her voice.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“If you don’t know, I shall teach you. I’m told I’m
rather good at it.”
Oh, geez. She didn’t need this. What she needed
was a good, long nap—and a seat on H.G. Wells’ time
machine.
“Listen, I—”
Andrew kissed her, open mouth on open mouth. His
lips felt soft and warm, and when his tongue darted
between her lips, Judy felt a tremor of sexual
excitement. The heat in her belly flared when he began
nibbling her lips and his thumb gently stroked the line
of her jaw.
Oh, God. Her reaction to him went beyond anything
rational. It was worse, even, than her fleeting attraction
to Carla’s Lord Laycock. Was there something about the
Laycock bloodline that heated her blood? By all rights,
she should have been slipping into madness, wailing
and pulling her hair. Instead, this obnoxious boy in a
knight’s costume sparked a fire that could have melted
her insides, if she let it.
I am going insane, she decided. Yet there remained
something oddly comforting about Andrew’s attentions,
base as they were. Judy, however, had no intention of
giving in to him. Of all the women she knew, she was
the least likely to sleep with a man she’d just met.
Having never done so in the past, she did not propose to
do so now. Most certainly, she did not intend to sleep
with a ghostly stranger who’d been dead in his grave at
least 700 years!
That last idea made her head whirl. The impossible
events of that morning swam through her mind in a
blur of dizzying images. Judy lost her ability to make
any kind of choices, rational, determined, or otherwise.
She pulled away, leaned over the side of the bed, and
threw up noisily all over the floor.
“Jesu!” Andrew leaped to his feet. “How much did
you drink, woman? Shite.” He stomped toward the door
and pulled it open. “Bridget! Sally! Someone, come here
and clean up this room!”
He turned back to Judy, who peered at him from a
precarious angle—to her, he seemed to be standing on
his head.
“You may have put me off for the moment,” Andrew
conceded, “but there are many days and nights to come.
You’ll be mine yet.”
Hell, she’d never been anyone’s before, and Judy
didn’t expect to belong to anyone in the near future—or
past, she added perversely. She would certainly not
belong to a medieval knight who only wanted her for a
quickie.
“I’ve got more pride than that,” she mumbled to
herself before retching again most piteously.
Four
After falling into a restless sleep, Judy woke again
late in the afternoon with a heart-pounding start. For
the briefest moment, she thought she might be in a
Pullman car, because she found her bed enclosed by
draperies. But then all the events of the past eighteen
hours or so came back, and she felt sick. Not nauseous,
just miserable.
Dry mouth, headache. She had a hangover! And
when Judy’s stomach grumbled, she knew she was
starving as well. She’d have killed for a few aspirin, a
Virgin Mary, and some crisp, buttered toast.
Knowing there was little likelihood of satisfying her
cravings, she parted the curtains and climbed out of
bed, wincing as she pressed a palm to her throbbing
forehead. Looking around the room, she noticed details
that had escaped her when Lord Andrew Laycock had,
like some caveman, carried her up here. Now she saw
that the stone walls boasted a few decorative hangings
and the stone floor was strewn with grass. Not grass,
rushes. Yes, Carla had mentioned rushes just the other
day. And there was a window, a crude, uncovered opening
like those downstairs in the great hall. But this one
seemed considerably larger. Near it, in a small pit,
burned a woefully inadequate fire. Judy walked toward
it, warming her hands over the glowing coals.
Geez, hasn’t anyone thought of fireplaces yet, the sort
with chimneys?
Judy decided not, as she watched the smoke drift to
the window. She drifted in that direction herself, and,
leaning on the sill, stuck her head outside for a gulp of
fresh air.
The scene in the yard below amazed her. It appeared
that the protective walls surrounding the keep also
housed a village. She saw buildings, people, animals...it
looked very much like Wixcomb, at least the Wixcomb
she had visited that morning.
Was that rapping at her door? Judy whirled around
just as a voice beyond called, “Milady?”
Am I “milady?” Judy didn’t know, so she didn’t
respond. Yet the door opened, and a girl, probably in her
late teens, entered carrying a covered tray.
“Milady!” she said, seeing Judy at the window. “You
did not answer. I thought you still asleep.”
“I just woke up.”
“Lord Andrew said you would be waking soon. He
ordered these victuals brought to you.” The girl set the
tray down on a small, utilitarian table.
“Victuals?” Judy repeated, peering at the wooden
platter cautiously.
“Aye.”
The servant whisked away the cloth, and Judy
quickly learned victuals meant food. Eagerly, she picked
up a small loaf of warm bread and broke off a piece. It
tasted as heavenly as it smelled.
“What’s that?” Judy asked as the girl poured amber
liquid into a goblet. The last thing Judy needed was more
wine.
“Beer.”
Beer! Something else with an alcohol content.
Judy shook her head. “Do you have anything that’s
not fermented? Juice, milk, water?”
“Oh, aye. Mulberry juice. Would that do, milady?”
“Yes. Please.”
The girl turned to leave. Judy stopped her. “Excuse
me. What’s your name?”
“Bridget.”
“Bridget, could I get a bath?” She looked down at her
sweater and gestured. “I’m really filthy.”
“A bath? Oh, aye. If you wish, Lady Judith. It’ll take
some while, though.”
“I don’t mind. I’ve got time on my hands.” About 800
years’ worth.
With a bob, the servant departed. Judy sat on a three-
legged stool and sampled the food on her...what was this?
Not a plate. She explored the container with her finger.
Bread! A hollowed-out bread crust. Not a bad idea.
Anybody who was really hungry could eat their dishes
for dessert.
Bridget returned carrying a cup of mulberry juice.
Two men, who carried a wooden tub between them,
followed. Though they seemed unperturbed crowding into
the small room, Judy felt uncomfortable with the crush
of bodies.
“Bridget,” she whispered, grabbing the girl’s sleeve.
Bridget frowned. Obviously, she did not understand.
To convey the urgency of her request, Judy clasped her
hands in front of her crotch and danced up and down.
“Oh!” Bridget grinned and giggled. “The jakes are in
the corner.”
“The jakes?”
“Aye. The garderobe,” she whispered and then
stepped through the doorway. When Judy followed, she
pointed to a distant corner at the end of the hallway.
“Thanks.” Judy headed down the corridor and slipped
into an odoriferous cubicle with a hole in the floor. Not
daring to peer into the shaft, she yanked her leggings
off one foot, straddled the hole, did what she had to do,
and pulled her pants back up. Damn! If only she’d had
her tote, she’d have had facial tissue to use for toilet
paper. Thank goodness the next item on her agenda
was a soak in a tub.
When Judy returned, Bridget announced her bath
ready and set out some folded linen rectangles she called
drying cloths. Judy thanked her again, but instead of
departing, the girl remained.
“Milady?” She looked at Judy questioningly.
“I’ll take my bath as soon as you leave.”
“I should assist you.”
“No, thank you. I’m quite capable of washing myself.”
Bridget looked doubtful. “Are you certain?”
“Very.”
With as disapproving an expression as a servant
dared make, Bridget left the bedroom again. Judy
promptly stripped off her clothes and climbed into the
tub.
The water felt heavenly, which briefly compensated
for her lack of toiletries. But the small tub forced her to
sit with her breasts squashed against her knees.
Exasperated, she soon resorted to swinging her legs over
the rim in order to dunk her head in the water, and by
that time the initial pleasure had all but faded.
While wetting her hair and wondering how clean
she could get it without shampoo, Judy heard the door
open and close. “Bridget,” she said, “I told you I can bathe
just fine on my own.”
“Is that what you call what you’re doing?” a
masculine voice inquired.
“You!” Judy hauled herself upright and brought her
feet back inside the tub. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking at you.” Andrew cocked an eyebrow.
Judy spied her tote in his hand. “You have my bag.
Please, give me my bag!”
“Why? Have you a magic wand in here or some other
device to work black magic on me and mine?”
“No. I have soap in there, and shampoo.”
“What is ‘shampoo?’”
“Soap for hair. Special soap for hair.”
Andrew approached the tub. “You may have your
satchel, but only if you give me something in return.”
She arched an eyebrow right back at him. “Fine.
What?”
He sauntered over to the bed, still carrying the tote,
and sat. As Judy watched, wide-eyed at his effrontery,
he tugged off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, and pulled
off his tunic. Wearing only hose and baggy drawers, he
crawled between the sheets and drew the covers up as
far as his waist. With a grin, he said, “Lie with me.”
“Bite me!”
Andrew’s smile vanished, and he flew off the bed.
With two strides, he reached Judy. “That did not sound
much like an invitation,” he observed, grabbing the tub’s
rim with both his hands. “You’d do well to remember I
am the master here.”
“I thought your father was master here. And after
him, your brother, Robin. And after him, your other
brother—”
“I am lord and master when they’re away, which I
remind you, woman, they are! Andrew of Laycock is the
only lord you need deal with. And...seek to please.”
He smiled again, like a snake, and touched her
cheek.
Judy drew her head back sharply. “You’re a bastard.”
“Nay, I am not. My parents were wed long years before
I entered the world.”
“I mean, you’re an ass! A real slime ball. You have
me alone, and you want to rape me!”
“Rape you? I’ve ne’er forced myself on any female,
not even the village wenches or the servants.” He
straightened and backed away a step, looking
righteously offended.
“You could have fooled me. We met only hours ago,
and you’re trying to get me into bed again. I’m not a
slut. And I’m no village girl or servant, either!”
Judy nearly added that she was an important literary
agent, intending to embellish her success and
reputation, until she realized how unimpressive that
bit of information would be to this medieval lord.
“Mayhap you are, mayhap you are not.” Andrew
leaned toward the tub, the muscles in his arms bulging
and those of his belly taut and rippling. With that slight
movement, he loomed over Judy threateningly. “One
thing for certain, you are no local wench. So if I swive
you ’til I’m tired of you and then break your long, slender
neck...” He traced the column of Judy’s throat with the
tip of his finger, and she shuddered. “...None would be
the wiser, eh? Consider that, wench, before you let loose
your sharp tongue on me again.”
He understood the situation perfectly. So did Judy.
But she refused to let Andrew intimidate her.
Recklessly, she stood and wrapped a towel around her
body as she rose from the water.
“You may as well kill me outright,” she informed
him. “‘Dispose’ of me is how your brother put it, didn’t
he? Because, Lord and Master Andrew of Laycock, you
are never going to have any kind of sex with me unless
I’m a corpse!”
She leapt out of the tub, splashing water. The soaked
lower hem of her drying cloth dripped as well. Ignoring
Andrew, she pulled her long sweater on over her head,
removing the towel only after she was modestly covered
and the sweater seriously damp. Then she reached for
her dirty leggings. If she could just get her clothes on,
Judy felt certain she could better deal with this brute
who looked, with his shirt off, too much like a calendar
pinup guy.
But she did not have the opportunity to pull on her
pants, because Andrew grabbed her from behind and
carried her, flailing and screeching, to the bed. Again,
he dumped her in the middle of it. Again, he climbed in
beside her.
“No! Stop! I won’t let you!”
Judy fought like a desperate, trapped animal. She
kicked and clawed and slapped. Vaguely, she noticed
that her sweater had ridden up, exposing her hips and
belly. But modesty was her last concern.
She half expected Andrew to beat her, perhaps knock
her unconscious, so that he could do whatever he wished
whether she gave in or not. But he never so much as
pinning her arms and throwing himself full atop her.
“I—can’t—breathe,” she gasped.
“Good. Then mayhap you’ll cease your caterwauling.”
“Why? Are you—afraid—the servants will overhear?”
He laughed. “I cannot imagine where you hail from,
wench. But here, servants fear their masters, not the
other way ‘round. Still, I have no taste for women who
claw and scream. I prefer willing wenches.”
Willing wenches. Dear God, this was playing out like
a bad movie! But it wasn’t a movie. It was...real.
Judy let her body go slack as she focussed on more
important matters. Being assaulted by a strange man,
by any man at all, she would normally deem extremely
important. But nothing about her current
circumstances were normal. Why, then, had she been
acting like they were? Anybody would have thought she
had merely been stranded without her belongings in
some resort hotel, the way she had preoccupied herself
with her hangover, getting a bath, and finding something
to eat. But an airline hadn’t lost her luggage. She had,
impossibly, traveled through time!
There was no point to fighting this man. Obviously,
he could overpower her. If she continued to resist, he
might beat her, even kill her. She couldn’t risk death
over a dubious degree of honor. It wasn’t as though she
were a virgin. And she needed time, time to find a way
home.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and
resigned herself to enduring the inevitable. When
Andrew used her body, he would not be violating Judy
Lambini. Judy Lambini did not exist. Tony and Nancy’s
baby girl wouldn’t be born for nearly 800 years. And in
just about 800 years, she’d be missing, having
disappeared in England on a Halloween night, the
presumed victim of foul play. The person in this draped
bed, the one under Andrew, was no one. They called her
Judith Lamb, but she had been born only hours ago, a
grown woman with no past, no future, and apparently,
not much of a present.
***
Andrew felt Judith go limp. He had expected her to
respond to the pressure of his hands and his lips—
earlier, he had felt her respond when she was in no
condition to be amorous. But now she lay beneath him,
lifeless as a sack of grain, so he rolled off her, feeling
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