Gavin cursed again, but she could tell it wasn’t directed at her. No, she had a feeling his anger was directed at Greylen. “Aye, you were born apart, but ’tis more than just that.”

“Then what? What aren’t you telling me?” Why couldn’t he give her a straight answer?

“Lady Gwendolyn—”

“Stop calling me Lady Gwendolyn,” Gwen hissed, cutting him off again. “Just spit it out.” She took his shoulders, trying to shake him. But in the end, she only shook herself.

“You’re of a different time,” he said slowly, his eyes penetrating with each word.

“I’m what?”

Gavin shook his head. “This is maddening. Pray tell,” he said, grinding out his words, “exactly what don’t you understand?”

“I understand nothing!”

“You are daft.”

“Daft? Daft?” Oh, she was going to hit him. Hard. “I am not daft, Gavin. I do however have a problem trying to make sense of whatever it is you’re trying to tell me. You suck at explaining.”

“Then listen well, Lady Gwendolyn,” he said through clenched teeth, coming closer to her with each statement. “You are not of this time. There are no phones, whatever that may be. There is no inn. And this is not the twenty-first century.”

“You’re a nutcase,” Gwen hissed, pushing away. She walked back to the door, and on the third try, it finally opened. But when it did, the sight hit her full force again. Gwen closed the door. Gavin’s words repeated in her head.

She knew he was behind her, but she didn’t turn around. Instead, she leaned her head against the door. “You don’t have a phone?” she asked in a whisper.

“Nay.”

“The storm didn’t wipe out your power or the phone lines?” Again it was a whisper.

“Nay.”

“You said I’m not of this time. What did you mean?”

“Simply that, Lady Gwendolyn. This is not the twenty-first century.”

“If this isn’t the twenty-first century”—Gwen’s hands fisted next to her head before she asked the next question, and she laughed as she said the words—“what century is it then?”

“’Tis the sixteenth century, my lady.”

Gwen made a strangled sound. “What year is it?”

“The year of our Lord…fifteen hundred and thirty-six.” He said it clearly, catching her as she crumpled.

“Potion…” Gwen screamed, beating against his chest. “I want potion!”

“You’ve just had brandy,” Gavin reprimanded, grabbing her hands.

“You’re messing with me, right?”

“If you mean tricking you…nay, I fear not.”

Gwen started laughing.

“You find this amusing?” he asked as he set her before him.

Gwen regarded him with a smile. “As a matter of fact, I do,” she replied. “I told Greylen I was dreaming last night. And I am.” Thank God, she could still rationalize in her unconscious state.

“You’re not dreaming, Lady Gwendolyn,” he said. “Can you not believe?”