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Truth be told, she couldn’t. She also couldn’t help but wonder if he was there to help her or to strike her with his lance. If only he’d ride right past her, that would solve all of her problems. And yet, as he continued in her direction, she knew she was stuck. There was nothing left to be done but sit and await her fate.

Fate. As if the guy was going to kill her. She really needed to chill.

Drawing deep, soothing breaths, she spoke to herself logically. She was tired, hungry, and stressed. Clearly, she wasn’t firing on all cylinders. If she was being honest with herself, the guy was probably harmless—just a little weird. Besides that, she was a grown woman, and she was more than capable of taking care of herself. Damsel in distress? Not Winnie Knox.

With strengthened resolve, she raised her chin and squared her shoulders, even though she still listened to the little voice of warning that urged her to lock her door—just in case.

The knight reached her car then, stopping his horse directly beside her on the road, his top half hidden by the roof of the Aston Martin until he lowered his lance to the ground beside him, dismounted, and faced her.

She peered past the raindrops speckling her window, his helmet still covering his features as he moved his fisted hand in a circular movement, motioning for her to roll down her window.

Maybe she hadn’t gone back a few hundred years. Maybe she’d just traveled back in time to the nineties. After all, that was the last time she’d been inside a car with the manual windows he was imitating.

Still, she got the picture.

With her index finger, she lowered the window a mere inch. “Hi,” she stated in an even voice. She’d always been good at hiding her true emotions.

“Arhg yhu habn chrbl?” the knight mumbled above her.

Was she supposed to have understood that? Feeling a bit braver, she lowered the window another inch, water droplets speckling her skirt and the interior armrest.

“Sorry,” she said, speaking over the loud splattering on the roof. “I can’t understand you with all”—she waved her hand in front of her face, then motioned to his helmet—“this.”

Finally, the knight got the hint. With the horse’s reins still in his hand, he reached up and unfastened his helmet with his free fingers, pulling it off his head. She leaned forward to finally see his face, but he turned just before she could.

He secured his helmet to the side of the saddle with a small buckle, then removed the chainmail and cover from his head, revealing thick, dark blond hair that curled in the rain.

Now more curious than ever, Winnie strained to see through the small slit she’d allotted herself in the window until finally, he turned around.

Well, hello, knight.

Aside from A Knight’s Tale, her only knowledge of knights came from old, unattractive drawings of disproportionate men from hundreds of years ago.

Heath Ledger was a pretty spectacular knight. The best, as far as she was concerned.

But this guy standing in front of her, staring at her with rain sliding down his masculine features and curling the ends of his blond hair? Well, he could hold a candle to Sir Ulrich von Liechtenstein and Sir William Thatcher.

All. Night. Long.

With an angled jaw covered in a perfect, dark blond beard—thick enough to not be patchy, thin enough to not be icky—the man was a veritable angel, his brow prominent and blue eyes striking.

Winnie was pretty sure she wasn’t in the medieval era. Nor was she in the nineties. Instead, she was dead and was now being welcomed to the other side by this messenger from heaven.

“I merely asked,” the man began again, this time far more clearly, “is the fair lady experiencing trouble with her emerald steed?”

Winnie blinked, not only at the sound of his deep, masculine tone—his English accent strong—but also because of his dialect. He had to be leaning really hard into this knight thing, right? Or was this really how he spoke all the time?

“Uh, no, I’m good,” she responded.

He didn’t say anything back as he peered down at her, a half-smile on his lips, moisture clinging to their smooth lines.

Wait. Did she just say she was good? She was far from “good.” What was her problem?

Clearing her throat, she looked away with heat in her cheeks. Obviously, her problem was losing her mind over a man, something a Knox should never do.

She’d just chalk it up to jetlag again.

“Oh, wait,” she began, “I guess I am having some trouble. My…emerald steed…got stuck in the mud.”