Autumn Lord

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.

******************

. . . 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.

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.

"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 El ie.

El ie 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.

******************

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."