He recognized his brother’s style, though, and planned to let Jamie flail himself into exhaustion. He was younger than Jamie and, ironically, it was Rollo’s injury that had kept him fitter than most men, regardless of age.
Jamie bobbed forward for what he clearly thought would be a killing lunge, and Rollo saw his chance. Though he refused to kill his brother, he found he was quite eager to bruise the lout.
Rollo stepped forward, meeting Jamie’s lunge. Their swords crashed, blade sliding down blade, until the brothers’ hands were inches apart.
“You always”—jutting his foot forward, Rollo grabbed his brother’s wrist and flung him over his extended leg—“make this same blunder.” As Jamie fell, his sword came loose and clattered across the timber roof.
Rollo put the tip of his blade to Jamie’s neck. “Don’t forget,
brother
. My injury makes me stronger than you. You can’t admit that you gave me that strength?”
“Never.” Jamie grabbed the blade in his palm, and a thin trickle of blood seeped from his fist. “You will never be the stronger man.”
He rolled from beneath the sword, shouting at once for a guard.
Rollo looked for a split second from the sword in his hand, to its wooden sheath tossed halfway across the roof, then to the battlements. With a curse, he tossed his blade down. The cane had been a fine little treasure, but he had neither the time nor the hands to spare.
He heard his brother’s shouts and the scrape of his broadsword as he retrieved it.
Rollo pulled himself up between the battlements, the stone scraping his back and arms as he wriggled through. Fumbling in the dark, his hands found the rope. The rock scored his knuckles as he eased down into the blackness below.
“Will,” Ormonde hissed. “Just here. Hurry now, I hear the guards rallying.”
Rollo dropped the last foot, landing clumsily in the boat, and his hired man set at once to rowing them back toward Traitor’s Gate.
“What are you doing?” Rollo sidled toward the empty cask, still waiting in the prow of the boat. “You were supposed to hide in there.”
“Someone has beat me to it.” Ormonde’s voice had a peculiar edge.
Rollo swung his gaze to him. “You sound amused.”
“Have a look-see,” the hired man said, offering his dagger.
Rollo took the knife and pried the lid free, revealing a woman. She was curled up, fast asleep, her heavy breath echoing in the tiny chamber. “What the devil?”
He peered in. It was impossible to make out any details in the dark. “Help me,” he said to Ormonde. “I’ll get her”—he put his hands under her arms and pulled—“you steady the barrel.”
“Good Lord,” Ormonde said, turning his face away. “Is that her or the cask?”
Rollo grimaced at the smell of stale wine. “I think mayhap . . . it’s both?”
He laid her down gently, staring for a moment in dumbfounded silence. She was a small, fine-boned thing, with pert little features and hair that flowed long and loose down her back. The moon had risen and illuminated her face with an unearthly light, making her seem like some sort of wayward fairy princess.
Rollo spied something on her, and he carefully took her bare arm in his hand. Her skin was warm and smooth, and he couldn’t help but run his thumb over the delicate bones of her hand, her fingers longer and more graceful than he’d have expected.
He turned her arm to see what had stuck to her and peeled a strange card from the thin skin of her forearm. It pictured a man, walking blithely along, the sun at his back and a bloom in his hand. The man in the drawing gazed up at the sky, heedless of the cliff from which he was about to step. Beneath the image was written, The Fool.
Rollo quickly pocketed the peculiar thing, his skin prickling to gooseflesh.
The distant rumble of talk floated over the water from the direction of Traitor’s Gate, calling him back to himself. “Hurry,” he said to Ormonde. “In the cask. Now.”
“What of
her
?” Ormonde pointed to the girl with a mix of bemusement and panic.
“I’ll give her my cloak.” Rollo slipped his arms from the blanket of dark wool, eyeing her strange and colorful skirt. “Something to cover the clothes she wears.”
“But they’ll recognize you. You can’t risk so much for some drunken wench.”
“What would you have me do? Drop her in the moat?” He settled the strange woman on his lap, leaning her against his neck as if she nuzzled him. “The guard’s eyes will be on the lass, not me.”
Ormonde stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. Rollo glared back, and his friend simply shrugged, climbing awkwardly into the barrel.
“Make it fast.” Rollo angled away from the guard’s side of the boat, draping the woman’s hair over his face. The smell of lavender filled his senses, and an unsettling feeling seized him, something visceral, both foreign and yet somehow dimly remembered. He swallowed hard, reminding himself where he was. “We approach the gate.”
His hired man began whistling with affected boredom as they rowed closer, and Rollo thought he had well earned his keep.
Just as he’d predicted, the guard had eyes only for their drunken passenger. The man shot Rollo a rakish and congratulatory wink, nodding them through the Traitor’s Gate and out to the Thames.
But Rollo gazed sightlessly in the distance, breathing the scent of lavender and thinking he’d wager anything that this lass was more than a mere wench.
Chapter 3
She gradually came to, her body swaying back and forth. The cheery chirrup of birdsong twittered around her. The rustle of greenery under . . .
hooves
?
Horseback riding?
Where am I?
Events of the previous evening played rapid- fire in her brain as she tried to place when and where. Tapas with Aunt Livia. Sangria.
Ugh . . . sangria.
Felicity peeled her eyes open. They were gritty, courtesy of all that alcohol. Her tongue, tacky and thick in her mouth.
She took in the countryside. A patchwork of green farm-land and the darker green fringe of dense trees stretched into the distance, lush and fragrant all around.
She tried to make sense of it. She was on a horse. There were
two
horses.
She glanced at the man riding the horse next to hers. Frizzy red hair. An elaborate goatee and moustache pointed about his mouth. He was oblivious to her. Concern furrowing his brow, he seemed focused only on the path ahead.
She’d never been one for elaborate facial hair.
Wait.
How drunk had she been?
Where
had she been? But she knew—she’d been in her apartment. In the Mission. In San Francisco.
And now she was on a horse.
She’d had sangria, but not
that
much sangria. She’d been in her apartment, wishing on a star for her true love. Or rather, on a deck of Tarot cards and Livvie’s trusted candle.
She stared at the horse’s neck in front of her, damp and rank with sweat, and hoped she wasn’t
that
unfortunate.
Felicity glanced down. A pair of arms encased her.
Could it be?
Adrenaline dumped into her veins, making her feel tingly all over. Had she done it?
She was sideways on a saddle, curled into someone’s arms. Someone’s
strong
arms.
Her heart gave a sharp kick in her chest.
Her eyes grazed down further, at the very masculine legs cradling her. They were encased in tight, muted blue, green, and yellow plaid.
Weird.
But kind of . . .
hot
.
Slowly, she turned her head. Her neck was stiff and her eyes dry.
Forget that.
All she knew was that the chest she leaned into was manly. She was being swept away on a horse. She’d made a wish on a star and was being swept away.
Just like in a romance novel!
Had Livvie set this up? If so, she was going to thank her aunt for this fantasy for the rest of her life.
She turned. Velvet was soft along her cheek. Velvet, the color of brandy.
Ooh! On the romance covers, their shirts are always open. Will his shirt be open?
Slowly she lifted her chin. A dozen tiny buttons marched up the broad, flat plane of the man’s belly and chest. A collar rested just below his throat, its points draping long and loose.
A strong chin. Dark stubble on a strong chin.
Oh God, oh God.
The man holding her looked down, and time stopped.
Hazel eyes pinned her. They were steady and bright, the color of his velvet jacket.
Thick waves of chestnut brown hair rested over his collar. Just then the wind tousled it from his brow. A high brow framing . . .
Oh my. So handsome.
His features were fine, chiseled into clear skin.
Felicity felt a zing, like a single firework crackling through her belly.
“You’re awake.” His voice was low, accented.
Felicity let her head sink back, relaxing onto his arm. She felt a big, stupid grin spread like molasses over her face.
His brows furrowed as he contemplated her. Still she couldn’t wipe the dumb smile from her face.
“Are you still drunk, lass?”
Lass. He called me lass!
“Let’s hope not,” she murmured. Exhaling something like a dreamy sigh, she nuzzled into his arms.
How strange, though. Were they somehow at the Renaissance Faire, in Golden Gate Park? Nothing really looked familiar.
Hmmm.
She studied him. Ren faire guy. Made sense. His accent could use a little work, though. But, man, he was
hot
. She could play along.
Something struck her, and she glanced around. There were no roads. “Where are we?”
“Ah!” the man at their side exclaimed. “Our fair maiden has decided to join the land of the living.”
“We are currently trying to get our hides safely out of England,” the man holding her said evenly.
“England?” She scrunched her brow. “Is that part of the fantasy?”
“If only!” The red- haired man barked a laugh. “A fantasy. That’s rich . . .”
“No,” her guy said, “ ’tis England indeed.”
England?
She stiffened, her heart kicking up a notch. He couldn’t be serious. How the hell could she have landed in
England
? Unless they’d kidnapped her. But how? Her apartment had actual
bars
on the windows.
“How’d I get here? Did Livvie set this up?”
“I think she’s still feeling her wine,” the red- haired man said.
“No,” she protested. She’d been mustering outrage, but confusion made her voice small. “I’m not drunk.” She inhaled deeply, and trying to gather herself, focused on the rhythmic sway of the horse’s gait.
Horse.
What was up with the horses, anyway?
Clearly
these guys weren’t kidnappers. Two horses weren’t exactly the fastest getaway. A kid on a skateboard could pass them. If there’d been any roads. Which there weren’t. Here in
England
.
But of course there were roads in England. So why weren’t there any roads
here
? Even in those British movies where everyone hied to their country manors by carriage, there were roads.
But this? This looked like . . . like the land of Robin Hood.
Her heart slammed harder in her chest as she tried to make sense of it.
She’d made a wish. She’d made a wish and ended up
here
.
She just needed to figure out where
here
was. She craned her head. Bucolic fields stretched gently before them, like paradise. He’d said England, but there was nothing modern, as far as the eye could see. She’d traveled to some pretty remote spots in her life, and still, you could always see something. Distant cars, power lines,
something
.
But here there were just horses, and men in fancy velvet coats, and lush landscape all around. Just like Robin Hood. Or like a fairy tale. Some strange world offering a snapshot from the past.
Could it
be
the past? She gave a breathy laugh.
No way.
She couldn’t have been transported from the real world, from
her
world. She was supposed to show up for the morning shift. She’d waited
weeks
for that cute coffee shop to have an opening. And who’d water all her plants?
Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her. She could only manage shallow breaths now, as though her chest had shrunk. She did another scan of the countryside.
Impossible.
No cars, no airplanes, no telephone wires. No modern world.
Anywhere.
“Hang on,” she said suddenly. She was losing it. People didn’t just land in fairy tales. She’d call Livvie, get a reality check. “A phone. Do you have a phone?”
“Have we a
what
?” the red-haired man asked.
“Telephone?” she asked in disbelief. “No? You don’t . . . You don’t know a Maid Marian, do you?”
“Tele . . .” The man holding her glared. “Is that French?”
“You’ve never heard of a phone,” she muttered, her heart thundering now. “But you speak English, right? Here in . . . England? Where you don’t have phones?”
England.
She studied the sword dangling from the red-haired man’s hip.
Old
England.
What had she done? That crazy candle. How would she ever get back? And what about Livvie? Livvie would be so worried.
Holy crap.
Could it really be the past? Didn’t they have all kinds of wars in the past? And plagues?
Oh God, plagues.
Why hadn’t she paid more attention in history class?
Okay, be cool.
Maybe it wasn’t what it seemed. She didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. How to handle it?
She strained eyes and ears for some sign of life, but there was nothing. Hell, there weren’t really even any
sounds
, apart from the horses. And the breathing of the men.