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Tristan reached out, without thinking, and offered Hannah his hand. As soon as they emerged, he realized what he’d done and released it.

“That was amazing,” she said.

“It was just a sword,” he said, though he didn’t quite mean it. Every piece was unique, and it had felt good to be back inside the forge. “What made you go in there?”

They approached the horses, and Tristan assisted Hannah, careful not to allow his touch to linger, and then mounted himself. They began the ride back.

“I heard the hammering,” she shrugged. “And wanted to see what it was that you did exactly. Though I still don’t see the difference between the two positions.” Pink rose on her smooth cheeks. “In terms of being a blacksmith and an armorer, I mean.”

He could say something bawdy but decided against it.

“I made only armor. George forges swords, daggers, even jewelry.”

“But that was a sword, and you knew how to—”

“An armorer can make weapons, and a blacksmith can make armor.”

Hannah made a face. “Perhaps some things in our times are just too different to comprehend.”

Tristan thought about that for a time, and likely Hannah did the same. He had not intended to stay so long in the village, but as he watched the sun dip in the sky, Tristan suddenly had an idea. Something he thought Hannah would enjoy. If they were going to make it, they would have to hurry.

“Do you think you’re ready to trot?”

Hannah shook her head.

“Good, follow me.”

“Tristan!”

Sometimes the best way to learn was just to do. And when he turned back to see her cantering along as easily as if she’d been raised riding, he smiled. He navigated off the main road and slowed down as trees began to appear. If he was correct . . .

“This way,” he shouted back. This was it. Tristan dismounted and turned to help Hannah do the same. After tying up both horses, he took her hand for the second time that day and led her to a break in the trees.

Just in time.

They watched, hand in hand, as the sun set in a magical display of reds, oranges, and pinks. It would make a beautiful memory, Tristan thought—for her, hopefully, and for him. Years after she went back to her own time, he would remember her easy laughter and strange ideas. He would remember this.

But she isn’t gone just yet.

And he was no monk.

Pulling her toward him with their joined hands, Tristan brought his lips down on hers and waited until Hannah opened herself completely. Though he plundered her mouth, his tongue tussling with hers in a dance common to both of their times, it wasn’t enough.

Groaning, he pulled her closer until he could feel her luscious breasts pressing against him. He kissed her harder, then trailed a line of kisses down to her jaw, her neck. Hannah responded by lifting her head to give him better access. He trailed his lips down, lower and lower, until the valley he sought was within reach. He slowed then, giving deference to the sacred place he was about to enter.

With one hand, he pushed the material of her gown aside, and with the other, he gripped the small of her back. Though he could not reach her nipple, the soft, warm mound under his lips gave him enough of a taste to know he wanted more.

Much more.

He stood and looked down at her partially exposed breast, her swollen lips, and her bemused expression.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Hannah swallowed. “No . . . nay. I’d rather you not.”