Hidden Obsession

by Joanne Rock

  “The growing church frowned on the sexual practices of societies with ancient pagan roots, so we don’t have many records of private life from this time period since works of a corporeal nature were often burned or destroyed in the name of protecting the public.”

  “Censorship has been around a while.” Gritting his teeth against his impatience, Graham stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited for more.

  “Because of revisionist-style censorship, most of our remaining historical evidence is subversive and hints at a society that reveled in its sexuality even as it worked hard to keep their intimate practices behind closed doors.”

  “Okay.” Graham paced around another case containing polished wooden dildos. Wooden? “And my apologies for seeming dense, but I still don’t understand any hidden agenda for the knight resting his tired ass at the end of a long tournament day.”

  “Perfectly understandable.” The guard adjusted his navy-blue cap over wild gray hair escaping at all angles. “And we hope that reinforces our need for placing the paintings in strategic juxtaposition, to evoke the way medieval audiences would have viewed the work. You see how the knight setting aside his arms and making himself comfortable is right beside Madeline After Prayer in which a young woman undresses for bed?”

  Graham looked to the left at a richly detailed depiction of a woman sliding pearls from her hair, her clothes slipping off her shoulders.

  “Well, the story behind the painting is that the woman has said a prayer to dream of the man she will marry and her lover has hidden himself in her closet that night to make certain it is he who appears in her thoughts, since he plans to steal into bed with her after watching her undress.” The guard gave a sly smile. “The knight in the other painting hints at the unseen man hidden in this image, waiting within Madeline’s wardrobe.”

  “I see.” Finally. Although Graham sure as hell hoped the Guardians left more overt messages in their chain of crimes. “Can you tell me anything about this weapon?”

  Pointing to the halberd, he dragged his eyes off buxom young Madeline, an interesting combination of prayerful innocent and lush temptress. Not that Graham was here to gawk at women trapped in old canvas.

  “Perhaps, but if I may just point out one more thing you might be interested in here….”

  Graham followed the watchman’s finger as he pointed toward some of the details at the edge of Madeline’s image. He leaned in closer to look and then—

  Wham!

  The guard shoved him forward with surprising force, propelling him toward the painting. But instead of crashing into the wall of glass that protected all the artwork, Graham found himself hurtling forward through endless darkness until his mind slipped into an even blacker fog than the void through which he traveled.

  LINNET WELBORNE KICKED OFF her slipper with a thrust of one foot, sending the delicate velvet shoe hurtling into the wall on the other side of her bed, where it crashed and fell to the floor with a soft thud.

  Ripping off her other slipper, she shot it like an arrow from her fingertips, hitting her lyre with bull’s-eye accuracy and calling forth a discordant twang of the strings. She silently damned both velvet articles along with every other item of clothing her flap-mouthed, onion-eyed, fly-bitten betrothed had given her.

  She would have never worn a stitch of it if not for her beslubbering stepbrothers’ insistence this eve.

  “May I help you, my lady?” her maid called to her from the door, no doubt dismayed to find herself locked out of Linnet’s chamber for the night. But it served Edana right. Linnet had once been attended by a beloved nurse she’d known since childhood, but these days, her maid was the snippy little sister of the monster Linnet would one day wed.

  And “one day” seemed to be approaching too swiftly if reports of her betrothed’s return to England could be trusted.

  “No, thank you, Edana. I’m sure it will please you to be excused from my company this eve since you find it so loathsome.” Linnet knew she couldn’t lock out the spiteful wench the whole night since all her belongings were in here, but she could not allow the woman’s barbs to spew forth unchecked, either.

  “Do you think it wise to anger me, Linnet?” Edana’s words were no less sharp for the barrier of the oak door they passed through, all pretense of servitude vanished in an honest moment, since Edana had never felt one bit inclined to serve anyone but herself.

  “Perhaps you should ask yourself if you think it wise to anger me, Edana, since I am to have the ear of your brother when he returns from war.” God help her. “I think you will find him more kindly disposed to his wife’s wishes than you suspect.”

  She lied as smoothly as her morals would allow—which was actually a good deal—but Edana’s only response was a high bark of laughter before she retreated down the corridor away from Linnet’s door. At least Edana didn’t try to pretend that Linnet’s marriage would be a peaceful union the way her brothers did. All three of the elder Welborne males insisted Burke Kendrick would be a good husband to her because of his strength and might, or perhaps because of his wealth and prominence.

  But Linnet knew Kendrick’s mercilessness had brought him his coin along with the knights who swore fealty to him. Her stepbrothers had been easily persuaded to part with her when Kendrick had flashed a bit of gold beneath their noses and the promise of new lands.

  For their greed, Linnet would one day have to answer to the most brutal man in all of England. And no doubt, she’d have to answer to his insufferable sister as well.

  Fumbling with the laces of her gown, Linnet yanked on the ties until she’d freed enough room to step out of her surcoat, another costly gift from her betrothed.

  A beautiful body deserves to be beautifully displayed.

  Kendrick’s words echoed in her memory, his dark stare unnerving her that day he’d delivered trunk after trunk of new garments more worthy of her. Ha! The man had looked at her as if he’d prefer to see her naked and her stepbrothers had done naught to stop his roving hands. They’d been too busy estimating the cost of the early wedding gifts.

  Now, clad in her own undergarments as she readied the chamber for bed, Linnet prayed she would not be visited by more dream visions of her future with him. Nay, she’d rather escape into the more fanciful visions she’d been having lately—images filled with wanton encounters involving a strange man she’d never seen.

  Foolishness, surely. But far more pleasant than her real life. She swallowed the burning sensation in the back of her throat at the idea of marriage to a man rumored to have an insatiable appetite for virgins in his bed. Half the serving women at Kendrick Keep had been initiated by him. Even Edana admitted as much.

  So, Linnet wondered as she pulled back the bed linens, how would the brute maintain interest in a marriage that would provide him with a virgin only one night?

  She did not care about his interest half so much as she cared about protecting her legitimate children from the avarice of a proliferation of her husband’s bastards. She would run anywhere from this marriage—gladly forsake every stupid velvet slipper and golden bauble for her freedom. But Kendrick and her stepbrothers had taken pains to ensure her isolation at her eldest brother’s stronghold on the southern coast.

  Escape was impossible.

  Pulling the strands of smooth pearls from her hair, Linnet was about to slide beneath her sheets when a rustling noise sounded on the far side of her room. Surely she was full of foolish fancy after brooding about Kendrick, but she could not help the peculiar notion that a man’s eyes followed her once again.

  2

  IF GRAHAM WAS DREAMING, he’d rather not wake up just now.

  As it was, he cursed himself for the small movement of his foot that halted the gorgeous fantasy female from taking off the rest of her clothes. She stood motionless for a long moment before charging toward the closet where he seemed to hide out of her view. He watched her through a cutout in the wood, a design emblem carved out at eye level.

  The dream m
ade perfect sense for the most part since he’d handily inserted himself right into the same voyeuristic situation as the unseen knight hidden in a wardrobe suggested by the museum painting. The bed, the loom at the foot of bed, the woman slipping out of her clothes—it was all here. Graham just wished he could connect how he’d gone from looking at an art exhibit to dreaming about it. Shouldn’t he be on duty right now? Damned if he could recall what he’d done on his shift after leaving the Getty Center. For that matter, his brain couldn’t seem to dredge up a memory of ever leaving the museum.

  “You cursed lazy cat.” The voluptuous vision squawked at a mangy black feline curled at the foot of her bed before plucking the thing off the covers and tossing it unceremoniously toward the closet. “I don’t keep you for your stingy company, you know. I expect you to at least keep my chamber free of rodents, do you hear?”

  The scruffy beast stretched long and then arched high, indifferent to the request. After peering about lazily, it took up a new position on its haunches, where it proceeded to lick one paw to swipe repeatedly over an ear.

  “Oh. Now that’s impressive.” The curvy blonde stomped closer and, although the tops of her breasts jiggled enticingly with the movement, Graham thought the dream seemed a bit too tame. His imagination usually generated more graphic scenarios, although he had to admit this lady’s unassisted jiggle beat the hell out of anything his ex had ever managed with a push-up bra.

  Perhaps if he woke himself and then fell back to sleep, he’d have better luck next time because he was more than ready to see the medieval maiden in an X-rated fairy tale. He pinched himself hard on the arm.

  Damn. That hurt.

  His arm stung and he was still staring at the blonde through the cutout shape of an equal-armed cross. A Crusader’s cross. The woman barreled closer, clearly angry at her cat and determined the animal should investigate the wardrobe where Graham stood. Why couldn’t he wake up and what the hell had happened at the Getty Center that he couldn’t remember anything after the guard had…pushed him?

  “Honestly, Sebastian, you are the most worthless creature to ever—” Her words halted as she swung open the door to the wardrobe and stood face-to-face with Graham.

  The perfect time for him to wake up. Only he still stood there, staring at her waist-length hair, smelling her clean, simple scent. He reached to touch her, ready to insert himself into the fantasy—so to speak—but the woman jumped back with a squeal, dropping the cat as she clamped a hand over her own mouth.

  The fear in her eyes rocked him. That kind of emotion was no illusion. The encounter bore no resemblance to any dream he’d ever had.

  “Scared you, did I?” Graham lifted his empty hands to assure her he was unarmed. “Sorry about that. I’m not sure how I ended up in there—That is—”

  “How did you get in here?” She removed her hand from her mouth, just far away enough to give her space to talk without opening up much potential for screaming.

  He’d really freaked her out. And she was beginning to do the same for him.

  Before he could answer her question, the woman dove for a small chest beside the wardrobe and came up holding a dagger. Her long hair swirled around her shoulders with the rapid movement, her ample chest heaving with the effort, but by now Graham could no longer enjoy the view. He was too stunned that he hadn’t been dreaming.

  “Answer me.” The woman spoke softly as she backed away from him, her dagger gripped expertly in one hand while she extended her other for balance.

  “You could whip the pants off Brendan Jameson.”

  Her technique was freaking perfect. Too bad she looked so serious about castrating him or Graham might have been able to appreciate all the finer points of her stance.

  God, he had to get his head out of dream mode and figure out what the hell had happened. Where was he?

  “What?” She snatched up her discarded dress in a moment of modesty and blew her battle-ready pose to fling fabric around herself.

  Amateur move.

  “Never mind. I was wrong.”

  He lunged in on his toes for the knife, knowing she would never be able to manage much footwork with the slippery, satiny stuff of her gown to trip her up. He squeezed her wrist just hard enough to force the release of the blade, but he hadn’t counted on a blow to the back of his head from her fist, her hand knocking aside the sword case he still wore strapped to his back.

  A string of curses ripped from his lips but, to his utter amazement, his sparring partner clamped her soft white hand—the same damn one she’d just clubbed him with—over his mouth to silence him.

  “Do you want to call forth every man-at-arms in the keep?” Her clipped accent wasn’t quite British and it wasn’t quite French, but something in between that Graham couldn’t identify.

  Where the hell was he?

  For one long moment, they knelt on the floor together, close enough to kiss but locked in struggle, and took each other’s measure. Graham became aware of each delicate fingertip cradling his cheek, the wild pulse of her body thumping through her hand just exactly where his lips touched her palm. Her skin smelled like roses. And for some dumb-ass reason, he decided to lick her to see what she tasted like.

  She flinched as if burned.

  “Do not—” She swiped her hand across her white…under-dress, for lack of a better word. Her gown had fallen to the floor again, forgotten in the struggle for her dagger, which now resided safely in the waist of his jeans. “Do not ever do that.”

  “What do you care if I call forth the whole castle, eh, damsel?” Graham couldn’t even believe he was having this conversation with a woman he didn’t know in a room he’d never seen, and—if she could be believed—in a medieval stronghold?

  Curious now, he rose to his feet and left her there on the floor to wriggle back into her clothes, since it seemed important to her to put the overdress on top of the under-dress. A damn lot of clothes. He hadn’t even copped much of a feel in the tussle for the knife thanks to all the layers of skirts and whatnot.

  Definitely a shame.

  Striding across the room to a high, narrow window, Graham peered out and half expected to see a Hollywood back lot or a darkened studio full of props and cameras. Instead, rolling green countryside spanned out as far as he could see. The scent of the ocean rode the wind on a warm summer breeze and he guessed the sea must be on the other side of the building. Too bad the richly dark soil and closely packed deciduous trees in the distance didn’t look much like the California coast.

  And…holy crap. The sun was setting on the wrong side, placing the body of water to the south instead of the west where it damn well should have been.

  “Where the hell am I?” He turned to the blond beauty wiggling into her clothes, her hips swaying in a hurried dance. “And who the hell are you?”

  “Vile beast.” She crossed her arms and presented him with a snooty look. “How dare you speak to me so foully in my chamber, in my home, as if you hadn’t been just gawking at my nakedness like a slag-bellied swine.”

  Graham ran a hand over his gut, half-scared what he’d find since his whole reality had shifted.

  “No slag here, lady. And if you think that white dress thing you’re wearing passes for nakedness, you must not have seen any beer commercials lately.” He offered her his hand. “I’m Graham Lawson, LAPD.”

  She stared at his hand with obvious disgust for all of two seconds before she busied herself with more gown straightening and smoothing so she wouldn’t have to touch him. What a piece of work.

  “Linnet of Welborne, as I’m sure you well know. This LAPD is your title?”

  “Feeling sort of rumpled with two dresses on, aren’t you?” He stared meaningfully at her restless fingers and dropped his hand to his side. “I’m with local law enforcement, but I’m a little cloudy about how I got here. You say you never saw me come into your chamber?”

  Something wasn’t adding up and he hated that he saw no sign of the museum guard, the painting
he’d been studying or any of the other Sex Through the Ages exhibits.

  “I would never remove my garments in a man’s presence. I had no idea you were hiding in the wardrobe.”

  The tone of her strange accent echoed in his ear with unnerving implications. When combined with other evidence like the stone walls of the room, the richly detailed tapestries, the exotic clothing this Linnet of Welborne wore and the view outside her window, Graham upgraded unnerving to unsettling as hell. He had a case to investigate and he couldn’t afford any practical jokes costing him valuable time.

  “Why don’t we just assume that I hit my head and don’t have a clue how I got here? Can you tell me where we are right now and—um—that is…what time period you’re showcasing with the dress-up clothes?”

  “Of all the folly-fallen, rump-fed foolishness—”

  “Can we cut the complaints and get to the information, please?”

  “You are in the private living quarters of Welborne Keep in the year of our Lord 1190. Pray, do not let me delay you if you wish to be on your way.”

  Holy—

  Either he’d fallen and hit his head hard enough to put himself in the craziest coma ever, or this Linnet was an incredible actress with an unlimited prop budget on her hands.

  Either of which were about as likely as the other stupid scenario that kept insinuating itself in Graham’s head.

  The old night watchman had shoved Graham right into that medieval painting and somehow propelled him backward in time over eight hundred years.

  However he looked at it, this was turning out to be a hell of a day. Deciding he’d just play it out until he could get a better handle on what was happening to him, he figured he’d explore the surroundings and interrogate Linnet until he found out what kind of game she played. With any luck, she was simply part of some bizarre living exhibit that was some crazy creative type’s idea of art. For now, Graham’s cop brain zeroed in on the one continuity item that didn’t make sense if Linnet of Welborne was really some long-ago medieval lady.