Tristan set up their camp as he’d done many times before. The most direct route north was as barren as the field of battle had been after Sutherland’s defeat. He’d not thought of that day for some time, and telling the story to Hannah had reminded him of why his men prepared to fight back at Saxford. The truce would expire soon, and the vow he’d made to protect Saxford would be tested.

Luckily, Cook had given them provisions since he was not prepared to leave Hannah alone to hunt. He looked up to where she stood at the mouth of the cave. Hands on her hips, head held high, Hannah caught him staring. He didn’t look away. And unlike most women, she held his gaze. Tristan walked up the incline toward her.

“You could be the namesake of this cave.” He added a log to the fire he’d built, which already cast a glow that reached deep within the entrance of the mountain where they would make their bed this eve.

“Namesake?”

He stopped, not wanting to move too close. Holding her hand earlier had affected him much more than he would have liked, not to mention the sweet torment of feeling her ride behind him.

“It’s called Hera’s Cave.”

“The wife of Zeus.”

“And a vengeful woman. Though I’m not sure why ’tis named as such.”

Although too many trees stood in the way of the setting sun, a blanket of darkness fell around them, leaving no doubt that the day had, indeed, come to an end. They could have pressed on a bit farther, but judging from the number of times Hannah shifted in the saddle, Tristan could tell she was uncomfortable. For never having ridden a horse before, she’d actually done quite well. A testament to the strength of her long legs.

Legs that had burned a permanent place in his memory.

“So kind of you to compare me to her then,” she said, though not kindly.

“I don’t compare your temperament to hers,” he corrected, not daring to move toward her. “I compare your beauty.” Without breaking eye contact, he said, “Some claim Hera to be the most beautiful of all the goddesses. Vengeful, aye, but even more pleasing to the eye than Aphrodite.”

She looked at him, unwavering, until the spell was broken by the sound of approaching horses in the distance. His sword was up and at his side before he took a step.

“Wait here.”

Tristan made his way through the thicket of trees toward the road.

Reivers. Riding hobbies and carrying long spears, these men were here for one purpose.

“Put down your sword,” one of the men called, seeing him. “We’ve no quarrel with you.”

“You are only passing through then?”

Reivers often traveled at night, under the cloak of darkness.

“Aye, lord,” the companion said, a nod to Tristan’s position more than his clothing. It was the first lesson Kenton had taught him, well before he’d been knighted. Your bearing reveals more than your background, he’d often said.

“Aye. Passing through, my lord,” the other agreed.

With that, they moved on.

Tristan knew many reivers, and none of those in his acquaintance shied away from a fight. Either these men carried hot goods or they planned on returning later, once Tristan’s guard was down, to finish the conversation. Luckily, they had not seen Hannah. He made his way back to find her sitting in front of the fire. He’d set the woolen blanket out earlier, and now he moved to the saddlebags to fetch Cook’s meal.

“Is everything okay?”

“All is well,” he lied. “Here.”

He handed her a pear and then took one for himself. Grabbing a few bits of dried meat to accompany it, he settled on the blanket, choosing the farthest seat from her. If he sat any closer, he’d be tempted to touch her, and he’d already removed all but his hose and undertunic.

“I’ve no wine to offer you,” he said, taking out another skin. “Only ale.”

Hannah took it from him and drank deeply. From the look on her face, he guessed they did not have ale in her time.

Though he’d begun to think of her as coming from another time, Tristan was still baffled by the whole thing. Ultimately, he’d had no choice but to believe her story. There was simply no other alternative that made sense given the depth and complexity of her story, her strange appearance on the beach, and her odd belongings.

“No ale in Maine?”

She looked surprised.

“Beer,” she said. “We call it beer, and I always thought they were the same. But I guess not. This is hardly recognizable.”

They ate in silence, listening to the woods come alive. Having grown up in a town, it had taken Tristan some time to become accustomed to traveling through the woods. The first few times he’d ventured away from home, he had been terrified of the noises that came from the darkness. He was no longer that boy, but that didn’t mean other fears did not haunt him.

“So tell me more of it. The future.”

While she spoke, Tristan attempted to concentrate on her words. He should be enthralled. After all, she supposedly told him of the fate of his country. Of the world. But all he could think of was running his hands up along the edge of her gown, using her legs as a guide—

“You’re not listening,” she mumbled. “Typical man.”

She seemed to have many comments about the typical behavior of “men.” Against his better judgment, he asked her about it. “Are men so terrible then, in your time?”

Hannah took the ale from him, drank again, and frowned. “Some, yes.”

And that was all she offered.

Tristan tried again.

“You said women have more ‘opportunities’ in your time. They are considered equal, allowed to vote—”

“Yeah, well, change is difficult. Moving from your time . . . this time . . . where women are thought of like cattle—”

“Do I treat you that way?”

Hannah’s brows drew together. “No, you don’t. Why?”

“Why don’t I treat you like a cow?”

She laughed, the sound drifting through the night.

“When we first met, on the beach, I thought you were a pompous brute.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I suppose because of your size. And your authoritative manner, ordering everyone around as you do.”

“If I order ‘everyone around,’ it’s only because in battle, the men cannot question my words. They must go onto that field knowing I will always do what is best for them, for my people. It’s necessary for them to trust me, whatever they may think of the situation.”

It had taken some time for Tristan to learn that lesson. His first few years at Saxford had not been easy ones. But he’d earned his people’s trust, and he meant to keep it.

She shrugged. “Maybe it’s because I dated too many jocks . . . men who play sports and care of little else.”

He was curious to know what was considered a sport in her day, but Tristan was much more curious about something else.

“This ‘dating’ you speak of . . . How many times do you do such a thing if you do not intend to marry these men?”

“Please do not make me explain double standards to you, Tristan.”

He had no idea what she meant, so he finished the last of his dried meat and rose to stoke the fire, waiting for her to explain.

“You date as many men as you want, until you find the right one.”

Tristan’s curiosity got the best of him. “And how many boyfriends have you dated?”

Her chuckle was so unexpected, Tristan frowned. “What have I said?”

“They are two different things. Dating and boyfriends. At least, they can be.”

And now he was entirely confused. “In what way?”

“You can date someone, but not exclusively. Which means they are not your boyfriend or girlfriend. That term is reserved for when you only have one.”

He wasn’t so sure he liked where this was heading. “So you’ve dated men and had boyfriends too?”

“Yes.”

She was laughing. He was not.

When he sat back down, he returned to his spot on the far side of the blanket, ignoring his body’s insistence that he sit closer to Hannah.

“How many?” he asked, repeating the question.

“I’ll have you know, jealousy is one of my least favorite traits in the men that I date.”

He tried to use her same arch tone. “I’ll have you know, I care not what traits you like, or do not like, in men. I would just have you answer the question.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you care how many men I’ve dated or how many boyfriends I’ve had?”

Good question.

“I just want to know what it’s like in your time.”

“Bullshit,” she said, stretching her legs out in front of her. The traveling gown was simple, thinner than the others and quite becoming on her. Thank God he had won his argument with her this morning. She’d thought to wear those “shorts” again, but he’d refused, knowing he could not bear it for any length of time.

“An epithet I haven’t heard before,” he said, laughing.

“Yet you knew it was one.” She indulged him. “I don’t know how many men I’ve dated, but I’ve had three serious boyfriends.”

He changed his mind . . . he didn’t want to know.

“The last one was the most serious, until he dumped me for his ex.”

“Pardon?”

“Ex-girlfriend.”

He was going to comment on the fact that this foolish man had chosen another woman, until he realized—

“You said most women in your time are not virgins when they wed.”

Hannah brought her knees up to her chest and hugged them. Whether she was trying to get comfortable or deliberately tormenting him, Tristan couldn’t be sure. But when she pressed her knees to her chest, the swell of her bosom called to him. His hands ached to touch her there. Everywhere.

“Aye,” she said, chuckling, apparently at her own attempt to sound like him.

“So you are not—”

Her smile disappeared. “That is an awfully personal question, Tristan. Do people in this time usually speak so openly about such topics?”

“I did not mean to offend you.”

He could see only her outline, courtesy of the fire and the faint light from a hazy moon.

“You did not offend me.”

He was glad for it. “If there is no such thing as nobility, inheritance—”

“Some women, and men, are virgins when they marry. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression of my time. It’s just that many are not.”

“That was not my question.”

“I am not.”

The jolt of lust hit him, strangled him, refused to let go. This meant nothing. Certainly it did not mean—

Hannah wanted to ask him something. Her face was always so expressive. If she could hide her emotions, she certainly did not try.

“I know you are not shy, Hannah. Ask.”

He was not usually so impertinent. Not with strange women, at least.

“Did the women in the stewhouse . . . that is . . .”

She stopped.

“They taught me everything I know,” Tristan said sincerely. “And not only in the arts of love. When I was old enough, big enough, to protect them, my mother no longer needed to spend coin on a guard. By then I’d been training under Kenton, growing stronger every day.” He smiled. “Some of the women noticed.”

He hadn’t talked about the past for years. He wasn’t ashamed of it, but it did not serve him well to remind others of who he’d been.

“I see.”

She didn’t. Not really. He’d love nothing more than to show her, and the look on her face told him she’d love it too. Normally, he would welcome such a look in a woman he desired. But not tonight. Not with her. She was neither common nor a widow, and she was leaving on the morrow.

He moved to stand—to retreat from the fire, from her—but she stood at the same time. She took one step toward him, two. Three.

He could have reached for her she stood so close. Kissed her despite the risk. But he wouldn’t.

“So this is also something very different about our times,” she said, her voice slightly louder than a whisper.

“What is that?” he asked, despite himself.

Hannah smiled. A slow, sensual, beautiful smile.

“In my time, by now, you would have kissed me.”