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“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.”

“I . . .” He stood still as granite then, his mind seeming far from where they stood.

His eyes blazed a trail down, then back up, her body.

Abruptly, Will gave his head a shake. “I am no woman’s man.

Now come.” He gestured to the path that had taken them to a quaint village square.

“It’s to the clothier for you. Then to Perthshire. Then home. Your home.”

The road was a mucky minefield of horse manure, puddles, and uneven runnels in the mud. She marveled how she had to struggle to keep up with him, even though he didn’t have the easy gait of other men.

Breathless, Felicity caught up to his side, but before she could speak, he announced, “Here.”

She looked up to see an elaborate hand-painted sign reading: Jos. Pemberley and Sons ~ Millinery and Fine Dress Making for Ladies.

“Joseph Pemberley,” she read aloud. “You brought me to a . . . mill?”

“A milliner .” He chuckled. The sound was unexpected—low and husky, it sent goose bumps rippling across her skin. She’d gathered that laughter was a rarity for the man, and yet, she thought wistfully, it utterly transformed him.

“For hats, lass.”

“You’re going to buy me a hat?”

“Among other things.”

“Oh, fun.” And sexy , she thought, unable to identify the hooded look that clouded his features.

The shop was dim and cool, with a bustling shopkeeper straight out of a BBC movie.

As his gaze alighted on Felicity, though, a look of such comical distaste puckered his features, she had to bite back a giggle.

She forgot the old grump at once, though, when she spotted the tables topped with pile after pile of cloth. She gasped. There were lush swaths of jewel- toned velvet, delicate fabrics in pale colors, and bolts bearing thick stripes of colors in alternating shiny and matte textures.

“This is so—” She felt Rollo’s hand wrap firmly around her upper arm. Her heart gave a kick, even though the stern look on his face told her to quiet. “This is so exciting,” she finished in a stage whisper.

She surreptitiously ran her fingers over a luxurious pile of satin, cascading like a royal blue spill of water across a table near the front of the shop.

She heard a clipped hiss, and looked up to see the clothier eyeing her suspiciously.

Grabbing Rollo’s arm, she hastily spun to eye another table. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to act. “I worked retail for years,” she whispered, “and this guy would’ve been so fired.”

“Easy, woman.” Momentarily switching his cane to his left hand, Rollo loosened the death grip she had on his upper arm.

“Can you get me something in that blue?” she asked him, pointing to the bright blue satin. “That is just totally—”

“Yes?” the shopkeeper asked at their backs.

“I’d like—” she began, but Rollo cut her off at once.

“The lady requires a dress.” The sharp edge to Rollo’s voice challenged the peevish old shopkeeper to just try and disagree.

Lady. Felicity beamed. The lady.

Looking as though he was holding his breath, the man eyed her dingy clothes and pulled a long looped stretch of twine from his coat.

“Measurements won’t be necessary,” Rollo said. “We’re in a hurry and require something ready-made.”

This time, the man didn’t even try to disguise his contempt. “I am a clothier, sir, and an expert tailor. I do not cater to a . . . ready-made clientele.”

“What is that, then?” Rollo pointed to a display in the window.

“Oh,” Felicity gasped. It was a frothy rose-colored confection on a dress form.

Total BBC movie.

There was thick gold stitching along the sleeves. Real gold, she realized. Fancy.

“ That , sir, is not for sale.”

“Everything has a price.” His voice was steel, drawing Felicity’s gaze to him, and she saw the edge reflected in his eyes, cold and flat.

So intense.

It struck her that, though he might be talking about a dress, Rollo could be speaking to much more.

And deep too.

“How can you be certain it will even fit this . . . lady?”

The two men stared a challenge, and it was the shopkeeper who lost the battle. “Very well,” he said on a sharp exhale. “But this is highly irregular.”

As the man toddled over to remove the dress from the window, she frantically pulled Rollo to her. “How am I supposed to—”