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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 . . .