Ooh! On the romance covers, their shirts are always open. Will his shirt be open?

Slowly she lifted her chin. A dozen tiny buttons marched up the broad, flat plane of the man’s belly and chest. A collar rested just below his throat, its points draping long and loose.

A strong chin. Dark stubble on a strong chin.

Oh God, oh God.

The man holding her looked down, and time stopped.

Hazel eyes pinned her. They were steady and bright, the color of his velvet jacket.

Thick waves of chestnut brown hair rested over his collar. Just then the wind tousled it from his brow. A high brow framing . . .

Oh my. So handsome.

His features were fine, chiseled into clear skin.

Felicity felt a zing, like a single firework crackling through her belly.

“You’re awake.” His voice was low, accented.

Felicity let her head sink back, relaxing onto his arm. She felt a big, stupid grin spread like molasses over her face.

His brows furrowed as he contemplated her. Still she couldn’t wipe the dumb smile from her face.

“Are you still drunk, lass?”

Lass. He called me lass!

“Let’s hope not,” she murmured. Exhaling something like a dreamy sigh, she nuzzled into his arms.

How strange, though. Were they somehow at the Renaissance Faire, in Golden Gate Park? Nothing really looked familiar.

Hmmm. She studied him. Ren faire guy. Made sense. His accent could use a little work, though. But, man, he was hot. She could play along.

Something struck her, and she glanced around. There were no roads. “Where are we?”

“Ah!” the man at their side exclaimed. “Our fair maiden has decided to join the land of the living.”

“We are currently trying to get our hides safely out of England,” the man holding her said evenly.

“England?” She scrunched her brow. “Is that part of the fantasy?”

“If only!” The red- haired man barked a laugh. “A fantasy. That’s rich . . .”

“No,” her guy said, “ ’tis England indeed.”

England? She stiffened, her heart kicking up a notch. He couldn’t be serious. How the hell could she have landed in England? Unless they’d kidnapped her. But how? Her apartment had actual bars on the windows.

“How’d I get here? Did Livvie set this up?”

“I think she’s still feeling her wine,” the red- haired man said.

“No,” she protested. She’d been mustering outrage, but confusion made her voice small. “I’m not drunk.” She inhaled deeply, and trying to gather herself, focused on the rhythmic sway of the horse’s gait.

Horse. What was up with the horses, anyway? Clearly these guys weren’t kidnappers. Two horses weren’t exactly the fastest getaway. A kid on a skateboard could pass them. If there’d been any roads. Which there weren’t. Here in England.

But of course there were roads in England. So why weren’t there any roads here? Even in those British movies where everyone hied to their country manors by carriage, there were roads.

But this? This looked like . . . like the land of Robin Hood.

Her heart slammed harder in her chest as she tried to make sense of it.

She’d made a wish. She’d made a wish and ended up here.

She just needed to figure out where here was. She craned her head. Bucolic fields stretched gently before them, like paradise. He’d said England, but there was nothing modern, as far as the eye could see. She’d traveled to some pretty remote spots in her life, and still, you could always see something. Distant cars, power lines, something.

But here there were just horses, and men in fancy velvet coats, and lush landscape all around. Just like Robin Hood. Or like a fairy tale. Some strange world offering a snapshot from the past.

Could it be the past? She gave a breathy laugh. No way.

She couldn’t have been transported from the real world, from her world. She was supposed to show up for the morning shift. She’d waited weeks for that cute coffee shop to have an opening. And who’d water all her plants?

Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her. She could only manage shallow breaths now, as though her chest had shrunk. She did another scan of the countryside. Impossible.

No cars, no airplanes, no telephone wires. No modern world. Anywhere.

“Hang on,” she said suddenly. She was losing it. People didn’t just land in fairy tales. She’d call Livvie, get a reality check. “A phone. Do you have a phone?”

“Have we a what?” the red-haired man asked.

“Telephone?” she asked in disbelief. “No? You don’t . . . You don’t know a Maid Marian, do you?”

“Tele . . .” The man holding her glared. “Is that French?”

“You’ve never heard of a phone,” she muttered, her heart thundering now. “But you speak English, right? Here in . . . England? Where you don’t have phones?”

England. She studied the sword dangling from the red-haired man’s hip. Old England.

What had she done? That crazy candle. How would she ever get back? And what about Livvie? Livvie would be so worried.

Holy crap. Could it really be the past? Didn’t they have all kinds of wars in the past? And plagues? Oh God, plagues. Why hadn’t she paid more attention in history class?

Okay, be cool. Maybe it wasn’t what it seemed. She didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. How to handle it?

She strained eyes and ears for some sign of life, but there was nothing. Hell, there weren’t really even any sounds, apart from the horses. And the breathing of the men.

Of the man, behind her.

She finally managed a deep breath. The man behind her. He sure was hot.

Calm down. The universe was telling her something. She just needed to open herself to it.

Those matchmaking dummies had told her she was unmatchable, and the universe had proved them wrong. She apparently did have a true love. He just happened to be . . . medieval dude. Hunky medieval dude.

Maybe it was the past. How bad could it be anyway? People had survived it. No phones, no television. It seemed kind of nice, actually. Simpler.

Surely she could find a way to get word to Livvie—somehow. She’d figure that out later. Her aunt would be so mad if she found out that Felicity had spun out worrying about her instead of just relaxing into the experience.

She tilted her head back for another look at the man behind her. She knew one thing—she couldn’t do any better on the One True Love front. He sure was good-l ooking. Seemed like a gentleman. Intense, intelligent eyes. Clean and well-dressed.

Maybe he had a castle. Maybe he hung out with princes and stuff. Maybe he was a prince.

“Wow,” she said breathily. “Do you have a castle? In England? England . . .” She shook her head, marveling. “Will we get to see stuff like Big Ben, and the Tower of London?”

“Let’s pray not,” the red-haired man muttered.

The man at her back frowned. “I hadn’t counted on needing three, not two, mounts.” He pinned her with narrowed eyes. “ ’Twould be a long journey to Scotland, with you riding pillion.”

“I told you, Will,” the other man said. “Riding is folly. Our journey is too long. One month in which Cromwell can sniff us out with his dogs? I think not. A boat it must be.”

“Scotland?” She pushed up and away from his chest, craning her neck. “I thought you said England. I’ve always wanted to see Scotland too.”

“In time,” he said brusquely. “For now, it’s England. At least until we sort our transportation.”

“So you’re Scottish?” She glanced down at his tartan-clad legs and smiled. “Do you have a kilt too?”

He stared blankly.

“You know,” she said gesturing to his legs, “one of those hot . . . man . . . skirts.”

His eyes narrowed. “Aye, I’m a Scotsman, and aye, I’ve a breacan feile.” He spoke slowly and with great effort, as though moderating his patience. “Now, tell us where to bring you.”

His companion only chuckled.

“Bring me?” She had nowhere to be except right where she was. San Francisco was probably still just a stretch of waterfront wilderness.

“Aye,” her handsome man said. “We’ll do that much, lass.”

Their eyes locked. Lass. He’d said it again. He’ll wear his kilt and call me lass. Butterflies danced in her belly. “Can you ride horses when you wear your kilt . . . whatchamacallit?”

A low growl escaped him. “Where should I—?”

“Oh, that,” she said, coming back to herself. “I’ve got no place to go. I think . . . I think I’m supposed to be here. What’s your name?” she asked innocently.

The red-haired man cleared his throat. “Dare we—”

“Rollo,” her man answered, “William Rollo.”

“Rollo,” she repeated, sounding the name slowly. “What kind of name is Rollo? It doesn’t sound Scottish. Shouldn’t it be something like MacRollo instead?”

“ ’Tis an old name,” he clipped out. “A Norse name.”

“Hail Rollo the Viking!” the red- headed man jested. “Your forefather became none other than the Duke of Normandy, was it? That would’ve been, what, eight hundred years ago?”

“My Viking . . .” Felicity sighed. She would never mock Livvie or her candles ever again.

“I’m not a Viking,” Rollo snarled.

His companion laughed. “Oh, but you seem quite barbarous to me.”

“Enough.” Rollo nudged their horse into a brisker walk. “Who are you, woman? And where do I deposit you?”

Ignoring him, Felicity turned to the red-headed man. “Are you Scottish too, then? Or do you live here?”

He stared, amused, as if she were nuts. “Good luck with this one, Will.” He chuckled. “The name is Ormonde, dear lady. James Butler, the Marquis of Ormonde, so pleased to make your acquaintance. And, if you’re one of Cromwell’s lackeys, I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you now.”