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.