“Aye,” James responded gravely, “that is when you and I will talk of battles.”
He knew he’d puzzled his friend with his talk of Magda, but James couldn’t spare it a second thought. Tom, rightly, had steered them back to discussion of the king and their Covenant. Tom had not believed him and his story of Magda, likely never would believe him. And that was oddly acceptable to James.
He swirled his port, the liquid shimmering off the faceted crystal of his glass like a dark purple jewel. His hair was still damp from bathwater as scalding as he could bear. Stretching his legs out from the folds of his thick robe, he savored the languid feel of worked muscles beneath hot skin.
He knew the lass was special. Had known it the moment he’d seen her, leggy and spooked like some gorgeous chestnut filly. Her explanations defied reason, but so too did her strange and wonderful treasures. She claimed to be from the future, and he found he believed her. Enough, at least, to have had that devilish portrait stored away for everyone’s protection, despite the fact that her repeated touching of the thing had been futile.
The situation was a test for any true romantic, and James was nothing if not that. Poetic words and deeds inspired him, drove him, and James challenged himself as to why her extraordinary tale should not be so.
Besides, she was different from anyone he’d ever known. Other people rarely caught James off his guard; for another person to astonish him so was a rare joy. Indeed, with her charmingly tentative poise, she was a refreshing contrast to the usual society women. Rather than fill the air with empty chatter, Magda gave word to economically chosen remarks through lips full and swollen as if just kissed, and James found he’d likely believe her if she claimed to be Mary Queen of Scots returned from beyond to seek her vengeance.
He saw clear the tempest that lay dormant in her eyes, shimmering like lightning on the horizon, giving lie to her studied outward calm. James was sorely tempted to be the man who’d set spark to flint, releasing Magda from her precise and tightly coiled exterior.
Contrary to Tom’s cautioning against ambitious lasses in search of titled husbands, Magda seemed unimpressed by the luxury of her surroundings. Most other unmarried women of his acquaintance ingratiated themselves to James, cooing over his clothes, estate, furnishings— even his bloody horse wasn’t above notice. Although not a vain man, James couldn’t help but be aware that his affable nature and pleasant looks had opened many a door—not to mention a few petticoats—for him. But the things that elicited fawning titters from her female peers instead set Magda’s eyes to a slow burn: a playful pat on the rump, a flirtatious word, or a prolonged glance drew that pretty jaw of hers into an ill-tempered pique that drove James to distraction.
And what was he to do with her? He’d sent for Brother Lonan, knowing his duty was to help her find her way home, yet he found he did not enjoy entertaining that thought.
But James and his men had penned the National Covenant merely weeks ago, and it was an issue he felt with the utmost urgency. The king had to be stopped immediately from making an ill-informed decision that would impact every kirk in Scotland. Indeed, he seemed set to sabotage the very notion of religious freedom.
To stop the Covenanter momentum now would be like an incomplete thrust of the sword. There was no time to spare: James had a dispute to kindle with Charles, and that meant he’d a woman with whom he needed to dispense.
He gave his port one last swirl and tossed it back.
Political concerns could wait till the morrow.
He had some hours left to him yet, in which to contemplate the set of that pretty jaw.
Chapter 7
“Come in,” Magda said from her seat in the window. James had set her up for the time being in a small but sweetly cozy room of her own. Remaining in his room had clearly not been an option, even though he did make more than a few jokes at the prospect.
Restless and unable to sleep, she’d risen with the dawn and passed much of the morning perched on the cascade of small downy pillows that were piled in the window seat. The sun glimmered over the sea on the horizon, and Magda was comforted by the familiar pulse of the tides in the distance.
The sound of the seashore was such a simple thing, and yet she clung to it now. Its constancy reassured her, grounded her, gave her hope that she was still sane.
“You wee mouse, I thought I’d find you here!” Margaret swept into the room, and Magda thought how grateful she was that James had procured dresses for her in comfortable but lovely tartan wool patterns, rather than the more fashionable satin that his sister preferred, the constant rustling and crinkling of which only added to the impression that Margaret was formidable in both personality and size.
“Och,” Margaret grumbled, “my brother is far too lax for my tastes, particularly when it comes to the bonnier maids in his employ. ” She bustled over to the bed and began tugging sheets and thumping pillows. “I come to call on you for a spot of midmorning tea and I find you sitting here like some sort of bereft hound.” She added accusingly, “And I’ll wager you’ve not yet eaten.”
Magda shook her head, and not feeling particularly bereft or houndlike, she began to see why James was quick to bristle at his sister’s badgering.
“You poor lass! Without food,” Margaret gasped, as if missing breakfast was the greatest of deprivations. “My word.”
“I’ve been fine, really.” Magda straightened in her seat. “I haven’t been hungry at all.” She attempted to smile and failed, and not because of her hunger. Rather, Margaret’s entrance was a concrete reminder of Magda’s surreal and decidedly unsettling circumstances.
“And sitting here all by your lonesome,” she continued, mistaking the reasons for Magda’s dispirited mood. “Well, lass, you need to make your demands known.”
Peeking her head out the door, Margaret hollered, “You there! Yes. Hurry it up, girl.” She paused for a moment as, Magda was certain, some maid presumably scampered to attention as James’s sister demanded, “There’s a poor lass in here who’s not yet been fed. Where’s my brother? Who’s in charge here?” She rattled on without taking a breath, “No matter, no matter. Bring up a tray.” Magda heard timid murmuring outside the door, then, “Yes, please. And fetch some of that lemon curd as well.”
Turning to Magda, she asked, “Do you fancy some quince jam?”
“I-I’ve never had it.”
“You’ve not had quince?” Margaret looked at her in exaggerated puzzlement, then quickly ducked her head back out the door to shout, “And some of your quince jam. Oh, and I’d like bread enough to go round this time!”
She added in a mutter, “The way Cook metes out food. I say,” Margaret turned to her, voice imperious, addressing Magda as if she actually had a say in the matter, “you’ve to demand exactly what you want! Men know nothing of running a proper household. You don’t see cooks skimping on breads and jams when a woman’s about.
“Now!” With an elaborate swoosh of her shiny rose-colored skirts, Margaret settled herself on a small upholstered chair across from the window seat. She arranged the table between them in anticipation of the tea and, facing Magda with a broad smile, announced, “It seems we’ve to get ourselves acquainted!”
