1
Everything before me looked backward, like seeing a fractured limb snapped into a surreal angle. After waking up from a heavy sleep, I’d expected to find myself lying on the grubby stones of a sixteenth-century English horse stable. Instead, I sat shivering on the bank of the Connecticut River, its surface a sheet of inky-black glass through the drooping branches of a willow tree.
A few hours ago, I’d dozed off on the sandy river’s edge in the arms of my dream boyfriend, Nick Tudor (make that dream fiancé), one of my arms awkwardly locked around his horse’s bony hoof. So long as our three bodies stayed connected and we all fell asleep—including the horse—the enchanted ring on my thumb should’ve sent us four hundred years back in time, to where I’d decided to live and marry Nicholas the First, the King of England. Gulp, no biggie. But instead of rising and shining in King Nick’s court in the year 1580, I’d awakened right where we’d fallen asleep: in Hatfield, Massachusetts, in the present day.
Nick lurched up beside me, his voice thick with sleep. “Good God, we are still in your time.”
“I know; I don’t get it, the ring’s still on.” My fingertips brushed the blue diamond’s rock-hard ridges again to make sure.
He yawned, moonlight drawing a silver line down the slight curve of his nose. “One of us plainly had not yet fallen to sleep. We must begin again.” He clicked his tongue, guiding his horse Stella closer and hooking his broad arm around her leg.
I lay back down on the cold slope of mushy sand. Nick cradled me from behind with his other arm, my quickening pulse like whitewater rapids in my ears. It wasn’t me who’d kept us awake: I could tell by my gunky eyes and sticky throat. Nick looked just as groggy, so it must’ve been the horse who’d failed to fall asleep and kept us all from traveling through time. It was the only explanation.
Nick’s soft lips grazed the skin beneath my hairline, stealing my thoughts. I sighed and cuddled into him, finding his mouth with mine. The sighs of pleasure he made as we kissed made my thighs squeeze his, but he pulled away with a frustrated groan.
“I fear that falling to sleep beside you shall never be a simple business,” he said through a drowsy smile. “But sleep we must. Lord Warwick is likely awaiting my return and may have already raised the alarm. Christ, what if the men see us appear before their eyes? You must feel favored at court, not mistrusted from the first moment.” His beautiful eyes brightened with visible alarm.
I whispered a calming hush into his scarred cheek. “Don’t stress. We’ve got this.”
Rolling onto my side again, I shifted to get comfortable.
How on earth was I going to convince four-hundred-year-old English aristocrats to trust me when I had literally no idea how to be a Tudor queen? It had all happened so fast—Nick’s ‘now or never’ marriage proposal and my heartfelt acceptance. I wasn’t sure I could really pull off being queen, or even if I wanted to, but I’d lost Nick before, and I had no intention of doing it again. Ever.
He tightened his embrace like I’d disappear if he didn’t.
The next time I opened my eyes, my body felt like a bag of cement. Had we finally arrived at the Palace of Whitehall?
The world took shape and color around me. A golden blush of sunrise painted the mirrored surface of the Connecticut River, its steady burble like a nature soundtrack. Stella lay motionless on her side while Nick breathed rhythmically into my shoulder, his eyelids fluttering with a dream.
Oh my God, the time-traveling ring isn’t working! Which means…
I rolled over to face him, my eyes devouring the dimple that appeared in his cheek when he moved his mouth a certain way, the eyelashes cute enough to kiss, the delicate curve of his lips. Could my treasured King of Pants-Dropping Hotness really be stuck in my time?
I clamped my eyes shut, rising excitement burning away months of chronic anxiety. If the enchanted ring had stopped working and Nick had to stay here forever, I could have my Tudor king and my college degree and my mom and my friends and things like flushing toilets, television, and peanut butter! I could also keep Nick without having to follow through on all the scary queen stuff! I shut my eyes and lay still, immobilized with relief so intense that it felt nauseating, when something squeezed my shoulder.
“Hmm?” I muttered, my throat clogged. Nick’s handsome face sharpened into view. The air tasted like smoke and straw.
“You must rise in haste,” he whispered. “Francis is asleep.”
I used both hands to sit up. My eyelids felt glued together. As they came unstuck, objects materialized through the darkness. A pair of misshapen candles burning from iron mounts in a brick wall. Tattered ropes dangling from a low-hanging beam. A flagstone floor brushed with hay.
We’re back in the sixteenth century.
My stomach twisted into knots. I guess Nick Tudor and my mom are going to remain mutually exclusive and I’m going to have to figure out how to be a Tudor queen. Yikes.
Nick draped an auburn cloak over my T-shirt and jeans and whispered for me to change in the corner of the horse stable. He handed me a smock and kirtle combo that was simple enough for me to tie on myself. I guessed he’d hidden them earlier in the hope that I’d accept his proposal and come back to Tudor England with him.
Needles of hay spiked my bare toes as I hurriedly swapped my old tennis shoes for a pair of satin slippers. I gasped as Nick bundled up my modern clothes and tossed them into the fireplace. Sleepy and disoriented, we silently watched the fabric curl into flames, crackling and sputtering, before he gently guided me through the stable gate. I tightened my cloak to keep warm, my head spinning with the fact that this was really happening—I was back in the Tudor world and engaged to its king! Mind-blown. But at least I had Nick by my side, the thought coating me with a giddy warmth.
The sleeping Earl of Warwick, Francis Beaumont, sat crookedly on an upturned log. Stella whinnied behind us, kicking her legs for momentum before pushing herself up onto her hooves.
“Hairbrain!” cried Francis, his ebony eyes flashing open. He jumped to his feet with one hand on his sword.
“Be calm,” Nick hissed at him. “Has anyone come? I feared you raised the guards.”
Francis shook his head, squinting at me. “But mine eyes heed someone is with you, Your Grace. So all is well then.” He exhaled, sliding his hands down his midnight-blue doublet.
“Mistress Grace is in need of rest,” Nick said evenly. It was a command to make no further comment about my arrival, and Francis knew better than to disobey. The smells of hay and horse sweat chased us beneath a tall stone archway and out onto a cobblestone road flanked by statuesque trees with sturdy branches. None of this looked familiar.
“You were gone for many weeks, Emmie,” Nick explained. “The court is no longer at Whitehall. I have since taken up lodgings at Hampton Court Palace.”
I had a zillion questions like, “Should I act like I’ve seen Hampton Court Palace before?” but I kept my mouth shut in front of Francis as the three of us climbed into a waiting coach. With the crack of a whip, the carriage jerked forward, and I avoided the earl’s curious stare as I watched the peach haze of dawn illuminate the narrow road through the curtained window. Up ahead, a smattering of smoking chimneys skewered the sky, and a high gatehouse topped with onion-shaped domes emerged. Nick squeezed my hand, his palms a touch clammy. I wasn’t the only one who was nervous about this new arrangement.