Swept Through Time - Time Travel Romance Box Set

by Tamara Gill

  “Well?” he asked, finding her ripe curves infinitely more appealing when wet and crushed to the length of him. “Is this the truth of it then? You keep refusing to bed me because your true intent is to off me?”

  “Off you?” With her sky blue eyes perilously wide, she did not appear the least bit murderous. “As in finally be rid of? Wouldn’t that be a relief! “

  He tightened his hold, molding her full breasts to his chest in the process. Even through the heavy wool of her sweater, her swollen peaks were only too obvious to a lover as experienced as he.

  “Ah...” Bearing his broadest plunderer’s grin, ignoring the rising pressure in his groin, he said, “Now I have reached the true crux of the matter. You have not been wanting to off me, but bed me.”

  “I have not!”

  “Do not bother trying denying it, wee one. I know of that which I speak.”

  “You obviously know nothing,” she put renewed vigor into her squirm. “Or else you’d know the extent to which I despise you!”

  “Aye...” It took only a fraction of his full energy to hold her firmly to his chest. “Which explains why your buds are once again calling. Begging to be taken into my mouth.”

  “Has anyone ever told you what a despicable rogue you are?”

  “More often than not, I have heard it from the women I have conquered.” Skimming his fingers through her sopping red curls, he added, “They tell me at the moment they cry out with womanly pleasure—when my manhood is deep within. They tell me with tears in their eyes—not tears of pain, but joy at having finally learned what it is like to be loved, not by pathetic infidels such as the husbands they had been forced to marry, but by a true and noble warrior like myself. A man as at home on the battlefield as in a bed.”

  At that, the fiery wench spat at his right eye, but her aim was off and the warm spittle landed on his cheek. Holding her firm with one hand, he calmly wiped her juices away with his other. “Wish to exchange your body’s essences, do you?”

  “No! I wish you to set me free.” This time when she pushed against him, he released his hold and the thrust of her own momentum sent her sailing to the rear of the tub, settling with a splash between his spread legs.

  “As you wish,” he said, struck with mirth. “Or perhaps this is what you have truly sought from the start—for you to be the aggressor.”

  “I thought I was attracted to you,” she said from between clenched teeth, nostrils flared. “But after this show of brute force, I see I was wrong.” Pushing herself from the tub with a great whoosh of water, she continued on with, “You’re, you’re—”

  “Come on,” he taunted, sitting upright. “Dazzle me with your worst tongue lashing. I can take it. Lord knows I have dealt with far more dangerous women than you.”

  Dripping bathwater across the room on her way to get a drying cloth, the wench asked, “Is that supposed to frighten me? Make me cower? Because I’ll tell you right now, I’m not afraid of you.”

  “You should be.” He rose too and, in the elevated height of the tub, he stood two heads taller than her.

  “Why?” she said, not even glancing his direction while patting her hair. “Because you’re bigger than me? Because you’re quite obviously off your rocker?”

  He stepped over the edge of the tub, slowly walking her way, uncaring of the rivers streaming down his chest and thighs, only caring about making her understand the type of man she was dealing with. For over a millennium, he had been trapped in that wretched bugger of a frog’s body and now that he was free, he damned well intended to stay that way—no matter the cost. No matter who stood in his path.

  First, last and always, he was the Prince of Gwyneddor. A future king. He owed his family a thousand years of debts for not being there at their time of need and he would damn well see those repaid.

  Standing before the brave wee wench, he tucked his hand beneath her chin, raising her gaze to lock with his own. “You should be afraid of me,” he said, voice lethally low, “for one simple reason.”

  “And that would be?” she asked, tone mocking.

  “Because as my now long-dead enemies would have you know, I am dangerous when crossed.”

  “Who said I was crossing you? I merely want you out of my cottage.”

  “As soon as you declare your eternal love, you shall have your wish.”

  “My love?” She made a quite disrespectful, not to mention unseemly, snort before wrenching free of his hold. “Believe you me, mister, that’s one thing you’ll never get.”

  “You should believe me, wench—all women are helpless to my appeal, which is why I was sentenced to such a fate.”

  “Oh, and what fate was that?” she asked with an­other laughing snort. “For all eternity acting like a royal jackass?”

  He scrunched his face. “While I am familiar with many of your modern terms, that particular one I am not.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It means you’re a jerk. A cad. A scoundrel—no...” Nibbling her lower lip, she added, “Scoundrel implies a redeeming appeal. You, sir, are just a plain, old garden-variety thug.”

  “I do not know that one, either.”

  “Trust me,” she turned her back on him and sloshed out of the room, “It’s not a good thing.”

  He followed her, finding her clutching the front of a squat dresser for balance while tugging off very wet, very orange socks. “Do you need assistance in removing your wet garments?”

  “No, thank you.” Ah, she had reverted to once again speaking from between clenched teeth.

  “Tis customary for a true gentleman to assist a lady in disrobing before climbing into their bed.”

  “But I’m not getting into my bed—just taking off these freakin’ wet socks.”

  “Freakin’. Another new word. This evening is turning out to be remarkably educational.”

  Her grin oozed malice. “So glad my misery could entertain you. Do you mind?” she asked, eyeing the pool of dripping water he stood in.

  “Mind what?”

  “Drying off?”

  “I nearly am.”

  “Well, as a special favor to me, your temporary landlady, please, finish the job.”

  “Forgive me, fair maiden,” he said with a deep bow. “In over a thousand years spent wet and unclothed, I am afraid I have grown quite accustomed to my current state.”

  “Wet and naked?” She lifted delicately arched eyebrows he had not previously noticed. They were a most unique shade of russet blond. Nicely done. The wench had grown twin arches of gold above her eyes purely for his amusement.

  “Ah, precisely,” he forced himself to look away.

  “What?” She glanced down at her own dripping mess.

  Had she not noticed the cloth’s seductive cling? How the drape of pumpkin-colored wool clung to her ample breasts with the skill of a lover’s hands? And how the blue leggings so many women of her time were fond of wearing hugged her buttocks, thighs and calves with such practiced skill that a tightening stirred his groin, threatening to reveal his innermost thoughts in a most inconvenient way?

  Taking deep breaths, he willed his member down.

  Weakness was not an option. And, at the moment, losing control of the very center of his power was not an advisable course.

  “Haven’t you ever seen a drowned rat?” she asked.

  He clenched his fists, envisioning a most unpleasant stinking and bloated rat he had encountered two days earlier at his pond. There, now he was back in control. After consuming an obscene quantity of air, he said, “I assure you, madam, you look anything but the part of a deceased rodent.”

  Her cheeks blushed charming pale pink that highlighted her freckles. Right then and there he vowed that, when he bedded her, he would kiss every one of those lovely marks. But, until then, he was back to envisioning his rat!

  “Um, thanks?” She looked down, then up, then finally tucked swirling damp curls behind her ears. “I think.”

  “You doubt my sincerity?”

&nb
sp; “Among other things.” She brought the drying cloth to her face, dabbing at a rivulet of water cascading down her cheek.

  “Please, allow me,” he crossed the short distance between them to take the drying cloth from her slim hands. Their fingers brushed, flushing her cheeks. Much as he had seen teenaged lovers do at the pond, he pressed the cloth to her damp hair.

  When she arched her head back, the simple motion highlighted the lyrical curve of her neck and Wolfe’s breath caught in his throat.

  How did the wench manage to be a spitfire one moment and temptress the next?

  “I appreciate your help.” She placed her hand atop his. “But I can manage.”

  Her warmth railed through him. What had the wench done? Never had he felt such a keen lack of control. Gently sliding her hands off of his, then resuming his entirely-too-pleasant task, he said, “I do not recall thinking you could not manage, only that I wished to sample the texture of your hair.”

  “Oh?”

  He skimmed the cloth down her spiraling tresses, stopping at their ends to transfer the excess water to the amazingly absorbent fabric. One fair day, maybe twenty or thirty years’ past, Wolfe had seen a lad doing this for his lady love and she had closed her eyes in simple pleasure. Was his wench doing that now?

  Standing behind her as he was, he saw her face nowhere but in his head and thus imagined her eyes closed, full lips softy parted, revealing the mere tip of her tongue.

  Having done all he could with her hair, he moved the cloth to her back, pressing it against her pleasingly plump behind in firm, yet gentle strokes. Her breath hitched and she once again placed her hands on him, only this time she spun around to face him.

  Lucy closed her eyes for an instant while dragging in a breath.

  Dear Lord!

  The man might turn out to be nothing more than an escapee from a London loony bin, but he sure had some potent moves! “I, um, think I should take it from here.”

  “Why? Have I done a poor job?”

  She swallowed hard. “No, it’s just that...”

  “You need to further remove your sodden things?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Given my current charitable state, I shall assist in that process as well.” When he reached for her, she wrapped her fingers round his wrist, gasping when the backside of his hand hotly grazed her belly’s chilled skin.

  “Really,” she assured, “I can do it.” To prove it, knowing full well the comfy sports bra she wore covered more than many of her friends’ skimpy bikinis, she took one safe step back, and then another, then gripped the sweater’s hem, giving it a good tug. Only with it wet and sucking at her skin as if the damned thing had lips, it barely budged! “Um...” Stuck with it half off, half on, she mortifyingly mumbled, “Do you think you might...”

  In a heartbeat he was there, sweeping it over her head, the backs of his hands hotly grazing the sides of her full breasts, shocking her even through her bra’s Lycra-cotton blend.

  “Whew,” he said upon finally tugging it over her head, “I was afraid you might be stricken dead from lack of air and then where would I be?”

  Back at the asylum?

  An apologetic wave washed through her. Even if she hadn’t spoken her thoughts aloud, they had still been cruel, especially in light of the fact that she very well could have suffocated in that sweater! Or at the very least suffered a nasty sprain! Maybe the lesson in this was that she should try a different course. Maybe help him instead of ridiculing him. “Where do you live?”

  “Live?” His eyebrows rose. “Why, here, of course. Not as in this house, but I’ve never ventured far from the kingdom of Gwyneddor.”

  Wrinkling her nose, unbuttoning her jeans, she said, “I meant before you came here.”

  “Are ye daft?” He eyed her now unzipped jeans and, she presumed, the hot pink vee of the cotton panties she’d just revealed.

  “No...” Yes! She eyed him eyeing her, then marched into the bathroom and closed the door. Raising her voice, she continued, “I’m concerned your family may be worried about you. You know, wondering where you are.”

  From the other side of the door, he said, “The time for them to wonder has long since passed.”

  “Meaning you’ve called?” Shimmying her jeans and panties off, she left them in a joined ball on the bathroom floor, then reached for her bra’s rear clasp. The ceremonial freeing of her breasts was always a high point in her day, but now especially so, after having been damp—or downright soaked—for most of the night.

  “That also would be hard to do.”

  Knowing he stood naked just on the other side of the door and she stood naked a mere twelve inches and strip of wood away from him, put a brave new spin on the word awkward. Searching, searching for something to put on, she grabbed a towel but, as luck would have it, it was fifteen sizes too small to wrap all the way around her strawberry creams.

  She flung the stupid rag, then began her search anew, thankfully sighting her terrycloth robe with its cottony cloud, half-moon and jumping cow motifs, forlornly hanging half-in, half-out of the hamper.

  Jerking it free, she slipped it on, knotting the matching belt at her waist. Only then did she notice the splotch of brown dribbles. Dried coffee from that morning when she’d scalded her tongue, then jumped and then dumped practically the whole cup over a poor cow. Her scalded left boob hurt just remembering the incident!

  She frowned.

  Good grief. It wasn’t that she particularly wanted to look cute for the prince or police—whom she’d be calling very soon—but on the other hand, who wanted to come off like a coffee-drizzling frump?

  “Are you quite all right in there?” he inquired. “If you find yourself in need of additional assistance, I would be only too pleased to help.”

  I’m sure you would!

  “I’m fine. Just, um, freshening up.” After giving herself a good conk on the head for yet again sounding like a cornball commercial, Lucy tucked her still damp hair behind her ears, licked her lips, took a nice, deep fortifying breath, then opened the bathroom door. “There,” she said. “That feels much better.”

  The prince all but snarled. “Ye look akin to a raw pile of fibers having yet to be spun.” Shaking his head while gripping her shoulders and spinning her about, he gave her a light shove back toward the bathroom. “No. This new ensemble simply will not do. Put the other back on. At least it had shape enough for a randy man to tell your sex.”

  “Now, look,” Lucy spun right back around. “I’ve had just about enough of what you will and will not do, and what you like and don’t like. Lest you’ve forgotten, you’re a guest in this house. A guest I wouldn’t mind tossing out on his egotistical ass!”

  “Arse! Finally, a downput I understand.” Appearing bored by her speech, he crossed his arms and quite blandly said, “When you have finished your tirade, kindly bring me refreshment before we are abed. It has been quite some time since I have taken nourishment and while I am renowned for my stamina, a man does need occasional sustenance to be at his peak performance.”

  “Certainly, your Majesty.” Grasping the sides of her robe, she lifted them as she curtsied. “Anything else you’ll be needin’, sir, before I toss you out on your royal behind?”

  “There is one thing,” his lips curved into a wickedly handsome grin.

  Lucy gulped, vowing that no matter how handsome he looked, the moment she got downstairs, she’d call for help. “And that would be?”

  “This.” Before she could even guess what his cryptic declaration might mean, he was showing her. Pulling her none too gently into his arms and settling his meaty hands about her waist, he lowered his mouth, at first crushingly, then softly, pliably, deliciously molding his lips to hers.

  While she knew it was madness to stand here in her bedroom kissing not only a stranger, but an out-of-his-mind naked stranger, Lucy melted in his arms. Much as she hated the thought of him being right about his magnetism, he was! She could no more resist him than a
pound of Godiva chocolate—speaking of which, was Mr. Godiva British and, if so, did the duke get a discount? And see? How could she think of the duke at a time like this? And she hadn’t even really thought of him, just had wondered who he knew so she could get ahold of some purely medicinal chocolate!

  Who was she kidding?

  With this guy kissing her, who needed chocolate?

  But then he was slipping his strong, massaging fingers under the fall of her damp hair and she fell powerless to think about anything other than the bold strokes of his tongue and how he tasted faintly, sweetly, of tomatoes, and how the cad must’ve eaten her leftover spaghetti, though she didn’t really care because it tasted much better on him than it ever had on her.

  “Ready, wee one?”

  Wee? He thought her wee?

  He was a great kisser and didn’t think she could stand to lose fifty pounds?

  Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner!

  “Mmm-hmm,” she said on a moan.

  As if she weighed no more than one of her beloved MoonPies, with excruciating gentleness, he lifted her into his arms, then kissed her again.

  This time, his kiss, given through the merest hint of a smile, was teasing and all at once soft yet hard, thrilling yet enchanting. How did he do it? Make her feel like she was the only woman in the world he’d ever been with?

  He deepened their union yet again, plundering her soft mouth with his bold tongue, stroking her with rhythm old as time. “Jesu, woman, I have waited so long.”

  Me, too... she almost whispered, his lips still hovering above hers, his unfathomably dark gaze holding her captive.

  Never releasing her stare, he backed her onto the dreamy cloud of her down comforter, lowering himself atop her. Then he was kissing her again. Kissing her hard-soft-dizzy, nuzzling the upper vee of her robe, raining still more kisses all along her collarbone and the base of her throat.

  She arched her neck to him, inviting him closer while at the same time instinctively lifting her hips to meet the hardness bearing down.