“I’ll return shortly,” he told her. His voice had grown tight, and she hoped maybe she and her hand were the ones to put the edge there.

But then fifteen minutes passed, and then another fifteen, as Felicity paced her room, waiting for Will to come back.

She heard another knock and sprang to the door, opening it with a broad smile on her face. “There you—!”

Not Will.

“Oh,” she said, feeling a fierce blush creep along her cheeks. “Excuse me.”

A virtual army of inn workers were assembled outside her door. A wall of smells assaulted her. Some good, others not so much.

“Can I help you?” she asked, muting a small cough.

“Aye, mum.” A woman stepped forward. Faded linen clothing like something straight out of the costume department hung from her plump frame.

“Lord Rollo asked that we deliver this.”

“Deliver—?”

The bodies all parted, revealing a small side table absolutely smothered in food.

“Ohh,” Felicity gasped. Those would be the good smells.

She stepped aside to let the wave of them bustle in, setting up chairs, arranging plates and cutlery, decanting wine.

“Wine!” She grinned, her hands fisting in anticipation.

Felicity felt eyes on her and looked up to find Rollo watching her intently from the doorway. She forgot her hunger, feeling her belly fill with butterflies instead.

Her grin muted to a tremulous smile.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, as the small army left.

“I couldn’t let you starve.” He smiled at her, and her knees buckled.

Rollo swept to her side, his cane clattering to the floor, to ease her into a chair. “Look at you. You’re famished, lass.”

His hands were warm and strong on her arm and at her back. The butterflies in her belly moved south, became a hard ache at her core. “Famished is an interesting word for it,” she murmured. “What did you bring me?”

He muttered a curse under his breath as he bent to retrieve his cane. Sitting across from her, he lifted a lid and the room filled with the smell of roast meat and wine. “You have before you beef in French claret, with bacon and onions.”

“Ohmygod,” she whispered, actually feeling tears prick her eyes. “That smells so good.”

“Scotland has friends among the French. We learned to prepare food from the best.”

She looked up, caught his eye, and his hand froze, the lid still perched over the serving dish.

Oil lamps cast a flickering, golden glow over the room. Light and shadows danced on Will’s features, his sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, and those intense eyes, focused only on her.

He sat so regally across from her. It took her breath away.

“Lord Rollo,” she mused.

“Aye?” There was a flicker of humor in his eyes.

“You’re a seventeenth-century lord. Who lives in a castle. You wear your velvet coats as easily as my stupid old boyfriends wore their ratty old T-shirts.”

The humor in his eyes hardened into something unreadable. “Your . . . boyfriends?”

“Yeah.” She waved a hand dismissively. “None of them did it for me. They all ended up being jerks.”

His brow furrowed, as if he were trying to make sense of her words. He began to slowly dish out their dinner. “There have been men in your life, and yet you’ve never married?”

“I’ve never been asked. Not that I would’ve said yes.”

“Never been asked? Modern men must be daft.”

She giggled, startled by the sentiment. “You really do care.” She thought about the food on the table and the roof over her head, and grew serious. “You’ve been so great to me, but I feel like all I’ve done is gripe and moan.”

He’d done so much for her. She’d doubted him, but he’d only had her best interests at heart. “I haven’t exactly been the nicest companion these past days.”

“You’ve not met my friend Alasdair MacColla,” he told her with a smile. “Trust me when I say you’ve been a delightful companion.”

She ignored the rare glimpse of humor, earnestly wanting him to understand. “But I should’ve trusted you more. I’ll trust you, Will, from now on.”

He watched her, quietly weighing her words. He cut such a dashing figure across from her. He’d shaved, and bathed, and looked so elegantly handsome in the lamplight.

He was like a prince in a fairy tale. Her prince. He was a gentleman, a lord, some great and noble hero.

He’d kept her safe. There was a fire in the hearth and food on the table worthy of the best French restaurant.

Of course he’d be familiar with fine cuisine, and things like claret, and brandy in cut-glass snifters, not to mention an army of butlers and maids. She’d lost sight of all that, on the road with him these last weeks.

She was suddenly nervous. “I . . . I hope I’m dressed all right. My hair’s a mess . . . I’ve got nothing good to tie it back with. And I aired out my gown”—she looked down, smoothing the lap of what was once her rose-colored confection—“but I’m afraid this thing could up and walk away all by itself.”

She felt his hand on her arm, stilling her.

“You look lovely, Felicity.”

“Ugh. I look like a wreck. Plus—”

“Shh.” He gave her arm a squeeze. “If you tried, you would still be nothing less that the loveliest woman in all Scotland.”

Something stilled in her chest. She thought it must be her heart skipping a beat.

“And besides, I think I might just be able to send my suit of clothes off with your gown. They can take a turn about the village together, aye?”

She laughed then, a tension-relieving giggle.

Will seemed so uncomfortable himself sometimes. Maybe that’s how he was so deft at recognizing her discomfort and easing it.

“Don’t fret,” he added, “I’ll make certain you have new gowns when we get to my family’s home.”

“You mean when we get back to your castle, right?” She gave him a sly smile. “Wait. Gowns?”

“Aye,” he laughed, “you may have a gown made in every color if you like.”

He pulled his hand away, and her arm felt chilled in its wake.

“And,” he said, his voice grown somber, “you can take them back with you.”

“Back . . . ?” His meaning dawned. “Oh no you don’t. I’m staying with you.”

“And meeting Robertson wasn’t enough to spur your departure? Felicity”—he gestured to the walls around them—“I’m afraid to let you leave this very room.”

His tone softened. “I will protect you, bring you to my home. But the stones and mortar of Duncrub Castle won’t be enough to save you if”—he scowled—“the minister has you in his sights.”

She crumpled back in her chair. Could he be right? Was she in danger? But how could anyone think she was a witch? If she kept her origins a secret, they wouldn’t. Felicity glanced back down at her dress. She was in period clothes. If she lay low, with Will’s help, wouldn’t she just blend?

Looking up, she studied him, sitting so stoically across from her. The light glowed on his thick chestnut hair.

The universe had sent her there, to him. To this man who rendered her insides to mush whenever he spared her one of his rare smiles. How could the universe be wrong?

She frowned, unwilling to contemplate leaving. “The food. It’s getting cold.”

“Och,” he said with a start. “That was ill-done of me. The food. Of course.”

“Will you show me what else you brought me?” She dug deep, trying for a smile.

“Aye,” he said, readily accepting the change in topic and mood. “You’ve the beef with claret. A pot of auld reekie—”

“Old what? Old stinky?”

“No!” He barked a laugh, and her chest swelled with pleasure.

“Auld reekie, lass. Called thus because it hails from Edinburgh. ’Tis simply chicken soup with whisky.”

“Oh, yum. My aunt made the best chicken noodle soup.” She inhaled deeply. “Total comfort food. Though I doubt she laced it with whisky.”

“I thought it best for your nerves. I had them prepare you a whisky toddy as well.”

“Wine, whisky, whisky . . . I’m sensing a theme here.”

“Indeed.” He took the decanter of wine and poured two glasses. “And to crown this theme, I’ve unearthed a bottle of our host’s finest claret.”

She gave a dreamy sigh. “You have no idea how much I’d love a glass of wine. Or I guess maybe you did. Wait,” she said, taking the glass from his hand, “how did you know?”

“Well, if your intemperate condition upon arrival was any indication . . .” He gave her a sly smile.

“Oh.” She made a face. “That’s so not like me. And it wasn’t wine anyhow. That’s the problem. I’d been drinking sangria. Wine with sugar and fruit added,” she clarified, noting his quizzical look.

“Oho.” He raised his glass to her. “And that is so much worse than mere wine?”

“It is,” she protested, leaning over to swat him on the arm. “The sugar will get you every time.”

She glanced down at the spread between them. “Speaking of sugar . . . What is that?”

“Ah. That, Felicity, is gingerbread. And this,” he said, uncovering another treat, “cherry cake with whisky.”

“More whisky,” she mused. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Mister Rollo?”

“It’s Lord Rollo,” he deadpanned.

She thought that, just then, she might be lighting the room with her glow. She craved uncovering Will’s sense of humor even more than she craved a hot shower.

She pulled her eyes from him, turning her focus to the bowl of beef stew he’d ladled out for her. She dug her fork in and stirred, and the most heavenly aroma filled her senses. “I think my mouth is actually, literally watering.” She closed her eyes, moaning as she took a bite.