Swept Through Time - Time Travel Romance Box Set

by Tamara Gill

  Nothing—except stopping one rainy afternoon to allow passage to a hopping frog.

  “Lucy Gordon...” He set her roses to the polished hardwood floor. With her hands in his, he dropped to one knee, effectively spiking her pulse. “I did not mean to be gruff when we last spoke. But, woman, you have a talent for stirring tempests in my head. I want you but, up until that night, you had yet to declare your want for me. However, by your own admission, want is not enough. I must have no less than love. Love I fear you feel for some insipid duke not nearly worthy of your many charms. And so that leaves me in a netherworld. For until you decide which of us you will ultimately choose, I know not my own future.”

  A fresh batch of tears welling Lucy’s eyes, she drew the proud man to his feet.

  “Never again,” she said, “do I want to see you on your knees.” Taking a deep breath, taking a plunge from the highest professional summit she might ever have imagined, let alone achieved, she blew her last shot at scientific fame by saying, “God help me, but I do love you, Wolfe, and I’m afraid I always will.”

  “That is it then?” he asked, eyes wide, expression incredulous. “You love me? I’m saved?”

  Smiling through happy tears, relieved she’d made the right decision—the only decision, no matter what he felt for her—she nodded while he took her into his great arms, lifting her off of her feet, twirling her round and round.

  “She loves me!” he bellowed to the curious few peeking their heads through cracked open doors—her own classroom included. When he kissed her, it was to the accompaniment of preteen ooohs. When she kissed him, she didn’t even care that Grumsworth was scowling his way down the hall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Squatting behind a leafless azalea just outside the ground floor study of Sinclaire Castle, Ruth slowly lowered her binoculars, shaking her head. Never in all of her days had she seen such perversion. It was bad enough that Lucy Gordon had been carrying on, but now the duke was stepping out on her as well? Sick. “Both of them are tossers.”

  “What’d you say, Mum?”

  “Nothing,” Ruth snapped back to her daughter, who she full well knew to be pure as a babe straight from the womb! “And turn off that torch. You want we should get caught?”

  “What I want,” Abigail said with a put-upon sigh, “is to go home straightaway to watch me shows. It’s cold,” she added, rubbing sweater-clad upper arms. “And I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, always skulking about, meddling in other people’s private affairs.”

  “Do you want a husband of noble birth, or not?”

  “What I want is to watch me shows—not to mention find me own man.”

  “What do you know about men?” Ruth had slipped back behind her binoculars. “You’re just a child.”

  Abigail slapped her tabloid onto her lap. “A twenty-two-year-old child who has a right to choose who I marry.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Would you think it nonsense if I told you I’ve been indulging in a bit of rumpy-pumpy with Bobby from the market? Not only that, but I’m preggers with his baby? And he’s asked me to marry him straightaway and, seeing as I’m deliriously happy save for what to do about you, I’ve agreed?”

  “I’m dying.” Eyes closed, Ruth plopped her rump onto the cold, damp ground. “No—I’m already dead and gone straightaway to hell.”

  “You’re not dead, Mum. Just finally letting go of this crazy notion you’ve always had of me marrying the duke.”

  Ruth’s chin shot up. “But—”

  “No, buts. You’re going to be a grandmother. I’m going to be Bobby’s wife. I need you to show me how to run a proper house and change nappies. You’re done nosing into other people’s affairs and you’re going to start following mine, okay?”

  Tears glistening in her eyes, realizing it was probably for the best that she shield her poor pregnant daughter from the likes of the philandering duke, Ruth tearfully nodded.

  ***

  “Luce.” William stood with his hand on his study door. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Sorry to just drop in,” she said. Fortescue, the butler, was clearing his throat behind her. “But we really need to talk.”

  “Sure . . .” The duke cleared his throat, as well.

  She frowned.

  William forced a smile while hedging out of his study, then firmly shutting the door. How had he landed himself in such a precarious spot? “Shall we, ah, retire to the white sitting room?”

  A few minutes later, both of them took seats on an endless white brocade sofa that seemed far more suited to someone of Penelope’s dignified stature than his dear Lucy’s fun-loving American style. Quite at a loss as to what he should say—for in light of current circum­stances, he was surely quite obligated by conscience to say something—he cleared his throat again.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  Bloody hell.

  Everything couldn’t be further from okay.

  And just think, he had her to thank for the whole bloody affair! For before meeting her, he’d never given two figs for what he found attractive in a woman, but now it was as if in just knowing her he’d opened new facets of himself that he felt quite certain she’d not appreciate.

  Clearing his throat once more for good measure, he took a deep breath, then said, “Luce, I fear I have trou­bling news.”

  “Me, too,” she said in a gush.

  “You do?”

  She nodded.

  “All right, then, which of us should give it a go?”

  “You first,” she urged. “Mine’s a real humdinger.”

  “Yes, well . . .” After clapping his hands, he gave them a good rub. “It’s like this, I’ve quite by accident found myself smitten with another woman. Known her for years actually. Ms. Roberts—Penelope—you’ve met her on several occasions, and—”

  “Oh, William!” She tossed her arms about his neck in a downright jubilant hug. “But this is wonder­ful! Congratulations! Yes, I remember her, and she’s perfect for you. Always immaculately dressed, hair nice and tidy. Never late. Reads nothing but the classics and only watches the news and history channels on TV. You two will make a fabulous couple.”

  “But . . . What of us? I thought . . .”

  “That’s what I came to tell you and I felt horrible about it, but now that I know you’ll be better off, we can both be happy.” She glanced at her lap, toying with the fuzzy-frayed ends of her orange wool scarf. “You see, I found someone else, too.”

  “Then all of those reports Mrs. Haweberry delivered were true?”

  Averting her gaze, cheeks adorably, happily red, she nodded.

  Had Penelope not been lounging before a crack­ling fire back in his study, dressed in nothing but lacy black lingerie, stockings and garters, he’d have been furious to have been taken for a fool. But in the end, he realized that while he and Luce had been great friends, they’d never come close to being lovers. Far from being upset with her, he wished her the same passion he’d only so recently found.

  ***

  “It is done?” the prince asked upon Lucy’s return to the cottage.

  Closing the mudroom door, then turning the lock, she nodded.

  “How do you feel? Still at peace with your de­cision?”

  “Ask me after you’ve finally made good on your promise.” On her tiptoes, she slipped her arms round his neck, then boldly raised her lips to his for their first official kiss as a couple.

  Sure, that afternoon, she’d made her feelings known. But before officially breaking things off with William, a small part of her had been holding back. Now she was one hundred percent his. One hundred percent tremulously hoping he’d still have her.

  She wished at that moment to be more secure in her own feminine wiles, but she’d never been much good at portraying anyone other than herself—a chubby, not particularly successful biologist, with a love for her stu­dents, popcorn, sci-fi flicks and sinfully hand­some medieval princes who with ju
st a single look held the power to launch her to the stars.

  “Does that mean you are finally ready to bed me?”

  Swallowing hard, she nodded.

  Cupping his massive hand to the back of her head, he drew her to him for a spellbinding kiss. Lips closed, yet yielding the most exquisite pleasure before he was urging her mouth open and stroking her tongue, she found him tasting familiar. Of peanut butter and straw­berry jelly, and that earthy flavor she’d long since rec­ognized as being uniquely his.

  Her hands crept to his chest, pressing against him, then fisting his cool, white cotton shirt. “I’ve dreamt of this since you first kissed me,” she confessed. “I’ve pictured you taking me everywhere from the bath­tub to the bed and all places in between.”

  “How ’bout the kitchen counter,” he suggested, nuzzling her neck, the heat of his breath delivering torturous hot-and-cold chills.

  Unable to speak, she nodded.

  And then he was ripping at her rain slicker, forcing it over her shoulders while kissing her throat.

  She pulled at his shirt, in a frenzy to undo buttons.

  “No,” he said, brushing her hands aside. “Like this.” In seconds—what for her would have been minutes of fumbling—he’d swept his shirt over his head and was then gliding his hands under her soft pink sweater, up her rib cage and under her bra, taking it along for the ride.

  Cool night air instantly pebbled her nipples but then he was there to comfort—or would that be to in­crease her aching hunger, as he fervently sucked and laved one hardened bud, then the other with his nimble tongue?

  Fingers at the waistband of her jeans, he made quick work of unfastening the buttons, then hefted her onto the counter to cinch them the rest of the way down, tossing her red rubber mules that landed with a double thud somewhere across the room.

  Naked save for woefully inadequate panties, she folded her arms over her breasts. Fixing her with one of his sinfully handsome, white-toothed grins, he shook his head. “No hiding for you, wee one. I have waited as long for this joining as you. I demand to see every glorious inch of you.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “Shh . . .” Fingers to her lips, he traced a tor­turous path from her chin to her throat, down her chest and deep into the valley between aching breasts, all the way up and over her belly, in and out of her navel, to rest on the chaste elastic band where she wished there was silk lace. “These are all wrong for you,” he noted of her granny panties. “Henceforth, you shall wear no underclothes.”

  “E-excuse me?” she said on a strangled laugh.

  “They are in my way.”

  “T-then what should we do?”

  “About your unfortunate remaining garment?”

  Swallowing hard, she nodded.

  “I could launch a search for a dagger and cut it off.” He hooked his index fingers on the white cotton sides, burning a dagger’s planned path. “But that would be far too crude for the modern man I hope I have be­come.”

  Releasing the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, she said, “Mmm-hmm ...”

  “But then maybe that is part of my charm, aye? The notion that even knowing me as well as you do, you do not always know what I might do.”

  “True,” she said with a wavering nod.

  “That being the case, I could tear into them with my teeth? Or, go the more modern-day route and slash them with sciss-ors?” Right hand index finger dan­gerously on the prowl, he slid it over the shadow of red curls just visible through her utilitarian panties, then down between her legs. Scooting the fabric aside, he pressed his roving finger into the damp folds between her barely closed thighs.

  “U-um, sure,” she said on a pleasure-filled gasp. “Ei­ther of those methods would do.”

  “Yes, all of the aforementioned would do, but which do you prefer?” The intensity behind his dark gaze flooded her with heat.

  What was she doing?

  Sitting nearly naked on her kitchen counter with this medieval warrior asking her how she’d best like her panties removed? The whole scenario was nuts! Yet her pounding heart told her loud and clear which scan­dalous option she’d most prefer.

  “I am waiting.” he said, causing her to suck in air when he dowsed his finger ever deeper within her now not just damp but wet core.

  “I-I can’t say.”

  “Why?”

  She blushed furiously.

  “Why, Lucy Gordon?”

  “Because nice girls don’t do things like this.”

  “Things like what?”

  “Have sex on kitchen counters, okay?”

  “And...” He crept another of his fingers inside the slit between her panties and sweat-dampened inner thigh and out of her mouth came another shocked gasp.

  Easing her legs farther apart, hoping he’d get the hint, she said, “I don’t care, okay? Just do something—anything—now.”

  “Ah, but where is the fun in that? This is after all, your special night. I owe you my life, Lucy Gordon. Your gift is not one I take lightly.”

  “T-that’s nice.”

  “Nice? Oh—that is the last thing what we are about to share should be. I want to devastate you. Claim you.” He leaned forward, his breath warm on her lips, his finger plunging deep inside her hot, wet slit. “I want you to wake in the morning knowing you shall die, were you to ever leave my side.”

  “That’s, um, awfully egotistical of you, isn’t it?”

  He plunged deeper still and she arched her head back on the throes of another gasp.

  “Nay.” Brandishing his sexiest slow grin, when she next looked up, he said, “Tis not ego, but honesty. Now, tell me, Lucy Gordon, what shall it be? Scissors? My teeth? Or dagger? Do not even think of lying, for you will only be taking the coward’s way out, cheat­ing yourself of pleasure.”

  Closing her eyes, praying no one ever found out, praying still more for the reckless devil-may-care atti­tude to not care if anyone did find out, she said, “T-the dagger has a wicked ring to it—not that I even own a dagger, but—”

  “Shh...” One finger still deep inside her, with his free hand, he reached to the counter knife stand, drawing out a suitable blade. Cold steel to her fevered skin, he made a clean slice in first the left side, then right of her panties before returning the knife back to its holder. He surveyed his work, then, grunting over the remaining flap of fabric, he reached for the blade once more, then cleanly cut through that as well, baring the entire vee between her legs. “Much better, don’t you think?”

  Grasping the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles turned white, she nodded.

  And then he covered her hands with his, leaning in again close, stealing her very breath with the soul-rocking intensity of his kiss. Hands fumbling at his waistband, he continued kissing her even while she heard a metallic zip.

  Eyes already tightly closed, she saw him again as she had the first time, standing before her in all his naked glory on the castle lane, only she now knew the glory yet to come. She was no virgin, but never had she been with a man even remotely as gifted as him.

  Fingertips gliding over the jagged scars on his chest, she said, “Later, when we’re lounging in the tub, tell me how you got every one of these.”

  “Tis not of importance.”

  “Yes—it is,” she said, crown of her head tucked be­neath his chin, her cheek and ear pressed to the wild pounding of his heart. “It’s very important to me.”

  “Then tonight—your night, I shall tell you whatever you wish to hear.”

  Nodding against him, her mouth formed a puffing “o” when he gripped her knees and pushed them apart to open her to him. Hands now on her outer thighs and buttocks, he slid her off of the counter, lifting her, driving into her with a single, breathtaking thrust of such tightly reined power she could do nothing but cling to him, kissing the cruel, salty-tasting scars on his chest.

  I love you... I love you...

  Over and over he thrust, easily bearing her weight,
one hand on her buttocks, the other in her hair, fisting it tighter with each excruciatingly pleasurable thrust.

  Deep, so deep.

  Over and over.

  Building and building pressure.

  When would it end?

  Please, God, let it never end.

  He crushed his lips to hers, twining their tongues, her nipples grazing the coarse hairs of his magnificent chest.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “Aye,” he gave her in return.

  For any other man, she’d have been crushed but, knowing him as she did, knowing what he’d lived through, she took his simple statement as equal to her own. She’d chosen so wisely. Who needed fame, when for the rest of her life, she’d have him. Wolfe. Her frog prince.

  Over and over, he thrust and she oh-so-willingly received until their union became a panting, raw, elemental joining of bodies and souls.

  While they’d both just admitted to sharing love, what now transpired between them had been borne of weeks of des­peration. Tenderness could come later. Now, here, passion must be sated.

  “Wee one... I cannot hold out much longer.”

  She tossed her head to and fro, alternately kissing and nipping his shoulders and chest.

  Rising, building, spreading, insanely frustrating plea­sure the likes of which she’d never before known mushroomed inside. When would it end?

  Never!

  Now.

  Never!

  Behind her closed eyes strobed white hot light, and then, finally, finally, release... Sweet release...

  He stiffened, then groaned, spilling within her his royal seed. Clutching her close, he whispered into her ear, “Thank you.”

  Lips curving into a womanly smile, while she whispered, “You’re welcome,” what her heart said was, Thank you, too, my darling. Thank you.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Be good,” Lucy said on Friday morning, on her way out the mudroom door.

  “Have you ever known me to be bad?” Wolfe asked with a dashing wink.

  “All the time.”

  “Then I shall presume you like this bad behavior and carry on in my usual way.”

  She stuck out her tongue, reminding him of all the wickedly clever tricks she had recently learned to play!