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LENGTH: Borderline Mid-Novel
SENSUALITY: Spicy

ISBN: 978-1-60394-200-3

Cover art (c) Alex DeShanks 2008
ISBN 978-1-60394-151-8
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Trade Paperback ISBN 1-58608-
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Graff and Graff had trumped her every effort to beat them to the treasures of the past, but Elizabeth meant to beat them at their game.
Whatever she had to do, she meant to mark the treasure of Basing Castle for herself—even if it meant seducing the unnervingly irresistible Captain Peregrine Dalton to get to the treasure first and mark it.

She had a heart of stone. She hadn’t counted on lust and she certainly hadn’t counted on losing her heart to one of the defenders who’d died when
Cromwell crushed the Loyalist defenders of Basing Castle.

Rating: Spicy.

www.newconceptspublishing.com

Prologue

Basing House, England, 1645

The roborat poked its nose from a crevice in the priest’s hole. From this dark hiding place, the rat’s chrysillium eyes began searching the tower room for motion—left to right, up and down, grid by grid. A nanosecond later the rat’s voice recognition module detected a sound—three-point-two meters away—and identified it as human communication. The automatic focus mechanism took over and all sensors became operational.

The rat began recording.

During the next twenty-four hours the rat collected as much data as possible on the everyday life of seventeenth-century Basing Castle. Had it been spotted by any of the soldiers or Royalists in the castle, it would appear no different from any of the hundreds of other rats running through Basing’s walls and sewers.

Its on-site mission accomplished, the rat’s impervium microchips switched to Base Instinct Mode. Now all it had to do was survive to return to its home base in the twenty-first century. Tactile whisker sensors twitching, it slunk cautiously forward, intent on reaching its original transmission location in the priest’s hole without detection. Once there, as programmed, the rat positioned itself and waited with the patience of the machine it was.

Three minutes, eight-point-one-six seconds later, re-transmission began.

Three. Two. One. Zap. The rat disappeared from Basing castle and materialized on the far side of the pale green rilisium plastic of the Chronoarchaeological Society’s Time Travel Transmission Chamber. Within minutes the rat was sequestered in decontamination and connected for download.

"Good boy, Ratsputin." Dr. Bess Blackwell grinned as the status bar on her palm set surged forward. Ratsputin had collected even more information than she had hoped. Somewhere in it she would find what she was looking for—the treasure of Basing. It was as good as hers. And she would recover it.

"You won't beat me this time, Graffe and Graffe," she whispered.

Chapter One

Southhill, Virginia, 2059

Bess hitched up the drooping shoulder of her white terrycloth bathrobe and leaned forward until her nose was within a foot of the man’s crotch. A crotch encased in black velvet breeches. She couldn’t help but smile. The intimate close-up of Captain Dalton’s manhood had surprised her the first time she’d viewed Ratsputin's chronotape, but now she looked forward to the provocative opening shot. She’d studied the tape for the past seven months, learning the language, mannerisms, and lifestyle of Cromwellian England. The information she had learned—or hadn’t learned—could make or break her mission.

As she watched again for what seemed like the zillionth time, the crotch shot of black velvet breeches blurred as Ratsputin’s chrysillium eyes adjusted, bringing the entire man into focus—from a rat’s-eye point of view.

"Good evening, Captain Dalton. How fare you this fine summer eve?" Bess asked, mimicking the dialogue and inflection of the era.

Her facility with languages made this the easy part of her preparation. That, combined with her acting ability, honed in drama classes and with private instructors, would let her blend in with the occupants of Basing House. The rest would depend on luck. And she needed it. She was the only female time hopper in the business, the only woman whose heartlessness could match that of a man. She felt an obligation to show the world that a female could do the job as well as a male. So far, she hadn’t succeeded.

It wasn’t her fault she hadn’t yet time-marked an important artifact. Six times before, she'd prepped, laying out the big bucks for Ratsputin’s trips. She'd made the hops and placed her markers, only to find out later that she’d been beaten to the punch. Granted, Graffe and Graffe was the biggest and best company in the hopping business. That was some consolation, but not much. They wouldn’t beat her to Basing House. She would recover this treasure if it was the last thing she did. And she'd start the war with the Graffe brothers tonight.

She shot a quick glance at the clock in the corner of her monitor. Plenty of time to skim through the rest of the tape before getting ready. Settling back in her chair, she rested her chin on the heel of her hand and watched the scene playing out before her.

The Cavalier in black velvet, Peregrine Dalton, was a captain in the King’s garrison manning Basing House. He stood in the tower room facing a woman with soft white flesh oozing out of the bodice of her topaz gown.

Not once did Dalton’s gaze drop to the fluttering pulchritude of the woman’s décolletage. A true seventeenth-century gentleman he was, refusing to even glance at the bosom just inches away. Bess shook her head in silent admiration for Captain Dalton’s cool demeanor. He stood tall and straight, all brooding darkness, as if he’d already seen it all, done it all. A long ebony love lock curled around his forehead and fell to his shoulder, but it was his eyes that drew her focus. Deep-set beneath dark arching brows, they were light gray, the color of a quartz-flecked granite boulder. And just as hard and cold.

Hard. Hard and deliciously handsome.

Even in the ridiculous clothes of the era, he was a delight to look at. Her gaze traveled over his black velvet doublet, the linen shirt with its falling ruff, and the French cloak draped over one exceptionally broad shoulder.

No doubt about it, the guy was a hunk by any era’s standards. He probably got a dozen confessions of undying love every day, and dozens more offers of something more intimate. No wonder, with all that practice, he had the self-control to resist the pair of delights offered by the lady in topaz.

Bess looked more closely at the woman’s bosom. The length of her cleavage was so great that she looked as though she had four arms. Amazing. Apparently large boobs weren’t the attraction in the middle ages that they were today. Either that, or Dalton had the self-control of a saint.

She liked a man with self-control. Reminded her of herself. Cool. Calculating. Unflappable. Heartless. She winced involuntarily at the thought, and refocused her attention on the tape.

As she watched, the lady sidled closer and laid a lily-white hand on the front of Dalton’s black doublet. A scowl marred his cool impassivity. Oddly though, his frown didn’t match the coldness in his eyes. The frown was chilly. The eyes were Arctic ice.

Bess reached out and tapped the icon on the bottom of the screen, raising the volume.

"It is my deepest desire to stay by your side, Peregrine," the woman said huskily. "I love you with all my heart."

As she spoke, she clutched at the front of his doublet. Her other hand slid downward, out of sight.

Bess still grinned, even though she’d seen the scene hundreds of times before.

"Such words are not properly spoken between us, Lady Anne. I am not the man you believe me to be."

"That cannot be so, Peregrine. You are strong as the mightiest oak," Lady Anne whispered, "and I am but a willow, eager to bend to your will."

He calmly reached down and lifted her straying fingers back up between them.

"How can you be so cruel?" Her fingers tightened in the velvet covering his chest. "My heart breaks, Peregrine."

"What you ask is impossible. I am incapable of returning your affection."

Now that was interesting. The man couldn’t love. Bess grinned. Yeppers, she and the cold-hearted Captain Dalton had a lot in common.

Bess leaned closer to the screen as Lady Anne's eyes filled with tears and the speed of her breathing increased, making her bosom rise and fall rapidly.

"I cannot believe you incapable of love."

"My incapacity is not of the body, Lady Anne. Nor is it a lack in yourself." His gentle words didn't match the ice in his eyes. "I am not free to bestow either my affections or my body. Tender feelings are not within my power."

At that he dropped Lady Anne's hand and stepped back from her. "You must go now."

"But …."

"You dare not tarry at Basing. You must flee to safety with the others before the arrival of Cromwell’s forces."

"My heart breaks," she sobbed.

At that Dalton laid his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward the door.

Bess loved this part.

His granite eyes narrowed and his already deep voice lowered to a tone that could only be described as ominously final. Bess could feel its power even over the centuries.

"I tell you once again, and it shall be for the last time. I am not the man for you. It was wrong of you to come to my chamber. It is wrong of you to linger when I bid you leave. There can be nothing between us."

The defeated Lady Anne buried her face in her hands and sobbed as the heartless Dalton guided her toward the door.

How could the woman manage such shoulder-heaving sobs in that ridiculous gown? Bess knew that seventeenth-century gowns were so rigid that you could hardly breathe, let alone sob. She knew because she had worn one every day for the last two months.

She snorted. Unyielding bodices would be the least of her worries at Basing.

The chronotape cut to another part of the castle. Ratsputin’s sensors, programmed for only true rat-like behavior, had barred him from exposing himself to follow the departing couple. So he had stopped taping while he scurried through dark passages until his auditory sensors again detected the sound of human voices.

The next scene showed seven men seated around a table discussing the castle’s defenses. Captain Peregrine Dalton was one of them. The chrono-time hack showed it to be two hours after Lady Anne's visit to his room.

Bess drummed her fingers on the top of her desk.

Why hadn’t she found any mention of Captain Dalton in her research? She’d poured over the siege diary until its words swam in front of her eyes, but not once had his name appeared. Had he taken a musket ball in the guts? Escaped over the wall? Or had he been one of those buried alive?

She would soon find out. Tomorrow, in fact, when she hopped. Then she would likely come face-to-face with the cold-eyed, hard-hearted Captain Dalton, and when Cromwell attacked, she would learn his fate.

Still, it bothered the heck out of her that of all the people on the tape, Dalton showed up most often. Because of that, she felt like she knew him.

She shook her head vehemently. You do not know him. It was a whopping mistake to go some-when feeling as if you already knew someone. Familiarity could trigger a slip-up, making you act in a way you shouldn’t, and that could mean the difference between success and failure. Or, in the seventeenth century, life and death.

She flicked off the terminal.

Enough of that kind of thinking. He was just a man. She was as cold and heartless as he was. Maybe colder. So no problem. She wouldn't slip up with Captain Dalton or anyone else.