by Dee Brice
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 lea
st 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?
Shoving away unpleasant prospects, she met Adrian’s somewhat befuddled eyes. “I would like to know what you think of…” Talk about digging her own grave! Seizing the most common name of Henry’s six wives, she said, “Queen Catherine.”
“You would have me tread on dangerous ground, milady.” His somber demeanor convinced her he was no boy, but a man who had matured in times where a careless word could lead to torture and painful, gory death. Hanging until not quite dead, followed by quartering and being dragged for the people to jeer at being a noble’s ignoble fate for high treason. She had a vague recollection of some lord or other suffering such a fate. Maybe more than one had been hanged, then drawn and quartered—all dependent on the mood of the monarch.
“Not at all, my…Adrian. I only wonder how the people feel about her.”
“She is well-loved.” Taking her hand, raising it to his lips, he pressed a lingering kiss to her palm.
Shivery heat flowed to her breasts and pussy. Breathless, she marveled at how different that caress felt. In her own time no man would think to kiss her hand, never mind her palm. Regaining her breath and composure, she figured Catherine of Aragon still played a role in Henry’s life. Still favored or already set aside? Had Adrian prevaricated? Could Catherine Howard grace the queen’s throne in this time? Had Adrian claimed her well-loved because Diane might carry tales to the king? Tales that Henry might view as treasonous? On a silent sigh, Diane let the questions go unvoiced.
“As will you be well-loved if—when—you take me to your bed.” His smile reappeared like sunshine breaking through heavy clouds.
“I gave my promise to His Grace,” she reminded Adrian. An odd pang of regret accompanied the words. Because she preferred the duke? Regretted sending him away?
“Although I hope to persuade you in my favor…” His expression less confident, Adrian said, “There are ways—many equally satisfying ways—to pleasure each other.”
“Are there?” Goody, goody, goody. If he failed to teach her a way she knew that he did not, she’d enjoy teaching him. After all, the king himself had freed her to
make choices. Why should she limit them to what others deemed proper?
“Indeed there are.” Tucking her had into his crooked elbow, he led her inside then up the wide oak stairs to his own chamber door.
“Is this wise, milord? What if the servants discover us?”
“My closed door should prevent discovery.” He gave her a considering look then said, “But I know a better place. Have Marget help you out of your clothes. Everything except your chemise.”
“It’s very early in the day for a nap, Adrian.”
“Not, however, for a bath. Wear a cloak over your chemise then insist she lead you to the bathhouse.”
She laughed. “I think you have done this before. With Marget perhaps?” Or would have done with her had she not escaped all those centuries ago to her own time and life. Still…like Walker, Adrian seemed to remember nothing of that other place, that other life. Either he suffered from the same amnesia as Walker or both men were skillful actors.
Maybe she’d ask Adrian what he remembered of their past. Oh sure. And have him think her crazy or possessed. If he believed her possessed, what might he do? Put her on the rack to force the devil from her? While the church might not believe in witches, it did burn heretics.
She’d worry about that later. Along with wondering why she remembered their prior lives while they did not.
“I do not play with servants, milady.”
Good! He hadn’t in that previous life either. Points in his favor, she supposed. “Then you may play with me. Your guest.”
He ducked his head, but only enough to give a nod of agreement. Without another word, he left her standing outside his closed door.
* * * * *
Marget left her at the foot of a narrow stone path enclosed by thick walls of ivy clinging to hidden trellises. Diane thought about turning back, the dark passage reminding her again of those gothic heroines with more spunk than sense. She watched her maid round a corner and started to call her back. The woman hadn’t seemed concerned about Diane going on her own, which went along with her curiosity to see what the bathhouse was like.
