Silvan went very still. “What one beneath the study?”

“The one behind the hearth,” she said impatiently.

“What one behind the hearth?” Silvan snapped, surging to his feet.

Nell’s eyes flew wide. “Och, for heaven’s sake, Silvan, dinna ye know about it?”

Silvan grabbed her hand, his brown eyes flashing. “Show me.”

Chapter 19

19

Chloe clutched the stallion’s mane as they sped across heather-covered fields toward a lush, overgrown forest.

When she and Dageus had ridden out from the castle half an hour ago, she’d seen more evidence that she was truly in the past. A towering wall that hadn’t been there yesterday, patrolled by guards, encircled the perimeter of the estate. Clad in authentic medieval garb and armor, the guards had been toting weapons that made her fingers curl. She’d barely resisted the temptation to pluck them from their hands and lock them up somewhere safe.

When they’d exited the gates she’d peered curiously down into the valley, not really expecting to see the city of Alborath. Still, seeing the vast vale, that twenty-four hours earlier had been filled with thousands of homes and shops, currently occupied by contentedly grazing, fat sheep, had left her feeling utterly discombobulated.

Face it, Zanders, however he did it—physics, Druidry, archeoastronomy—he took you back.

Which meant that the man behind her on the horse, who’d not spoken a word since they’d ridden out, guiding them at a dizzying speed across wide-open fields, was a man who possessed the knowledge to command time itself.

Wow. Not exactly what she’d expected the day she’d stood in his penthouse fantasizing about what kind of man Dageus MacKeltar might be. Nope, not once had she thought “time-travelling Druid.” It was making her reevaluate her entire concept of history—how little historians really knew! She felt as if she’d been sucked into one of Joss Whedon’s scripts, into a world where nothing was what it seemed. Where girls discovered they were vampire-slayers and fell for men who didn’t have souls. A Buffy addict to the bone, she wondered who Dageus was more like, Spike or Angel?

The answer came with swift certainty: There was something about him that was far more Spike than Angel, a tortured duality, a driving, underlying darkness.

His grip was tight on her waist, almost painful, his body rigid behind hers. The sheer size of him was daunting, being clutched between his powerful thighs, held tightly to his broad chest, made her feel delicate and overwhelmed. He seemed different in his own century, and she wondered how he’d ever passed as a twenty-first century man. He was all warrior and imperious command. His was regal Celtic blood, hot and passionate. He was man enough to swing the massive claymores that decorated the walls in The Cloisters. Man enough to survive, even thrive in such a rugged, untamed land.