by Dee Brice
Thinking of him took her gaze to his brother. Did Adrian keep a list of her faux pas? Would he tell his brother about her every single misstep? Tell Arnaud she didn’t even know who was king? Or would Adrian consider himself her substitute husband and punish her himself?
And having punished her, would he perhaps soothe her? She could imagine several pleasant ways to while away the hours. In a very large tub filled with very hot water for starters. She tugged at her bodice, wishing for a basin in which to bathe as best she could.
Stop it! Sure, he was attractive, but also arrogant and chauvinistic, almost as egotistical as his friend Walker Mornay.
Thinking his name drew her gaze to him. Atop his chestnut stallion—his destrier, along with Adrian’s, relegated to plodding along behind a wagon carrying hay for all the horses—he looked as dark and dangerous as any romanticized highwayman.
As if he’d read her thoughts, a slow smile curled his sensuous lips and his eyes grew so dark she marveled that he could see anything at all. His smile fading, his gaze sharpened on her suddenly very dry lips. She gulped. Darted out her tongue and watched his eyes darken even more.
Her heart raced. Her nipples—
No, no, no!
Her juices flooded her slops.
Oh hell, oh damn!
He had never touched her but—oh hell, oh damn—how she wanted him. How she wanted them both.
So, what’s standing in your way?
Good question, one with so many answers her head spun. First, the issue of pregnancy and disease. Equally important was the possibility of that other Diane’s return to an alternate history—one she neither expected nor wanted. As for other reasons…her brain couldn’t handle more than keeping her on her horse.
Still, she now knew when she lived. And that made all the difference in the world.
* * * * *
The next morning, rain threatened. Walker suggested they remain where they had camped the night before. They had an unobstructed view of their surroundings so no one could attack the sentries or the camp without warning. On higher ground than that around them, even several days of downpour would neither flood them nor wash away their tents. The horses had access to lush spring grass so even a week’s delay would not leave them short of fodder. A stream, flowing cold and clean, burbled nearby—affording the bride a place to wash her own linens while not providing sufficient privacy for her to bathe.
Pity. He would enjoy seeing her naked. Her attempts at staying clean had thus far consisted of washing her face and neck, underarms and between her legs—unfortunately covered by her skirts. He had managed to observe her struggling with her long hose and knew she possessed legs of considerable length and shapeliness. Legs he dreamed of having wrapped around him while he buried his shaft, first shallow, then deep, in her moist heat.
Ah well, a man could dream. No harm in that, even when the woman belonged to a cur like Arnaud de Vesay.
Which took Walker’s pleasant thoughts to Adrian, Arnaud’s younger twin brother. His suddenly in a hurry to reach home twin brother. A brother who sometimes felt his twin’s cuts and bruises and, less often, Arnaud’s pleasure.
Although Adrian had not voiced his concerns, Walker sensed his friend’s urgency, which suggested the twin-shared feelings tipped toward pain.
“I’m not hurrying anywhere if it means sleeping on the ground or riding in the rain or—” Lady Diane’s voice shattered the relative quiet of men breaking camp and saddling their horses.
“By damn, madam, you shall ride and sleep where I tell you. Otherwise I shall tie you to your horse and take you, will you or not. After I beat you.”
Adrian all but roared the threats, threats Walker might have whispered. He found whispers far more intimidating than shouts.
“Lay a hand on me and I’ll…I’ll…”
Grinning, Walker joined the conversation. “Take as many men and supplies as you need, de Vesay. I shall escort the lady safely home.”
Adrian nodded, relief on his flushed face. He looked pleased that he would no longer have to deal with the haughty harridan.
As for the lady… She looked as if she had flung herself from the cauldron into the fire. An interesting reaction. One he intended to explore once Adrian was on his way.
For an instant Adrian regretted leaving his brother’s wife in Walker’s care. Given the animosity between Arnaud and Walker, Adrian’s friend might take advantage of the situation and seduce the woman. Try to seduce, he amended with a heartfelt prayer that the lady would stay faithful. At least until she knew Arnaud better.
What he did not know was whether Diane would allow herself to be seduced. Would she risk her life for a few hours of pleasure in Walker’s bed? Did she understand the risks? Know that Arnaud would kill her if he discovered her perfidy? Know that a husband could murder his faithless wife and not suffer the consequences? And why should any of it matter to him? Diane’s aunt must have taught her the rules governing a lady’s behavior. She had most assuredly schooled her niece in disdain and haughty attitudes.
“Have you changed your mind, de Vesay?” Walker’s amused tone jerked Adrian from his strange worries. “Intend to remain with us?”
“No! No, I must leave. Arnaud needs me.” Vaulting into his saddle, he gathered the reins in both hands then spurred his gelding to a brisk walk. Four men-at-arms rode with him as the clouds opened, drenching the ground and everyone foolish enough not to have taken shelter.
He thought he heard Diane ask, “How does he know his brother needs him?”
Knew he heard Walker reply, “Twins.”
Either Diane had nothing more to say or she understood the connection he had with Arnaud. And that was the strangest idea of all.
Chapter Four
Although she didn’t trust that the tent wouldn’t leak, Diane enjoyed listening to the rain pounding on its canvas roof. With a brazier topped by a bake stone and oatcakes, a fur-lined cloak around her body and legs, a feather pillow beneath her bottom, she felt comfy and oddly safe. Too bad the obviously amused man sharing the space set her senses on edge. Worse still, she had the feeling she knew him. Not because she’d seen his face and naked upper body on her book cover, but because they’d met somewhere. Sometime.
Like here? Now?
No, that was impossible. She didn’t believe in reincarnation. Didn’t believe in time travel, either. Which was downright stupid of her—especially when she was obviously trapped in some kind of time warp. Unless she was only dreaming. Something else she doubted, even while praying she only imagined living this…hallucination. Yet everything felt too real to be a mirage.
“What shall we do if the roof begins to drip?” she asked when Walker’s continuing silence stretched to an unbearable length.
“Move to a different place,” he replied with a slight smile that invited her to join in his amusement.
Since she hadn’t a clue what had caused his mood, she ignored the invitation. “I meant if the entire roof drips.”
“Cover ourselves completely with fur blankets and share our body warmth.” His low voice sent hot shivers coursing through her. His half-closed eyes invited her to snuggle into his arms and share his dreams. “Or,” he added as if the idea had just occurred to him, “follow Adrian before it stops raining.”
“And risk pneumonia? No thank you.”
His brief frown—did he not recognize “pneumonia”?—cleared. “You seem unsurprised that your husband is Adrian’s twin.”
“I was—am surprised. But then I know very little about either of them. Or you.”
Walker focused his dark eyes on her. “You also seemed unsurprised by Adrian’s sudden need to rush to Arnaud’s side. Whereas, since I believed him with your uncle in Ireland, I find Adrian’s heading home most strange.”
Ah. He had noticed her calm acceptance of twinship as the reason for Adrian’s hurried departure. She could no more cite modern studies about twins than she could explain penicillin. While Walker might understand
pneumonia as an extremely bad cold with severe lung congestion and high fever, how could he possibly comprehend bread mold as a cure? Moreover, if she tried to explain, would he think her crazy or a witch?
With her heart pounding in her throat at the idea of what folks did to witches, she drew the fur-lined cloak tighter and fixed her gaze on the brazier. “There are many things I find most strange,” she said, her tone dismissive.
Let him believe her snooty or ill-informed or whatever he chose. She didn’t care what he thought of her as long as he failed to see her fear.
“Such as?” he drawled, amusement giving way to polite indifference.
Your ducal title. She wanted to know about that but thought questions concerning her husband’s family less likely to arouse Walker’s suspicions. Or lead him to wonder about witchcraft and her in the same thought. She shivered at the idea while images of flames roaring through piles of wood and a body—hers—tied to the stake at their center danced in her brain. For some reason burning continued to haunt her as the method of her death—her long, drawn-out dying.
“I want to know why the baron—my uncle—accompanied Arnaud to Ireland.” Using the man’s first name might not be how women referred to their husbands in this era. She found it impossible to think of a stranger having the right to use her body as he wished without her consent. That much she knew for fact.
Walker’s eyebrows quirked and that damn slow, indecipherable smile hovered about his full lips. For a moment of utter insanity she wanted to kiss that smile away.
The cold seemed not to affect him. Lying on a fur rug, his head propped on his hand, he looked as much at ease as he might in his own bed.
Don’t go there, she told herself, unable to stop admiring his manly attributes. His short cotehardie, green velvet with brass buttons down the front, fell short of mid-thigh. She wondered if the buttons served solely as decoration or if she could unfasten them if she wanted. Not that she wanted to. Not much at all. Although the memory of his sculpted pecs and defined abs on her book cover did tempt her to find out if this man’s body was equally fit. As for his legs… That short top meant more of his nether limbs showed. His trunk hose fit his long legs like a second skin, accenting powerful calves and thighs. Horseman’s legs that sent an image of them wrapped around her as he and she rode each other to fulfillment.
Not that she would take that ride. It could so easily lead to other, more dangerous involvements. Best to keep her distance so when she returned home she’d have nothing and no one to regret leaving.
“There are two possibilities that come to mind,” he said at last.
His deliberate pause—a clear invitation for her to prod—lifted her eyebrows. Saying nothing, she waited for him to continue.
“First, so I imagine, to keep your husband sober.” She arched one eyebrow higher. “Second, to keep him for impregnating some Irish noble’s daughter with yet another of his bastards.”
Walker wanted to grin. Not that his expression gave him away, but his renewed silence shrieked suppressed glee. Perhaps his eyes glinted malice but that could be a trick of the inadequate lighting causing her to see that emotion. What she discerned as fact was his intent to shock her.
Two could play at that game.
“I believe it is not uncommon for men such as you to have a mistress.” His grin appeared, all but demanding she add, “Or two.”
“Or the six your husband keeps.”
“S-six?” She felt the blood leave her brain then rush back, making her dizzy and roiling her stomach. Striving to appear disinterested, she managed to shrug. “One has to wonder why he would marry at all.”
A drunkard and a philanderer? This was who she’d been forced to marry?
“For a legitimate heir, of course. And a convenient estate from which to keep an eye on Henry’s Welsh lords and their attempts to conquer Ireland.”
Her breathing steadier, she echoed Walker’s sentiments if not his exact words. “Of course, an heir. As to the Welsh and Ireland…if your king intends to keep tabs, why am I en route to York?”
“Because a wife lives on her husband’s lands.”
“Leaving her husband free to visit her relatives and debauch innocents. My comely sister perhaps?” Not that she cared how many women Arnaud might make pregnant. That other Diane might wish for a faithful husband but his fidelity made no difference to this Diane. But to those other women? The six on his lands, in his bed? What would happen to them if the son of a bitch—the jerk!—tired of them? If he sired children with those women, what would happen to their babies?
Walker shot her a look she could only describe as sly. “I thought you knew about his mistresses. Your uncle told Arnaud he must be rid of them before you arrived. That you would raze the castle and burn everyone within its walls were the women still there. Arnaud calls them his Days of the Week,” he added, peering at her as if expecting steam to pour from her ears.
Determined not to show how abhorrent she found this behavior—and not just on Arnaud’s part but Walker’s as well—she said, “Does he?”
“He does. Monday occupies his bed on that day, Tuesday—”
“I get the idea.”
Oh dear, oh damn. Another slippery slope for me to slide down. That other woman had the right to make demands, she supposed, but leaving the mess for her to clean up? That was unconscionable. Worse, she had to pretend she knew all about it? Okay. Maybe that woman had nothing to do with this situation, but something had provoked the fates to imprison Diane in this time-warp nightmare.
Yes. She had to maintain the illusion of being that woman. And in a way she sympathized with her. After all, what wife—and a bride at that—would choose to live under the same roof with one mistress, let alone six?
As if the mere mention of them had turned her sour, Diane managed a disdainful sniff as she eased an oatcake from the bake stone and ignored Walker.
Let him think whatever he wanted. She could do nothing about his thoughts anyway. Besides being safer for her growing attraction to him, cuckolding Arnaud de Vesay could bring harm to either or both Dianes. Beyond acknowledging her rising animal lust, she intended to do nothing about it at all.
And while she—modern Diane de Bourgh—found little to admire about her current self, she found nothing at all to admire about her philandering husband.
Walker continued to stare at her, not knowing what to make of her up, down and all-around reactions. The use of odd words such as “pneumonia”. Her strange calmness about Adrian’s odd connection to Arnaud. That oddity had given him a start, smacking as it did of wizardry and witchcraft. Yet Diane had accepted it as easily as she might a common flower. Stranger still was her surprise when learning about Arnaud’s flagrant use of women along with his near-constant state of drunkenness. Above all, her reaction to her husband’s mistresses puzzled him. She knew about them, did she not? Had demanded that Arnaud evict them like servants who’d failed to do their work. Or had she?
What had caused her to turn as white as snow one moment, as red as an icy nose the next? Made her look as if she cared about nothing and no one soon after? Was she afraid Arnaud would turn her away, punish her for what she had forced him to do to women he supposedly cared for?
Walker chuckled to himself, knowing Adrian’s brother loved no one better than he loved himself. Cared for nothing beyond his next tankard of wine or ale.
Searching his mind, he struggled to recall other incidents when Diane had turned uppity or had straightened her spine while looking down her narrow, aristocratic nose. Unable to summon clear pictures of those instances, he vowed to note any future ones. Another vow he made to himself—he would have her in his bed.
Even if he risked her life and his own, he would claim her.
“It sounds as if the rain has stopped,” she mumbled, before taking a small bite of oatcake. Breaking off another piece, she held it out to him.
Nodding his thanks, more than a little surprised by her courtesy, he said, “If it does not r
eturn during the night, we shall leave in the morning.”
“At dawn?” she said, her smile sweet, her tone wry.
He laughed out loud, pleased that she had remembered his words. “Not so early as dawn. We shall wait to see if rain still threatens—no sense breaking camp only to set up again a few leagues from here. We shall allow the sun to dry the roads—what there are of them.”
“What sun there may be,” she added, standing and extending her arms over her head and arching her back. Her cloak slid to the canvas-covered ground.
His gaze sharpened on the upward thrust of her full breasts, the curve of her buttocks, the complete femininity of her lithe body. His shaft swelled, a painful growth he hid beneath his hastily donned cloak as he turned away, in need of relief in the sweet depths of her core. Relief she was not ready to give him.
Not yet.
* * * * *
Five days after leaving camp, Adrian de Vesay reached Belleange. Home. He had slogged around mudslides filled with overflow from latrine pits. Crawled over ancient oaks whose roots had rotted and given way so that huge trees blocked remnants of the Roman roads. All but laming two destriers in his haste to reach Arnaud, he had at last arrived…four days after word of his brother’s death had reached their steward.
Sailing on the Irish Sea—drunker than usual according to the messenger who had ridden from dawn ‘til dusk, day after day for nigh on two weeks to deliver the news— Arnaud had fallen overboard and drowned. The captain had turned his hulk around at once, then sent messengers to Belleange and to King Henry in Normandy.
