TemptressofTime (8 page)

* * * * *

Exiting the Bentley that had met them in York, Diane stared
up and up. Up close, the structure impressed her even more than its pictures
had. Two of the old square towers soared above the Tudor wings. Symmetry
revealed its Georgian additions.

“It seems impossible,” she said, at last looking at the men,
“that such a mismatch works so well. Does everything connect? Can I literally
walk through history?”

“Y-y-yesss,” they said together, their voices shaking as
violently as the ground. They grabbed her arms, making her wonder who was
steadying whom.

Sweet heaven, not again!
she prayed, with little hope
of having her prayer answered. Not when both Walker and Adrian wore the
doublets and baggy, pleated trunk hose worn in Tudor times. Not when she wore a
fur-lined cape, its hood drawn over her head to protect her from a blustery
mid-March wind and long skirts blew around her legs. Cursing herself for her
own stupidity, she recalled some Shakespearean character warning Caesar to
beware the Ides of March. All she wanted was an opportunity to research
Belleange—not relive its entire history! And why in bloody blue blazes were
they in this time period? They’d been headed for Regency England—or so the men
had claimed.

Damnation!
She didn’t know if the Bard had as yet
even written that fateful line.

The doors opened, revealing Adrian’s wizened steward.
“M’lord.” He greeted Adrian with a half-bow, then turned his rheumy blue eyes
to Walker. “Your Grace.” He nodded at her, as if she were a piece of fecal
matter he wanted to scrape off his shoe.

Walker gave her a gentle nudge, saying, “Come. Let us get
out of this wind, mistress.”

And with that imprisoning title the world went mercifully
black.

Chapter Seven

A damp cloth on her brow returned her to consciousness, but
she kept her eyes shut. No way did she want to know that she’d traveled back in
time again. Even more importantly, she didn’t want her marriage to Walker
Mornay confirmed in any manner. Especially not by the duke himself, whose scent
announced he hovered nearby.

“You may quit pretending, milady. I know you have recovered
your senses.”

Needing whatever time she could gain with even a tiny delay,
she inched the cloth from her forehead to her eyes. When he took it from her,
she resigned herself to facing that coal-black gaze. To her surprise, he’d
turned away, giving her time to draw a deep breath and assess her surroundings.

A canopy over the wide bed on which she lay reminded her of
coffins. She sat up quickly then fell back against the pillows, her head
spinning.

“Drink this.” Walker settled on the bed, easing his arm
under her shoulders and supporting her as she took a cautious sip of…wine.

When she had drained the cup in small sips, he removed it
and himself to the fireplace. She took the opportunity to study her
surroundings more closely, hoping the distraction would keep her from staring at
him. It seemed Walker had brought her to the same room she’d occupied on that
other unplanned visit, yet the differences were greater than the similarities.
Wooden floors with several carpets in lieu of rushes somewhat relieved her
concern about varmints and vermin. The overhead baldaquin and embroidered bed
curtains would keep out the cold if no warm body shared it with her. She did,
however, wonder about the dust collecting where the servants couldn’t reach.
The furniture was still sparse. A wooden chest footed the bed. A table with two
leather, high-backed chairs sat near a narrow window. Tapestries with a coat of
arms she recognized as Adrian’s covered the stone walls.

“Does this room please you, mistress?” Walker’s sardonic
tone drew her attention to him.

Sitting upright, she slid her legs over the edge of the bed.
No easy feat with yards and yards of a whale-boned farthingale and even more of
heavy velvet skirts—never mind the corset that made it almost impossible to
breathe. She stood and strove to match his cynicism. “Well enough, thank you.”

He sketched a bow then headed for the door.

Panic took her to his side and made her grab his arm. “Where
are you going?”

“Home.”

“B-but without me? Your wife?”

His laughter, sudden and mocking, made her retreat several
steps. “We are not married, milady.”

“B-but you called me mistress. Twice.” As if that mattered
to the devil whose smile grew even wider.

“Mistress, wife, it matters not to me. I thought Henry had
explained it to you.”

Another Henry?
At least this time she had a better
idea of which one. The slashing in Walker’s jerkin sleeves was common in Henry
the Eighth’s time, as were shorter hair and trimmed beards. Not that Walker
wore a beard. His bare chin looked like square granite.

“The king explained nothing.” Not as far as she knew. He
might have told Diane de Vesay—if that’s who she was in
this
life—but he
sure as hell hadn’t told Diane de Bourgh. But if she was someone else’s wife,
such as Adrian’s, where in bloody blue blazes was he?

Walker made an inelegant sound, something between a hiss and
a snort. Whichever it was, it made her want to give in to the hysterical
laughter burbling from her belly to her chest. At least she hadn’t dissolved
into tears or swooned. No heroine worthy of the name fainted at the first hint
of trouble. But then fictional heroines didn’t have to contend with her
predicament. Her heroines had her to write them out of danger.

With unexpected gentleness, Walker guided her to a chair. He
even adjusted a cushion covered in red cloth of gold behind her back. All his
courtesy did was raise her already high anxiety.

What Walker had to say must be horrible. Otherwise why would
he force her fingers around her pewter cup then urge her to drink more wine?
Why would he sit and quaff a generous swallow from his own cup?

“As your guardian, Henry wishes only the best for you,”
Walker began, his eyes showing more compassion that she had ever seen from him.

Far from calming her, his expression sent her heart into
overdrive. Dizzy, she closed her eyes and tried to shut out the image of Anne
Boleyn’s startled expression when the executioner cut off her head. Not that
Diane had seen it herself in real time. As far as she could remember, she’d
only witnessed it while watching that TV series about the Tudors.

“Just tell me,” she demanded, disgusted by her trembling
voice.

“His Majesty wishes you to marry.”

“Yet
we
are not married.” Opening her eyes, she
glared at him across the table.

“Because the king tasked me with wooing you.” The
almost-tender suitor vanished in a flash of irritation, replaced by a man
clearly accustomed to having his own way.

To hell with his way!
She refused to give in without
a fight.
Woo
her?
Bullshit!
And why was he behaving as if he
recalled nothing of their past lives when she remembered every minute? Was this
another attempt to terrify her, keep her complacent so she wouldn’t question
anything that might happen from now on?

“Did the king also task the Earl of Belleange to woo me?” So
she sounded sarcastic. So what?

You might find the situation more to your liking
, a
strange yet familiar voice murmured in her mind,
were you to go along with
it.

Give in?
she thought, realizing the voice sounded
sort of like her own. She’d heard it in her previous life.

The outcome could be very…pleasant.

Seduction? What next? Take Walker as her lover?

Very pleasant.

Walker’s definite snort made her look at him. “Yes,” he
spat. “Both the earl and I have courted you for the last six months. We
petitioned the king for a decision.”

He sounded so disgruntled she wanted to grin. Instead she
cocked an eyebrow and waited for him to continue. She could appreciate his
inner conflict—pride, no doubt, his primary concern. That
he
, a duke,
should play second fiddle to a mere earl must gall Walker to the ends of his
lordly restraint.

He took another deep swallow of wine then fixed his
resentful gaze on her. “The king has graciously granted you four more months in
which to make up your mind.” His sarcastic tone suggested she might—no,
would
—find
the task too mentally daunting. Which put the ball back in King Henry’s court.

Where, in her opinion, it belonged…for the length of time it
took her to rethink the idea. Rejecting the notion of letting anyone make such
a momentous decision for her, she prodded Walker to continue.

He did, saying, “You shall spend a month here with the earl.
Next month, you shall join me at Castle Mornay.”

“And after that? What happens if I still cannot decide which
of you I might wed?”

An unholy gleam lit his devil-dark eyes. “Then, milady, you
shall have two lovers.” A smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, he added,
“Wife to neither, mistress to us both.”

With that breath-stealing comment, he downed his wine then
left her.

Amazing.
The idea of having both men as lovers
appealed. More than it should for a woman in this time, of her status. But just
how much status she had was doubtful. After all, the king himself had all but
given her to both men—a clear indication of Henry’s lack of regard for her.
Unless Walker had lied about what would happen if she failed to decide on one
man or the other.

That other woman had fallen silent—at least in Diane’s mind.
Her body, however, seemed to have a mind of its own. Her breasts felt swollen,
her nipples as hard and tender as they got when suckled. As for her pussy…
Mercy! She felt as if she’d brought all her unfulfilled needs from that
medieval life with her. If she had to spend much time with either man, who knew
what she might do? That wooing meant spending time… She fanned her face with
her hands.

Damnation!
She needed help undressing, in freeing her
body so she could relieve herself of this sudden craving for sex.

You could summon Adrian.

Could, sure, but wouldn’t. It felt unfair to Walker. Silly
to even consider him when he’d put her in this stressful situation. In truth
she wanted to see what Adrian would do to win her surrender.

What if she gave in to him before Walker had his chance?
Would she regret not knowing how the duke made love? Would she always wonder?

A soft rap on her open door startled her. Had Adrian come to
begin his quest? But no. A maid bearing a tray of food stood in her doorway.

“Come,” she said, hoping the girl could also help her out of
her clothes.

“Marget is on her way, m’lady,” the girl told her as she
placed the tray on the table. “She will help you ready for sleep.”

Marget?
Were the Days here in this life? Peering at
the young woman, she found a resemblance to dark-haired, dark-eyed Taite, the
youngest Day. Comforted by the familiar face, she returned to her chair and
pondered where to begin eating.

A meal would satisfy her empty belly. A little
self-gratification would have to fill the hunger in her empty pussy.

* * * * *

Walker took his formal leave the next morning. Looking
magnificent, he took Diane’s breath away. He’d paired his doublet with matching
canions—a kind of short breeches—and covered both with a slashed-sleeve jerkin.
None of the garments looked padded, his wide shoulders and muscular body
needing no enhancements. Woolen stockings disappeared under the short breeches.
Square-toed boots and shiny spurs completed the outfit.

Adrian looked equally handsome even though his clothes
seemed more casual. He’d donned a very short slashed jerkin over his shirt. A
codpiece topped his poofy woolen slops. Garters held up his trunk hose and
horned slippers covered his feet.

Diane wondered about the codpiece. Did it hide a lack of
stature? Or did it conceal hidden treasures?

As for her own clothes… She’d failed to convince Marget to
leave off the corset, but had gained support for a bum roll in lieu of a
hoopskirt-like farthingale. Her long, heavy skirts restricted her gait. The
corset constricted her lungs and pushed her breasts so far above her low-cut
bodice she feared they’d fall out. Not that either man seemed to mind.

Adrian’s clenched hands might disguise an eagerness to delve
beneath her bodice. Walker’s gaze kept shifting between Adrian and her bosom.
Raising her hand to his lips, he brushed a kiss over her knuckles then met her
eyes.

“Remember, milady, that I shall have equal time and
opportunity.”

His meaning couldn’t have been clearer. No swiving…er,
penetration
.
Which left plenty of room for other kinds of pleasuring. The idea heated her
overexposed chest and lowered face.

Walker tilted her chin to look into her eyes, but kept his
thoughts to himself. Good thing, because another warning from him might have
tipped the scales in Adrian’s favor. At the end of her grace period four months
from now, the men would have all the power. Until then, by damn, she would do
as she wished.

Walker gave her a curt nod. Biting back
You are not the
boss of me
, she moved closer to Adrian. He looked delighted. Walker turned
on his heel then strode across the patterned tile floor, his spurs jangling as
if echoing his indignation.

Tough!
She was every bit as angry. How women with
half an ounce of brains survived in this era was beyond her. Swallowing
resentment, she followed Walker out the doors into a sun-bathed courtyard. The
portcullis stood open, the drawbridge spanned the wide moat.

So Belleange remained capable of defending itself, the
larger rooms attributable to…what? Adrian’s wealth? Wealth provided by
her
dowry in that other life?

Whoa.
She had to remember she wasn’t that
twelfth-century woman. Whatever thoughts she shared with Diane de Vesay now
were due to allowing herself to hear. Whatever emotions they shared—like
craving sex?—would remain fleeting. She’d make sure of that. Especially since
she had no intention of falling in love with either man, wouldn’t risk carrying
those feelings with her when she returned to her own life. She might fall in
love here, but what kind of pressure would that put on the men in their common
modern time?

Watching Walker ride away without a backward glance made her
stomach clench like it did when she drove through an unexpected dip in the
road. Carousels whirled deep in her belly as if they wanted to escape their
platforms. A jolt of fear sank then rose to her throat. A polite cough took her
attention to Adrian.

An expectant smile lit his entire face, giving him that
youthful look that both appealed to her and appalled her. It made her feel so
much older and more…just old.

“What shall we do today, milady? Er, Diane.”

So he intended to proceed posthaste into familiarity.
Forcing a smile, she batted her eyelashes and puckered her lips like some
simpering twit. “What would you like to do, milord? Um, Adrian.”

His face red, he grinned sheepishly. “Need you ask?”

She simpered then glanced down, maiden shy. “I would like to
learn more about you.”

“I have courted you for a long time. What else can I tell
you?”

“No doubt you courted me under the king’s sharp eyes.” She
doubted Henry had eyes to spare for her, but his spies were everywhere, all
anxious to gain his favor with tales true or false. Depending on his mood and
who warmed his bed, those stories might lead him to imprison her or send her to
her death. If she died
here
, she might never return to her own time…or
could she?