Page 2

His head was getting worse. “Do not say it.”

Gerard did. “That a man could marry. I’ve been considering—”

Tristan did not mean for his laugh to be quite so derisive. “You have gone daft, old man.”

In truth, Gerard was only one year his elder. And at three and thirty, the steward was not exactly close to the grave. But if he thought to bind himself to a woman, one woman, for the rest of his life, then his friend and advisor must truly be losing his memory.

Gerard ignored him. “I promised to assist her—”

“There you are.”

Tristan turned to the newcomer—Walter, Saxford’s marshal—whose quick breaths indicated he had been running. He’d never seen his marshal in such a state of agitation.

“What’s wrong?” Tristan asked. He only realized he’d unsheathed his sword when both men looked down at it. From Walter’s expression, Tristan guessed it would not be needed, so he returned the broadsword to its sheath. Their enemy had not come for them yet.

“There’s a woman,” Walter said in a rush of words, “along the shore.”

Tristan and Gerard exchanged a glance.

“A woman?”

“Aye, my lord. Lying along the shore. We do not know if she is dead or alive—”

Tristan didn’t like Walter’s expression. Why did the man look so worried? A lone woman lying along the shore should not pose a threat. “How could you not know if she’s alive? How did she come to be there?”

Walter shook his head. “I know not, my lord. But none of the men will approach her.”

“What is wrong with them? With you?”

The man took a deep breath. “She is . . .”

His marshal’s evasiveness was not improving the pain in his head. “What in the name of—”

“Her attire.” Walter shrugged. “’Tis odd. And the men are afraid she may be some sort of witch.”

He was finished with this nonsense. Before Walter finished speaking, Tristan turned and made haste toward the shore. A witch. Though he did not personally believe such nonsense, some of the men were quite superstitious. He could hear footsteps behind him, but did not slow his pace toward his horse, which was already readied for him. A woman with odd attire? Had the marshal been hit in the head? What attire could possibly have frightened the men so?

Reminded of the pain in his own head, Tristan prayed he could be finished with this matter quickly. He had more important things to worry about, like the end of the truce and, more pressingly, his rumbling stomach.

* * *

Hannah breathedin the salty air and concentrated on the sound of distant seagulls with relief.

She was home.

Back in Mayport Bay, no longer in Scotland somehow, but home—

Except . . . she wasn’t.

When she opened her eyes and finally focused, it took only the briefest of moments for her to realize this was not Maine and she was most certainly not at her family home. She sat up, her joints as stiff as if she were ninety-eight rather than twenty-eight.

What the hell?

The castle looming above her was what had given it away. The only castle she knew of in New England was the one in New Hampshire where she’d attended a wedding once. What was it called? Did it really matter? She’d somehow ended up on a beach, alone, instead of—

Caroline? Allison? Where were her sisters?

Heart racing, Hannah tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness forced her back onto her sandy seat. It came back all at once. The waterfall. Their jump. She’d been pulled under, and while she’d expected to float up toward the surface at any moment, it hadn’t happened. There’d been a brief moment of panic before . . . nothing. There was nothing after that but darkness, and now this beach.