"Still here, love?" James prompted, giving her thighs a quick squeeze. He studied her, his eyes bright in the darkness. The slight tremble of his lips betrayed his puzzled amusement. The look in those eyes alone identified him, unmistakably, as the man from the portrait. Magda fought the urge to smooth the rest of his hair from his face. Though it made sense that she'd dream of this man, Magda couldn't recall ever having had such a vivid one. Post convulsive hallucination. She felt herself relax a little. Wake up now.
He cocked his brow as if to ask a question then appeared to think better of it. Despite continuing to stroke her legs with his thumbs, he seemed to be waiting for Magda to make the next move.
Wake up.
She couldn't bear the silence. "I know who you are," she blurted out.
His smile flared to life like a newly lit candle in the darkness. "But of course, love." He winked. "All the lasses do, don't they?"
"You're James Graham. This is a dream."
"Well."—he caressed her thighs in renewed earnest—"I'm glad you find it so agreeable."
"No, I mean…" She shook her head. Time to wake up now. The room was dark, but so detailed in the shadows. She was in too deep. Wake up. She shook her head again, vigorously this time.
"Where am I?" Panic intensified her voice, and she hopped off the bed in a daze. "Why can't I wake up?" It all felt too real to be a dream. Needles prickled the soles of her feet and up the backs of her legs. She slapped at her thighs, waited a moment, then pinched her arm hard.
Magda turned to him. "Wake me up," she demanded. "I don't belong here. Why can't I wake up?" She stomped her feet then paced a quick circle around the room. She froze. "This!" She ran to a painting hanging over his fireplace. It was the portrait. Her portrait, from the Met. And the man sitting on the bed behind her was clearly the subject, with the same dark eyes and the nose and the mussed brown hair. The blood leached from her hands and the crown of her head, leaving her fingertips like ice. Frantic, she reached up, slapping her hands over and over along the surface. But the canvas lacked the energy she'd sensed at the museum. It was room temperature now, simply a painting hanging on a wall.
Had she been kidnapped? Did someone break into the museum, steal the painting, and take her? Except Walter said that the man in the painting died in… what was it? Sometime in the seventeenth century?
"Wait." She stepped backward. "What's your name? Who are you?"
"Back to this, then?" He moved toward her, and she flinched. He looked around the room as if he could find some answer there, then focused back on her. "James, love," he said slowly. "Still James."
"James Graham?"
"Aye." He canted his head, a funny smile lighting his face. "The marquis?"
"The very one."
She tentatively leaned closer, craning her head to analyze him more closely in the candlelight. Could he be a descendant? A look-alike distant relative? "So, like a great-great- grandson of the real James Graham?"
"No." Patience and confusion elongated the word from his mouth. "Simply James Graham. The very first and only Marquis of Montrose, at your disposal." He gave her a lighthearted bow. "Look here, love," James soothed, "it appears you like to stroll about in your sleep, so—" he put his arm around her shoulder and began to steer her to his door—"why not sleepwalk back to your room and there'll be none the wiser."
"I have no room." The pounding of her heart weakened, growing as shallow as her panting breath, until it skittered into the light tap-tapping of a sharp steel nail in her chest. "No?" James retrieved a fresh taper, and the virgin wick crackled brightly and briefly as he touched it to his bedside candle. He looked her over. "You're truly frightened, aren't you?"
Magda clutched at the skirt of her sundress, nodding frantically. "I'm having a nightmare."
"Be calm, hen. No harm will come to you." He reached his hand out as if to touch her, then, hesitating, brought it back to his side. "What 's your name?"
"Magdalen… Magda," she hesitated, seeing his blank look. James tilted his head and gave a quick smile at the unusual name. "Well, Magda, I think it best that you rest here, and we'll sort you out with the dawn."
"But… but I am asleep already, aren't I?" Magda was trembling now, her limbs cold and bloodless.
"Aye, so you shall be." He steered her gently toward his bed.
She flinched away from him, her panic giving one last desperate flare. Anxiety was smothering her, pressing down on her chest. "I… I…"
"You… you,"—he smiled—"need to rest your head a wee." James wrapped his arm firmly about her waist and eased her down to sit at the edge.
"Come now, hen." There was something about his masculine voice, murmuring so gently in the dark; Magda felt herself unspooling, ready to lean into him. Adrenalin had barreled through her, leaving her exhausted, unsteady. This is how the nightmare ends, she thought with relief. This strange man had been on her mind before she collapsed, and now he'd come to her dream, calming the chattering of her thoughts, easing her back into a mindless sleep.
She felt the bed's warmth at her seat, luring her, and she turned, crawling like a willing child under the covers. They still held his heat, and her body gave a single violent shiver as she nuzzled down low. Only then did she realize how chilled she was, how the utter cold at her feet had turned into a bone- deep ache. Sleep. She'd wake from this. But first, sleep.
* * *
He stared at the pale foot peeking out from underneath the blanket and imagined what it would be like to slide up that long, smooth leg.