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  "I suggest you curb your saucy tongue, or I will curb it for you,” he told her, his tone ominously soft.

  Mallory quickly nodded, still trying to rub away the hurt from those two—merely two!—bare handed swats.

  "Be grateful for your illness, Madame, or I would give you the full measure of what you deserve!” He shoved away from her and stalked from the room. He slammed the door hard enough to rattle the bric-a-brac throughout the room.

  Mallory rolled immediately onto her side, yanking her nightgown up as she craned her neck to see the extent of the damage done her. The bright red print of his fingers and palm were rapidly darkening against her skin. She felt sorry for whoever was unfortunate enough to run across Varden next. The poor soul was bound to catch the brunt of an impressive amount of misplaced anger.

  Disturbed, afraid that she was now stuck in the Middle Ages with a vicious, wife-beating brute, she lay back against her pillows. So far, this second-chance life hadn't turned out the way she'd envisioned it. She still didn't have any good friends. She had a child, but no contact with him. And as for love, well ... She sighed again. A lifetime of spousal abuse was a horrible thing to contemplate.

  "You would do best not to displease him,” Grete said. Sometime during the argument, she had retired to her chair by the fire and was now picking out the stitches that attached the old lace to the Dowager's gown. She was smiling. “He is your staunchest defender, you know. It is only on his continued good graces that you remain at Cadhla at all."

  Immensely embarrassed that Grete would have been witness to her spanking, Mallory snapped peevishly, “Somehow I doubt you'd lose much sleep if Varden did throw me out."

  "No.” Grete's smile broadened, showing her teeth. “I cast my lot with the Dowager to have you banished several months ago."

  "The love in this room is overwhelming.” Mallory pulled the blankets up over her head and rolled onto her side, away from Grete. Folding her arms across her chest, she pouted.

  * * * *

  Varden stormed into the near empty dining hall, his face as dark as the shadow-covered walls. One look from him sent the servants, still clearing away the noonday meal, scrambling to get out of his way. He flung himself in a chair at the head of the table where Kenton was standing, grabbed a carving knife and vindictively stabbed a well-done boar haunch a half dozen times. The mutilation gave him no pleasure and he threw down the knife in disgust.

  "Let me guess,” Kenton said as he poured a little wine into a fresh cup and placed it in front of Varden. “Marital spat?"

  "It is an act,” Varden growled. “It has to be. God does not hold me in such high favor. He would not strike her mad. Me, yes; her, never."

  His ice blue glare swept the chamber. There were no tapestries to cover the naked stone walls. There were no flowers or vases, no senseless trinkets of art, no knick-knacks anywhere in sight. The only portrait was a ten-foot painting of his father, which hung high on the wall behind Varden's chair for all to see. Particularly Abigail, whom it seemed to nettle to no end. In all, the dining hall was neat and clean and sobering, with no signs of Claire anywhere within. Exactly as Varden preferred it.

  Pouring himself a glass, Kenton sat down next to Varden. Varden glared but the reprimand was completely lost on the somber valet. “Were I you, I would leave God to the clergy and let the affairs of the brain, working or not, worry themselves out. There is little you can do at this juncture, anyway."

  "I could have her locked away in a nice, dark cell in a nice, dark sanitarium where I need never see her again unless it pleased me to do so."

  "You would not do that."

  "Varlet,” Varden said, but his tone had lost its malice. “Leave me at least one pleasant fantasy."

  "The cold touch of reality is always preferable to pointless fantasy.” Stretching his long legs and crossing them, Kenton braced an elbow on the table while he studied his wine. “Unfortunately, your reality is that to imprison her would be to invite speculation. Equally unfortunate is the fact that speculation breeds rumor and gossip. Let one bone out of the closet and you might not be able to keep the skeleton from tumbling after. You would do as well to stand on a mountain top and proclaim to the world that the Duchess of Cadhla is a few figs shy of a fritter."

  Varden rubbed his face with both hands.

  In his calm and stoic manner, Kenton said, “Though I know you have been trying your best not to, think a moment about the babe. If you decide not to declare him illegitimate, then he will grow to be your heir. How will people regard him if it ever became public knowledge that his mother went insane at some point after his birth? Society will forever shun him, wondering when heredity's lightning will strike again. He would be mocked, not respected. That is a difficult position for any noble to command authority. You might as well give everything to Godfrey. Let that arrogant pup run it all to rot and ruin, and get it over with right now."

  Varden only grunted. Those were the least of his reasons. Despite everything she had done, it would be far easier to sever his own arm and lock it away. Certainly, it would be a lot less painful.

  Sighing, he looked at his hand. He had spanked her as hard as he dared—considering her current state of poor health—but although his palm did tingle a little, it had left no mark on his calloused skin. He didn't regret what he had done. In fact, he realized with a wry twist of his mouth, he probably should have paddled her backside a long time ago. Doing so might have prevented much of the hell he was suffering through now.

  Varden shook his head. “Protect your heart, my friend. Love is a curse I would not wish on anyone. Not even the bloody Scots."

  * * * *

  Mallory awoke the next morning to a bellow of commands from both in and outside the castle. Though Varden was hard on her, he was even harder on his men. They seemed to respect him for it. At the very least, no one complained. And surprisingly enough, it was her that everyone seemed to fear anyway.

  Every morning the chambermaid took great pains to sneak into Mallory's room without attracting any attention, fetch the chamber pot, and then sneak back out again. The first morning, Mallory had only asked her name and the poor girl had apologized rapidly and profusely and fled the room in hysterics. Now whenever she came, Mallory pretended to be asleep.

  Grete and Varden were the only ones that bothered themselves to speak to her. After suffering through three days of this exile, Mallory had finally had enough. Perhaps if her sore bottom had lasted three days instead of the bare ten minutes that she had felt the after affects of that slight spanking, Mallory might have reconsidered. But as it was, she was tired of staring at the same four walls and the portraits and tapestries that decorated them. She had become an expert at twiddling her thumbs and had sung every verse to every song she could think of, including television commercials.

  This was ridiculous! Here she was, living in a real, working English castle and so far, she hadn't even got out of bed. She should have been out exploring from the very first day! How many rooms did Cadhla have? How many servants were required to keep it running from day to day? Were there secret passages, or a dungeon? Excitement mingled with horror, tickling down her spine as she considered exploring a real dungeon and perhaps even finding someone imprisoned there: a dashing highwayman or black knight or daring spy caught stealing important secrets. Not that she would know what to do with them, should she indeed find someone there. She was practically a prisoner herself.

  And how far back in time had she traveled, anyway? Chamber pots and sylvan tapestries were not all that informative when one had to figure dates by them. Was there any point in trying to go home, to America? Or would she run headlong into a bunch of angry Indians? Where in England was she? And what about the food here? Thin broth and black bread hard enough to chip a tooth could hardly be called culinary delights, though Mallory's meals had religiously consisted of broth three times daily. For the sake of her stomach—if not her bottom—it was time to go exploring. Even if it—or Varden—killed he
r.

  And her first adventure, Mallory decided, was the discovery of who she was. There was a polished metal mirror framed in silver next to her armoire. All she had to do was walk over there.

  Despite three days of complete bed rest, her first attempt to stand left her feeling shaky and weak. She clung to the bedpost and waited for the initial dizziness to pass before staggering along the edge of the bed to the next post. The entire adventure lasted only a few minutes. She felt like a toddler, completely lacking in grace as she took her first steps. And she was still clinging to the bed, trying to catch her breath, when Grete, Doctor Wilcox and Varden walked in. Mallory was immediately shrieked at, yelled at, glared at, and promptly ordered to lie back down again.

  Mallory rebelled. “You can't make me!"

  She realized her mistake instantly when Varden's expression darkened. Before she could hobble to the next post, he caught her and lifted her into his arms. In an instant, he was seated at the edge of her bed and Mallory was suddenly face down across a very hard, very capable lap. While Doctor Wilcox and Grete looked on without protest, Varden laid four stinging smacks to her nightgown-clad backside. His hand hadn't softened since her last encounter with it, and it was all Mallory could do not to cry out as he dropped her, none too gently, back on her mound of pillows.

  As he jerked the blankets up to her chin, he said, “If you get up again, ill or not, witnesses or not, I will bare your bottom and spank you until you cannot sit for a week."

  Bottom stinging, her cheeks flushed hot with indignation, Mallory threw her better judgment aside with her blankets and shouted, “You can't do this to me! The Emancipation Proclamation gave me rights, dammit! Lincoln freed the slaves! Or at least, he will!"

  Varden glared at her, brawny arms folded across his chest, completely unmoved by her display of temper. “What Lincoln does in his own castle is his own bloody business. In this castle, mon âme, you will do as you are told, and stay in that bed."

  "It is too early for you to be up anyway,” Doctor Wilcox interrupted as he stepped between them. “You need time to rest and recover."

  "Rest?” Mallory said hotly. “Lying here like an invalid is what's left me like this!"

  "Fighting the midwife is what's left you like this,” Wilcox returned. “Your foolish rebellion nearly cost you your life."

  "It wasn't my rebellion!"

  "No, of course not,” Varden said. “It was Claire's. You are a twentieth-century dead woman."

  Her mouth falling open in shock, Mallory sat up a little straighter. “I thought you thought I was crazy. But you actually believed me!"

  Varden and the doctor exchanged identical dry looks.

  "I'm so sorry, Varden.” Mallory took his hand in both of hers, patting it sympathetically. “You have my deepest, most sincere sympathies for the loss of your wife. Even if you didn't like her. And I forgive you for spanking me just now—so long as you don't do it again. I know how difficult it must be for you to look at me, knowing she's gone. Maybe it would be better for everyone if I left just as soon as I'm well enough to travel."

  Varden removed his hand from her grasp. “Where do you intend to go?"

  "Someplace that hopefully hasn't heard of the Spanish Inquisition. When the truth gets out, I think I'll be prime kindling.” She smiled, but Varden didn't seem to find any humor in the comment. She cleared her throat. “Or I could go back to America and wait for the skyscrapers to go up. Yeah, that might be the better plan."

  "You get seasick just looking at a boat,” Varden said. “You haven't visited your parents once in the last seven years. If you can't bear a few days journey to France, why should I believe you're willing to take a month-long voyage to a godless, savage wilderness like America?"

  "It's not godless.” Mallory was affronted. “I was born there. It's my home!"

  "How strange. I always thought Cadhla was your home and, up until a few nights ago, you claimed France was."

  Mallory wilted slightly. “Oh, I see. For a moment, I thought you were actually talking to me."

  Varden folded his arms across his broad chest. “You are the one I am looking at. Who else would I be talking to?"

  "Claire.” Mallory didn't even try to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “I'm the twentieth-century dead woman, remember? I've never even been to France. Oh, and I take it all back! I don't forgive you at all!"

  She folded her hands across her chest and scowled.

  Varden's retort was interrupted by Doctor Wilcox, clearing his throat. “Perhaps we should get started, what hey?"

  Staring straight up at the ceiling, Mallory answered all of Robert's questions in short, single-word sentences. No, it did not hurt when he pressed lightly on her abdomen. Yes, the bleeding was steady but slight and, the doctor assured her, perfectly normal.

  It was obvious that Varden was going to keep her here, regardless of what she herself wanted. Although, if forced to be honest with herself and despite his brutish obedience tactics, Mallory really didn't want to leave, either. Aside from the fact that she had no place else to go, what would happen to the baby if she left? How could she abandon him to be cared for by people who held as much love for him as they did for her?

  Doctor Wilcox squeezed her hand. “Buck up, girl. You'll heal, eventually."

  His craggy face wrinkled in what might have been a smile if only Varden were not hovering over them both like a malevolent storm on the verge of eruption.

  "Are you going to keep me locked in this room for the rest of my life?” she finally asked.

  Varden considered her question seriously. “Yes, I think that would suit me very well."

  Mallory lay staring at the ceiling for several minutes after Varden and the doctor had gone. Then she threw the blankets aside and sat up again. She was going to reach that mirror if it killed her.

  Once more in her chair by the fire, Grete hardly looked up from the book she was reading. When Mallory slid her legs over the edge of the mattress, she said, “If you fall, I will not help you back into bed. And if His Grace should catch you..."

  Mallory knew exactly what he would do. She winced, tenderly touching her right bottom cheek. She could feel the aching heat of what he'd done right through her nightgown, but resolve had already steeled her spine.

  She got up twice more that day, but was content to wander around the bed, hobbling from post to post. The next morning she declined Grete's assistance with the chamber pot, and later, she managed a short jaunt from the bed to the chair by the fire. Sweat beaded her forehead and she was out of breath by the time she gingerly lowered herself into the chair next to Grete. As she rested, she admired her companion's handiwork with the Dowager's gown.

  "It looks beautiful.” Mallory felt the blue chiffon between her fingers. “Which is the new lace?"

  "The ruffles on the bodice. I still have to replace the hems, sleeves and collar."

  "The old lace looks fine to me. Why does she want it replaced?"

  Grete began to pick the stitches from the lace on one of the sleeves. “Because she wore it once."

  "Oh.” Mallory laughed.

  Grete half-smiled as well. Then she remembered whom she was smiling with and her frown returned full force.

  By the morning of the sixth day, Mallory was feeling much stronger. She was hardly in any condition to do jumping jacks, but she felt more than ready to face the mirror. She waited until Grete took the breakfast dishes back to the kitchen. Just in case Varden caught her again, she didn't want an audience. Then she slipped from the bed and took her first steps, slowly, carefully, like an old woman unsure of her balance, toward the mirror.

  Regardless of what else Claire had been, she had also been beautiful. She had the high cheekbones, elegant nose, and a tiny chin that poets considered ‘classical’ and wrote sonnets over. She hadn't escaped her freckles, but her eyes were green and her lips soft and full. Mallory touched them, traced their shape, and then grimaced to see her teeth. Not only did she have all of them, but they w
ere, also, white and reasonably straight. Mallory could hardly believe her luck! She was beautiful. She was actually beautiful! No more ugly duckling days. She fluttered her long eyelashes at her reflection and laughed. It took dying first, but finally she had become a swan.

  She twirled round in place and immediately grabbed the back of a nearby chair to keep from falling. She was weak and she was dizzy, but she was beautiful first. Long auburn hair hung down her back in a thick tangle of hopeless curls, the tips lightly brushing the rounding swells of her hips. Holding onto the chair, she bent and shook her hair wildly back and forth before flinging the whole molten mass back over her shoulders. With the application of a little hair spray, it might be fashionably shaggy. Perfect for a twentieth century woman at a KISS concert, but horribly unsuitable for—well, whenever she was.

  Being a bookworm had its merits. She knew she was somewhere in time between Robin Hood and the Three Musketeers. Varden had mentioned a queen. Possibly Elizabeth? She needed to narrow down the time line a bit.

  But first things first.

  Casting a quick glance at the door over her shoulder, Mallory pulled her nightgown up over her head and dropped it on the floor. She smoothed her hands down over her stomach and eyed her new body critically in the mirror. Admittedly, she did just have a baby, but she could stand to lose a few pounds off her stomach. Turning first one way and then the other, Mallory smoothed her hands down over her hips. Her legs were nice, her skin was smooth and soft, and being full of milk had done wonderful things to her breasts.

  Yes, Mallory smiled. She could definitely work with this.

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  Chapter Five

  Sitting at the foot of his bed, Varden groaned at the prospect of having to bend down to pull on his boots. He groaned as he leaned over to do it, and then again as he straightened back up. Some days it felt good to get up early, head for the Training Field, and wear himself out with hard, physical labor. There were times when he even looked forward to the aching muscles, the sweat and pain, the cuts and bruises that few of his men ever left the Field without.