“Winter of 1266, why?”
“1266,” she repeated, then swallowed hard. No. The man was delusional. His answer made no sense. Had to be his injury talking. “And how old are you now?”
“This winter will be my thirtieth year on this earth.”
Her mouth went so dry she nearly choked. Without asking, she snatched the cup out of his hand and downed the rest of his water. “I shall get more,” she said as she stumbled toward the stream.
What he insinuated could not be true. It was not possible. She knelt beside the water, filled the cup, and threw it in her face. This could not be the year 1296. He was just a confused re-enactor, and the blow to his head had him believing this really was the thirteenth century.
She scooped up a handful of water and splashed her face again, trying to silence her analytical mind that demanded an explanation for all the changes to the landscape. “Breathe deep,” she whispered, closing her eyes and rocking back on her heels. No. This could not possibly be 1296. “Just keep breathing, and it’ll all be fine. There’s a data-driven reason for everything.”
“Evie?” His calm deep voice with its rumbling brogue jarred through her misery and made her jump. “Saint’s bones, lass. What is it?” He caught hold of her. His rich, dark eyes reflected the genuine concern echoing in his tone. “Are ye unwell? Are ye hurting?”
“I…uh.” She paused, swallowed hard, and scrambled for something—anything sane to say. “Dizzy spell,” she finally blurted out. “Happens when I only have tea and nothing to eat.”
He scooped her up into his arms and carried her back to their seats of tree roots. As gentle as any mother laying down a sleeping child, he settled her on the root, then fetched her bag. “Which part holds yer bars of power?”
Joints locked to keep from crumbling into a sobbing lump, she concentrated on pulling in one deep breath at a time. She must not fall to pieces and reveal all her fears. Not in front of poor Quinn. She had already shocked the man too many times as it was. Besides, this just could not be the thirteenth century.
“Lass?” Kneeling at her feet, he peered up at her, waiting.
She pointed at one of the zippers. “That one.”
He frowned down at the black zipper pull, rubbing his fingers together as if trying to work up the courage to touch it. “That one?”
“Grab hold and slide it downward,” she said, closing her eyes at a sudden trembling taking over. Shock. She was going into shock because Quinn didn’t know what a zipper was nor how to use it. No. Her body and mind were about to overheat and shut down from trying to figure out this mess.
“Evie—Heaven help ye, lass. Ye’re shaking like a leaf in a windstorm.” He eased her down to the ground before she toppled off her seat. Closing her fingers around the power bar, he leaned so close his nose nearly touched hers. “The blanket, Evie, which part of yer wee bag holds the blanket?”
“I don’t remember,” she whispered. She locked her gaze on the bag as if it was her last hold on sanity. Her trusty backpack. Her supplies. Together, they had survived wars, third world countries, and data-driven hospital administrators who sucked up to government officials and didn’t give a rat’s ass about patients. She would damn well survive this and figure it out. Somehow.
Harder, uncontrollable trembling rattled her, forcing her to curl into a tighter ball. Yes. She would survive, but for now, a bit of a breakdown was definitely in order before returning to her old, resourceful self.
Quinn found the blanket and tucked it around her. “There now. Rest a spell and eat yer bar of power, ye ken? All will be well. I promise.”
“What is today’s date?” she forced out.
“The date?”
“Yes.” She braced herself for what she hoped he wouldn’t say.
“Last day of July, I believe.” He pursed his lips as if unsure. “Or maybe the thirtieth. I canna say for certain since I seem to be missing a sizable chunk of my memories.”
“And the year?” she whispered, squeezing the power bar so tightly it squished.
“Year of our Lord 1296.”
“I see,” she said more to herself than him—over seven hundred years into the past. Seven hundred and twenty-three, to be exact. She clutched the blanket closer and concentrated on controlled breaths. In. Out. Her heart rate was off the charts, which was actually quite normal, considering her circumstances.
“Ye’ve crushed yer wee treat, lass.” He gently pried her hand open, removed the bar, and tore away the wrapper. Breaking off a tiny chunk, he pressed it to her lips. “A bite for ye, Evie. For me, aye? Ye’re scaring the living hell out of me.” He gave a soft laugh. “Ye’re the fiercest woman I’ve ever met. Even though I’ve known ye but a day, I’ve not seen ye like this.” Leaning closer, he treated her to a gentle smile and nudged the melting chocolate against her mouth again. “Where’s the fearless lady who saved my life?”
She managed the bite for his sake. To quiet him. She needed to think. Not eat.
“Another?”
With a shake of her head, she pushed his hand away. “I can’t right now. But, thank you. You eat it. It’ll melt into a useless mess if you don’t.”
He sat beside her and leaned back against the root. After wolfing down the rest of the chocolate mess, he wiped his hands on his trews. “What happened there at the stream, Evie? Ye were well before then.”
