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the Welsh term, her voice infused
with love.
    Was he falling in love?
    Gently disentangling himself from the silken sheets, Rhys
rose and stalked over to the cupboard. He couldn’t resist a glance over his
shoulder, admiring Marissa as she lay sprawled and sated on the four-poster
bed. Had he really only intended to kiss her once? He wanted her again and
again—he could feel himself growing hard at the thought, despite physical tiredness
and his earlier relief.
    Turning back to the cupboard, Rhys ran his hands over the
wooden surface. One of the panels hid a tiny secret drawer. He found it, pulled
it out, stared at the heirloom ring contained within. He had hidden it away in
the cottage, hoping to one day meet the woman he might bestow it upon.
    If someone had informed his younger self that he might fall
in love with an outsider like Marissa, he would have laughed in their face.
Rhys had spent years entertaining flighty, shallow girls who practically threw
themselves into his lap, yet unorthodox Marissa, who had initially walked away
from him, struck him as the best match.
    And if his mother—or anyone else, for that matter—objected,
he would simply override them. As a baron, that was his right. Hadn’t his own
grandfather, who had built this cottage, married a commoner from Staffordshire?
    A deep sense of rightness settled over him. Carefully he
lifted the slender platinum band from its hiding place. Its rubies sparkled in
the firelight. They would complement Marissa’s brunette beauty perfectly.
    Rhys smiled to himself. Even if it was the damn
faeries who had brought her, he couldn’t let her go.

Chapter Three
     
    Dawn was already filtering through the curtains by the time
Marissa opened her eyes. For a few peaceful moments she lay still, enjoying the
blessed lack of alarm clock, the rural stillness. The only sounds evident in
the peaceful little cottage were birdsong and the gentle noises of Rhys
breathing.
    She was used to waking up early, but the feeling of waking
next to a man was wholly unfamiliar. Rhys slept deeply, his dark hair slightly
tousled, one muscular arm curving above her head. He was still definitely as
handsome as ever. Marissa looked away, biting her lip.
    Pride forced her out of bed in the end. She moved stealthily
past the fire to retrieve her dress, which was slightly rumpled but still
wearable. Her slippers, however, were battered almost beyond recognition. Fortunately,
she was able to scrounge a decent pair of boots and a woolen coat from the wardrobe.
    When she hefted her reticule, it felt bulkier than normal.
Marissa wrinkled her brow, trying to recall what she’d packed yesterday
afternoon. Tissue, fifty bucks for a taxi, and some hand cream shouldn’t weigh
this much. She reached down to peer inside, but Rhys stirred and she froze.
    When he had settled again, she stepped outside, boots
crunching in the snow. She shook her head, angry at her indecision. Never
before had she been infatuated with a man, so why should she be now? Because
he’d taken her virginity?
    At no time in her life had she, Marissa Blythe, ever truly
belonged somewhere—or with someone. There was no sense deluding herself into
thinking Rhys was somehow different. She hardened her heart, stepped onto the road.
    The snow was gradually melting in the strengthening
sunlight. She turned around almost involuntarily, drawn back to the cottage by
an almost tangible force. The twenty-first century seemed to have very little
hold on her now.
    She only wished she could be sure of the exact year she was
in. Harriet had said the spoon was from around 1860. The clothing styles
present at the party seemed to back that up, but she couldn’t be sure.
    And something—perhaps the magic of the silver spoon—was
trying to help her fit in here.
    “Car,” she tried to say. It came out as “carriage”. “Bus”
translated to “stagecoach”. She couldn’t say “television” or “internet” at all.
    “Well, we’re not in