TemptressofTime

by Dee Brice

  “Are you going to tell me how you catch the fish or not?” she said, taking a piece of cheese he’d sliced from a wedge and held out to her.

  “Have you never heard of tickled trout?”

  Of course she had, but… “You truly tickle them?”

  “In a manner, yes. One waggles one’s fingers as a worm might wiggle. When the fish comes to investigate his tasty meal, one closes one’s fingers around the fish and there is supper.”

  “I think there’s more to it than that.”

  “Well, it does require patience and quickness.”

  “And touching the fish.” She wrinkled her nose at the idea and shivered again.

  “Where do you think food comes from?”

  “The,” grocery store, she thought, “farms and forests.”

  “Not a total ninnyhammer,” he muttered loud enough for her to hear. But his wide smile took the sting from his words.

  “I wager you don’t know a thing about…keeping house or mending clothes.” She wanted to challenge him with a word from her own time—something like baseball or computers or—

  Witchcraft!

  “Mayhap not, but I’ve mucked out barns and cleaned out wounds when necessary.”

  His smile faded, reminding her this was a world where a scratch could lead to infection and dying. A world in which combat was hand-to-hand and death an enemy you met face-to-face.

  Wanting to restore his lighter mood, she said, “What else did your father teach you?”

  “How to piss without spraying my clothes.”

  “A remarkable accomplishment,” she drawled instead of complaining about his language as a proper sixteenth-century lady might. Even a twenty-first-century woman might object—if, like Diane, she didn’t get out much or listen to how men talked to each other on TV shows.

  His guffaw echoed around the clearing, sending nearby birds into flight. Then, dropping to the blanket, he kissed the tip of her nose.

  “I think I am glad we came here,” he said, still smiling at her, for once without a seductive gleam in his eyes.

  To her utter amazement, she missed that gleam.

  * * * * *

  “What changed your mind?”

  The question came at her after several hours of silence. Eating in silence. Mounting her horse again and continuing on…in silence.

  “About what?” she said, meeting Walker’s gaze. His impatient scowl and waved hand over the scenery provided a clue. “I didn’t change my mind. Adrian and I had a…misunderstanding. By the time I decided to forgive—” Walker’s snort made her correct herself. “To compromise with him, he’d hared off. I guess to find you. Unbeknownst to me, I promise.”

  “And yet you came with me.”

  Her snort made him smile. “I didn’t think I had a choice. Since he didn’t come back, Adrian clearly wanted nothing more to do with me.”

  “Untrue…I promise. ‘Tis more that he knew not how to deal with you.”

  “It’s not as if I…” Oh, but she had. Stormed off in a fit of pique like that nose-in-the-air noblewoman everyone thought she was. She’d left Adrian to stew. Left him to decide she was too difficult to deal with—so difficult he’d gone after Walker to save him from the shrew he wanted to fuck if only she’d shut up and lie still.

  The image of herself gagged and bound to Adrian’s bedpost made her smother a laugh with her hand. Blinking, startled by the idea she might not mind being bound, she slanted Walker a frown.

  “So,” she said at last, “you rode to the rescue. Selflessly sacrificed yourself so Adrian needn’t suffer the shrew’s vitriol.”

  “I would not call you a shrew.”

  His contemplative gaze made her squirm in her saddle. “What would you call me?” Oh good Lord! Reduced to fishing for compliments from a man she’d all but promised to have sex with.

  He rubbed his chin as if seriously considering her question. Suspecting he struggled for a word that wouldn’t insult her even more, she studied the lay of the land between her mare’s ears.

  “First, I do nothing that does not benefit or please me. Selfish is what most men call me.”

  “Not to your face, I’ll wager.” She hadn’t meant him to hear but his grin said he had.

  “Second, I think of you as a…yes, a vixen. That mass of hair I want—” A look of something close to pain crossed his proud features. His clenched jaw reflected the force of his will as he unfisted his hand on the reins.

  She felt his fingers stab through her hair, hold her face immobile while he searched her eyes—asking questions she didn’t understand. Her mare shifted, making Diane realize Walker hadn’t touched her at all.

  But oh, dear God, how she wanted him to. To touch her in all the ways a man caressed a woman he desired.

  He looked away, a curt nod directing her gaze toward a barely visible structure atop a gentle rise. Even from this distance his home cast an enormous outline against the sky—a fitting seat for a duke. Walker’s expression remained impassive but eagerness shone from his dark eyes. Remote though it was from court and its intrigues, Walker clearly loved his home.

  Would she see it through his eyes? Could she grow to love it as he did? Might she want to remain here and never return to her own time? She found the idea of staying far less horrible than she should. But then, who was there to scold her for her feelings?

  Me, whispered in her mind. Urging her horse to a trot, she ignored her conscience and followed Walker as he raced for home.

  Arriving at the outer gate, laughing and breathless, she heard young voices calling out greetings. Grooms scurried about, taking reins from the men-at-arms, Walker and her. Walker had a word or two for the lad leading away his stallion, a warning look for the boy holding on to her mare’s bridle. The boy froze until Walker helped Diane to the ground and gave the youngster a small nod of approval.

  In moments the courtyard was silent and empty except for the two of them. Walker offered his arm and she took it, grateful for his support. After hours of riding, her legs felt wobbly—as if she’d taken a train across the States and had yet to stop swaying with the cars.

  Grateful not to face a horde of servants, she matched his shortened stride. Her racing heart and dry mouth had nothing to do with fear. Nothing at all to do with the fact that she couldn’t run from Walker or pick a fight to save her honor. If she had any in this time and place.

  Nothing at all to do with the fact that she didn’t want to fight. Or run.

  Pausing at a narrow opening, Diane looked back. The outer wall was that of a medieval castle built to withstand sieges. The opening Walker took her through led into a fairytale world. It reminded her of a scale model she’d seen of Henry the Eighth’s Nonsuch Palace with its bas-relief of Greek and Roman mythology. Yet it also had features found in chateaux in France’s Loire Valley. A covered stone bridge ran from the inner wall over a massive moat to the castle itself. Towers, too many to count, soared against a cloudless blue sky.

  Walker’s chuckle had her closing her gaping mouth. It fell open again when she saw the double-helix staircase inside the main entrance to the castle—or chateau. A reminder of his ancestor’s Continental origins perhaps? As Walker escorted her to the upper floors, she took in myriad windows that allowed sunlight to flood spaces medieval architecture left dim or dark.

  A liveried footman opened one of two doors. Walker motioned her through then halted just over the threshold.

  “Your receiving room is through there.” He pointed at another set of double doors, both of which stood open. “Your bed and bath chambers lie just beyond.”

  “Mine?” she teased, fluttering her eyelashes. Not at all what she’d intended to do. Except…blast and damnation! She felt comfortable here. Knew in the depths of her bones that Walker’s bedroom connected with hers through a cunning, painted panel that blended into the wall. Or was all this familiarity due to the woman whose life Diane seemed to be living?

  A smile twitched the corners of his mouth and amus
ement gleamed in the dark depths of his eyes. He sketched a bow, saying, “I shall join you for supper in two hours.”

  Wondering what she could possibly do for all that time, she nodded her agreement and watched him leave. No sooner had the door closed behind him than two maids emerged from the inner rooms.

  They chatted as they took her through her bedroom to a bathroom that might have graced a twenty-first-century mansion. Fragrant bubbles floated on the warm air, then burst as they kissed steam rising from the sunken marble tub. She was so engrossed in the tub, she failed to protest being stripped of her clothes. One maid invited Diane to get in before the water cooled.

  She struggled to remember when such sybaritic delights might have appeared in England. Edward the First had tubs with gilt bronze fixtures. Edward the Third even had hot and cold running water, although his tubs were wood covered in cloth. Likely to avoid getting splinters in his royal arse.

  Smothering a laugh, she stepped into the tub before submerging as if stepping off the earth and into heaven. Emerging, she sent the young women away, determined to wash her own hair and body in private. Soaping herself, she inhaled the lightly scented, finely milled soap she bet came from France. Imported by the first Duke de Beaumont along with a French architect to build his chateau?

  One of the servants returned to wrap Diane in warm toweling before guiding her to a small fireplace where she combed her hair. Dry, it fell down her back to graze her buttocks and over her shoulders to tease her nipples into rigid peaks that ached for Walker’s touch.

  Shoving those tormenting aches out of her mind, she allowed the other young woman to dress her in a diaphanous gown of deep-green cloth of gold. A velvet robe trimmed with ermine covered her from her shoulders to her toes. Matching green silk slippers adorned her feet.

  A peremptory rap on the hidden door in her bedroom sent her maids hurrying away. Diane stood by the turned-down bed, her voice lost somewhere in the vicinity of her knees. She needn’t have worried that her inability to speak would keep Walker out. The door swept open and there he stood—tall, dark and so dangerous to her senses she could scarcely breathe.

  His black velvet robe hugged his wide shoulders, its broad lapels parted enough for her to glimpse his sculpted chest. A smattering of dark curls arrowed between his bulging pecs to disappear beneath the fabric that matched his fathomless black eyes.

  Part of her wanted to run away. More of her wanted to run toward him.

  “Make up your mind,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper that almost spurred her toward the door and escape. “Once we begin, we shall not turn back.”

  Her chin rose but began to wobble when he stood in front of her. His scent—cinnamon and musk—surrounded her. His body’s warmth heated hers although he had yet to touch her.

  “I d-don’t want to turn back.” Despite her nervous stutter, she met his gaze and held it.

  A reluctant half-smile curved his chiseled lips. “Then let us begin.”

  With that he drew her to him and claimed her lips with a kiss so hot it branded her—body and soul.

  Hellfire and damnation! Walker thought, easing Diane to arm’s length. He had intended to go slow with her, not ravage her like some sex-starved sailor ashore for the first time in months. Seeing her dressed for bed, he had lost his mind. His shaft ruled him, wanting to bury itself in her hot depths. His tongue demanded he taste her mouth. He had taken her lips like a savage who had wandered for decades thirsting only for her.

  In truth, ‘twas how he felt. As if he had gone for centuries without her kisses. Judging by her somnolent gaze and parted lips, she welcomed his assault almost as if she too had hungered for this moment, longed for it over so many years she was as powerless to resist as he.

  Her thick lashes rose, revealing disappointment and arousal so naked he took a step away. If she continued to look at him that way, he would forget every vow he had ever made to treat a woman gently—especially the first time their bodies joined. After that…if the woman consented, he would free the beast within him.

  “You’ve changed your mind.” Even though she whispered, tears choked her voice. “Will you send me back to Adrian or deliver me to a convent?”

  A laugh exploded from his pursed lips. “A convent? Never,” he vowed, stepping toward her, effectively trapping her between the bedpost and his body. “You are meant to find bliss in a man’s arms. In my arms, my body.”

  She shivered, yet he knew ‘twas not cold that coursed through her. The same warmth heated his body as if the flames in his grate flowed through her veins. Her flesh glowed, a faint pink coloring her face and what he could see of her round breasts between the gap in her fur-trimmed robe. Just that glimpse and the soft gasps that lifted those lush orbs made his palms itch and his shaft harden to the point of pain.

  Nibbling on the lush fullness of her lower lip, she tilted her head back and stared up at him. A dare flashed in her eyes before those thick, dark lashes swept down, hiding her thoughts. Her soft smile, however, challenged him as if she had pressed torrid kisses along his entire body.

  Unable to resist any longer, he swept his hands up her arms and shoulders, over her slender neck to capture her face and hold her head immobile. Her soft sigh brushed across his mouth and cheeks like ghostly fingers beckoning from behind a solid wall.

  Struggling not to ravish those ripe lips, he touched his tongue along the seam. On a soft moan, her mouth opened. Her tongue darted out to mirror his brief foray, retreated then plunged into his mouth and began to duel with his. Her hands slid from his shoulders to his waist. His robe opened, her fingers curled around his painfully rigid shaft and shattered all thoughts of sweet, languid caution.

  Grasping her hips, he took them around the bedpost to fall onto the plump feather mattress. She shoved his robe off his shoulders, he tore hers open to expose her body to his gaze and questing hands.

  As if recognizing the power her body held over his, she stood and let her robe slide to the floor. One delicate finger traced the valley between her breasts. Another caressed her areola and the hard nub rising to rub against the sheer material of her gown.

  Lust raged through him. He rent the gown, shoved her onto the bed, then plunged his shaft deep inside her hot, soaked cunt. Her cry of pain stilled the beast long enough for her to relax a little. Gentle kisses over her neck and breasts made her moan and tilt her hips, a silent plea for him to continue. With greater care he rocked back and forth then in and out until her eyes glazed and low mews purred in her throat. Her cunt clenched at his shaft, milking him as they both climbed the highest mountain. Reaching the apex, they spiraled into exhausted bliss.

  Chapter Nine

  Tears seeped from beneath her eyelids, stabbing into his belly like a hundred swords of regret. He thumbed them away, but they only flowed faster, compelling him to whisper over and over, “I did not mean to hurt you.”

  Her lips curved into a soft smile. Tear-spiked lashes rose to reveal sated green eyes. Some of his guilt eased away as she stroked his cheeks with her fingertips.

  “It only hurt for a moment,” she murmured, something too swift to discern flitting through her eyes.

  “It should not have hurt at all.”

  She laughed. “Have you never made love to a virgin?” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “Obviously not or you’d know that the first time is painful. No matter how well-prepared she is.”

  “I did not prepare you well.”

  “Then next time you shall.” Her smile widened and merriment danced in her eyes. “You did plan on doing me—this—more than once, didn’t you?”

  Her calm acceptance of what he had done washed away the last remnants of guilt. “If you wish—” Her bark of laughter brought a sheepish smile that spread over his face. “As many times as you wish.”

  “We shall require sustenance, milord. You did say you would join me for supper.”

  “So I did. But first…” He rolled off the bed, then held out his hand. “I believe a warm
bath will help soothe any discomfort.”

  “Did I hurt you, Your Grace?”

  She sounded concerned yet her eyes showed amusement he had not expected from her, especially after the way he had taken her. Laughing, he led her into her bathroom. He promised to return, then left her before the sight of her lush body tempted him to join her. He owed her a few moments respite before he settled her in bed and made love to her for the rest of the night.

  Diane watched him leave, sighing only when she could no longer see him or hear his whistling. She wished he’d joined her, but realized he might want to bathe in private.

  Who’d a thunk it? she wondered. Her, a virgin. She supposed even a sophisticated woman like Diane de Vesay—or de Bourgh—knew how to protect her virtue until she married. So now what?

  Walker hadn’t proposed marriage, so where did that leave her? Did he think that their mating assured his place in her life, in her bed?

  Squeezing warm, rose-scented bathwater over her chest, imagining Walker’s fingers replacing the rivulets slowly sliding over her breasts and nipples, every muscle softened even as her nipples tightened. Heat zigzagged from her breasts to her pussy and suddenly need and anticipation struck like lightning. As if her need had conjured him, he appeared in the doorway.

  She sat straighter as Walker strode to the tub, his gaze raking over her face and shoulders. She knew that predatory look and welcomed the sensations it caused in her body. Her nipples furled, preparing to have his tongue laving them, his lips sucking them into elongated tips that felt directly connected to her pussy. Her breasts swelled, aching for his hands to work their magic—fleeting caresses that drove her wild with need. The muscles in her channel clenched and unclenched as her juices flooded her folds, preparing her to take his shaft into her body.

  Tossing his robe to the floor, he knelt beside the tub then took the cloth from her hands. No words passed between them as he swept her hair over her shoulder to wash her neck and back, extending her right arm to lather it from her fingers to her armpit.