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When he brought his mouth back to hers, Hannah kissed him hungrily, all other thoughts banished by the expert maneuvers of one very skilled Englishman. She pulled her mouth away as the pressure built, the need to scream almost inescapable.

“Tristan.”

Hannah’s eyes popped open just as the wave crested. Every muscle in her body tensed, save one, and when Tristan smiled, she came completely undone. Heart hammering in her chest, she attempted to catch her breath.

He pulled away from her finally, fixing her gown and continuing to smile like a man who knew he’d given the ultimate pleasure. God, he was divine. Hannah looked down, and though his surcoat partially concealed his arousal, she was pretty sure he was as hard as a rock.

“You can’t ride like that.”

Had she ever blurted out a more ridiculous thing in her life?

“I’ve managed before,” he said, leaning down to place a quick, and unbelievably sweet, kiss on her nose. “We need to leave before it grows too dark. I’m impressed by your riding skills, but . . .”

But she wasn’t quite ready to navigate Arwen at night. Well . . . she was not ready to navigate Tristan either, so it was just as well.

“What do you mean you’ve managed before?” she asked as they walked back to their horses. Hannah wasn’t a hundred percent steady on her feet yet.

He patted her horse with care and then lifted Hannah up with the same gentle ease as he’d done many times before. How could a hardened warrior have such gentle hands?

She shuddered.

Tristan mounted and turned back to her.

“All the way to Scotland . . . and back,” he said, his meaning clear as he glanced at the back of his horse, where she had sat on their journey.

Hannah took a long, deep, steadying breath and squeezed her legs, signaling Arwen to walk. It didn’t work. No amount of deep breathing would erase that memory or quell the very scary thought that had bubbled up.

She was falling for Sir Tristan, Lord of Saxford.

And falling hard.

* * *

By all the saints,that should not have happened.

Tristan paced back and forth in his chamber, knowing it was past time for supper and not caring. He’d been with enough women to know something astonishing had happened today. Something that defied reason. He’d known, of course, she was different. After all, Hannah came from a very different time and place than this. A different world almost. But he had not expected her passion would bring him to the point of losing control for the first time since he’d begun to enjoy the company of ladies.

When he’d watched her earlier today, felt her beneath his fingertips, one thought had taken root in his soul.

He wanted her to stay.

The relief he’d felt when she’d surfaced in the pool at the foot of the falls . . . he’d told himself at the time it was simply because she was safe. But after today, Tristan would be a fool to deny that if the men he’d sent to gather information came back with a way for Hannah to go home, he would be devastated.

A knock on the door disturbed his thoughts.

“Come in,” he called.

“My lord?” Gerard entered the chamber and closed the door behind him.

Tristan pursed his lips in annoyance. “Tristan,” he amended. “Why you insist on the formality—”

“It is necessary.”

“No, it is not. When we first came to Saxford—”

“We were young and foolish,” Gerard finished. “And you were desperate for legitimacy.”

He never did hide his true feelings, which was usually one of the things Tristan liked best about him.