Page 6

The shopkeeper turned, the dress draped gingerly over his arm. Appalled, he stared at Felicity whispering in Rollo’s ear.

“She will surely require those . . . other garments . . . as befits a lady?” He eyed the coarse and slightly soiled dress she wore.

“Surely,” Rollo bit out, patting Felicity’s arm.

“And a farthingale as well, I presume?” Chin trembling, the man skimmed his eyes over her skirts.

“Not necessary.”

His eyes shot up. “Necessary, I think. With a dress such as this—”

“What’s a—?” she began in a furtive whisper.

“ Not necessary.” Rollo peeled his lips back into a smile that looked something like a grimace. “I think the lady may be required to do some riding and so—”

“Riding?” the man sputtered. “Not in my gown.”

“ Her gown now.” Rollo tossed a bag of coin onto the counter. “And if you’d be so kind, the lady will require a dressing room.”

“She”—the man looked from Rollo to Felicity and back again, clearly alarmed—“she will don it here ?”

“Here?” she whispered urgently.

“It’s here or in the carriage,” he told her under his breath. Rollo nudged her to the back of the shop.

“Be so good as to shutter the place,” he called to the shopkeeper over his shoulder.

“Ohh,” she purred quietly. He was sending the shopkeeper from his very own shop. “So . . . alpha .”

The man began to protest, but a quick flick of Rollo’s eyes to the leather coin purse lying conspicuously on the counter silenced him.

“And do occupy yourself elsewhere,” Will ordered, indicating the door.

What was he planning? She shivered in anticipation.

“There’s a good man. We’ll let ourselves out.”

He guided her toward a screen in the back corner. Cranes of crimson lacquer held graceful poses atop a shining black background.

“Oh!” a little chirp of pleasure escaped her. She could do a sexy little striptease behind the exotic screen. Visions filled her head and brought a muzzy smile to her face.

Too bad the outfit she was about to remove was closer to a burlap sack than a silk negligee.

Though maybe . . .

“Don’t these come with bustiers or something? Can we get any other clothes while we’re—”

“Just dress yourself, lass,” he snapped, shooing her behind the screen. “You have no notion the danger we’re in. You’ve called enough attention to us as it is.”

“But . . .” Deflated, she stepped behind the screen. “I didn’t do anything.”

So much for saucily rolling off a pair of stockings and swinging them over her head.

Felicity heard the tap of his cane on the floor as Rollo walked from the dressing area. She’d been eyeing the cane since he’d gotten it, and the question burst from her lips before she could think twice. “What happened? To your legs, I mean.”

Unknotting the sash at her waist, she began to peel off the soiled clothing. “Were you hurt?”

He was silent for a moment. “Aye. You could say I’ve been hurt.”

She heard him breathing heavily, sounding something like a restlessly slumbering dragon.

She gave a dramatic pout behind the screen. She really couldn’t get a bead on the man.

It had been such a thrill—she’d made her wish, done her magic, and it had come true. She’d actually landed back in time—he’d said the year was sixteen -something—and been deposited with some Scottish hunk with a crazy Viking name.

He even believed her, which really was a sign. If someone were to plop into her life from out of nowhere, claiming to be from the future, she’d think he was nuttier than a fruitcake.

So why was he making this so difficult?

Time to try another tack.

She stood up on her tiptoes to pop her head over the screen. “Who are you running from anyway?”

Rollo’s eyes quickly flicked to her bare shoulders.

She was naked. He couldn’t see her, but he knew. Just on the other side of the screen, not four paces from him, this woman was bare. Utterly and completely naked but for what flesh would be concealed by that lovely, long, yellow hair.

He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Licking his lips, he made as if he were formulating something of import to say. What to say?

Her shoulders were pale and delicate, covered by that fine web of her hair, the color of sunlight.

He resolutely pinned her gaze with his. “Don’t you know where you are?”

“You said England. So, yeah, England.” She seemed to stand a little taller.

Her attempts at temper amused him.

Better amused than aroused. The thought gave him clarity.

“I am on the run from Cromwell. Who, by the way, would have my head on a stake for supper and your fine body on a pyre for dessert.”

Fine body? What was he doing speaking such phrases to her?

She’d caught the phrase too, and pink flushed along her skin like the blush of passion. He wondered if the color infused the rest of her body.

Rollo gave his head a shake.

He was not one for smooth dealings with women, his experience not extending beyond the sisters and wives in his extended circle.

If only he could have her fine body for dessert.

Rollo made a sound like a growl in his throat and turned to walk to the front of the shop. Would that he could do as other men and spin on his heel with haste and flair, but instead he shuffled forth.

“Wait.”

He stopped. Leaning on his cane, Rollo waited for her to finish. He kept his back to her, his hand jammed in his pocket. All these thoughts of Felicity’s naked flesh had him decidedly bothered.

“I can’t . . . I don’t . . .”

He heard the rustle of silk.

“I need you to help me,” she finally said. Her voice sounded muted, as if she spoke from under layers of fabric. “I don’t know how to put this thing on.”

“Simply place it over your head. Have you no dresses where you come from?”

“Of course I’ve worn dresses,” she snapped. “Oh, thank God.” Her voice was suddenly louder and clearer.

He heard her inhale deeply. She would’ve made her way up and through all that fabric, then.

“But this . . .” She paused, and Rollo heard more rustling. “Well, you can’t expect me to do all these buttons by myself.”

He’d seen the dozens of tiny fabric buttons running up the back of the dress. He just hadn’t realized their import until now. Of course she’d need help. Women needed the assistance of maids to get ready.

“I . . .” he stammered. “You . . .”

“Come on, Will. I’m decent. I just need you to button this thing up for me.”

Will. She’d called him Will.

Women in his acquaintance were generally more formal. And then there had been MacColla’s bride, Haley, who’d called him “Rollo” with the carefree ease of one of his school chums.

But his given name, rolling from a woman’s tongue with such careless intimacy? The sound stabbed him and thrilled him both.

He turned again, staring at the screen as if it were an approaching marauder.

“Uh . . . You there?” She popped her head up again. “Will?”

“Yes.” He’d never buttoned a woman’s gown before. But they had to make haste. He’d paid a lad to fetch a carriage from the mews—it would surely be out front by now. Waiting to put as much distance between them and England as possible.

Cromwell’s Parliamentary soldiers had captured Ormonde, imprisoned him in the Tower. And Rollo had freed his friend right from under their noses.

From under his brother’s nose.

His brother Jamie would be on the lookout for him. Blood or no, Jamie would not let such a slight stand.

Rollo girded himself. Tried to let thoughts of Roundheads and Royalists tamp down his unruly flesh.

He inhaled deeply, a white-knuckled grip on the head of his cane. “Buttons are buttons,” he muttered, and stepped behind the screen.