TemptressofTime (20 page)

She tensed until she feared she’d stay that way for the rest
of her life. Walker’s warm hand stroked up and down her back, his heat seeping
from his body to hers. Her muscles relaxed a tiny bit.

“I don’t want to talk about last night,” she told him. After
Adrian proclaiming Jason
one of us
, she was uncertain she wanted to know
what
one of us
was. Okay, the coward had reappeared, but at this point
she’d take cowardice over more shocking truths. Tomorrow or the day after she
might feel ready to hear more.
Might.

“Then we shan’t.”

“What shall we talk about then?” Sulky. Mercy, she abhorred
sounding sulky.

“I don’t know. Your favorite color?”

“Only one?” His chin rested on the crown of her head and she
felt him nod. “All shades of red.”

His laugh vibrated down her body, making her smile. Had she
ever felt this contentment? Not that she could remember.

“What’s
your
favorite color?” she asked.

“Whatever color you are wearing.”

She tugged on a strand of his silky black hair. “I’m
serious.”

“As am I. Favorite food?”

“Chocolate.”

“Chocolate is not a food,
per se
.” He sounded as if
he would lecture her about nutrition.

Not in the mood for lectures of any kind, she said, “What is
it then?”

“A state of mind,” he replied, taking the rest of her heart.
“Feel like celebrating? Eat strawberries dipped in chocolate.”

Giggling, she said in her haughtiest tone, “I prefer
bananas.” Somehow her index finger wiggled between the laces on his shirt.
Tracing little whorls in his chest hair, she went on. “In truth, there is only
one fruit I don’t first dip in chocolate.”

“So many as one?”

“Uh-huh. Peaches are best macerated in sparkling burgundy,”
she told him in a scholarly manner. “And then I dip them in chocolate.” Had
vintners produced sparkling burgundy yet? Did those kinds of details matter
anymore, now that the men had admitted… Nothing. She was content to leave it at
that—for now, at least.

“And if you feel sad? Eat a piece of chocolate,” he
counseled once they finished laughing.

“Only a piece? Horrors! When I’m very sad I may eat an
entire pound.”

His chest stopped moving. Panic arrowed through her like a
bolt fired from a crossbow. An overreaction? Yes! One she couldn’t help. Was
that better—easier than no reaction at all?

Thinking too much. As usual.

Shoving at his shoulders, she pushed away until she could
see his face.

His expression oddly tender, he trailed his fingers over her
eyebrows then down her temple to her ear. “Are you very sad now?”

Since he sounded so serious, she considered her mood with
caution. “N-no.”

“Are you happy?”

“No. N-not exactly happy, but…” She sighed as she pressed
his warm hand to her cheek. “Not sad exactly, either.”

His smile bloomed in his eyes and on his lips at almost the same
instant. Thumping his chest, she struggled to stand, but found herself sprawled
over him, her forearms braced on his shoulders, her thighs held captive between
his. His erection hardened against her mons, making it almost impossible for
her to breathe. But not so impossible she missed the scent of chocolate coming
closer and closer until the bonbon came to rest halfway between her nostrils
and her mouth. Tantalizingly out of reach unless Walker moved it near enough
for her to take it from his fingers.

“Would this help to make you happier?” Again he sounded
somber, but his eyes brimmed with merriment and his lips… His lips now curled
halfway around
her
bonbon. The only way for her to get it was to lunge
and bite.

Chocolate, cherry and Walker’s unique flavor exploded over
her tongue.

Sometime later—how much later she couldn’t begin to say—they
eased apart. He toyed with a lock of her hair, his elegant fingers rubbing as
if he’d never felt anything quite like it. And all the while, his gaze never
left her face.

Unable to figure out what he was thinking, uncomfortable
with the sensual energy that crackled between them, she said, “I’m not going—”

“To bed me,” he provided with a wicked smile that must have
tempted ingénues and sophisticates all over London, at every coaching inn
between the city and his estates, and over half the continent. He glanced down,
a rather obvious invitation for her to notice where they lay. “I do not
consider this a bed.”

“While
I
do,” she countered, propping her arms on his
chest, resting her chin on her laced fingers. “I think I’m ready to talk about
last night and Lord Leveson—Jason’s—rather remarkable…accent.”

“While I am not.”

That end-of-discussion tone rankled. Since anger never
worked on him, she had to take a different path to her goal. “When might we
discuss the situation?”

Her hair still between his fingers, he rubbed it over his
chin. She heard and felt him inhale as if drawing in her scent. His stubble
rasped, making her touch her own cheeks and chin. Had Walker’s stubble marked
her?

Silly.
Even if it had, the beard-burn would fade—if
it hadn’t already. An odd sadness had her pulling away. A deeper sadness
followed when he made no attempt to hold her.

“When?” she whispered. She had no breath for more.

“Sunday.”

She pursed her lips and incredulity flared in her widening
eyes before her long, thick lashes swept down like a feathery yet impenetrable
curtain. Not the reaction Walker wanted, but not unexpected. She had reason to
resent all the men in her life and yet… He’d learned enough about her to know
she used acquiescence as a ploy to getting payback. Until now he and Adrian had
kept her off balance by shifting subjects. But this time and place were not of
his or Adrian’s choosing. Nor had they anticipated Jason Leveson’s intrusion
into the game.

Walker disliked surprises of any kind and had remained awake
most of last night, solely to prevent Jason’s persuading Diane into an act of
reckless folly.

She had paced to her dressing table and now turned toward
him, a wicked-sharp nail file with a sterling silver handle in her hand. A
secretive smile curved her lips as her gaze met his. He suspected she imagined
using the file to geld him. He wanted to laugh, but his testicles shrank,
drawing upward for protection. Willing his expression bland, he held her gaze.

After a long moment, her smile widened and, with a shrug,
she returned the file to its place. A shoehorn and matching buttonhook along
with a sterling silver topped crystal bowl completed the set. All engraved with
D de B
. Branded just as the embroidery on her handkerchiefs left no
doubt as to whom they belonged. Even her night rails and chemises bore her
initials, albeit unobtrusively intertwined with the lace ruffles adorning those
garments. He considered locating those hidden letters a challenge—one he feared
would go untested until she agreed to bed him again.

Did she know her gown hid nothing of her body? True, the
material covered her, but without corset or chemise underneath, he could see
the outline of her rosy nipples, the dark shadow of her pubic curls.

Why was it that knowing a woman wore little or nothing
beneath her clothing was almost as arousing as seeing her naked? In some ways,
‘twas even more arousing—at least until he had her naked, panting and willing
in his arms. With a mental shake, he brought his lustful thoughts to a more
manageable level. First, he had to lure her back to his side. He’d worry about
getting her out of her clothes later.

Retrieving his book from the floor, he employed a trick his
tutor had used to gain the attention of several rowdy boys. He muttered. “‘
Sir
Walter Elliot of Kellynch Hall…
’”

“Just when— What year is this?” she demanded when he firmed
his grip, preventing her from taking the book from his hands.

Goal one—bringing Diane to his side—achieved. Next, get her
to sit on the chaise. “Why is the year important?”

Slanting him a quelling look, she said in a toplofty voice,
“Because what you read is the opening of Jane Austen’s
Persuasion
.” His
quirked brow invited her to continue. “Published posthumously in 1817.”

“This is important, because?”

Growling, she plopped down on the chaise and wrenched the
leather bound volume from his loosened fingers. “Because from the first time we
met—sometime in the Middle Ages—I have never known exactly
when
we were.
I have a right to know and this book—unlike certain people who shall remain
nameless—will give me that information.” With a
so there!
nod, she
opened to the first page, turned several more with increasing panic in her eyes
and on her trembling fingers.

“There’s no copyright date!” she accused, her eyes blazing
as she slammed the book into his chest. “Why is there no copyright date?”

He risked a shrug. “How should I know? Perhaps there weren’t
copyrights in Miss Austen’s day.”

“Then how do we know when her books were published?”

“Would you care about copyrights if you knew the year?
When
we are now?”

“I might feel…somewhat relieved.” She nibbled her lower lip.
His body warmed and his shaft grew. “I would be exceedingly grateful if I knew
more about why we’ve been time traveling and how we can get home. If, in fact,
my time is yours.”

Ah, another change of tactics on her part. Even though he
had yet to tell her the date, her gratitude included stretching out at his side
and snuggling against him. Her delicate fingers inched between the ties on his
shirt and swirled his chest hairs. This time, however, she also tweaked his
nipples. Before she could cause him pain, he flattened his hand over hers.

“I thought kissing was as far as I could go,” he reminded
her, his voice deeper than normal and not all that steady.

“I…” The tip of her tongue swept her lips from corner to
corner. He stifled a groan. “I have no idea why this happens, but…when I touch
you I want so much more than just kisses. Without having intercourse, I mean.”

“We both know we can satisfy those needs in other ways.” He
suspected she was attempting to seduce him.
Attempting?
More like
succeeding—not that he would complain. Unless, of course, she blamed him for
trying to seduce her. Which he was, of course, by using her own desire against
her.

Her soft sigh pressed her breasts more firmly to his chest.
Her breath hitched. The hint of her arousal wafted to his nostrils, enticing
his shaft to rise. Looking down, he saw her eyes begin to glaze as she
relinquished a little more control. He brushed a kiss across her lips. When she
mated her tongue with his, he tasted a blend of Diane and chocolate.

“…fantasies?”

He returned to the moment with a start. She leaned back,
mischief lurking in her eyes and smile.

“You didn’t hear the question, did you?”

“Only the last word. And yes, I have fantasies about you.
Ones that involve more than driving my shaft into your pulsing cunt over and
over until I explode and you scream my name.”

She fanned her reddening face with the hand she’d had on his
chest. Capturing it, he guided it to his rigid erection and watched her eyes
widen and her breathing turn shallow.

“Did you have something particular in mind?” he said, his
tone serious.

Her blush deepened, leading him to believe she’d given the
matter a great deal of thought. Had, in fact, begun thinking about it before
they’d arrived in this era. Her take-charge behavior also made him think her
attitude had brought them here, to this time and place. Although women of this
era were severely constrained by fathers and husbands or other male relatives,
they had a little more freedom than in Diane’s previous lives. In this era,
however, a rich widow had even more freedom. Did she intend to take advantage
of that? Could he convince her not to misbehave? How? By threatening to have
Parliament rescind her title? And what would that do, except make her hate him?

“I…” As if needing to hide, she laid her head on his
shoulder, then drew a deep breath and blurted, “I have imagined you bringing
yourself pleasure.”

He wanted to laugh—not because what she’d said was funny,
but because she’d surprised him. And while their previous experiences had had a
certain wildness to them, her suggesting… “Me? Masturbating?”

“Well…yes.”

He thought for a long moment, aware of her growing
discomfort as seconds ticked by. She sat up. Her skin blanched, then flushed
rose pink. She tried to hold his gaze, but failed and looked over his shoulder
then at her hands. Alternately pleating her gown then stroking the pleats away,
she smoothed the fabric over her thighs with her fingers. Lacing them together,
she stilled.

“Never mind,” she said at last and started to rise.

Catching her hand, he drew her down once more. She turned
her face away, intending he supposed, to hide the depths of her embarrassment.

“Might I suggest a slightly different approach?”

She looked at him, then said, “You’re asking?”

“Well…yes.” His echoing her words made her laugh. As he’d
hoped, she relaxed a little.

“Will you disrobe?” she whispered.

“If you wish, yes.”

“Will I?” Softer still, her voice shook.

That surprising blush returned. For a twenty-first-century
woman who made her living writing about sex, she seemed too uninhibited to
blush. Then again, women blushed a lot in this time—or so it seemed to him.

“It seems fairer if we are both undressed,” he said at last.

After a brief hesitation, she nodded. “Will we kiss?”

“I hope so, but only if you want to.”

Arching one brow, her expression suspicious, she pursed her
lips. “You are behaving in a manner most unlike you.”