Of the
man
, behind her.
She finally managed a deep breath. The man behind her. He sure was hot.
Calm down.
The universe was telling her something. She just needed to open herself to it.
Those matchmaking dummies had told her she was unmatchable, and the universe had proved them wrong. She apparently did have a true love. He just happened to be . . . medieval dude.
Hunky medieval dude.
Maybe it
was
the past. How bad could it be anyway? People had survived it. No phones, no television. It seemed kind of nice, actually. Simpler.
Surely she could find a way to get word to Livvie—somehow. She’d figure that out later. Her aunt would be
so
mad if she found out that Felicity had spun out worrying about
her
instead of just relaxing into the experience.
She tilted her head back for another look at the man behind her. She knew one thing—she couldn’t do any better on the One True Love front. He sure was good-l ooking. Seemed like a gentleman. Intense, intelligent eyes. Clean and well-dressed.
Maybe he had a castle. Maybe he hung out with princes and stuff. Maybe he
was
a prince.
“Wow,” she said breathily. “Do you have a castle? In England? England . . .” She shook her head, marveling. “Will we get to see stuff like Big Ben, and the Tower of London?”
“Let’s pray not,” the red-haired man muttered.
The man at her back frowned. “I hadn’t counted on needing three, not two, mounts.” He pinned her with narrowed eyes. “ ’Twould be a long journey to Scotland, with you riding pillion.”
“I told you, Will,” the other man said. “Riding is folly. Our journey is too long. One month in which Cromwell can sniff us out with his dogs? I think not. A boat it must be.”
“Scotland?” She pushed up and away from his chest, craning her neck. “I thought you said England. I’ve always wanted to see Scotland too.”
“In time,” he said brusquely. “For now, it’s England. At least until we sort our transportation.”
“So you’re Scottish?” She glanced down at his tartan-clad legs and smiled. “Do you have a kilt too?”
He stared blankly.
“You know,” she said gesturing to his legs, “one of those hot . . . man . . . skirts.”
His eyes narrowed. “Aye, I’m a Scotsman, and aye, I’ve a
breacan feile
.” He spoke slowly and with great effort, as though moderating his patience. “Now, tell us where to bring you.”
His companion only chuckled.
“Bring me?” She had nowhere to be except right where she was. San Francisco was probably still just a stretch of waterfront wilderness.
“Aye,” her handsome man said. “We’ll do that much, lass.”
Their eyes locked.
Lass.
He’d said it again.
He’ll wear his kilt and call me
lass
.
Butterflies danced in her belly. “Can you ride horses when you wear your kilt . . . whatchamacallit?”
A low growl escaped him. “Where should I—?”
“Oh, that,” she said, coming back to herself. “I’ve got no place to go. I think . . . I think I’m supposed to be
here
. What’s your name?” she asked innocently.
The red-haired man cleared his throat. “Dare we—”
“Rollo,” her man answered, “William Rollo.”
“Rollo,” she repeated, sounding the name slowly. “What kind of name is Rollo? It doesn’t sound Scottish. Shouldn’t it be something like MacRollo instead?”
“ ’Tis an old name,” he clipped out. “A Norse name.”
“Hail Rollo the Viking!” the red- headed man jested. “Your forefather became none other than the Duke of Normandy, was it? That would’ve been, what, eight hundred years ago?”
“My Viking . . .” Felicity sighed. She would never mock Livvie or her candles ever again.
“I’m not a Viking,” Rollo snarled.
His companion laughed. “Oh, but you seem quite barbarous to me.”
“Enough.” Rollo nudged their horse into a brisker walk. “Who are you, woman? And where do I deposit you?”
Ignoring him, Felicity turned to the red-headed man. “Are you Scottish too, then? Or do you live here?”
He stared, amused, as if she were nuts. “Good luck with this one, Will.” He chuckled. “The name is Ormonde, dear lady. James Butler, the Marquis of Ormonde, so pleased to make your acquaintance. And, if you’re one of Cromwell’s lackeys, I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you now.”
“Quit your jesting,” Rollo snapped. “Truly, lass. Tell me with whom I should—”
“No, really.” Felicity tried sitting up in earnest. “I’m supposed to be here. I’m not from . . .”—she pitched her voice for his ears alone—“I’m not from here. I was sent to you. I’m sure of it. Hold on!” she said suddenly. “What year is it?”
She studied his coat and lace-edged collar. Maybe she’d get to wear some lacy getup too. And she couldn’t wait for her first carriage ride. “I can’t believe this is really happening. It’s so exciting.”
There was a strained pause, and then Rollo said simply, “No.”
Will eyed the lovely creature in his arms, disbelief snaking through him. His gaze took in the clattering armful of bracelets, the strangely ruffled skirt. Her feet were bare and delicate, each toenail painted a cheery pink.
“Oh no,” he said again.
Their eyes met, and she grinned at him, raising her brows in exaggerated innocence.
“No,” he said flatly. “No, it couldn’t . . .”
But it could
, he thought.
Time travel.
It could, and did happen, with a frequency that had him doubting his own sanity. Rollo scowled.
Because damned if each time he didn’t find himself in its very nexus. Some great, dumb insect trapped in a web.
In what manner of dark era did they find themselves, in which witchcraft burbled and roiled as matter-of-factly as the clouds above? What was the meaning of it?
First, there had been his friend James, whose bride fell through a portrait, landing in his very own bed.
And then that great brute of a man MacColla. It made sense that the only woman with backbone enough for Alasdair came from some distant future.
But now this? What was happening?
A great, dumb insect trapped in a web, though this time the beautiful spider had come for
him
.
He eyed the woman once more. He’d known, on some level. Known the moment he first saw her that she wasn’t some ordinary wench.
Lovely, fragile, and open. Smiling giddily up at him as if he were Lancelot.
Some unnamed grief stabbed him. Rollo pushed it away. He flexed his legs, deadened and worthless beneath him. The riding was difficult enough. But bearing it with someone else’s weight, it became a grueling challenge.
He took a hand from the reins, pounded life into his thigh.
No.
He was no woman’s Lancelot.
“No,” he said again, baldly.
“Are you quite well, Will?” his friend asked.
“I am . . . well enough.” Rollo kicked his horse into a trot. “I must away to Perthshire. To home.
With
the woman.”
“But we—”
“And no boats, Ormonde. I’ve had my fill of water.” Men spoke dismissively of sea legs, when Rollo’s were barely fit for land. He’d claim some dignity in this whole enterprise. “We find a carriage to take us from England. Then away to my family’s Duncrub Castle.”
He looked down at the woman in his arms. With her long, flowing hair and doll-like features, she had the air of a pixie. So guileless, a look of expectancy on her pretty face. “What’s your name, lass?”
“Felicity.” She gave him a broad smile, and he felt his heart crack.
Felicity.
Was it a cruel joke? He’d not felt true joy in decades, and in his lap he held a woman with the name
Felicity
.
Come for him? He couldn’t fathom it.
Perhaps.
Perhaps for another, more like.
Chapter 4
“This is not particularly what I’d describe as fleeing London.” Ormonde looked around nervously.
Felicity couldn’t understand the problem. They were taking a lovely stroll around the fringes of what Will had told her was Hampstead Heath. But, despite the acres of greenery and tranquil ponds all around, the red-headed man flinched at the sight of every new person who passed by.
“We are simply three taking the air,” Rollo responded flatly.
“Why did we come to this godforsaken place anyhow? A stroll in the park?” His eyes flicked to Rollo’s cane.
It was pretty, carved from a stretch of honey-colored wood, and Felicity didn’t understand why her Viking had been so grumpy about getting it.
“You of all people . . .” Ormonde shook his head. “We’ll be three taking to the dungeons if we don’t leave soon.”
Dungeons?
She frowned, trying to remember her history, but academics had never been her thing. She knew England and Scotland hadn’t exactly been lovey-dovey in the old days.
What does he mean,
dungeons
?
She eyed the two men. They acted like they were on the run. Ormonde looked nervous, impatient at the pace Rollo was setting.
But Rollo. She sighed.
William Rollo. So handsome.
And the new silver-h andled cane only made him look more dashing. Her frown blossomed into a smile as she deduced that her One True Love must be some grand and misunderstood nobleman.
“I am quite capable of strolling,” Rollo snapped.
Ormonde attempted good- natured reassurances, but Will cut him off. “I needed this”—he waved his cane with revulsion—“and we needed a place where we could speak safely as well. A small village Hampstead might be, but aye,” he admitted, “it’s true, Cromwell’s ears are everywhere. You have the right of it.”
“I . . .” Ormonde stopped in his tracks. “Wait. I do?”
Though Ormonde’s freckled cheeks broke into a grin, Rollo’s response was grave. “Three heading north in a carriage will raise too many brows. I think you should divine that boat you so long for. I shall more appropriately clothe this one”—he gestured to Felicity—“and hire a carriage.”
Clothes—thank God.
In a whispered exchange, Rollo had handed their horses off to some wizened villager who’d disappeared and promptly reappeared bearing the clothes she now wore. Just the mention of it had her furtively scratching at the waist of a skirt she’d swear was made of burlap.
Now if only she could find herself a rubber band. Her hair was driving her batty. Or a headband. Hell, she’d settle for an old scrunchie.
“I shall be back in Perthshire by month’s end.” Rollo’s jaw tightened. “But I’ll not join your . . .
club
. Though I long for the restoration of King Charles II as much as you, I’ll leave games of intrigue to you and your Sealed Knot Society men.”
Ormonde was silent for a moment, then gave a brusque nod. “I understand. Though if it’s intrigues you fear, I don’t see why you persist, Will.You’re one of the most honor- bound men I’ve known, but she”—his eyes went to Felicity—“she far exceeds the responsibilities of a gentleman.”
“You are saying she is not of my concern?”
Ormonde nodded vigorously.
“I’m standing right here, guys,” she chimed, but they both ignored her.
“Then it is not of your concern either,” Rollo stated with finality. He looked at Felicity, his eyes locking with hers for a heartbeat. Her heart swelled.
She’d
known
she’d found herself
the one
.
Okay, if she had to admit it, the whole situation was a little weird. She glanced around the park. It was like Jane Austen-land. A couple walked on the path ahead, and the woman carried a darned parasol. And it was the
fourth
one she’d seen all day.
Apparently she really was in the past. Where there were parasols. And dungeons.
Can I deal with this?
She looked back at Rollo. Tall, dark, handsome, and so sexy serious.
Would he look that intense when he . . .
She flushed.
Oh yeah, she could deal.
“I have an inkling of this woman’s origins. She needs my assistance and that is what I shall give. Fear not, I’ll see her soon gone from Perth.”
Gone?
“No,” she hesitated. “I’m supposed to—”
“Go now,” Rollo told his friend, cutting her off. His hard features softened for a moment. “You’ve been fancying a boat. Go find one already.”
“You know where I’m from?” she asked the moment Ormonde strode away. She’d been dying to ask, but had wanted to wait until she and Will were alone.
“Aye. I know enough.” He took the cane from his hand to flex and stretch his fingers. “Now we must get to the clothier before he closes for his midday meal.”
“But I don’t think you . . .” She watched him as he turned to head back toward the village. Rollo set a slow and shuffling pace, and yet stood tall and elegantly upright. She eyed his uneven gait, marveling at the thick knots of muscle that had been carved into his physique, as if his body was overcompensating for his injured legs.
She jogged a couple paces to catch up to him. Felicity could see the pain clearly on his face, at the corners of his eyes and mouth.
He was obviously a tragic figure who also happened to have movie star good looks.
Clearly
she’d been sent through time for him.
The problem was, he didn’t seem too interested in
her
. Yet.
“Here”—she took his arm, giving it a warm squeeze—“let me help—”
Rollo abruptly pulled from her. “I need no help.”
“I . . .” Felicity recoiled as if stung.
“Listen.” Rollo stopped, the chiseled steel of his features blunting momentarily. “The future, is it? I’ve met others like you.”
Her face widened in shock. “You—”
“Aye. Others there have been. I will help you. To return.”
“But, you’re not listening. I don’t want to return.” She gave him an earnest smile. “The universe thinks you’re the one for me.”