PASSION OUT OF TIME
Seattle writer Diane Teal had always thought that real life was much less interesting than movies. Of course she never expected that she would be transported back to medieval France without hope of returning home. Nor could she have known that in accepting the protection of the formidable Baron Simon de Argent, she would not only challenge his battle-weary cynicism, but would ignite his passion as well.
Treachery and tragedy had taught Simon to place duty before his own happiness. Honor demanded that he guard this unwelcome guest from thosie plotting against him. But he soon discovered that he had no power to resist Diane's cleverly defiant spirit—or control the breathtakingly fierce desire he felt when he took her in his arms.
******************
"ARE YOU REALLY FROM THE FUTURE ..."
. . . Simon asked, "or simply some exotic land? If Jacques accidentally snatched you from the other end of the Silk Road, you can make the journey back."
"I am not from China, or Cathay, or whatever you want to call it," Diane replied. "I was born and raised in the United States, in Seattle. In the twentieth century. You don't believe me do you?"
Simon glared at her, as if this was all her fault. "But you still belong somewhere," he persisted.
"Not in China." She paused. "Maybe not back in Seattle, even if I could get there." She had changed so much since meeting Simon. Her old life meant nothing to her.
He gave her one of those faint smiles that always melted her defensiveness. "You're going to try to tell me that you belong with me."
"I don't have to tell you. You already know we belong together."
He gave her a sharp shake of his head. It simply could not be.
HarperPaperbacks
Copyright 1996
The author would like the readers to know that she does not share Diane Teal's opinion of Percy Bysshe Shelley's abilities as a poet.
Prologue
France, Poitou region, 1173
"You 're sulking again, Simon."
Simon de Argent looked up over his steepled, long-fingered hands and said, "So I am, Jacques. How clever of you to notice. Try the wine, my friend," he added. The baron's voice was deep and rich, flavored with weariness, sadness, and, perhaps, a bit too much wine.
"I think I will."
Yves, Simon's servant, hurried forward with a silver ewer to serve the old man as he took a seat by the fire opposite the Baron of Marbeau. The room was dark but for the flames burning in the fireplace. Jacques had designed the fireplace himself and oversaw its construction in Simon's personal quarters. Jacques had spent his long life coming up with such clever notions for the family he served. He was a master of many arts, arcane and mundane alike. Some called him the greatest wizard of the time, and who was he to deny such claims when they were true? He didn't feel clever now, however, as he gazed at his melancholy friend.
"I miss your smile, Simon. I miss your laughter." He gestured toward the lute resting on a nearby table. "I miss your songs."
Simon was famous in the courts of Poitou and Aquitaine for his poetry and music. The ladies had flocked around him, and not just because he had a way with the lute and a flattering turn of phrase. Many a woman had broken her heart with wanting, but not having, Simon de Argent. Music and charm had both deserted the Lord of Marbeau of late. Perhaps what he needed was someone he wanted. Jacques didn't think Simon was very good at knowing how to want anything, or knowing how to get it if he did.
"You spend too much time alone."
"I have you," Simon replied. "I keep my bed warm as well," he added before Jacques could suggest a younger and more sensual companion than himself.
"Alys," the old man scoffed. "The woman's a—"
"I know what she is. I don't care."
"You care about nothing!" Jacques knew his shouted words were a lie. Simon cared too much. A storm raged outside, and thunder punctuated the old man's angry words. "You need something new to care for, that's all."
Simon picked up his silver winecup and twirled it between his hands. He did not seem perturbed by Jacques's words. "I'm too old to care."
Jacques laughed, a dry-as-bones dusty cackle. "I've seen seventy years, lad, to your thirty-four. I'm not old." He tapped his forehead. "Not in here, where it counts. You've a sound body, and hardly any silver that shows in that lion's mane of yours. I know very well that you got those lines around your eyes from laughter, and not from hard living. Don't you dare claim age as the cause of this drawn out, petulant mood of yours."
Simon raised one offended eyebrow. "Petulant? I?" Jacques nodded. Simon put the winecup back down, and turned his gaze to watch the fire. "Petulant?" he repeated. "I suppose I am. I don't care. Go to bed, Jacques," he added. "For I don't know who's more bored with this conversation, you or I."
"I am," Jacques answered. He drained his wine, grateful for its warmth, then stood. "I," he told his friend and patron, "have better things to occupy my time than to crawl under the covers and sleep my life away. I," he said, "have work to do."
Wild work, he added to himself as he left Simon de Argent's chamber. Jacques planned magical work, a spell to be performed while the storm was still strong. For it seemed only some great act of magic would find the cure for his friend's sore heart and soul.
CHAPTER 1
"Nice outfit, Teal. You going to a party?"
Diane hit the pause button on her VCR remote, freezing Carole Lombard in mid-quip to William Powell. She glanced out the window as a streak of lightning illuminated the darkness outside. "I'm supposed to, Ellie," she answered her roommate, who'd just come in from work. "I'd rather not. It's a wretched night and I've got movies to watch." She pointed at the pile of videotapes on the coffee table. "My editor asked for an article on feminism in 1930s screwball comedies."
"Oow, that sounds exciting." Ellie gave a wide yawn.
Diane made a face at Ellie's lack of respect for film history, but all she said in response was, "It's a living."
Ellie nodded. "What kind of party is it?"
"One my mom's giving for some singer."
Ellie's eyes lit up. She was far more impressed by Diane Teal's mother being an A&R rep for a record company than Diane was. "If you don't go, can I borrow your clothes and go in your place?"
The outfit in question consisted of a long, ivory silk broomstraw skirt, and a matching long-sleeved silk tunic. Diane had twisted her heavy black hair into a knot at the back of her head, held in place by jade-tipped hairsticks. She hadn't yet decided whether to accessorize this simple outfit with the teal-green shawl embroidered with silver Chinese dragons she had on the couch beside her. She thought a raincoat would probably be more practical considering the weather outside.
"September in Seattle," she said, "isn't supposed to be the rainy season. You wouldn't like him," she added to Ellie.
Ellie blinked innocently. "Who?"
"The singer. The guy Mom's giving the party for. He's some French folk singer. Does medieval ballads or something."
"Boring."
"My assessment, exactly. Richer than Pearl Jam, though," she added with a wry smile. "Mom wants me to meet him."
"Why?"
"He's single. Mom says he's gorgeous and charming and intelligent and that I could do worse. She expects me at eight." Diane did not want to go, even though she'd gone through the motions of dressing for a formal reception. She hated to disappoint her mother, but music was not her thing. Matchmaking was definitely not her thing. Movies were her thing. "I think I'll stay home and watch TV."
Ellie stretched. "I'm going to take a shower. Let me know if I can borrow the outfit," she added as she walked down the short hall toward the bathroom.
Diane sat back on the couch and pressed the button to start the tape once more. She sighed contentedly, happy to be alone with the films that were far more interesting to her than any people she'd ever met.
Her contentment was rattled a moment later by a loud clap of thunder that shook the whole building. The sound was so startling that she jumped to her feet in alarm.
"What the—"
She took a step toward the window. She hadn't seen any lightning flash, there had been no loud crackle of energy as the lightning bolt grounded itself nearby. There had only been the roar of the thunder. Maybe it wasn't thunder, she thought and went to the window.
"Maybe it was an explosion of some sort," she said as she peered into the darkness through the rain-obscured glass. "Maybe it was a car wre—"
The lightning bolt that came after the thunder hit her before she had a chance to finish.
"Not tonight, Alys," Simon said to the pretty girl who'd come in a few minutes after the old wizard left. She wore a heavy cloak, but he doubted she wore much beneath it. For all that he'd claimed to Jacques that he kept his bed well-warmed, he had no interest in tupping tonight. He might not have been averse to a bit of cuddling beneath warm furs on this stormy night, but Lady Alys was not the cuddling sort. She liked to do the deed and get on about her own business. Normally, Simon was more than agreeable to send her on her way, with perhaps a small present clutched in her greedy little hands.
She pouted at his words. Her full lips were made for such an expression. "You sent for me."
He hadn't, but he didn't bother to argue as Alys poured herself a cup of wine. Perhaps his steward had seen fit to instruct his mistress to attend him. Or, more likely, she was lying. She thought herself irresistible, with her green eyes, masses of red curls, and lush body. Simon took release from her often enough, but he was quite capable of resisting any woman's allure. He was no raw boy, after all.
He let a disapproving silence grow between them while she finished her wine. When she approached his chair and would have taken his hand, he stood. "No."
She let her cloak fall. As he'd guessed, she wore only her linen chemise beneath it. "I've seen it all before," he told her as she leaned against him. He put his hands on her shoulders. "Why aren't you content to take no for an answer tonight, my dear?"
She looked up at him, false tears gleaming in her lovely eyes. "You've grown tired of me, haven't you?"
He smiled, and ran a finger along the line of her jaw. "What makes you say that?"
She fluttered her lashes at him. A tear slid prettily down her cheek. He had to struggle against a cynical laugh at her obviousness. "You haven't sent for me all week," she told him. "I've missed your loving, my lord."
"I'm old," he said. "My needs are waning."
"You have the appetite of a bull, my lord," she protested. "A ram."
Her words were meant to flatter, but they left him wondering if his loveplay seemed like no more than the rutting of a mindless animal to the woman. He set her gently aside. "Not tonight," he said. "I'm tired." He picked up her cloak and settled it around her shoulders. "Go on, now."
She glared at him, her body stiff with sudden rage. "You are tired of me!" When he didn't answer, she threw a goblet at him. "There's someone else!"
He stepped out of the goblet's path. "No."
"Who is she? I'll kill the bitch!"
Alys would have thrown something else, but Simon grabbed her around the waist before she could snatch up another weapon. She screamed at him in fury, but within moments he had her securely wrapped in her heavy cloak. Then he scooped her up and deposited her unceremoniously on the landing outside his door.
"Calm down," he told her as she stared up at him in the light thrown by a wall sconce. "We'll talk tomorrow," he added, before he stepped back and slammed the thick door behind him.
Once he was alone he wasn't sure whether to sigh wearily or to laugh faintly at Alys's little scene. All he did know was that his reaction to both of their behavior was not a strong one. Pity. He almost missed the time when he was capable of feeling things deeply. Almost. He had learned that indifference was a better way to deal with the world than to rage against its inevitable injustice.
He decided on a faint laugh at his and the woman's farcical behavior, and went to settle in his chair. He considered drinking more wine, but ended up staring into the fire, conjuring up fanciful images in the dancing light.
It was peaceful. Restful. Until the explosion shattered the night.
Simon lifted his head in alarm as the sound roared through the castle. It left him stunned, shaken to his bones.
"Jacques!" he said as he stumbled to his feet, unable to hear the sound of his voice for the ringing in his ears.
Fear raced through him. So certain was he that his wizard friend was in danger, that he shed his indifference, grabbed a sword, and raced out of his quarters. Guards and servants were already gathered outside his door. He pushed his way through the press of bodies and raced up the stairs that led to Jacques's tower workroom.
"What hit me?"
"I'm afraid I did. Are you hurt?"
The voice was masculine, cracked with age. Diane had never heard it before. She didn't want to open her eyes. She was afraid of what she'd find when she did. She was lying down, and she hurt all over. And the man had said he'd hit her.
"Actually, I didn't hit you." He almost sounded like he'd read her mind. "It was the spell I sent to fetch you that might have injured you."
Spell. Magical spell? Right.
She opened her eyes and got unsteadily to her feet. The bearded old guy on the other side of the room looked more like George Carlin than he did Merlin. The room had stone walls. The stone room was round, like a tower. It was lit by torches stuck into metal brackets. The floor seemed to be covered in straw. There was no glass in the narrow window, and the howling roar of the storm was blowing in along with the rain. The room was full of tables and chests, all of them piled high with mysterious beakers and pots, leatherbound books, parchment scrolls, bunches of dried herbs, and unrecognizable lumps of stuff.
Diane closed her eyes again. Spell. Fetch. Injured. This was crazy. She refused to be calm about it. She looked at the old guy. "Who are you? Where am I?"
"Jacques of Pelliel. And you are?"
He sounded remarkably calm and polite. Diane was feeling less calm by the moment, and she hadn't been too calm to begin with. "Diane Teal," she told Jacques. "Where am I?" she repeated.
"I've never seen anyone like you before."
"I've never seen anyone like you, either. What is this place?"
"My workroom, of course."
It looked like the set of a medieval movie. "What happened to my apartment? How did I get here?"
"I told you. I brought you here. With magic. You have very pretty eyes."
He acted as though he'd never seen anyone with Asian features. "Yeah, sure. What's really going on? What am I doing here?" Her voice rose with growing hysteria. "Where is here? What happened? What—"
The wizard pointed at her and mumbled something. The words froze in her throat a moment before the man with the sword burst into the room.
The tip of the sword was pressed to her throat before she could draw another breath. It was cold against her skin, cold and sharp, but so was the expression in the swordsman's eyes. She wanted to scream, but no sound would come out. Even if she'd been able to make a sound, she thought the look in the man's eyes might have terrified her into silence. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with an arrogant, angular, hawk-nosed face, set in hard, angry lines.
"Are you all right, Jacques?" Simon asked.
"Of course, my friend," the old man answered. "Put your sword up, man. You're frightening the girl."
Girl? Was that what this stranger was? He flicked his gaze over her form. The creature had a woman's body, all right, outlined enticingly by the softly clinging pale fabric of her dress. A female, then, but many a demon had a woman's form. Simon backed the strange woman against the wall, directly beneath one of the torches, so he could study her in the light.
She stared back at him with dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her hair was thick and heavy, blacker than night. The shape of her face was wrong, the cheekbones too high, the color of her skin pale, but tinted with gold rather than a healthy rose. She was not like anyone he'd ever seen. He didn't know whether to be repelled, frightened, or intrigued. For, despite her strangeness, she wasn't exactly ugly. But, he reminded himself forcefully, the devil could show a pleasant face.
He kept the point of his sword poised against her long, slender throat as he asked, "What sort of creature is this? Did a demon come to you out of the storm?"
"No, I don't think so," Jacques answered in his inevitably calm way. "Her name's Diane."
"Did she cause the noise?"
"No, I did that."
"Where did she come from?"
"Excellent question."
"Jacques!"
Simon was more than a little annoyed to have rushed to his friend's rescue only to find that Jacques seemed to be perfectly all right. He might have rounded on the old man and demanded a full explanation, but he didn't dare turn from the creature he held at bay. For all that she looked soft and female and terrified, he was still warrior enough not to take any chances.
Jacques crossed the room and put a hand on Simon's shoulder. "She's harmless. Leave her alone. Go to bed. I'll explain all about her in the morning."
"Explain now."
The old man hesitated, then sighed. "She's a great storyteller. The finest storyteller ever born, this I swear," Jacques answered smoothly. "I sent for her from— Brittany. To entertain you. She arrived earlier today. She's exhausted, so I let her sleep in my quarters."
Simon had no doubt that the old man was lying, but he also knew that this tale was all he'd get until Jacques felt good and ready to speak the truth. "She doesn't look like she's from Brittany." Unless, of course, she had sprung out of one of the circles of fairy stones said to litter the landscape there.
"I never said she was Breton. I said she came from there." Jacques moved his hand from Simon's shoulder to press down on his sword arm. "Don't harm her. Stop frightening her. Go away."
Simon finally took his gaze off the girl and looked at his friend. He slowly lowered the sword. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl slump to her knees on the rushes. She was shaking with fear. He stepped back, not liking the sensation of having a woman cower at his feet.
He glanced down at her as he moved away, and noticed the design on the bluish-green cloth that had slipped down around her shoulders. Despite her fear, she looked at him with angry eyes when he snatched the cloth from her. He put his sword down on one of Jacques's littered tables, then shook out the length of heavy silk. He held it up near the torch to study the exquisitely worked design repeated three-across and three-down on the square cloth. The shape of the heraldic beast stitched in metallic thread was of a more elongated shape than he was used to, but familiar and recognizable nonetheless.
"The silver dragons of Marbeau."
Jacques squinted over his shoulder at the embroidery work. "And a finer working of your device I've never seen."
"Nor I," Simon conceded. He glared down at the girl. She was glaring back. "What is the meaning of this?"
"I commissioned it," Jacques answered, in the usual smooth-as-honey tone he used when he lied. "Diane brings you a new banner for your house."
"From Brittany?"
Jacques ignored his skepticism as he nodded. "From Brittany."
"Of course."
From Hong Kong, Diane thought. It's from Hong Kong!
But the words wouldn't come out of her mouth. No sound would come out, though she longed to tell these strange men that the scarf had been sent to her by her grandmother. That she distinctly remembered leaving it on the couch when she went to look out the window. That it was her property, and that she wanted it back. She also wanted to get out of there, but was shaking too hard to climb to her feet and run for it. She hated being a coward, but the situation, and the blond man with the sword, had her too shaken up to react in any other way.
The worst part was that she suddenly couldn't talk. They were talking about her, but she couldn't respond. She couldn't speak up for herself, couldn't refute a word the old man said, couldn't make the swordsman acknowledge her as a person rather than treat her like a thing he might decide to dispose of at any moment. She hated that. She hated him. She just couldn't tell him so.
Simon looked down at the woman once more as he folded the banner over his arm. "Thank you for the gift, then, Diane of Brittany." Her eyes flashed hatred at him for all that she was still trembling with fear. He wasn't sure what to do about either emotion, or why he should even want to do anything. Jacques had made it clear that the woman was not his concern. Good. He didn't want anything to be his concern.
So he retrieved his sword and walked to the door. The hour grew late. The storm still raged. Jacques was being enigmatic. He'd already had to deal with Alys. The excitement of coming to an unnecessary rescue was wearing off. Jacques would explain when he chose to. Besides, if the old man wanted to keep an unusual looking woman in his room, what business was it of his, just because he was master of the castle?
When Simon reached the doorway he said, "Since you're so eager for privacy I'll leave you alone to have your way with the creature." He slammed the door hard behind him as he left.
...
widez2