Page 9

P hysical education classes stunk when she was in school, and to this day Beth hated working up a sweat, which was why she’d always avoided gyms, jogging, and hiking of any type.

As she wiped her brow, all she wanted to do was sit in a corner under a tree in the shade, whimpering as her muscles screamed.

A week of sleeping on a straw mattress had done nothing for her back, and Eleanor’s idea of “basic training” involved movements that would make Olympic gymnasts weep.

“Again!” Baldwin’s sister commanded, circling her with the grace of a predatory cat.

Her dark hair was braided tightly against her head, and despite the early hour, she wore a simple linen kirtle that allowed for movement, its forest green fabric cinched at her waist with a leather belt that also held a small dagger.

“You must learn to parry before you can attack.”

A rather unladylike groan escaped as Beth hefted the wooden practice sword. It weighed approximately three metric tons. “In my time, we have these things called guns. Point and click. No upper body strength required.”

Eleanor’s brow furrowed. “Your jests make no sense.”

“Story of my life.” She blew a strand of hair from her face and raised the sword again.

The practice yard behind the stables smelled of horse, leather, and her own sweat.

What she wouldn’t give for her trusty antiperspirant stick.

Why wasn’t it cloudy or raining? The morning sun beat down with surprising intensity for England, and Beth’s borrowed chemise clung to her back.

She’d been given a simple brown skirt and cream-colored bodice that laced up the front.

It was like doing medieval CrossFit in a corset, not that she’d tried CrossFit, but she’d watched others doing it as she passed by the gym to her favorite bakery.

“You are holding the blade as if it were a broom,” Eleanor chided, stepping forward to adjust her grip. “Like this, with your thumb, yes, there. Now stand with your feet apart. More. You look like a startled deer.”

Beth widened her stance, feeling ridiculous. “I’m a chemistry teacher, not Xena, Warrior Princess.”

“I know not this Xena, but if she is a warrior, then yes, channel her spirit.” Eleanor stepped back, lifted her own wooden sword, and nodded. “Now, when I swing, you block. Like so.”

“Okay, so it’s basically like titration,” Beth muttered under her breath as Eleanor circled her again. “Steady hand, controlled motion, and no sudden spills except instead of acid, it’s a sword, and instead of a glass beaker, it’s my face.”

The wooden blade came at Beth’s left side with alarming speed. She jerked her own weapon up, the impact jarring her wrists as wood smacked wood with a hollow thunk.

“Better!” Eleanor beamed. “Again!”

The next blow came faster. She barely got her sword up in time, stumbling backward and nearly losing her balance. “Saints preserve us,” she muttered, borrowing a phrase she’d heard from the castle’s cook.

Eleanor laughed, the sound bright and clear in the morning air. “You learn quickly for one who claims no skill.”

“Self-preservation is a powerful motivator.” Beth adjusted her grip and tried to remember every swashbuckling movie she’d ever seen. The Three Musketeers. Pirates of the Caribbean. The Witcher. Star Wars, if lightsabers counted.

“Your form improves,” Eleanor said, circling again. “But your mind wanders. Focus.”

Focus? It just hit her that Baldwin could pass for a Henry Cavill lookalike, well, in his Witcher role, but with darker hair. A dreamy sigh escaped.

“Ouch.”

“I could have taken your pretty head.” Baldwin’s sister scowled at her. “Again.”

Beth took a deep breath and centered herself.

Focus. She could do this. She’d survived faculty meetings and parent-teacher conferences.

Surely she could handle a wooden sword. And she needed all the confidence she could muster with the king’s imminent arrival looming over Glenhaven.

The thought of facing actual royalty, historical figures she’d only read about, made her stomach clench with anxiety.

One wrong word from her could change history or, more immediately, endanger everyone who had shown her kindness.

Eleanor lunged again, this time aiming for Beth’s right shoulder. She parried, almost gracefully, and then, feeling bold, attempted a counterstrike. Her wooden blade whooshed through empty air as Eleanor danced away, laughing.

“You attacked! Excellent!”

“I missed,” Beth pointed out.

“But you tried.” Eleanor’s eyes sparkled. “That is the first step. Now?—”

The clatter of boots on stone interrupted them. Both women turned to see a stable boy hovering nervously at the edge of the practice yard.

“Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady,” he said, bowing to Eleanor, “but m’lord is asking after ye. Says you’re to come to the solar right away.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes. “Tell my brother I am occupied with important matters.”

The boy shifted from foot to foot. “He said you’d say that. He also said to tell you that if you don’t come willingly, he’ll send Sir Roland to fetch you, and Sir Roland will tell everyone about the incident with the honey and the saddle.”

A flush crept up Eleanor’s neck. “That insufferable—” She cut herself off, glancing at Beth. “Very well. Tell him I shall come presently.”

The boy bowed again and scurried away.

Eleanor turned to Beth with a sigh. “Brothers. Even when they’re high and mighty lords, they’re still annoying.” She took Beth’s practice sword. “We shall continue tomorrow. You did well today.”

“I nearly fell on my face twice.”

“Yes, but you got up both times.” Eleanor’s smile was warm. “That is what matters most in battle and in life.”

As Eleanor strode away, Beth sank onto a nearby bench, muscles quivering. The practice yard was quiet now, save for the distant sounds of the castle coming to life. The clang of pots from the kitchen, the calls of merchants setting up in the outer bailey, the whinnying of horses being led to water.

She closed her eyes, letting the morning sun warm her face.

For a moment, just a moment, she allowed herself to marvel at where she was.

A real medieval castle. Not a reproduction, not a museum, but the genuine article, alive with people who had no idea that their everyday lives would someday be studied in textbooks.

The wonder lasted until she attempted to stand. Her thighs immediately protested, and she winced, missing her lab coat with the antibiotics, lip balm and ibuprofen. “Note to self,” she muttered. “Invent ibuprofen five hundred years early.”

Baldwin stood on the covered walkway that connected the main keep to the south tower, his hands braced against the stone parapet as he watched the practice yard below. His sister and the strange woman had been at it for nearly an hour, their wooden swords clacking in the morning quiet.

He should have stopped them. Eleanor had no business teaching anyone swordplay, least of all their mysterious guest. And yet, he’d found himself transfixed by the scene. His sister’s patient instruction, Beth’s determined if clumsy attempts to learn.

There was something about the way she moved, hesitant at first, then with growing confidence, that he couldn’t look away from.

When she laughed at her own mistakes, the sound carried up to him, clear and unselfconscious.

Different from the tittering of court ladies or the practiced charm of noblewomen seeking his favor.

“Enjoying the view?”

Baldwin didn’t turn at the familiar voice. “I am ensuring my sister doesn’t injure our guest,” he said evenly.

Roland stepped beside him, following his gaze to the practice yard. “Ah, yes. Very noble of you to watch so... intently.”

Baldwin shot his friend a warning glance. Roland merely grinned, unrepentant. He was dressed for riding, his dark hair tousled by the wind, his easy smile as irritating as it was familiar.

“The Lady Eleanor seems to have taken a shine to your mysterious visitor,” Roland observed. “And she’s not the only one, it seems.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“No?” Roland raised an eyebrow. “You watch her as if she were a scroll you cannot read.”

Baldwin’s jaw tightened. Below, she attempted a lunge that ended with her nearly dropping her sword. Eleanor’s laughter floated up to them, followed by Beth’s own self-deprecating chuckle.

“She is an oddity,” Baldwin said finally. “Nothing more.”

“If you say so.” Roland’s tone made it clear he didn’t believe a word. “Though I must say, for an ‘oddity,’ she has a most pleasing laugh.”

Baldwin’s fingers twitched against the stone. “Don’t you have duties to attend to?”

“None so interesting as watching you pretend not to be smitten.”

“I am not—” Baldwin cut himself off, aware that his rising voice might carry to the yard below. “I am not smitten,” he continued more quietly. “I am concerned. She speaks strangely, dresses strangely, and claims to be from a time yet to come. Either she is mad, or she is a spy, or...”

“Or she speaks the truth,” Roland finished.

Baldwin’s gaze returned to Beth. The morning sun caught in her hair, turning the brown strands to copper and gold. Sweat gleamed on her neck, and even from this distance, he could see the flush of exertion on her cheeks.

“If she speaks the truth,” Baldwin said slowly, “then she is even more dangerous than I feared.”

Roland clapped him on the shoulder. “All the best things in life are dangerous, my friend.”

Before Baldwin could respond, a stable boy approached, bowing nervously. “M’lord, the messenger from London has arrived. He awaits you in the great hall.”

Baldwin nodded, straightening his shoulders. “Tell him I come.” As the boy hurried away, he turned to Roland. “Fetch my sister. Tell her I require her presence in the solar immediately.”

Roland’s eyes twinkled. “Shall I mention the honey incident?”