He liked the library. He didn’t come here enough. Once he put some wood in the hearth and started a fire, it was cozy. There were books set neatly on shelves, opened on a chair, piled on a table. “What did you get to look at last night?”

  “Monmouth of course. I was impressed to see some Christine de Pizan in your collection. She was innovative and challenged male writers of misogyny in their literary works.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know about all that. I have only read The Book of Deeds of Arms and of Chivalry, so far. And for a book about warfare written by a woman, ’tis quite good.”

  “Hmm.” She looked him up and down. “Maybe you’re not an ogre after all. But I cannot come to any premature conclusions.”

  They ate, with Nicholas’ appetite fully restored, and drank fine wine. They gave up their chairs for blankets on the floor. Her idea, not his. They read in front of the hearth from Monmouth’s History of British Kings. There were many, according to this work, including Constantine, Vortigen, Uther, but Nicholas opened book eleven and read from chapter two.

  “And even the renowned king Arthur himself was mortally wounded; and being carried thence to the isle of Avallon to be cured of his wounds, he gave up the crown of Britain to his kinsman Constantine, the son of Cador, duke of Cornwall, in the five hundred and forty-second year of our Lord’s incarnation.”

  “What?” Kestrel blinked and sat up straight. “Why did you read that part? That in particular?”

  “I…I don’t know.” And he didn’t. He’d never read past book six. “I just opened there by chance.”

  “No. There’s no by chance. One of my roommates’ name is Constantine. I wonder if he has a part to play in this.”

  “He is not here,” he pointed out woodenly.

  She stared at him for a moment and then smiled behind her hand.

  “What?” he insisted.

  “You’re jealous.”

  “Ha!” he mocked. “I do not get jealous. And besides, we hardly know each other.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she quipped. “You’re jealous, and you were jealous this afternoon with your lieutenant.”

  “You have a lively imagination.”

  Her smile faltered. “Nicholas, you know I’m telling the truth about how I got here.”

  “Kestrel.” He moved closer to her and leaned in. “Please understand how fantastic your story is. Believable as you make it sound, ’tis impossible.”

  “No. It’s not impossible because here I am. I was almost six hundred years away and then I was here in a moment, in the middle of a bloody fight. How do you think I got here, Nicholas? You were staring right at me. Where did you see me come from?”

  “A trick of the light.”

  She sighed. “You’re not a stupid man.”

  “My thanks.”

  “You’re afraid, I under—”

  He laughed, but he was insulted. “What am I afraid of? The future?”

  She shook her head. “That people will think you’ve aided a witch.”

  He stopped laughing. “I could lose the castle, my rank, and mayhap some other people who live here.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand. “I understand. I will be extra careful. I wouldn’t want to cause anyone harm.”

  “Aye,” he said softly, “You seem to have a very kind heart.”

  Her eyes seemed to grow rounder, bluer. “You have been very kind to me also.”

  “So then you don’t mind being tossed over my shoulder?” he asked playfully—but his low, deep voice was evidence that she made him burn everywhere, especially in his belly.

  “I mind it so much that if you ever do it again, I’ll run a dagger through your heart while you sleep.”

  He felt his heart pumping. He heard it, loud, strong. He liked that she did this to him. His mouth hooked into a half-smile. “How will you get to me in my bed while I sleep?”

  Instead of answering him, she looked into his eyes with a teasing glint of her own. “You might discover the answer to that if you’re not careful.”

  He lifted his brow and let out a little laugh. “You tempt me to haul you over my shoulder and take you to your room.”

  “You had better lock me in if you do.”

  He laughed. He actually tossed back his head and laughed. He hadn’t done so since the night before he rode to the Tower to find the boys gone.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “What’s with you and Reg? He’s your cousin, right? You let him and his family plus one, live here. I know he’s a snarky little creep, but he really irks you. Why?”

  His laughter faded. What could he say about his cousin? “His father was my only living relative after the attack. Reg was five and the master of his house. He was a jealous child and made my life miserable when I had to visit his family. When the king gets here, you will see Reginald de Marre disappear up the shoot of Richard’s arse. He’ll go quickly, so be watchful.”

  “If Reg was up King Edward’s arse, would you mind?”

  Nicholas gave her a scowl. She knew the correct questions to ask. “No.”

  She looked around his library and leaned in to whisper, “What did Richard do that you hold such strong feelings toward him?”

  He sat up straighter and looked into the flames. He’d never spoken of it to anyone else. He wanted to tell her. “Edward had many children, mostly girls, one of whom is favored by Henry Tudor. His only two sons, Edward V and young Richard of Shrewsbury, aged thirteen and not yet ten, were very dear to me. Whenever I was home, I spent most of my time with them. I loved the girls as well. But I hardly saw them. My only consolation when Edward died was that his son would reign in his place.”

  The fire crackled and he blinked.

  “Go on,” she urged softly.

  “Richard had them put in the Tower to study all the formalities of the coronation, which was to take place. I had been home twice in the months the boys were there. They had not been happy but they knew their duties and they did what their uncle, Richard, told them to do. None of us knew how hard at work he was at having Edward’s marriage to Elizabeth Woodville declared bigamous and thereby having Edward’s children declared illegitimate. Edward loyalists rose up in the streets against Richard. He had stolen the crown from young Edward. He had been named the princes’ Protector and if what he had done wasn’t bad enough…” He stopped to run both his palms over his face. “I went to visit them just a few hours after the declaration and they were already gone. They have never been found. I fear they are dead, and that their Protector is responsible, but I have no proof.”

  He was surprised to find a droplet falling to his cheek. Even more when he heard her sniffle beside him and then wiped her eyes.

  “Are you going to tell me they found their bodies in the future? If so—”

  “No,” she said quickly, placing her hand on his leg. “No, I’m not going to tell you that.”

  Not that he believed her…fully.

  “I think we should call it a night.”

  He gave her, and then the window a curious look. “But ’tis night.”

  She smiled. “Yes. It’s just a figure of speech. It means, it’s late and we should end our visit. Come on.” She held her hand down to him.

  He took it, wanting instead to pull her down into his arms. He was mad. He stood up and stared into her eyes. He didn’t want the night to end. He ran the back of his knuckles over her cheek. “You are fresh air to my weary soul.”

  He wanted to kiss her. He ached to do it.

  Someone knocked at the library door, interrupting his thoughts. It was Elia.

  “Word has arrived that Richard lodges in Kirkham Abbey,” she said coming inside. “He will be here by morning.” She looked at Kestrel and smiled, then cut her gaze back to him. “I thought you would want to know.”

  “I do. Thank you, Elia.” He tossed Kestrel a regretful gaze. “We were just calling it a night.”

  Elia crinkled her brow, then smiled, getting it. Clever lady. “Walk with us back to Kestrel’s room.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I cannot. Cook wishes for me to prepare a list of things he needs for the kitchen. Some of the guardsmen are going to Brompton and you said he could have a list drawn up.”

  “Aye, I did.” Nicholas said and turned to give Kestrel a knowing look. As in, he knew she had something to do with Cook and his list.

  He dismissed Elia to her task and walked Kestrel back to her room.

  She was making changes everywhere she went, bringing a little piece of her future to the fifteenth century. People liked her. She’d even won over Cook.

  But the king was different.

  Chapter Ten

  King Richard III arrived at Scarborough Castle with all pomp and circumstance.

  Kes could tell by watching his entrance from the bridge wall, that he enjoyed lording over everyone. Even his wave was practiced and stiff as he greeted the villagers closest to the castle.

  He rode on a majestic white stallion in trappings of purple. He wore his crown as he rode in with his private guardsmen of forty men around him. Kes was certain the crown made him more of a target. His men probably worked that much harder to keep him safe.

  His procession, waving purple and yellow banners, moved over the bridge and through the outer gate. Everyone scurried to and fro, preparing this thing or that. Even Kes felt a little excited.

  The only one who remained calm and together was Nicholas. Now, Kes knew better. For what boiled just beneath the surface of Nicholas’ cool veneer, was fury, leashed and controlled. But for how long?

  He stood against the wall, watching the king’s procession growing closer. He said nothing but waited.

  Kes had found him in the great hall at dawn. They broke their fast together but Nicholas said very little except that he’d enjoyed their time together last night. So had she. When he had opened Monmouth’s History of the British Kings and began to read, she thought she might have found the man of her dreams. He read about Arthur and him going to Avalon to be healed. Was it all just coincidence? But a brooch with the Pendragon name on it had transported her over five hundred years into the past. Why did Nicholas read that passage in particular? What did it mean? She didn’t know and neither did Nicholas. He had to believe her now. She believed he was afraid of such a tremendous truth.

  How much should she tell him? Talking about buildings and modern marvels was one thing. She knew about the princes in the Tower. Their fates were common knowledge in the twenty-first century, as was the fate of the Yorks and the Lancasters.

  She had to keep it all to herself. Changing this time in history could have terrifying consequences.

  “Will he send for you?” Kes asked him as the king’s carriage rolled by them and the king’s gaze settled on his commander.

  “The instant he is on his feet, if not sooner,” Nicholas let her know. “Reg chases him, and he chases me.”

  “Why does he chase you?”

  Nicholas pushed himself off the wall with a dark smile. “Because he needs me. He needs me to win against Henry Tudor when he comes. And I will win, but not for Richard. The Lancasters killed my parents. For that, I remain loyal to York.”

  What if she told him that Richard was killed in the Battle of Bosworth Field this coming August? No, no she couldn’t. What if Nicholas did something to change that day and Richard lived? No. She studied history. She didn’t change it.

  But Richard did lose, and so did his army. What happened to Nicholas in that battle? Was he among the dead? An icy chill washed over her. She hadn’t considered that Nicholas was going to die soon.

  It was unacceptable.

  “Come.” He moved quickly through the crowd, away from the castle entrance.

  “Where are we going?” It took a lot to keep up with him. She took two or three steps for his one.

  Finally, he took her by the hand and pulled her away. She had to lift her skirts with one hand and use the other to hold on to him. She laughed at one point at the thrill of her feet lifting off the ground.

  They didn’t stop until they reached the shore.

  He pulled his boots and socks free and stepped into the water.

  She smiled and did the same.

  “Walk with me.”

  She nodded. She knew better. She wasn’t an eighteen-year-old girl. Nicholas was so dangerous. The worst there was. He was irresistible, seemingly genuine. She had to keep a clear head, but it was almost impossible when she was near him, like now.

  “Who should I say I am when I meet the king?” she asked him.

  “Stick with what you have remembered already. Your name. You are from Bridlington. Your great-aunt was the Duchess of Glastonbury. Do not add anything.”

  “Ok.”

  “Try to use the same words everyone else uses.”

  “Aye.”

  He looked at her and genuinely smiled for the first time that day. “Aye.”

  “Will you get into trouble for leaving?” she asked as they strolled the shoreline.

  “Not for long. He knows how I feel about him, but as long as I fight and win his wars, he will keep his nose up my arse.”

  “What if you don’t win?” she asked quietly.

  “I would have to be dead not to win.”

  She was quiet after that and took a few more steps with him.

  “Does that trouble you, Kestrel?” he asked, bending to look at her when she kept her gaze forward.

  “Yes, I mean, aye, it troubles me. We’re friends. I don’t—do not want you to get killed.”

  “I will do my best.” He smiled at her.

  She didn’t want him to fight. Maybe he wasn’t mentioned in the history books because he wasn’t there. What if she found the brooch or a way back and took him back… rather, forward with her? She could trick him into going. So what if he hated her. He’d be alive.

  She almost laughed and gave him a reason to believe she was a madwoman. She’d be lucky if she ever got back.

  “Tell me more about your life, Kestrel. I want to forget duty while I can.”

  “What haven’t I told you already? I live in a loft. It’s a big open space—”

  “You live outdoors?”

  “No, I mean there are no separate rooms. It’s just like one big room. We all have screens and alcoves for privacy.”

  “How many of you live there?”

  “There are five of us.”

  “Two men and three women,” he grumbled and scowled for all he was worth. Kes was impressed that he’d listened to every word she’d spoken, at least about her roommates. She suspected he didn’t like the fact that she lived with two men. Did that mean he believed her? She didn’t know why it was so important to her if he did. What could he do to help? The realization of it all sank in a little deeper. Chances are she was stuck here. The Earl of Scarborough was all kinds of good looking, and he seemed nice enough when he wasn’t growling like a bear at his cousin or cutting men to smithereens.

  But home was…home. It was everything she knew. Everything and everyone she loved. She wanted to go home. She felt the sting of her tears and could not keep them from falling.

  “Do you think I’ll get back?”

  He looked at her, scowl fading, his expression softening. “I do not know. But if there is a way, I will help you find it.”

  She stopped breathing for a second. She wanted to jump into his arms. He would help her. He didn’t need to believe her. She needed his help and he was giving it. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He seemed ruffled. She remembered him on the battlefield. He was a warrior fighting a war. He was confident and utterly savage, his hair flying into his face as he drove his blade into a man. Yet here he was with her, awkward and uncomfortable.

  She liked him. She knew the dangers of getting involved, but she liked him. And now….she took a step forward in the wet sand and almost leaned against him when she lifted her face to kiss his cheek.

  She felt his warm breath change against her neck becoming shallow and short. She withdrew at the same time an upward gust of wind blew her hair into his face. She looked up and smiled. “Where should we start?”

  His breath stopped, and then he blinked and stepped away. He began walking back toward the castle. She felt awful but she didn’t think anything could come of them. The one guy who might be decent and loyal had to be almost six hundred years in the wrong time. Great.

  “The brooch,” he said, turning when she followed him.

  “You think there might be one here?” she asked with excitement.

  “Or mayhap someone who knows about it.”

  “Like who?”

  “I know a man in the next town who studies artifacts and, like you, history. He is the one who supplied me with most of my books.”

  “When can we go talk to him?”

  “We?”

  He looked at her with his sensual half-smile and set her blood rushing through her veins.

  “Of course I’m coming, Nicholas. Even if this man knows absolutely nothing about the brooch, he’s a historian. Do you really think I’ll miss out on meeting him and seeing his collection? I only wish I had my camera.”

  “Camera?”

  She told him what she knew of cameras and what they did. Nicholas was fascinated.

  “Here, do this with your hand.” She took it, trying and failing miserably not to thrill in the size of his fingers, the hard, callused skin underneath. She held his hand up, his arm out, level with his gaze, then molded his fingers as if he were holding a phone. “Look at the image you want to capture and then use your thumb to take the photo.”

  She hurried ahead of him then spun around with one hand on her hip. She pouted, then smiled, each time changing her pose.

  He smiled with her and tapped away, capturing her in their invisible phone.

  “We can take selfies, too!” She ran to him and pushed an imaginary button on the phone. “The lens is on you now—and me!”

  She closed in and held her hand up toward the phone. “Smile!”