“I see,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “You needed to touch the painting.”
“Yes.”
“Of me.”
“Yes,” she faltered.
He pressed, “What did you touch?”
“I told you,” she said. “I just touched it.”
“Butwhat,” James asked, leaning in close, “did you touch?”
“I . . .” She stumbled, feeling the blood creep into her cheeks. “I felt compelled to . . .”
"To?”
“To touch your face. Your face,” she added quickly, “in the painting. And when I did, something happened. It was like I fell through it and,” she finished quickly, “there you were, and well, here I am.”
“Here you are indeed,” he said, his voice low, eyes glittering as he studied her face. “I take it that is why you attempted to slap my portrait senseless upon your arrival?”
She nodded, willing the tears that blurred her vision not to fall.
James lifted his arm, hand poised over her cheek as if to cup it. Slowly tracing his finger along her jaw, he asked, his voice a husky whisper, “And what would you say if I told you I felt the need to touch your face now?”
“I-I,” she stuttered, feeling the heat from his palm like a caress. Lips parted, the rise and fall of her chest became an effort as she felt her breath mingle with the heat of James’s thumb, threatening to graze along her lower lip.
Staring at her mouth, his own lips moved ever so slightly, as if pondering a thought that hovered there. Magda’s gut felt suddenly hollow, as some long-neglected need fluttered to life in her core, tightening her breasts, speeding the pounding of her heart. “I-I’d say no.”
James’s laugh was a low and sultry rumble. “You, hen, are a delight indeed.” Clapping his hands to his thighs, he pulled back from Magda, seeming not to notice the embarrassment and fury waging battle on her face.
“I’ll send word for Lonan,” he said. “I’m still unable to fathom what’s transpired here, but a lengthy chat with the good Brother is in order.” He added sternly, “I’d know what dark arts he’s about, and why he’s chosen to play at them under my roof.”
He rose to leave. Still reeling from their exchange, Magda stopped him. “James,” she said through clenched teeth.
"Aye?”
“Will you please no longer refer to me as a barnyard animal? I have a name, and it’s Magda. Or Magdalen, if you prefer,” she heard herself amend, cursing her habit of resorting to politeness in even the most extreme of circumstances.
He flashed her a rakish grin and countered, “I’ll consider myself advised, hen.”
“I tell you, good man, this is different.” There was a muffled sound of dulled steel as James pulled his sword from its scabbard. “I am completely and utterly charmed.” Elbows at his waist, James held his practice sword poised in an easy stance, bobbing lightly on the balls of his feet.
“Aye,” Tom teased, “I’ve heard similar words fall from that mouth of yours before.” Taking his time to fit each finger into an elaborate pair of leather gauntlets, he warned, “You’ll have scandal at your door if you install a mystery lass in your bed.”
“She’s not in my bed,” James said dismissively. “Now, place that sword in your hand. You’ve delayed this moment long enough.”
“You know I prefer my pistol to all other weapons.”
“Aye, and your enemy prefers you out of gunpowder, standing dumbly with an unseasoned blade in hand. Now,” James commanded, “spar.”
Tom swept his blunted practice sword out, striking a tentative blow. Flicking his blade to the side, James easily deflected the other man’s strike.
“You must tell me who she is if I’m to leave you be. You’ve found an exotic princess from a foreign shore, perhaps?”
“No princesses, sorry to disappoint.” James swung his broadsword around slowly, giving his friend the chance for an easy block. “That’s the way,” he encouraged.
“Tom,” he added in a grave whisper, “she claims to be from the future.”
