TemptressofTime

by Dee Brice

  Temptress of Time

  Dee Brice

  Swept away into past lives she doesn’t remember, she’s thrown together with two men—her masters, her jailers, her lovers.

  Compassion. Compromise. Control…and letting go. These are the lessons erotic romance author Diane de Bourgh must learn before she can find contentment. Walker Mornay and Adrian de Vesay, noblemen and Masters of Time, are swept into Diane’s journeys through the medieval, Tudor and Regency eras and their own passionate past lives. They too must learn lessons of the heart, especially those of relinquishing control to win a woman—body, mind and soul.

  Temptress of Time

  Dee Brice

  Author Note

  This is a fantasy time-travel novel, so I have taken liberties with historical accuracy. I hope my use of playful anachronism adds to your enjoyment of the story.

  Chapter One

  The Lake District, England

  Present day

  “What’s making you so antsy?” Adrian de Vesay asked, propping his feet on a leather ottoman and settling into the deep matching chair. His companion, Walker Mornay, paused long enough to shoot Adrian a mind-your-own-business glare before resuming his pacing across the immense library. Adrian wondered if Walker, or anyone else for that matter, had read even one book from each of the countless shelves. It did seem as if someone had moved the library ladder a few feet since yesterday, but Adrian wouldn’t ask when Walker seemed pissed off about something. Normally close-mouthed, Walker in a full-blown rage was nothing Adrian wanted to confront just now. For all he knew, Walker had been researching where and when he’d like to go next. If their Masters—Kronos and his ilk—deigned to send them out again.

  “It wasn’t our fault.” Halting at a wall of French windows, Walker fixed Adrian with a baleful look. “Although you could stop declaring your undying love too soon. That always scares off our potential lover.”

  “Of course it wasn’t our fault.” Adrian refused to take umbrage at the implication that whatever wasn’t their fault might be his. “Not the right time or place.”

  “Not the right woman.”

  Ah. “Not every woman—even in this day and age—is ready for two lovers.” He thought for a moment while Walker just stared out the French windows. “Perhaps, as Kronos suggested months ago, we do need to go back.” He remembered a horde of haughty harridans he’d prefer not to encounter again and shivered at the thought. One especially opinionated female flashed though his mind and, despite being unable to recall her name, increased his dread.

  “Or perhaps we should renegotiate our contracts. Insist the Masters send us each out alone.”

  Adrian felt as if someone had lopped off a perfectly healthy arm. “Is that what you want?” It certainly wasn’t what Adrian wanted. He felt connected to Walker—more like soul brothers than biological ones, but each still necessary to the other.

  “Of course not!” Walker raked his coal-black hair with both hands. “It just seems a bit much—them insisting we find one woman willing to share her life—”

  “Her body,” Adrian inserted, humor in his voice, a smile touching the corners of his mouth.

  “Every moment of her life,” Walker went on as if Adrian had remained silent. “Everyone needs privacy.”

  “Maybe you could open up a little instead of standing around smoldering with unstated desire.” With Walker, desire looked more like lust, which might contribute to their inability to find one woman to share their lives. After all, if one believed even a portion of romance novels, a woman wanted her man—or men—to think of her as more than a vessel for sexual satiation.

  “Kronos hinted he’s going to make us start over,” Walker said, sounding disinterested but his tense posture giving away his inner turmoil.

  “Start over? As in start over with Arnaud and his Days of the Week?”

  The room went dark. Outside the French windows it looked as black as midnight on a cloudy, moonless night.

  “It seems…” Walker began.

  “That Kronos and the powers that be intend us to start over right now,” Adrian finished as the vortex swirled around them. Maybe in a few more centuries he’d grow used to the sensation of being swept away. Something to pray for…some other time.

  * * * * *

  San Francisco, California

  Present day

  Diane de Bourgh stared at the cover art for her next medieval romance and felt her heartbeat double. The artist must have invaded her dreams, drawing not only two physically perfect, warriorlike specimens, but their faces too. The dark-haired man had the face of a fallen angel—cynical and weary. The blond looked like the kid next door—open to any adventure that might come his way. Devil and angel in the bodies of sculpted gods, hewn not by chisels but by long hours of training with sword and mace and shield and by even longer hours on the battlefield.

  What made her heart race like a horse hitched to an old-fashioned fire engine was the certainty that she knew them both. She could have met them at a release party her publisher had hosted, but since she made it a point to arrive late and leave early on those occasions, she doubted they’d met there. She despised promotional conferences, attending solely because they increased sales. Besides, the way she reacted to the men was so intense, so visceral, that were they to appear in her home office she wouldn’t know which one to throw herself at first. Given that they both looked accustomed to doing the ravishing, she doubted they’d have any problems in the sex department.

  She was the problem. She had difficulty making choices and when she did…she usually made the wrong one. On the other hand, if she met up with one or both of them, she might learn more about true passion and real love—emotions she found it difficult to write about with any degree of honesty. She did feel aroused—on occasion—but it felt more like an itch that needed scratching than a precursor to undying commitment.

  With these two, however, she’d bet her last dollar they’d make the choice for her— just like her medieval hero tried to do with her spirited heroine. While her heroine had to live within the mores and conventions of the time period, Diane always imbued the young women in her books with spunk or wile or feminine charms that made the hero realize his chosen mate wasn’t a carpet upon which he could tread with muddy boots.

  She glanced at the cover art again. The pair seemed so much like her chauvinist heroes, she vowed that if she ever met them in their own milieu, she’d teach them a thing or two about how to treat a woman.

  Reaching out to shut off her computer, a wave of dizziness caught her off guard. Nausea roiled in her belly and bile bubbled in her throat. The room spun as if an earthquake had struck, but it didn’t stop. It spun until she blacked out, lost in blessed darkness.

  Chapter Two

  For an instant Diane felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience, standing at the back of the small stone chapel and watching two people in medieval clothing being married. In the next instant she had not only been sucked to the front of the church, but into the body of the woman being married. If that wasn’t enough to start her screaming at the top of her lungs, she recognized the guy at her side—the blond from her cover art. Not that he looked like an adventurous kid now. With his face stark white and his eyes so dark they had lost all color, he looked as if…as if he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

  Catching a brief glimpse of herself reflected in his eyes, she saw that she looked about to bolt for the nearest exit. Unfortunately it lay behind her, along with a crowd of grim-faced people between her and freedom. At least that was how it felt to her. Incense filled the air, tickling her nose but also blocking out the extreme body odors of the people standing far too close. She could barely breathe with them so near. But maybe that was as much a blessing a
s the odor-masking incense. If she fainted, the crowd would hold her upright—at least until the ceremony ended. Then what?

  The man at my side will carry me off and rape me. Consummate the marriage on his brother’s behalf.

  Whoa! Those thoughts hadn’t been hers. What the hell was going on here? From what she could see of herself in the man’s eyes, her face hadn’t changed. Judging by the weight pulling her head back, her unbound hair had grown a lot. She shoved aside all concerns about her appearance and focused on what was happening to her mind. Trapped in some strange woman’s body and now hearing that other woman’s thoughts?

  A tug on the long sleeve that almost covered her trembling hand drew her attention to the younger woman pressed to her left side. She reminded Diane a little of herself—except she had never plucked her eyebrows so they disappeared altogether. Nor redrawn them halfway up her forehead. Had she?

  As Diane was about to touch her face to make sure her eyebrows were where they belonged, the woman at her side squeezed her hand. Diane feared her bones would break. “Say yes,” the woman hissed.

  Two voices in Diane’s head screamed “no”—one her own, the other belonging to whom?—but her lips formed the word “yes” and a faint voice said it aloud.

  The minister—priest, she decided, taking in his ornate vestments—made the sign of the cross. The man at her side released her other hand as the crowd parted and she could breathe a little better.

  What now?

  Put one foot in front of the other, Countess de Vesay, that other voice muttered in Diane’s brain, sounding bitter and snide. You wanted to be a duchess but your chosen duke married you to his friend Arnaud de Vesay—who could not bother to attend his own wedding but sent his brother as his proxy.

  Okay. Proxy marriages, if Diane remembered correctly, were only conducted for royals or high-ranking nobles. So, she—this other woman in her mind—wasn’t a duchess but had still married well enough to warrant a proxy wedding. Maybe she—this other woman—was pregnant, hence the haste to wed. Although…just being married would legitimize the baby, but what would her absent husband believe of her? Not her, she corrected. His wife. What would he believe of her? That she had cuckolded him?

  Swell! Diane would have to suffer the consequences of early bedding while not having had any of the fun. And if her groom were elsewhere, how could she claim the child was his?

  Think, Diane, think. There had to be a way out of this…mess. Debacle? Dream?

  She pinched herself. It hurt, although not enough to return her to her own time and place. Maybe if she pinched her proxy groom instead? He had left her already and now stood in the chapel doorway, conversing with a dark-haired, dark-eyed—

  Ah crap! Her sick mind had conjured the other model from her book cover—the one with the face of a fallen angel. Just now, however, he looked every inch a devil as his gaze moved over her body, his eyes predatory, his full lips slightly pursed as if he…what? Intended to take a bite out of her?

  Drawing herself to her full height of almost six feet, she looked beyond the two men. If all else failed, she could use haughty indifference to hide the stark terror growing larger and larger in her chest. It felt heavier as well, constricting her lungs until she collapsed against her proxy groom, the world spinning as he focused an irritated scowl on her face.

  “What now, Lady Diane?” His curt voice scourged her ears. “If this is yet another…”

  Diane? He called me Diane! Her knees buckling, she crumpled at his feet. Not only was she trapped in the body of a woman who seemed to look like her but they had the same name?

  By all she found holy, what in bloody blue blazes was happening to her? Where was she? When was she? And why wasn’t she at home, slaving over edits?

  Home. There’s no place I’d rather be. Grabbing her temporary groom’s arm, struggling to her feet, she lifted her skirts and peered at the toes of her satin slippers. Not red. Not even a hint of glitter.

  Okay, she couldn’t rely on the Wizard to get her out of this nightmare. Or a witch—good or bad—or…ohmigod! If she told these people she wasn’t whom they thought, they’d think her either insane or possessed. And if they thought her possessed, what would they do to her? Burn her at the stake or weigh her down with boulders before they dropped her into the closest lake? Hell, given the weight of her gown, they wouldn’t even have to bother with rocks—she’d sink just like a stone. No, they wouldn’t burn or drown her. Instead, if she were actually living sometime before the fourteenth century, they would hang her. She’d still be dead, of course, but was hanging any less painful than burning?

  All of which meant she had to get herself out of this fix.

  She’d arrived in this world at the chapel doors. Tomorrow… Yes! In the morning she’d return to the chapel. There had to be some kind of door…a portal she could go back through.

  Of course, if this was just some horrible nightmare and she woke up in her own bed…she’d make notes and write about the experience in some future novel.

  Her female companion tugged on her sleeve, silently urging her to hurry. Lifting her skirts to keep her embroidered hem out of the dust, she followed the two men as, laughing and muttering in French, they crossed the bailey into the great hall.

  A clue as to when she was niggled at her brain. Others around her spoke a form of English she understood—sort of. It resembled Chaucer’s old English in The Canterbury Tales. Coupled with the French spoken by her proxy husband and his friend, it led her to believe she was trapped somewhere in England, sometime after the Norman Conquest in 1066. At this juncture she couldn’t figure any closer than that.

  Which presented still another problem. If she said one word her vocabulary—never mind her pronunciation—would betray her. As if already feeling rough hemp around her neck, she stroked it and sighed with relief. Not about to hang, praise God. If any good came out of this situation it was that she could understand what the others were saying. Sort of.

  But this woman—this other Diane—had expected to marry a duke. She rubbed her forehead, momentarily distracted by finding her eyebrows where they belonged. Deciding to leave the subject of title and rank for another day—like tomorrow when she returned to the chapel and either got home or figured out exactly where and when she was—she followed everyone out of the chapel. Somehow she’d also figure out why this had happened to her. In the meantime she’d play the mute and not say a word.

  The smell of roasted meat and yeasty bread made her mouth water and her stomach growl. Her substitute groom shot her a lopsided smile that had her smiling back despite her worries. Taking his outstretched hand, she mounted the dais with him then sat. His dark-haired companion raised his tankard and made a toast. The people on benches below the dais mumbled the man’s words, leaving her somewhat surprised by the tepid reception.

  So, either her people disliked her marrying a Norman or they disliked her—or rather that other woman whose name she shared. Her breath caught as she took a gulp of wine. The sour taste, coupled with her sinking hopes of aid from the people around her, made her cough. Her ersatz groom pounded her back as he continued to quaff from his own tankard. Leaning away from the none-too-gentle beating hand, she offered a brief smile of thanks then took up a small blade with two prongs and a wickedly sharp edge.

  She could do this, she told herself, pricking a bloody chunk of beef from the trencher in front of her. The meat being too cumbersome to bite, she knew she couldn’t cut it unless she used her fingers to hold it down while she sawed at it. Faced with that choice, she snagged a chicken leg and gnawed on it, ignoring the limp, overcooked vegetables but enjoying the crusty bread.

  “Eat up, Countess,” the dark-haired devil urged, looking around her fill-in groom. “We leave at dawn.”

  So much for a trip back to the chapel. Unless… Of course. She’d sneak out after everyone else had fallen asleep.

  Exhausted though she was, she couldn’t sleep. The feather mattress sagged under her hips and shoulde
rs. The bed ropes creaked every time she moved. If that wasn’t enough to keep her awake, every time she closed her eyes she felt as if the vortex were about to descend again. She might have welcomed it, except…well, she had no idea where it might take her. She’d have to wait for a flashing neon sign that read “Twenty-first Century This Way” before she stepped through it.

  Still, if there was a way out of this nightmare, she had to seize it right now. Morning would be too late. Tiptoeing across the rush-strewn floor, praying she wouldn’t step on a mouse or other varmint, she eased up the latch. Breath held, she opened the door.

  “Going somewhere, Countess?” the man asked from the doorway opposite hers, his black eyes wicked. “Coming, perhaps, to spend your wedding night with me?”

  Stepping back, she slammed the door then dropped the heavy wooden plank into place—shutting him out. Locking herself inside as well.

  * * * * *

  Dawn. That black-eyed devil had said they’d leave at dawn, yet there wasn’t a hint of light in the sky when she stepped outside. Torches cast eerie shadows over the bailey walls, making her shiver at what might lie in the darker recesses. Horses shifted restlessly as if wanting to leave this place with haste. Their warm breath steamed in the chilly air and their tack rattled as they stomped their hooves. A wagon piled high with furniture and luggage sat at the center of the dirt area.

  Her belongings and bride’s portion of household goods, she supposed. Other farm carts held tents and food. She began to suspect a long and uncomfortable journey ahead. Where’s a limousine when you need one?

  A young woman—the same one who’d been at her side during her wedding—held out a tankard. Steam billowed, carrying the scent of mulled wine to Diane’s nostrils. She took a grateful sip, noting that the girl wore only a fur-lined robe over her nightgown. House shoes covered her dainty feet.

  “You aren’t coming with me,” Diane hazarded, handing back the tankard. To her great relief, the girl seemed to understand her and didn’t look askance at her accent or pronunciation.