Autumn Lord (40 page)

milled around the buffet tables was so cheerful that she wanted to kick someone. Instead she left her

roommate to forage and went in search of her parents. She wanted to talk to her dad, and go home.

"I've got a headache," she muttered to herself as she skirted a knot of laughing people.

A tall, blond man was at the center of attention in this merry group. All the excitement was centered in

this one spot. Diane wasn't interested in excitement. She noticed broad shoulders in an expensively

tailored black jacket as she slid past him. She didn't pay him any more attention after she made a quick

check to see that neither of the people she was looking for was near him.

"I hate everyone," she grumbled as she went on her way. "I want to cry. I'm bored and restless and

lonely and sick of everything, and I don't know why."

"We French have a word for that," a deep voice said from behind her.

Diane froze in her tracks. There was something painfully familiar about that voice. It wasn't just deep,

it was rich, like coffee or chocolate. Delicious. She turned around, very slowly, as he continued to speak.

"It's called
ennui,"
he went on as their gazes met. Then he gave her a slow, charming smile.

Diane forgot to breathe for a moment.

He was tall, blond, handsome as sin, and sexy as the same. He was so poised and confident that she

hated him instantly. Besides, his beautiful voice was very familiar, yet disconcerting coming from a

stranger. The sight of him made her heart race. It did more than that, it stirred desire. And something it

would be safer to keep hidden deep in her mind if she wanted to stay sane.

"Did I ask you for a definition?" she snarled, and began to turn away.

He put a hand out, not quite touching her, but stopping her just the same. She looked down at his

hand where it very nearly brushed against her arm. There was a small scar across two of his knuckles.

He'd told her he'd gotten it in his very first battle.

This was crazy.

She would have run, but his voice held her still when she wanted to bolt. "I heard you ask why. I'm

afraid I can never keep from answering a beautiful young woman who asks me why."

"I didn't ask—"

"Didn't you?" He stopped smiling. He moved his hand. This time he touched her, running his fingers

along her jawline. "We've met before." He spoke quietly, his voice like dark velvet, but velvet that

sheathed steel.

She couldn't deny it. "Somewhere."

"Where? When?"

He tilted his head to one side. It changed the way light and shadow played over his features,

emphasizing the aristocratic arch of his nose and a slight sternness to his mouth. If there was anyone else

besides them in the room, it didn't matter. In the background, beneath the murmur of voices, music

played, jazz. The singer's voice was a rich baritone. He sang in English, with a hint of French accent. He

sounded just the way the man before her spoke.

"Simon de Argent," she said. He nodded. Diane couldn't stop her fingers from tracing the outline of

those sensual lips. She was filled with wonder. "Why?"

"You always ask me that."

"You never answer."

He smiled, and it filled her world. "I'm learning."

She smiled back. Her whole being smiled. She had never felt so happy before. "Who the hell are

you?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," he replied, with that wry lift of the eyebrow she knew so well, and had

never seen before. "But I seem to be rather famous and rich."

"How convenient," she said.

"I thought it might be," Jacques said as he came up beside them.

Diane turned her head, and was more surprised to see her mother on Jacques's arm than she was to

see the wizard. "Did you cut your beard?" she asked the old man.

"Do you know Monsieur Pelliel?" her surprised mother asked.

Jacques kissed her mother's hand before Diane could answer, and gazed deep into her eyes. "Excuse

us, my dear, but we have to have a little talk in private." He turned to Simon and Diane and put a hand

on each of their shoulders. "Come along, you two."

Simon took her hand, and Diane found herself moving through the crowd. A handsome young man

held up a champagne glass and smiled at her as she passed. "Joscelin?"

"I'd rather be called Jos," he answered, and turned back to El ie.

Diane looked back at the proudly smiling Jacques. "But—? Who—?"

"Yves is around here somewhere," Simon said.

"That's nice."

"You do know all of us, don't you? The way we know you? The way I know you." His last words

were spoken with jealous possessiveness. He squeezed her hand. "You're mine, Diane Teal."

She knew these men, or remembered, or imagined she remembered knowing them. She was certain

that deep in her soul she loved the one holding her hand.

"Here we are," Jacques said as he whisked them out onto the wet sidewalk.

The rain had stopped, but the air was full of cool, fresh moisture. More memories stirred as she took a

deep breath. Memories, not imagination. They stopped beneath the glow of a street lamp. She and

Simon grinned at each other. She slipped her arms around his waist. He took her face between his hands

and tilted it up to the light.

"Now you two can get reacquainted in peace."

Diane's gaze slid sideways, toward the smiling old man. She'd forgotten that Jacques was even there

for a moment. "What the—?"

"Oh, I forgot." He took a deep breath, held his arms out to the night, and spoke a magic word.

Everything came back in a rush, in a whirl, in a blinding flash of multicolored light. Past memories

blended with current reality. It all made sense. It had really happened. Everything had worked out, and

they were together once more.

Simon and Diane held each other in a tight embrace and laughed and laughed with delight.

"Damn, I do good work," Jacques announced proudly. He patted them both on the shoulder. "Have

fun, children. I have to get back to the party." Then he was gone, and they didn't care.

"What happened?" she asked after they'd kissed for a very long time. "Back at the Dragonstone?"

"Vivienne tried to stop the spell." Simon threw back his head and laughed. "Apparently her

interference only had a minimal effect." He held Diane close, where he intended to hold her forever.

"Thank God."

"Denis stopped her," Diane said. "I remember now. I heard him."

"Did he?"

She looked up at him. "Your son loves you, Simon."

"Loved," Simon answered. A faint shadow of regret crossed his features. "That was a long time ago."

"But that was in another country," she told him.

He gave a faint smile as he remembered her saying those words to him in his chamber, back when she

could only speak to tell stories. Back in the Middle Ages, when he was Lord of Marbeau. Even with the

layer of knowledge of the modern world, and with the new identity that was also his, that time, the things

they had done, held more reality for him. Marbeau was home. He would take her there. As soon as the

American tour was over.

"I still own Marbeau," he told her! "I bought the tumbled down old estate and rebuilt it with the

proceeds from my first two platinum albums."

"How did you end up a musician? A famous one? My father owns all of your CDs. That's why my

mother was so happy to get involved in this lute project."

"Jacques arranged it all, of course. He slipped us into the world, made a place for us where everyone

thought we'd always been. The only thing he failed at was bringing you with us." Simon frowned angrily.

"Vivienne's doing, I'm sure. Fortunately her interference didn't last long."

"Thanks to Denis," she said. "I think it was his gift to you."

"A fair trade for Marbeau. He kept the land," Simon went on. "I've researched it. My family were

lords of Marbeau until the unpleasantness in 1789."

"You mean the French Revolution?"

"Yes," the French aristocrat answered disdainfully. "That."

"Do you know what happened to Vivienne? She isn't going to pop up and—"

"No need to worry, my love." He stroked her hair. It seems Denis did marry the gentle Lady

Marguerite—who sensibly poisoned Vivienne and settled down to live happily with her new husband."

"Good for her," Diane replied.

"Denis got what he wanted, and I got what I wanted, which is a second chance with you by my side."

"So it all worked out." She gave him a puzzled look. "But why did you end up a musician?"

"Why not? I vaguely recall Jacques telling me it's the only thing I have talent for in this time if I really

wanted to retire from fighting. It suits my temperamental arrogance, don't you think?" He shook his head,

almost in disbelief. "All that really happened. And everything from this life, as well. Jacques is right," he

concluded. "He's good."

He kissed her again. When they were both breathless with desire, he said, "But you're better. You're

pure magic, Diane," he told her. "I remembered you the instant I saw you."

She giggled. "Yeah. Right."

"I'm being poetic. Appreciate it."

"Let's go somewhere," she answered, with a wicked gleam in her big, dark eyes, "and I'll show you

just how much I appreciate you."

"Make love?" he suggested. She nodded. He touched her cheek. "I want nothing better than to make

love to you tonight. And every night forever after. Then," he added with a teasing smile, "I want to watch

a tape of
Casablanca.
I've always wanted to see that movie."

She leaned her forehead against his chest and laughed until she was weak. Weak with love, and

desire, and happiness. His arms stayed around her, and she knew that was where they'd always be. "I

think I can arrange that," she told him. "This is, after all, the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

They began to walk away from the streetlight, away from the crowded cafe. The street was quiet,

empty but for them, several long semitrailer trucks and a bus parked along the curb.

Diane read the lettering on the door of one of the truck cabs, then she gave Simon an amused look. "Is

all that stuff really yours?"

He nodded. "Equipment, lights, what have you. For the Nine Dragons tour."

Diane chuckled. "Well, hon," she said as they walked off arm and arm into the night, "you never could

pack light."

THE END

SUSAN SIZEMORE
took the romance community by storm with her debut novel, Wings
of the

Storm,
which won the Golden Heart Award and was nominated by
Romantic
Times
for a Reviewers'

Choice Award. The Autumn Lord is her seventh hook and fifth time travel romance. Susan Sizemore

lives in St. Lotus Park, Minnesota, where she writes full time.