Harrison is hard to ignore. Handsome, confident and boorish, he is beloved by most everyone at the faire, particularly the women. Even Kyra's best friend is quick to champion him, much to Kyra's dismay. Kyra knows little about Rafe, but wisely despises his bravado, his appeal and his slipshod reenactment methods. And when Rafe is implicated in her best friend's riding accident, she cannot forgive him for his neglect or herself for the unwelcomed sensations he stirs within her.
After tampering with a gypsy potion, Kyra suddenly finds herself and Rafe transported back to sixteenth-century England, and it is nothing like the 1500s back home. It is a dangerous time of court intrigue, French wars and Scottish insurrection, and soon Kyra finds that she must learn to trust the courage and heart of the man she reviles if they are to survive. More importantly, she must learn to trust her own heart as she fights for both her own and Rafe's survival upon one of the bloodiest battlefields in England--Flodden.
As Rafe stepped toward her, Kyra felt her resolve weaken, and she fought the maddening urge to go to him.
He looked at her purposefully, "I've waited for years, five long years, for you. Waited for you to look at me instead of through me, to look at me with something other than a sneer or disdain as you passed by. So if it takes another five years for me to win your trust, then so be it. I can wait."
Kyra shook her head, "I have learned my lesson when it comes to trust, learned it the hard way. In my discipline, we have an old adage about history repeating itself. I will not be used again, not for anyone's pleasure or gain. So let's concentrate on getting out of here alive, shall we?"
"No argument there," Rafe agreed gruffly. "But you aren't going out looking like that. You aren't even half-dressed. Come here."
Something, perhaps the command in his voice, caused Kyra to go to him dutifully, without hesitation. She stood obediently before him, watching his experienced fingers find the laces of her bodice and quickly cinch them, tying it off expertly so that she was snug, yet had room to breathe. She looked up at him with something akin to regret. But you can't regret what you never had, she told herself firmly. She only wished she knew what to say, that she knew what to do to bridge the gap between them. She couldn't trust him, and he wouldn't confide in her. It was an impossible impasse. "Thank you," she said as he finished, trying to disengage her eyes from his.
"You are most welcome, milady," Rafe said, watching himself reflected in her eyes. "But stop looking at me like that."
"Like you expect me to perform some miracle or pass some secret test in order to prove something to you." He set his jaw. "And I do know you, Kyra. Don't think otherwise. If you didn't trust me, didn't want me as much as I do you, you would not have come to me just now."
Kyra drew back, her catlike eyes narrowed, as he continued.
"And if I asked you to come to me again, you would."
Kyra opened her mouth to protest, but fell silent. Would she?
Rafe placed the tip of his finger under her chin, gently raising her face to his. "You would," he assured her.