TemptressofTime (2 page)

Damnation!
She’d been so caught up in trying to learn
where and when she was temporarily living that she hadn’t heard him approach.
Intending to demand he return her to the ground, she looked up at him.

Eyes the turquoise blue of the Caribbean Ocean twinkled down
at her. A wide smile revealed even white teeth and dimples at the corners of
his mouth. An errant lock of sandy-blond hair fell over one darker blond, bushy
eyebrow. He looked impossibly young and extremely happy to be on his way home.

She wished
she
were on her way home. The idea that he
had an achievable goal while she had nothing had her glaring at him. With a sniff
of disdain, she stiffened her spine and stared at the rising portcullis gate.

If she felt a little frightened at leaving somewhat familiar
surroundings, so be it. She supposed that other Diane might miss this place.
God knew Diane de Bourgh—the modern one—missed her rightful place several
thousand miles and who knew how many centuries away.

Adrian de Vesay wanted to shove the sullen woman into the
middle of the nearest puddle. Problem was, the nearest puddle was the moat. He
doubted the haughty female would forgive him for dumping her in privy waste.
Nor would Arnaud welcome him back if the bride developed a fancy to toss Adrian
out—along with Arnaud’s six mistresses. An eviction Lady Diane had insisted
upon as soon as she’d learned about the Days of the Week, as Arnaud called
them.

Adrian’s lips curled downward. His older brother called them
by the days of the week because he could not remember their names—his drunken
stupor generally so deep he depended upon the woman in his bed to signify what
day it was. Sometimes—more often since King Henry had ordered Arnaud to marry
Lady Diane—he had more than one mistress in his bed. The results were not
always pleasant—for Arnaud at any rate.

Friends rather than rivals, the women pretended outrage and
pummeled Arnaud. He was too thick-skinned to bruise much, although he did
sometimes sport a black-and-blue eye or swollen lips. But then, so did the
women. More often lately as Arnaud’s marriage drew nigh.

What damage the bride might inflict when she learned Arnaud
had only moved his mistresses from the castle to the village, Adrian shuddered
to think. Given her height, she could easily land a blow or two, surprising
Arnaud. Problem was, she was also as slender as a reed, vulnerable to her
husband’s stocky build and powerful fists.

Adrian had gained his full height and knight’s spurs before
he willingly stood up to his twin brother. Memories of their last encounter had
him rubbing his nose—just to make certain it still graced his face. A little
crooked, true, but not as misshapen as Arnaud’s. Something else to wonder about
the bride’s reaction. Would she find her husband’s appearance as distasteful as
she obviously found his? She hadn’t said a word since he’d lifted her onto his
horse.

A soft sigh drew his attention to the woman in his arms.
Either she hadn’t slept well last night or the gentle swaying of his gelding
had lulled her to sleep. Whatever the cause, she slumped against him, making
him aware of her rounded buttocks pressing against his groin, her firm breasts rising
and falling along his forearms. If happiness lay in the peaks and valleys of a
woman’s body, his brother might find in his wife the joy his mistresses had not
given him. If truly happy, Arnaud might stop drinking.

Adrian’s cock stirred, rising as the woman shifted. He
wished his brother bliss, but doubted Arnaud would find it in Lady Diane.
Unless he kept her in his bed all day and night. Not an unpleasant prospect, as
long as there were no sharp objects within her reach. She seemed the sort of
woman who would fight rather than give in. But mayhap he based that opinion
solely on her height. Surrender to Arnaud would serve her delicate bones far
better.

Walker Mornay felt an odd surge of jealousy as he watched
Diane de Bourgh—
de Vesay
, he reminded himself—relax in Adrian’s arms.
Walker would have married her himself had Henry not ruled in de Vesay’s favor,
claiming he had bigger plans for Walker. That the king refused to share his
plans with the person most affected by them had Walker gritting his teeth yet
again.

He wanted de Vesay’s bride, as much as it galled him to
admit it. Her uncle had all but offered her to him, remarking that the
virago
needed taming
. His sly tone suggested beating and raping were the methods
Baron de Bourgh preferred.

Walker despised men who used their physical superiority to
tame
a woman. He preferred a subtle combination of showing his interest, then
ignoring the object of his lust. Women despised being ignored, especially after
a man had shown unwavering interest. It took little effort on his part, yet
earned him a high return that outpaced his investment of time and coin to buy
an occasional frippery.

Narrowing his gaze on the woman he intended to pursue, he
admitted that Diane de Vesay was more striking than beautiful. Most men would
find her height—a few inches shorter than his own six-feet-four—intimidating.
He imagined how well their bodies would align while swiving, her
honey-and-treacle-colored hair falling in silken waves over his chest and
shoulders as she rode him. Her pale-green eyes would lose their hauteur and
glaze as their bodies pounded together.

Yet above all her more obvious charms, her walk had first
captured his attention. A slight forward tilt of her hips all but invited a man
to discover the sweetness between her thighs, to sip her cream before burying
his shaft in her hot and welcoming depths.

Walker considered taking her to his bed before Arnaud de
Vesay returned from the task Henry had set for him in Ireland. Not that he
expected he’d have much luck seducing her before her husband claimed her.
After… Ah, there was another tale altogether. Arnaud would try to beat the
snootiness from her, leaving her nowhere to turn for comfort but to him, her
husband’s liege lord.

A slight smile curled his mouth. He could wait for Arnaud to
abuse his wife. Judging by the earl’s history with his mistresses, how could he
do anything else? In the meantime, Walker would show her how different things
might be with him if she would but grant him her favors. If she would not immediately
yield…well, he had always enjoyed a good chase.

Chapter Three

Be careful what you wish for.
Not that she had
actually wished to live in the Middle Ages, Diane assured herself even as she
admitted she had sometimes wondered what it would be like. Her research
couldn’t begin to describe how different the sky looked, so blue it almost hurt
to see it. Or how fresh the air smelled—once away from the towns where streets
served as open sewers. Those gutters carried away all sorts of odoriferous
items too gruesome to list, but so typical of the times she wanted to overcome
her modern sensibilities and name each and every one.

She wished she had her laptop to record everything she saw
and smelled, touched and tasted. She wanted her video camera so she could
recall at will the sounds of birdcalls and the different dialects, of streams
rippling over rocks—the noise pure, without the hiss of traffic over pavement
and horns sounding folks’ impatience.

True, not everything was sweet and aromatic. In addition to
unpleasant smells, she had to contend with riding on horseback. After that
first day Adrian had permitted her to ride her own mount. She supposed he
thought she’d get lost if she tried to run away once they’d traveled for a day.
He thought right. Sure, she wanted to escape, but she also wanted to stay
alive, not starve to death or be eaten by wolves—if England had any.

Another irritation was that, despite the long hose fastened
by
points
to her slops—underclothes she thought worn only by men—her
thighs felt like two enormous blisters and her butt ached from the hours she’d
spent atop an uncomfortable saddle. The slops themselves created issues when
she needed to relieve herself. While a man could easily slip his member between
the folds, she had to untie the waistband, bundle the fabric and that of her
long chainse and riding skirt out of the way, then squat. All the while, she
worried that someone would discover her looking absurd. Leaves with which to
wipe herself were often out of reach, on branches far above her head. When
used, they left her already aching bottom raw.

Which made her first encounter of any length with the
dark-haired noble—Walker Mornay, Duke de Beaumont—more than somewhat
surprising. Oh, they’d mumbled polite greetings to one another as they mounted
their horses, but that had been the extent of her conversation with either
noble. So on this particular morning, her poor, raw bottom having brought tears
to her eyes, encountering the duke blocking her path made her surly.

“Kindly get out of my way.” She refused to acknowledge him
by name or title, either of which would tacitly grant him power over her. So
would saying “please”.

“In a moment.” His fingers under her chin forced her to look
up at him, into those dark orbs that made her skin go hot and cold at the same
time. Holding her chin in one hand, he gently swiped away her tears with a
square piece of linen too small to be a handkerchief. Finished, he reached
under his tight-fitting tunic then held out a stack of more linen squares.

Undone by his unexpected kindness, she could only gape up at
him as he said, “Tuck the used ones into your purse. In a day or two we shall
stay with Baron Dupont and you can have them laundered.”

“Th-thank you,” she murmured, ducking her head so he
wouldn’t see her embarrassed gratitude. Since she had no coin, the purse
hanging from her belt would serve as a handy laundry basket.

Some servant at her uncle’s might have packed the squares
amongst her things, she supposed. She hadn’t thought to look, hadn’t had a
chance to consider changing clothes. Nor had she had the privacy in which to do
so.

They’d traveled at a steady pace, slow enough for the
horse-drawn wagons to keep up, covering between six and ten miles each day.
Remarkably fast, Adrian had told her.

The duke’s voice drew her attention back to him. “In spring
especially—now— leaves are soft. In summer almost the same. Fall makes them
brittle and in winter they are absent entirely. It is then that you should plan
on carrying these.”

“I don’t imagine I shall do much traveling once I reach my
new home.”
Unless it has a portal that will take me to my real home. Please,
please, please…let me find a way back to where I belong.
Realizing she
sounded snooty, she forced herself to meet his gaze. “I think these may come in
handy even after we reach our destination.” She would bet highborn folks
routinely washed with some sort of cloth after putting the garderobe to use.

He looked puzzled for an instant, most likely over “come in
handy”. Then he gave a curt nod, turned and called out, “You are most welcome,”
as he strode to his saddled horse.

His sarcastic tone almost prompted her to thank him again
but she bit her tongue. If anything, he owed her an apology for not giving her
the squares sooner. Moreover, he owed her an explanation for his ducal title.
If she remembered any of her research correctly Edward the Third created the
English title of duke in the 1330s for his oldest son. So either she was
confusing her clothing with an earlier era—say 1100—or Walker Mornay was a duke
from somewhere else, like Saxony or France. Still, to have such a lofty title
meant he had family connections of the highest order. Hell, for all she knew he
could be the son of the King of France. But that would make him the dauphin,
wouldn’t it?

The whole
when
question gave her a headache,
exacerbated by Adrian popping into her path and demanding, “For what are you
welcome?”

Irritated at being confronted by the two men who had spoken
fewer than a half-dozen words to her the entire week, she drew herself to her
full height and thrust her nose to within a fraction of an inch of his. “For
giving me these. Which,” she added, shoving a linen square at him, “is
something you—my h-husband’s brother—should have done when we set out.”

He pulled back as if she’d slapped him. “Why would I? It is
something you should know about, being your uncle’s lady.”

“Are you insinuating I had a sexual relationship with—with—”
She couldn’t even say the word “uncle”. “Is that why the baron didn’t attend
the wedding? He didn’t want to see his mis—his doxy married to someone else?”
She didn’t even care whether “doxy” was a common word in this time and place.
Too angry at being trapped, she couldn’t think straight. Or crooked, either.

When Adrian closed his hands around her shoulders and dug
his fingers into her flesh, she reared back, noticing his suddenly pale face.
He looked even whiter than he had at their wedding.
My proxy wedding
,
she amended, shoving futilely at his broad, hard chest.

“What is wrong with you? I meant only that you served as his
lady of the manor after your aunt died.”

Ignoring the embarrassed blush heating her cheeks, she
considered what to say next. She wanted to know where her parents were and why
they had sent her away, but then remembered noblewomen fostered just as boys
did. But at least she needn’t worry about either man thinking of her—of that
other Diane—as a whore. On an inward sigh of relief, she met Adrian’s intense
gaze, once more losing herself in his Caribbean-blue eyes. Before seeing her
latest cover art, she had always thought blond men too bland, too boyish, too
boring—as if they lacked all color. All
joie de vivre
. Adrian de Vesay
put paid to that notion.

For one thing, his hair held a multitude of different
colors. Butter yellow and golden wheat and strands the rich brown of pussy
willows mixed with pampas grass ecru. Though cut short like the boy’s in that
old paint commercial, his hair looked silky and thick enough to sink her
fingers into. His eyes reminded her of the crystal-clear, shallow waters around
Jamaica. Just now, however, that blue deepened as if he recognized her interest
in him and might pursue it. Pursue her.

She had no intention of letting his attractiveness get in
the way of getting home. And yet, unwilling to relinquish his attention, she
said, “Why did the king send the baron—my uncle—to Ireland? Especially when
he—the king—decreed I marry your brother.”

“I know why Henry sent Arnaud there.” Releasing her, he
shrugged his massive shoulders, adding, “I have no idea why the baron went with
him.”

Liar.
His sudden flush told the tale. He knew exactly
why his brother and her—that other Diane’s—uncle had gone to Ireland together.
She set that aside and seized the inadvertent clue Adrian had given her.

“Henry?”

“King Henry.” Stepping back, he looked at her as if her
brains were seeping out of her ears. “Are you so isolated,” she heard
stupid
,
“you do not know Henry the Second is your king?”

“Of course
I
know,” she muttered while her mind
scrambled for facts. Henry the Second, King of England from 1154 to 1189. The
dates gave her a general idea of when she was, although they weren’t very
helpful in terms of specifics. The Irish connection, however…
Think, Diane,
think!
Ah yes! Henry Plantagenet asserted his lordship over the
Anglo-Norman nobles from South Wales who had begun to conquer Ireland in 1169.
As for sending that other Diane’s husband and uncle to Ireland…perhaps Henry
sought an Irish heiress to marry one of his sons. Not Richard the Lionheart nor
Prince John Lackland. She knew neither of them had married an Irish lass, never
mind an Irish heiress. Or did Henry the Second follow William the Conqueror’s
habit of granting his nobles estates too far separated to mount a consolidated
attack upon him? She thrust the idea to the back of her mind.

Well, she now had a pretty accurate idea of
when
she
was—around 1170 or so—but she still had no idea how she had come here or from
where she could get home. She had a vague idea where they were headed, knowing
only that York lay in the northeast part of England. Where she’d left from, she
hadn’t a clue.

One step at a time, Diane.

When Adrian sketched a bow then headed for his horse, she
moaned, her thighs already protesting being spread by a horse’s back. Putting
her left foot into a man-at-arms’ linked hands, she swung her right foot and
leg over her palfrey’s saddle. Given her voluminous riding skirt and
awkwardness in mounting, she thought it a miracle her mare didn’t spook and
race away with her clutching at its mane and shrieking like a banshee. But at
least she had avoided having to ride sidesaddle. If she garnered any kind of
luck at all, she would never, ever, ever visit England when Anne of Bohemia’s
retinue introduced the sidesaddle here. Diane recalled seeing a sketch of the
contraption. It looked like a cage that trapped a woman’s right leg and made
escaping from a falling horse utterly impossible. Sidesaddles seemed like
deathtraps to her and, should she have the misfortune to encounter one, she
would refuse to ride. Even if it meant suffering a beating from her absent
husband.

Thinking of him took her gaze to his brother. Did Adrian
keep a list of her faux pas? Would he tell his brother about her every single
misstep? Tell Arnaud she didn’t even know who was king? Or would Adrian consider
himself her substitute husband and punish her himself?

And having punished her, would he perhaps soothe her? She
could imagine several pleasant ways to while away the hours. In a very large
tub filled with very hot water for starters. She tugged at her bodice, wishing
for a basin in which to bathe as best she could.

Stop it!
Sure, he was attractive, but also arrogant
and chauvinistic, almost as egotistical as his friend Walker Mornay.

Thinking his name drew her gaze to him. Atop his chestnut
stallion—his destrier, along with Adrian’s, relegated to plodding along behind
a wagon carrying hay for all the horses—he looked as dark and dangerous as any
romanticized highwayman.

As if he’d read her thoughts, a slow smile curled his
sensuous lips and his eyes grew so dark she marveled that he could see anything
at all. His smile fading, his gaze sharpened on her suddenly very dry lips. She
gulped. Darted out her tongue and watched his eyes darken even more.

Her heart raced. Her nipples—

No, no, no!

Her juices flooded her slops.

Oh hell, oh damn!

He had never touched her but—
oh hell, oh damn
—how she
wanted him. How she wanted them both.

So, what’s standing in your way?

Good question, one with so many answers her head spun.
First, the issue of pregnancy and disease. Equally important was the
possibility of that other Diane’s return to an alternate history—one she
neither expected nor wanted. As for other reasons…her brain couldn’t handle
more than keeping her on her horse.

Still, she now knew when she lived. And that made all the
difference in the world.

* * * * *

The next morning, rain threatened. Walker suggested they
remain where they had camped the night before. They had an unobstructed view of
their surroundings so no one could attack the sentries or the camp without
warning. On higher ground than that around them, even several days of downpour
would neither flood them nor wash away their tents. The horses had access to
lush spring grass so even a week’s delay would not leave them short of fodder.
A stream, flowing cold and clean, burbled nearby—affording the bride a place to
wash her own linens while not providing sufficient privacy for her to bathe.

Pity.
He would enjoy seeing her naked. Her attempts
at staying clean had thus far consisted of washing her face and neck, underarms
and between her legs—unfortunately covered by her skirts. He had managed to
observe her struggling with her long hose and knew she possessed legs of
considerable length and shapeliness. Legs he dreamed of having wrapped around
him while he buried his shaft, first shallow, then deep, in her moist heat.

Ah well, a man could dream.
No harm in that, even
when the woman belonged to a cur like Arnaud de Vesay.