"It is 1638, hen, with spring on the horizon."
"More like three hundred seventy years then," she stated, expressionless. "The painting. It felt… special. I couldn't keep my eyes from it."
She blushed fiercely at his self-satisfied nod.
"Aye, the artist did a fine job."
"Not like that," she added quickly. "It was powerful somehow. You seemed… alive" Her gaze roved from him to the portrait and back again. Her eyes pored over his features, then the fine brushwork that depicted the intensity of his gaze, yet still captured his easy informality. Feeling something tighten in her belly, she stumbled on quickly. "But it's different now. It's just a painting again." He bit at his lip, and Magda found herself abruptly looking away to concentrate on some vague point on the far wall. "'Twas one of the Black Friars who painted it," he said somberly.
She looked at him quizzically.
"Named so for their black robes, aye?" He explained, "They've a monastery in Montrose, and earn a modest income teaching, but mainly they're scholars of a sort, and a rare sight outside monastery walls."
Seeing Magda's interest, James bent a leg to sit more fully on the bed, and leaning in, continued, "They've a wee plot for tilling but, on occasion, circumstances require the men to beg in order to supplement their coffers. Though not a papist myself." he interjected quickly, "I'm drawn to men of letters and had the occasion to meet one of these friars, a fellow named Brother Lonan."
A wistful smile softened James's features as he continued. "He'd given me a livelier debate than I'd had in ages, at least without the benefit of ale to hand, and I saw fit to make a goodwill gesture, with some coins from my purse and a promise of goods from my cellar. 'Twas a small thing for me," he assured her, "and soon forgotten, but not so Brother Lonan.
"The man came round one evening—nearly frightened the staff to death"—James laughed, his handsome face breaking into an easy smile—"appearing in the dark as he did, like some tormented spirit in a black robe and bearing a tattered valise reeking of paints and oils.
"He insisted on repaying my kindness by painting my portrait, of all things. Claimed he was short on subjects yet long on time and would I do him the honor. Well, seeing fit to prolong our discussion, I agreed, and an invigorating debate it was."
Visibly moved, James was lost for a moment in thought. Abruptly, he asked, "But what has this to do with anything? The man seemed a canny artist, if a trifle dark," he grinned. "But certainly not capable of transporting lovely young lasses back in time to my very own bed. Had I known the means by which Black Friars express gratitude. I'd have tithed to the monastery years ago."
"Please be serious," she pleaded, her voice flat.
"Oh, but I am always serious, hen," he said with mock gravity. Cheerfully disregarding the daggers in her eyes, he asked, "You were telling me what role this strapping portrait played in your arrival?"
"Yes, well. I was cleaning it, and"—she hesitated—"well, I felt the need to touch it."
"To touch it?"
"Yes."
"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."
"But what" 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 whisp er, "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.