“You’ll not change topics on me, James Graham,” Tom scolded, huffing down the hill after his friend. “What say you, bring the lass? To Aberdeen? Are you mad? You’re off to wage war on the”— his voice shifted into a panicked whisper—"on the king! And then there’s the Campbell to treat with.”
“Now you’re the one fashed, dear Tom.” James squatted, studying the curve of the ground. “I’ll not be waging a war, exactly. We’re just off to . . . capture the king’s attention.” He stood and deliberately drew his club back to swing. “Inspire him to a bit of sense, aye? If he’s a wise man, he’ll listen. Ha!” he shouted, finishing his stroke. “A braw shot!”
Not waiting for his companion, James was off again across the fairway.
“But . . . och! Confounded game!” Tom cursed, fumbling his shot in his haste. “I’ll ask you again, man,” he pressed. “What do you plan if the men of Aberdeen have no mind for protesting their king? ”
“Then, Tom,” he declared, stopping short to address his friend, “that is when you and I shall talk of war.
“As for Archibald Campbell,” James added, turning to amble leisurely toward his ball, “he’ll stand with us. The Campbell has vexed me in the past, and his days of mischief making are surely far from over. But mark me, he will place his name on our Covenant. ” He sneered. “That lout won’t miss an opportunity to wave his pistol about in a skirmish, anyone’s skirmish.”
“What of the lass, James? The only gentlewoman on the road with a troop of men! Is her presence truly necessary?”
“Aye,” James replied, “if I’m to get her back home, the secret lies with an errant friar who, I’m told, is to be found at the abbey in Aberdeen.”
Tom’s brow furrowed. “So you persist in this fantasy that she’s a traveler from another time?”
“Observe her for yourself, my good man.” James beamed. “For here comes my bonny riddle now.”
Magda was briskly making her way toward them across the green, with James’s sister Margaret trotting a few paces behind, her red face contorted with effort.
James’s blithe humor faded and sharpened into something more intent, his eyes narrowing in rapt attention to take in the sight of the approaching woman.
And a sight she was. Light glinted off Magda’s hair, flowing loose and smooth behind her like molten metal, the sun igniting the dark russet into bright sparks of copper and burnt orange.
An unexpected hunger drove to his core, and James wondered what it would be like to tangle his fingers in that red hair and bring her mouth to his. Would she maintain that veneer of propriety and stiffen in his arms? Or would she meld to him with a fire to match the challenge that burned bright in her green eyes?
She had hiked the hem of her tartan dress up to accommodate her long-legged stride, and her single-minded advance only exaggerated the lithely rigid line of her posture.
James wondered at what marvels Magda kept at bay. Certainly, he mused, the more unyielding the façade, the greater the passions it hid.
He exhaled sharply. They were soon leaving for Aberdeen, and he would keep these unbidden desires in check. He’d always been able to moderate the needs of the flesh, and now was not the time to find himself fixated on a woman.
Placing a smile on his face, he donned his own façade. The devil may care, James assured himself, but he would not.
“‘Winsome she was, as is a jolly colt,’” he recited, a sexy tease in his voice. “‘Long as a mast, and upright as a bolt.’”
“Excuse me?” Magda asked impatiently.
“‘Her mouth was as sweet as honeyed drinks,’” he added seductively, eyes lingering over Magda’s lips. "’Or—"”
“James!” Margaret reached the party in time to be scandalized by her younger brother’s impropriety. “You’ll not speak thusly!”
“What, dear sister, not a fan of Chaucer?” He winked rakishly at Magda.
Margaret merely stood there, jaw flapping wordlessly like a fish out of water.
“I’ve not had the pleasure,” Tom interjected, deflating the tension. Reaching his hand out to her, he said, “I am Thomas Sydserf, and you are clearly the lovely Magda.”
Looking a bit thrown off, she took his plump, damp hand and nodded.
“Though James has been remiss and neglected to inform me ofyoursurname.”
“I’ve been trying to extract her origins for the better part of an hour,” Margaret interrupted in a chiding voice.
“Oh. Yes, of course, I’m sorry.” She gave a small bob of her head to James’s sister. “It’s Deacon. Magdalen Deacon.”
Margaret stared, puzzled. “Is that an Irish name?”
