TemptressofTime (4 page)

Adrian bowed his head. Walker gripped Adrian’s arm, then
thumped his back once. Walker motioned her to Adrian’s side, then paced away.
Reaching Adrian, uncertain what to say, she took his hand. It felt warm and
shook a little. He startled and looked at her, his eyes bruised as if he hadn’t
slept at all in the days since they parted. Saying nothing, he drew her against
him—almost as if they shared the loss of a loved one.

If he needed to pretend he was giving comfort rather than
receiving it, she’d pretend as well. Wrapping her arms around his broad back,
she gave him a firm hug.

“Is he…is your brother gone?”
Dear God
, of all the
times for a ridiculous euphemism!

Holding her at arm’s length, he nodded. “Dead, yes. Drowned.
His body lost at sea.” His voice gave away nothing of his grief. It showed only
in his eyes, in the new-formed heavy creases bracketing his mouth, in the
subtle sag of his wide shoulders.

“I…I am truly sorry for your loss, my lord—Adrian.”

He nodded, gave an apologetic half-shrug. “You will hear
things about him.”

She looked at his hands on her arms. A prayer that he would
mistake her response as objecting to his touch went unanswered.

“You have already heard.” His hands fell to his sides.
Bitter amusement lifted one side of his mouth. “I did not always approve of
what he did, but he was…”

“Your brother. You loved him.” Patting his shoulder, she
added, “If you want to talk about him, I’ll listen.”

“Thank you, milady, but not now. Grant me a few days and we
shall discuss what…er…our situation…”

Good grief!
She hadn’t had so much as a thought about
what Arnaud’s death might mean to her. Now she realized a sleepless night lay
ahead—even many more, depending on how long Adrian mourned while not discussing
anything with her.

Walker approached then took her arm in a firm grip. What did
he think she’d do? Ten days since Adrian had left them, her butt still ached
and her thighs felt bowed from being in the saddle. She could no more run away
than she could ease Adrian’s grief.

But the devil duke could. If he would just let go of her
arm.

“I shall escort Countess de Vesay to her rooms then rejoin
you here.” With that Walker marched her up the twisty stone stairs. Losing
sight of Adrian made her feel at sea—not the image she wanted swimming in her
mind when her husband had drowned.

* * * * *

A widow yet never a wife. Wedded but not bedded.

What if she never returned to her own time? Would she never
again know the joy of sexual satiation? Of loving and being loved in return?
Which she had never known although eager to learn about the pain and joy such
emotions brought to others.

Those distressing thoughts took her attention to Adrian and
Walker riding side by side in front of her. She had never met Adrian’s twin—uh,
duh, dummy, he’s dead!—but she wondered about their closeness. Apart from what
she’d seen of his suffering, Adrian acted more as if Walker were his brother.
Maybe because they were close friends already and Adrian knew Walker would
support him through this awful time of mourning. Without a body to bury, Adrian
must be grieving even more. Perhaps wishing he had sailed in Arnaud’s place.

From what she’d learned about her husband’s death, sober
Adrian would likely have returned safe and sound. No one would have to mourn anyone.
Well…she might mourn her lost life, miss it even more than she already did. But
whichever man had died or might have survived wouldn’t help her now, or get her
home.

Nor would mourning ease the pain in her lower body, which
being on horseback had renewed. Two days’ respite—that was all Adrian had
allowed her. Two rather pleasant days, she admitted. She’d soaked in a large
wooden tub in front of an enormous fireplace with cauldrons heating more water
should she want it. She laughed to herself. She hadn’t spent the entire two
days in the tub, of course. Closer to two hours, but emerging blissfully clean
from her toes to her scalp, down to her waist-length hair—an unexpected growth
that puzzled her but seemed to fit the time and place.

After returning to her own rooms—another surprise since
she’d expected a small cubby at best—a young woman had combed her hair until it
dried, then helped her to dress. First, a clean chainse with long,
tight-fitting sleeves that felt so light she would gladly have gone about in
what amounted to a floor-length nightgown. Yorkshire weather being cooler than
the southwest she’d left, her maid Essie had convinced her to don a looser,
elbow-length sleeved cotehardie. Of vibrant green cloth of gold, the color left
her breathless and half convinced she was only dreaming the intense hue and
glorious material. Then she remembered that crusaders had brought home damasks,
cloths of gold in myriad colors, perfumes and unknown spices worth kings’
ransoms.

And if she had to, she would admit to enjoying the covetous
glances the serving women had cast her. She had also enjoyed the admiring looks
Walker and Adrian had given her. Walker’s she dismissed as those he gave any
reasonably attractive female. Adrian’s she cherished as taking him away from
whatever thoughts weighed so heavily on him that he seldom smiled.

His continuing somberness forced her to avoid asking about
her own fate. Her questions piled up like gathering storm clouds. Would he send
her back to her uncle? Use her dowry to fund her lifelong incarceration in a
nunnery? Did Adrian have the right to do anything he wanted to with her?

Sighing, she dismissed those questions in favor of more
immediate ones.

Once again wearing slops and long hose, again astride her
gentle mare, she wondered where the men were leading her. Not, apparently, back
to where she’d met them. Even she recognized they would travel that far only
with well-stocked wagons to feed them, their armed escorts and, above all,
their destriers.

What seemed like an eternity later, they arrived at a small,
thatched cottage. Smoke wafted upward, dissipating on the faint breeze. Her
companions reined in their horses, Walker’s expression bland, Adrian’s
resigned. Since neither man looked disturbed by the smoke, Diane guessed the
cottage wasn’t on fire. As Adrian dismounted, a tow-headed lad with bright,
Caribbean-blue eyes came to take his horse’s reins. The new earl tousled the
boy’s hair as he passed, his steps flagging as he approached the cottage. The
door opened before he reached it and a woman with white-blonde hair stepped
out, one hand on her enormous belly.

Merciful God, is she one of the Days?

Diane gasped, then called out, “Wait!” Surely even Arnaud
couldn’t send a pregnant woman away—especially one who looked as if she might
have her baby on the cottage stoop. Adrian ignored her and escorted the woman
back inside. Swearing under her breath, Diane pried herself free of the saddle
then slid to the ground, tugging down her short, narrow tunic.

Before she reached the path leading to the cottage door,
Walker blocked her. “Get out of my way,” she demanded, shoving at him when he
wouldn’t let her step around him.

“Why? So you may see firsthand the squalor Marget lives in?
Or do you wish to help her pack her meager belongings?”

Diane gaped at him, her eyes stinging with tears. He’d hurt
her feelings. But she refused to let him see. Raising her chin to an imperious
height, she said, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve changed my mind
about her leaving at all.”

“Why? Because she is pregnant?” He sneered, his dark gaze
lit with an unholy fire. “Or mayhap because her son has Arnaud’s eyes? All his
mistresses’ spawn have de Vesay eyes. All of them are also in varying stages of
pregnancy.” Walker continued to stare at her.

All his spawn? How many children had her dead husband sired?
She wanted to run as far and as fast as she could just to escape Walker’s
intense scrutiny. Was Diane de Vesay so unfeeling that she didn’t care the
women were with child? That they, if forced to leave now, could die giving
birth and their newborns perish with them? With no mother to look after them,
what would the older children do? How would they survive?

Her urge to cry strengthening—this time for the Days and
their children—she looked at the ground. When she felt able to meet Walker’s
assessing gaze again she said, “Do the other women all have real names, as
well?”

Ah, that took him by surprise!

“Aye,” he finally admitted, looking even more displeased.
Because she’d forced him to confess or because…

“You know them all by their true names, don’t you?” He
glared but nodded. “And you’ve…taken your ease with them, as well. Haven’t
you?” He headed back to his horse. She followed, almost running to keep up with
him. “And because you know their real names, they mean something to you, don’t
they? You don’t want them to leave any more than Adrian does, do you?”

“No!” he bellowed, vaulting into his saddle. A kick to his
mount’s sides took him away. Her own mare trotted after his chestnut stallion
like a boon companion who needed no urging to follow. Adrian’s horse did a
little dance, but the boy spoke in a gentle voice, quieting the gelding.

Diane started after Walker and her horse. Realizing she
would never catch up with them, she turned back toward the cottage just as
Adrian emerged. His gaze flickered between her and his horse, his expression
rueful as he assessed the situation.

“It appears we must ride double,” he said, mounting then
reaching down for her.

Without thinking, she raised her arms and felt a powerful
tug before he settled her astride in front of him. Her tunic rose to mid-thigh
but, with no one to notice, she held her peace. His hard thighs cocooned her
bottom, a far more comfortable saddle than the mare’s. Wanting to tell him
she’d changed her mind about the women leaving, she looked up at him. But he
was gazing at the cottage, his eyes a darker blue that seemed to hide his
thoughts.

She felt him draw a deep breath as he finally looked down at
her. “I told Monday—Marget—she may stay.” He turned his horse in the direction
they’d come from, leaving her to assume the other women would stay, as well.

She supposed her other self would rant and make threats, but
she was proud of him for taking a stand. That other woman deserved some kind of
payback for Arnaud even considering throwing out women in their condition.

“Nothing to say, Diane? No shrewish condemnations? No—”

“Nothing of that nature, Adrian.” His using her name made
her heart flutter. Resisting the impulse to pat her chest to calm her racing heartbeat,
she said, “I hadn’t realized she was so close.” Oh dear! What if she had known
the woman was pregnant and so far along? She kept her gaze focused on the
gelding’s ears.

“She hardly showed when you insisted—” As if disliking the
accusation in his voice and words, he gave a great sigh, then fell silent.

“May I ask a question?” Not waiting for permission, she
rushed on. “Were they… Did they work at the castle? Were they maids or cooks
or—”

“Four were my sisters’ companions. The others seamstresses.
All are widows who chose to stay at Belleange when my sisters married and moved
away.”

Since he didn’t look as if she should have known all that,
she risked saying, “Because of your brother?”

“In part.” Amusement laced his voice. “More, I think,
because the children are close and their mothers wanted them raised together.”

Too curious to stop questioning, she went on. “Did the
children live in the castle?”

“Where else?”

Right under that other Diane’s nose. Perhaps in a
better-defended portion of the castle than her own children, should she have
any. Diane de Vesay might hate her for what she was about to do, but that woman
seemed more and more heartless by the minute. And even though Diane de Bourgh
would never know with any certainty what had happened after she returned to her
own time, she had to do something now. Even if Arnaud’s mistresses were all
sluts—which they weren’t—the children shouldn’t be punished.

“I think you should move them back. At-at least until their
babes are born.”

His horse stopped. She hadn’t felt or seen him pull on the
reins. But she knew from her own riding lessons that skilled riders could make
their horses do pretty much anything with leg pressure or by shifting their
weight.

When he said nothing, she turned her head and met his puzzled
eyes. “What?” she said. “Don’t you think they’d be more comfortable in the
keep? I bet it’s a whole lot cleaner than a dirt-floor cottage. Not to mention
warmer.”

The breeze had strengthened and now held a hint of a coming
storm. Shivering, she leaned against Adrian’s warm chest. He stiffened yet
wrapped his arms around her as he urged his gelding to a brisk trot. She
bounced against his thighs and felt his cock stiffen.

Damnation! Could he and Walker think of nothing but sex?
With his penis rubbing against her crease, her nipples pearled and her juices
dampened her folds. For that matter, could she? And how strange was it that she
found them both so physically appealing? On the other hand, they were the only
men who’d paid her any attention or even talked to her. Her real-life,
nonexistent sex life shouldn’t make her desperate for a man’s attention. So why
did she wish Adrian would cup her breasts, untie her slops and slide his cock
deep inside her drenched folds?

Get a grip! she told herself, noticing scaffolding rising
along half-finished stone walls. A little farther along the same wall workers
pulled timbers from piles of rubble.

“You’ve had a fire,” she said, looking over her shoulder at
Adrian. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No, praise God.”

She waited for him to tell her more. He said nothing but his
frown prompted her to probe deeper. No matter how painful he might find her
questions, she had a right to know about her new home. Until she found the way
back to her old one, she was stuck here. Intrepid explorer that she was, if she
hadn’t seen the construction she might have broken a leg trying to get over or
around it. A heavy stone could have fallen, crushing her to death.