TemptressofTime (3 page)

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 return 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.

By Adrian’s reckoning, Arnaud died the day his twin stood in
his place to marry Diane de Bourgh. What now? He swore to himself. Arnaud—now
Adrian, as Earl of Belleange—needed the woman’s dowry to rebuild his home in
stone. To repair his people’s cottages, to train, arm and mount men-at-arms and
defend English soil from the Scots. To wage whatever wars his king deemed
necessary.

Burying his face in his hands, he wanted to cry—not for his
brother who had likely died happy in his drunken stupor—but for all the things
Adrian could no longer afford to do.

And how, then, could his support his brother’s women? Their
children? His own niece and nephews?

* * * * *

Belleange

The Great Hall

Seeing Adrian standing in front of the enormous stone fireplace,
Diane hesitated for a moment. He seemed lost in thought, so focused that even
the servants setting up trestle tables for the evening meal did not distract
him. From the corner of her eye she saw Walker dismiss the workers before
striding to Adrian’s side.

She stayed near a column between the tall oak entry doors, a
step above the rush-strewn main floor. Unable to hear the men’s voices, she
watched their expressions and body language in a futile effort to learn of
Arnaud’s fate. Had he returned from Ireland before falling ill? Was Adrian
taking a break from his brother’s sickbed? He looked tired, worried and
worn—but how could he seem otherwise? Even without the twin connection, his
brother’s illness must concern him in ways she, an only child in her real life,
could only imagine.