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toasty if they ever passed a café.
    They traveled about another mile through even thicker forest when the trees opened to a clearing.
    “Brother Bartholomew,” called the ginormous man in front of her. “Have ye some food for us?”
    Eva’s mouth watered.
    A little, brown-haired monk emerged from the darkness, holding a flaming torch. “Aye. I’ve been worried the English caught ye this time.”
    Do they ever let up with the show?
    The warrior man dismounted. “Come, lad.” He patted the horse’s shoulder. “The big fella’s put in a hard day. ’Tis time to turn him out to pasture.”
    Eva held out her hands for help, but the man brushed past and headed behind the bushes with the others. Clothing rustled. Water hit the ground. Eva didn’t need to look to know what they were doing. She needed to pee herself.
    Lord, the ground seemed so far away. Clamping her fingers onto the rear of the saddle, she reached her foot forward and caught the stirrup. Taking her weight, she wobbled a bit, clutching the saddle for dear life.
    The horse snorted.
    With a rush of courage, Eva slid her leg over the steed’s butt and managed to lower herself to the ground, only stumbling a little bit. Her gaze shot to the men, hoping no one noticed.
    The leader adjusted himself and stepped from behind the brush. “Dunna be shy, lad, else ye’ll be freezing your cods out here in the wee hours.”
    Eva nodded and headed behind a bush on the other side of the clearing, well away from the men. Squatting, she peered around the scrub and watched them head into the hazy glow radiating from the cave’s entrance. Oh, no. They weren’t going to leave her alone in the middle of nowhere.
    “Wait,” she yelled, finishing and yanking up her panties and skinny jeans together.
    Her riding partner stopped and turned with his fists on his hips. “Ye’re awfully tall for a lad whose voice hasn’t yet changed.”
    She buttoned and zipped. “You’re the one who keeps calling me a lad—with hips like mine, no one ever confuses my gender.”
    Though darkness veiled his face, the whites of his eyes grew round. “Bloody hell, ye mean to say ye’re a woman?”
    Eva glanced down at her breasts. Concealed beneath the down vest, she could forgive him for not noticing those, but honestly. Did she look that bad?
    He took a step toward her.
    She scooted back. “Am I in danger?”
    “What tongue do ye speak?” His eyes narrowed. “Are ye an English spy?”
    “Of course not. I’m a Scot. Born in Edinburgh.”
    He folded his arms and tipped his chin up. “Nay, ye speak like no Scot I’ve ever heard.”
    “I-I studied abroad.”
    “Och aye? Ye’re full of drivel. A woman who studied abroad? Now I ken ye’re a spy,” he growled, sauntering forward and wrapping his fingers around the hilt of the dirk sheathed in his belt. “I ought to cut out your tongue for telling tall tales.”
    “No!” Eva waved her hands in front of her face. “Y-you cannot tell my nationality by the way I talk. My father is…” She faltered, recalling the date on her phone. “… was an ambassador. I’ve spent most of my life overseas.” Screaming sirens in the back of her mind told her not to divulge too much. First she needed some answers of her own.
    “What were ye doing at Fail Monastery?” The moonlit shadows intensified his glower.
    “That was—” She stopped herself from repeating the word Fail and sounding like a complete idiot. Oh my God. It couldn’t be . “I—ah—what is the date?”
    “The first of May, but ye havena answered—”
    “The year!” She stamped her foot. “I need to know the year.”
    “The year of our Lord twelve ninety-seven.” The man drew his dirk and took another step toward her, his white teeth flashing with his sneer. For the love of God, he was huge. “But ye best start making some sense, else I’ll not only cut out your tongue, I’ll carve up your liver and feed it to the pigs.”
    Squealing, she squeezed her arms