only did we go to the falls, but she convinced us to jump in. Like a Three Musketeers thing, one for all . . . you don’t know that either. Anyway—”

“Hannah—”

She was losing him. “Please listen to me,” she begged. He did want to believe her, she could tell that much. He looked like a client who didn’t have the money to spend on his event but really, really wanted to hire her anyway. “We jumped. I was terrified, but we did it. And then I woke up on your beach.”

She let that sink in.

“I thought at first you were role-playing for some event, or maybe showing off the castle by donning your best medieval garb.”

Oh God, he didn’t even know what medieval meant.

“When I saw the courtyard . . . I could hardly believe it. I never pass out. Never. But maybe it was my mind’s way of preserving me, kind of like if you go through a trauma or something and then can’t remember it afterward. I don’t know. Anyway, the more time I spent here, the more it struck me that the level of detail was just . . . unbelievable. And the torches. And the way you all spoke as if—” she laughed, “—as if you were from a whole different time.”

The concerned furrow in his brow had grown deeper with every word. He thought she was certifiable.

“And you hadn’t heard of things like the U.S., or a cell phone, and something just clicked. It sounds nutso, I get it. And part of me still wonders if I’m dreaming. But I pinched myself, more than once actually, and—”

“Another time?”

“The future, to be precise.”

She took a deep breath and waited.

Please, please believe me.

She needed a physician. Or perhaps a healer. For all Tristan knew, only the priest could help her. A shame. So beautiful and yet . . .

He’d become impatient waiting for her, so he’d decided to check on her and Joan—only to find her on the wall-walk. It had taken him a moment to recognize the beauty in the bright blue dress. Where had Joan managed to find a gown that fit so well on such short notice? Though its long, wide sleeves were no longer in style, the color suited her. He’d have preferred her hair down, but Joan had pulled it back with one single braid encircling her head. She had the face of an angel, the sharp eyes of an intellect, and the enthusiasm of a young girl, though he thought she was probably not much younger than him.

And she was also quite mad.

“I think perhaps—”

“You don’t believe me. I can tell.” She reached into the small pouch hanging from her belt and pulled out the strange black box he’d examined earlier. “This”—she waved it at him—“is a cell phone. Take it.”

He would do no such thing.

“Look,” she said, shoving it into his face. “You can make phone calls on it. That is . . . speak to people in other locations. But it’s dead. From the water.”

Tristan really needed to get that healer.

She put it back and took out another item. Before he could stop her, Hannah took his hand, opened it, and dropped something into his palm.

It was a thin, flat rectangle made of some strange slippery material with raised markings on it. He turned it and attempted to read the markings.

“A credit card. See, my name is there. And that’s plastic. I’m surprised it stayed in my pocket. You won’t see that for a few hundred years. You can use it to buy things in my time. It’s like money. Coins.”

He turned the card over in his hand for a long moment before giving it back. Tristan leaned against the parapet. Dusk was just beginning to set, and the meal he’d looked forward to was likely well under way. He wasn’t sure what to think. But the idea that she’d fallen into a waterfall and traveled back through time . . . He’d heard of such fanciful tales but had no use for such things as magic and faeries. Only the real world interested Tristan.

“The Black Plague,” she blurted.

Her intent expression told him that, if nothing else, she really did believe what she was saying.

“All of the people that died.”

“The pestilence?”

“I guess,” she said. “We know it as the Black Plague. It was a pandemic spread by rats on ships.”

“Rats,” he repeated.

“Your war with France—”

“Is over.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s not. They call it the Hundred Years’ War in my time. It will begin again, and France will win.”

“You cannot know such a thing. How is it possible—”

“Because I am from the future.” She shook her head. “It sounds as crazy coming out of my mouth as it must sound to you. But I’m not nuts, and I’m telling you the truth.”

“Hannah, do you understand this is not possible?”

She was frustrated, though no more so than he. For some reason he wanted to believe her, but this strange fancy of hers could not possibly be true.

“Tristan, or lord whatever, please. Take me to the waterfall yourself. Maybe there will be some way for me to prove this to you. And my sisters—”

“Did they travel through time too?”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I do,” he lied.

“No, you don’t.”

“Come with me to the hall. Eat. We will talk more later. I can send for the—”

“No!” She swallowed. “Sorry, I meant to say, please do not tell anyone else what I’ve told you.”

“As you wish. I will not send for the priest, but my men found you. They saw your . . .” Her clothing. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen. “I need to tell them something.”

“Yes, they saw my shorts. They’re called shorts. And a T-shirt. And my Yale hoodie. That’s where I went to graduate school. That is . . . university.”

Tristan nodded. She was right—telling the others was not advisable. Though they were unlikely to believe her, they might decide she was some sort of danger. “We will need to think of another story.” He thought for a moment and then landed upon the perfect solution. “The Swan.”

She would not like it, but it would work.

“We will say you are from The Swan. That you took a dram and found your way to the beach instead of the gatehouse. Throughout the years, many women have come here looking for me. Some, unfortunately, come looking for coin.” He smiled. “And some come for other reasons.”

It was damned inconvenient, being reminded of his previous life.

“It will explain your poor manners,” he added. The furrow in her brow indicated she was not well pleased by that. “A lady would not speak as you do.” His explanation only seemed to make her angrier, so he hurried to finish. “But it will do for the night. And we will talk about your escort later.”

“What,” she asked, clearly agitated, “is The Swan?”

Pleased with the plan and his quick thinking, Tristan smiled. “A stewhouse. Or more precisely, my mother’s stewhouse, when she was alive.”

She clearly had no idea what that meant. Tristan tried again.

“A bordello.”

Hannah’s eyes narrowed. “A brothel? You want me to pose as a whore?”

Tristan had already turned to walk away.