“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.”