Page 45 of Falling for the Knight

“Are we not?”

She could have objected to the arrangement, told him that two people have to agree to be on a date in order for it to qualify as such. Or that plopping her in the heart of a medieval freakin’ village was not a date, it was the basis for a movie. But what came out of her mouth was far removed from either of those things.

“Aye, Tristan. I suppose we are.”

God, she hoped she wouldn’t regret this.

* * *

Tristan couldn’t remember ever enjoyinghimself this much.

The look on Hannah’s face when she surmised they were on a “date,” as she called it, was surpassed only by the outrageous impressions of him and his men she’d done after drinking three mugs of ale. She had so mastered Gerard’s direct, gruff manner that if he closed his eyes, Tristan could imagine his marshal was sitting at the Fox and Goose with him. He had been surprised when she expressed concern that Gerard, and others, may not look kindly toward her.

Aside from that brief moment, their conversation remained lighthearted. And enjoyable. His urge to consummate their desire grew, but he would not do so lest she did find a way back to her time. There were ways, of course, to prevent a babe. But Tristan had seen too many of The Swan’s women use them and become mothers anyway. But could they not find enjoyment in other ways?

“I think it best we leave before you have difficulty riding back,” he said after Hannah finished her fourth mug of ale.

“A whole new notion of drunk driving,” she muttered. Hannah often said things that made no sense to him, and he’d learned when to ignore her strange comments.

They left, walking back to the stable in another companionable silence. Hannah smiled at everyone, and to his delight, they smiled back. If she stayed, they would warm to her, accept her. Tristan was sure of it.

“I’ll retrieve the horses,” he said, disappearing into the stable. She nodded her assent, but when he emerged with their mounts, she was gone.

“Hannah?” he called.

Tying the horses to an iron ring beside the stable, Tristan began walking, telling himself she was nearby. Could she have gone back home? But how? There were no falls here . . . and her last jump had only landed her in a pool of cold water—

“Tristan, in here.” Relief nearly brought him to his knees when she waved to him from the door of the blacksmith’s forge and then slipped back inside.

“I met George,” she said, her eyes bright, as he followed her inside. “He is quite skilled.”

The blacksmith did not look up, but Tristan saw the slight smile the old man tried to hide. Hunched over the anvil, he pounded away at the orange steel he was working.

“What is he making?” Hannah asked over the noise.

Tristan took a step toward George and watched as he pounded away.

“A broadsword,” he said as the old man looked up. Beads of sweat dripped from his withered brow. “Where is your new apprentice?”

George frowned. “Quit, he did. Said he missed his ma.”

He had not seen the smithy in too many moons, and he looked to have aged quite a bit. Tristan rolled up his sleeves, took an apron from the wall, and found a pair of gloves.

“What in the name of—”

“Move over,” he said, knowing if it didn’t come as an order, the other man would hammer all evening, tired or not.

When he reached out, George gave him the piece of iron and hammer. He went to work before it could cool and only looked up once to find Hannah watching him intently. By the time he finished, the piece of iron had begun to take shape. It would need two, perhaps three more days before it was finished.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said to George, handing him the iron.

“My lord, you—”

“Will finish the weapon now that I’ve started it.”

George grinned like a squire. “Thank you, my lord.”

Then, turning to Hannah, he said, “And thank you for bringing ’im here, my lady.”