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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.”