TemptressofTime (5 page)

Shivers coursed up and down her body. Adrian drew her closer
but held to his stubborn resistance to talk to her.

She continued to pester, saying, “How did the fire start?
What rooms burned?”

“Does it matter? With Arnaud dead and your marriage
unconsummated—” He drew a sharp breath, blew it out on a huff. Setting his lips
in a firm line as if zipping them closed, he said nothing more.

His brief outburst gave her a clue, one she intended to
pursue. “Arnaud started the fire. What? Did he toss his tunic over his bedside
candle?” She’d read that some folks did just that, with the same horrible results.

Adrian’s scowl warned her to let it go.

Challenged, she went on as if she hadn’t noticed his
reaction. “Why did he do something so foolish?” She speculated out loud, “Let’s
see. He was shamed by having shared his bed with so many other women, he wanted
to give his wife untainted space.”

She had kept her tone light as if making a joke. Adrian’s
growl and jerk on the reins brought her sudden fear. “I was only j-joking.”

“Were you? Or did you know he hated you for forcing him to
give up his Days? Know that he was drunk when he did, in fact, toss his tunic
over the candle? How?” Grabbing her shoulders, he twisted her to face him. “How
did you know, witch?”

His fingers digging into her upper arms brought tears to her
eyes. Willing them gone, she managed to get out a protest. “I d-didn’t. I
swear—”

He lifted her straight up, then let her go. As she tumbled
to the ground, he spurred his horse to a gallop.

Collapsed in a heap, for several moments Diane stayed where
she was, not even trying to move. If the fall had broken any bones, the pain
would let her know soon enough. A sprain or two would hurt almost as much and
make getting to the castle a Herculean effort. Assuming she could limp or crawl
from where she lay, did she even want to go there? And if she did…

Dear God, she could only imagine what he would do to her.
Beat her. Starve her. Burn or hang her as a witch.

Struggling to her feet, she looked around for a sturdy limb.
She’d use it to steady herself on her way back. Use it to defend herself if the
blackguard tried to touch her. Blackguard? Was she starting to think like a
woman of this time? Heaven help her, she was!

Several hundred yards ahead she saw folks gathering stuff
from the ground. With her rotten luck, most likely they were removing any limbs
or rocks she could use as protection. Firming her lips against anticipated
pain, she set off toward the castle. With every step she vowed to find a way
out of this mess.

Come hell or high water, she would go home.

Chapter Five

“You want me to do what?” Adrian shouted, slamming the door
to the only semi-private space on the castle grounds.

Created by hot natural springs, steam rose from the
bathhouse pool wreathing Walker’s face and torso in wispy fog. Some ancestor or
other of Adrian’s had restored the bath once William the Conqueror had granted
Belleange to him. A relic from the Viking occupation of the site, Adrian viewed
it as his sanctuary, coming here to sweat out problems and make decisions.

Finding Walker there was bad enough. Hearing his proposal tempted
Adrian to remain dressed and seek solace in a tankard of ale. That being
Arnaud’s solution to even the smallest worry, Adrian changed his mind. After
all, he could just drown Walker and toss his body out to rot.

Now naked, he slid into the pool and repeated his question.

“You heard me,” Walker said, a grin revealing lots of
straight white teeth Adrian wanted to knock down his throat.

“Mayhap I did hear you and only wish I had not.” Allowing
that one half-filled tankard would do little harm, he poured from a pitcher at
his side.

“Why? Your brother’s widow is comely enough. Seems to have
all her teeth. Has a sizeable dowry to consider along with her other womanly
charms.”

That dowry almost made Adrian forget the major obstacle to
taking Arnaud’s widow as his own wife.
Almost.
“Henry ordered her to
marry my brother, not me.”

“I read the decree, my friend,” Walker reminded him. “Henry
signed it and affixed his seal. Of that there’s little doubt. As for the
document itself…”

That incomplete thought, the lowered voice, Adrian
recognized as ploys to pique his interest. “What about the document?” he
mumbled.

“Likely written by a scribe who—no doubt harried by our king
to write as fast as he could, unaware Arnaud had a twin brother—wrote only ‘A
de Vesay, Earl of Belleange’.”

“And?”

“Henry could have intended that
you
marry Diane de
Bourgh.”

Adrian started to deny it but found the idea somewhat
appealing. “What about the church? Does it not proscribe a man marrying his
brother’s widow?”

Walker shrugged. “Who will contradict the king? Show the new
Canterbury archbishop the document and he cannot say what Henry meant. Ask
Henry himself. Will he admit his decree does not reflect his true wishes? Given
his stated desire to have Thomas Becket removed as archbishop and what happened
as a result…”

Shivering at the thought of murder being committed in the
cathedral, at the high altar itself, Adrian offered another objection. “The
priest who performed the rites—”

“Who would think to ask him? If asked, will he deny you were
the man who stood at Lady Diane’s side and made his vows?” Walker’s snort put
paid to that idea.

Rubbing his chin as he thought, Adrian offered up the single
greatest impediment to Walker’s suggestion. “What about Diane’s uncle? Diane
herself?”

Of course Walker ignored her uncle-baron and seized upon the
lady herself. “Why would she object? She knows a little about what your brother
was and must feel grateful to have escaped him. As for her uncle…I heard there
is little if any affection between them. Why would she want to return to him?
Be relegated to tending her sister’s children when—God willing—she could have
her own…with you.”

Walker’s gaze sharpened on Adrian’s heated face. While he
could hope his friend would think the hot waters had caused his discomfort,
Adrian knew better and braced for a lengthy set of questions.

“What did you do?” Walker said, his soft voice renewing
Adrian’s gooseflesh.

“Nothing more than you did when you rode off, taking her
horse with you.” Aye. A good offense on Adrian’s part might eliminate the need
for defense.

“Her mare wants breeding and followed my stallion. What
excuse have you for abandoning the lady? How do you expect to bed her after
leaving her to trudge five leagues home?”

“I did not leave her at the cottage. In truth, she had only
a few steps to take to reach the postern gate.”

“How few?”

Swearing under his breath, knowing Walker would hound him
until he confessed, he said, “One league, no more.”

“Why?”

Glaring, Adrian muttered, “She asked about the fire. Guessed
that Arnaud had set it and… By damn, the witch knew why he did it.”

“Knew that he was in bed with all the Days? Knew he was
drunk and damn near burned them all to death?”

“Not all that…precisely.”

“Then what, precisely?” Walker’s gritted teeth betrayed his
growing ire.

Since Walker was his liege lord, second only to the king,
Adrian answered truthfully. “She suggested he wanted to give her
untainted
space. You know…a bed in which he had not swived the Days.”

“Which prompted you to think her a witch? Fool!”

“Fool, true.” If he admitted it Walker might cease harping,
leave Adrian to bathe in peace and think about taking the widow as his wife.

“You called her a witch? Said it to her face?”

“I did, yes.” Expelling a huff, he added, “Which means she
will prefer going home to marrying me.”

“What it means, fool, is that you
shall
court her.”

“I shall? No. Why would I?”

“To continue all the restoration and additions to your home.
To keep your niece and nephews safe. Above all, to have Diane de Vesay in your
bed.”

Adrian had to admit she had an oddly seductive walk that
made him imagine her hips thrusting her quim into his face while her juices
soaked his lips and chin. Most women—especially noblewomen—took care in both
attitude and appearance to seem demure, shy and virginal. Even widows who had
buried several husbands ofttimes strove for an air of innocence. Diane de
Bourgh took every advantage of new styles more formfitting than before and
played the color game his sisters had told him about to perfection.

Wishing for a faithful wife? Dressed in shades of blue, Lady
Diane wore a simple coronet atop her plaited hair. Seeking passion? In hues of
green, her hair unbound and adorned only with gem-encrusted flowers, with her
hips canted forward, she presented an image of seductive temptation. That walk
turned the heads of experienced and innocent males of any age.

It had caught his eye on the few occasions they’d met before
their wedding.
His brother’s wedding
, he reminded himself, aware of how
he had noticed that walk again when she entered the chapel and proceeded slowly
toward him.

How he had envied his brother all that long-limbed walking
temptation that was Arnaud’s to tame.

Now Adrian’s to tame—could he persuade her to take him as
her husband? Take him into her bed and body?

While thoughts of her dowry suited his rational side, the
lure of her body convinced him. He would more than enjoy hearing Diane scream
in ecstasy. Feeling her quim milk him as they pounded together.

Still…Walker’s insistence caused him some concern. The duke
always had reasons for his actions, be they dire or pleasurable. “What do
you
gain from my marrying her?”

Rising, Walker strode to a nearby bench, took up a towel.
“Your happiness, of course.”

What else?
Adrian wondered, but let his concerns die.
The enormous task ahead made his stomach roil. He would sooner face a melee
than try to convince Diane de Bourgh to become Diane de Vesay for the second
time in little more than a month.

A firm knock on her door doubled Diane’s heart rate. Having
returned to her rooms scant moments earlier, she knew of only two people who
would rap so imperiously—only one with reason to do so. Had Adrian decided to
burn her at the stake, hang her from the nearest tree, or throw her out?

“C-come in,” she called, standing and clinging to the carved
bedpost. Her legs felt as limp as overstretched rubber bands but she refused to
cower. Thinking to hide in the privy, she darted an anxious look at the door
leading to her garderobe. Her outer door opened and Adrian appeared, making escape
all but impossible.

Essie, her maid, followed with a basin and a bucket. Since
steam rose from the bucket, Diane assumed it contained hot water. What a
relief! If he’d had hot water delivered, he must not mean to harm her. Unless
he intended to drench her with it in hopes she’d melt like the wicked witch in
The
Wizard of Oz
. But how could he even know about that? The book hadn’t
been—wouldn’t be written for another eight hundred years or more.

“Sit,” he said, motioning her to the single chair near a table.

Wondering if he meant for Essie to throw the water, Diane
tilted her chin in defiance but did as bidden. She kept a close watch on him,
half expecting him to grab the bucket and do her in all by himself. Not that
she’d melt. Silly to even think that. Burn her skin to blisters? All too
possible if the water were really hot.

Essie knelt at Diane’s feet, then half filled the basin from
the bucket. Adrian handed the maid a pitcher off the table, watching as Essie
splashed the combined contents over Diane’s toes.

“Too warm, m’lady?” the girl asked. “Too cold?”

“It’s perfect but wh-why?” she asked, meeting Adrian’s eyes.

“I thought your walk might have caused you pain or injured
you.”

His indifferent tone belied the courteous words and raised
her hackles. “As if you care,” she murmured, as aware of Essie’s eager
eavesdropping as he must be.

A wave of his hand sent the maid scurrying out the door,
which she closed without a sound. Diane imagined the girl attempting to listen
through the thick oak planks and prayed she couldn’t hear anything—even if
Diane gave in to fear and shouted as loudly as she could. Would Essie dare to
return, aid her mistress? Diane doubted it.

When Adrian settled a pillow on the spot Essie had knelt,
Diane’s scathing, defensive scold lodged in her throat. When he seized her
right foot, she kicked her left, splashing her bare knees and his damask tunic.

“I’m
so
sorry.” But his stunned expression brought
laughter bursting out of her. “I r-really… I am—”

“You are not,” he accused, using her sodden chainse to blot
his chin and tunic. To her utter shock he laughed, adding, “You may not have
meant to kick out as you did, but you are
not
sorry.” Looking up, he met
her eyes. “I, on the other hand, am.”

“Am—are what?” She couldn’t believe he would apologize for
the mess she’d made, so he must have meant something else. But what?

“I tossed you from my horse. Left you without knowing if my
actions had harmed you or caused you pain.”

At her nod, he gulped and looked about to swallow his own
tongue. She waited, breath held, for what he might say next.

“It was behavior unbecoming a knight. Unfitting for a man of
my…my…”

“New status?” she suggested, wanting to laugh, while
concerned about his obvious discomfort. Men having such tender egos, she
offered comfort instead and smoothed her hand over his cheek. Besides, he had
so much on his plate…small wonder he barked at her, or left her at the side of
the road. “I accept your apology and thank you for—”

He surged to his feet. The basin spilled. They both ignored
the water seeping around their feet.

“I regret leaving you without transport. For that I have no
excuse, but I owe you no apology.”

Typical man, unable to admit doing something beastly—even
when he’d already claimed being at fault. But then, men seemed to think
admitting fault and being sorry for it didn’t mean the same thing.

“Are you saying I earned your anger? That I deserved to walk
all those leagues—”

“A few steps,” he corrected, some emotion twitching the
corners of his mouth.

Hoping he fought laughter, her anger seeping away, she
countered, “Several thousand steps.” His warm smile banished any remaining ire.
“Which caused me neither pain nor harm. As you can see.”

Sticking out both feet, she clipped his chin. He careened
backward, landing on his butt, his surprise soon replaced by outrage. He
sputtered, fisted his hands so she jerked back. Yet he made no move to strike
her. Instead he leaned back on his elbows and looked at her, his expression so…
mild
she didn’t know what to think.

“I truly…regret kicking you.” Regretted it, yes. Sorry for
it? Hell no! He deserved it. Making her feel almost cherished by bringing her
water for her sore feet. Making her laugh with him. Making her
like
him,
for heaven’s sake.

Men of his station—hell, men of any station—did not bathe a
woman’s feet. Adrian obviously wanted something from her. All she had to do was
figure out what and she could best him at his own game.

Rising to his knees, he righted the basin then refilled it
from the bucket. “The water feels cool enough.”

His nod invited her to test it so she did. “Most pleasant,”
she told him, a small smile curving her lips.

To her shock, he lifted her right foot then stroked her
sole. It tickled, making her jerk. He held fast, tugging each toe in turn as he
kept his gaze on her face. Her breath caught as she tumbled into those
Caribbean-blue seas, willing to drown or burn as he willed.

His gaze never wavered. “I hope you will stay.”

His thumbs pressed into her arch and she moaned, it felt so
good. “Stay here? With you?”

“Here at Belleange. My home.”

Not exactly an answer but she doubted he’d give one more
definitive. “If you want me to stay…” She shrugged.

“I would not ask were it otherwise.”

Hesitating for a moment, trying to determine his sincerity,
she nibbled on her lips. His stillness persuaded her as a hail of words could
not. “Then, yes, I’ll stay.”

She’d heard or read someplace that the nerves in a person’s
feet connected directly with every erogenous zone in the body. She hadn’t
believed it, even when her pedicurist had done a deep massage on Diane’s feet
and calves.