“James?”
She nodded, not about to be fooled. Surely James or Eduardo had found an actor to impersonate the figure in the painting. They were toying with her, since she’d insisted on bringing a masterpiece home. No doubt, they wanted to teach her a lesson and show her how dangerous it was to keep something so valuable in the apartment. Not that she was going to forgive them for the fright they’d given her. Still, she was calming down. At least until she registered the confusion on the man’s face, which looked genuine.
“James?” he said again.
Reminding herself that he was probably a professional actor, she vowed she wouldn’t get sucked into this. Pragmatically she said, “Or Eduardo. Maybe he hired you.”
“Nobody hired me,” the actor assured. “Believe you me, miss. I would have taken any job, since I’ve got but a few dollars in my pocket, leftover from last time I was here, back in the 1960s. I sojourned with a fellow—he went by the name of Julius Royle…. Well, anyway, miss, it’s quite a long story, as you can imagine. The main thing is, that witch Missus Llassa must have put a hex on me, just like Lucinda said.”
Julius Royle? Why did the name ring a bell? And Lucinda…well, she was reputed to have been Stede O’Flannery’s patroness and lover, according to Eduardo. “Stop it,” Tanya insisted. “The joke’s gone far enough. You scared me to death. I could have had a coronary. And your timing’s terrible.” She hadn’t needed to get this upset before Izzie’s opening, since she wanted to look poised when she saw Brad again. She was going to kill James. Or Eduardo. This joke exceeded the bounds of good taste.
Sadness welled in the actor’s eyes. “I wish all this ’twere a joke, miss. I figure I keep gettin’ stuck in my own painting because of the hex. The last time I popped out was in the 1960s like I said. That’s when I met Julius Royle, who took me under his wing.”
“Julius Royle?” she echoed, now realizing why the name was familiar. She’d read about him. He was an old-monied heir who’d lived in the Village, on the fringes of the bohemian art scene, and he was reputed to have gone crazy in the sixties. His family had him committed. “This whole thing’s getting stranger by the minute,” she forced herself to say.
“I popped out once in the fifties, too,” he added helpfully. “The 1950s, I mean. I was cramped up somethin’ terrible, locked inside a crate when it happened. I’ve got no bloody idea why—”
Popped out? What was he talking about? Her long-suffering look stopped his chatter. He was a major stud, yes. Probably not dangerous, she decided. And she was absolutely certain James and Eduardo had hired him. Why else would the spitting image of the man in the picture be inside the shop? Ah. That was why the alarm hadn’t sounded, too. James had given the man a key. Once she called his bluff, he’d leave and she could dress for Izzie’s opening.
“Wait here,” Tanya said simply. Pivoting, she strode to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Instead of heeding her, he followed, so he was right behind her when she reached her bedside table, switched on the lamp and stared at the painting.
He wasn’t in it.
“He’s gone,” she whispered, slack-jawed. She stared at the leaves that shined down like sunbursts on the grassy clearing, piercing the surreal mist that looked like fairy dust. The blonde was still racing forward, his musket raised. But his target had vanished.
She stepped close enough to reach out a finger and trace where the dark figure had been, her knees weakening. She felt a quick pang of hunger, reminding her she hadn’t eaten and her head swam. Everything faded to gray, although her eyes were open. She forced them open wider, but suddenly, she saw nothing at all. “This can’t be happening,” she stated in protest.
And then everything went black. In the instant before she fainted, she heard him mutter, “Sweet Betsy Ross. Not this again.”
“THIS IS AN EXACT REPEAT of what happened with Lucinda right before the duel,” Stede muttered, feeling forced to scoop the wench into his arms and carry her to bed. Using a free hand, he flung back the covers. Judging by the beating she’d given him, this chit was strong, but she was, thankfully, as light as a feather.
Sitting beside her, he released some buttons of her nightshirt. Not that it was restrictive. Nor did she wear a proper corset. Very little of her was covered, in fact. Still, it was better if a woman’s chest met with open air when she swooned. Men had been preaching that bit of common wisdom since time immemorial. Only a cynic would say it was because they sought excuses for undressing vulnerable females. “Besides, as Poor Richard always said,” Stede murmured, “‘The only ones ill-clothed are those bare of virtue.’” And this woman had plenty of virtues, as far as Stede was concerned.
Still, he’d best be careful. Already, she’d cried rape. And as pretty as she was, she was sure to have plenty of male protectors, just as she’d claimed. He shot a worried glance toward the door, hoping Eduardo, James, or other suitors didn’t choose tonight to come calling. Then he glanced at her again, steeling himself against the vision of creamy skin that looked as if it had never seen sunlight. She had a dusting of eyebrows and lashes, and heaving bosoms.
Just looking at her made his President Washington stir. He’d been as horny as a rooster downstairs, too. The way she’d writhed beneath him had been more than bothersome. He wasn’t proud of his lack of restraint, but he’d nearly climaxed. There was no helping it. It had been too long since he’d last been satisfied. Now he knew he’d go crazy if he didn’t have proper relations soon. With her or somebody else, he didn’t care who. A faint smile played on his lips. At least this meant Missus Llassa’s spell probably hadn’t affected his ability to perform. And that had been his greatest worry.
“Now, let’s see where she put her salts.”
He headed for the kitchen area, where he figured she kept supplies. Probably, she was some sort of serving wench by day, judging by the garret. And a very good painter, he realized, glancing at the works. As the scents of oil and varnish knifed into his lungs, he felt the first surge of hope he’d experienced in quite some time. Centuries, in fact. Vague memories stirred inside him, too. Images as jumbled as those she painted were coming back to him as he rifled through her cabinets.
Being consigned to the horrifying darkness of the painting was strange, indeed. Like living in a netherworld of shadows. Not really living, but not dead, either. Even in his half-sleep, he picked up information from the contraption they called a television. And he could see things, too. Countless images whirled in his mind. He was sure he’d passed centuries in a dusty attic. Yes…it was like he’d wanted to sneeze for a hundred years. He remembered Julius Royle, and wondered if the man was still living. How Stede would love to see his friend again!
Suddenly he inhaled sharply. He remembered more now. Aye…he was watching the woman paint. She’d stopped, sent him an inviting glance over her shoulder, then twitched her backside as if for the benefit of his pleasure. After that, she’d put strange, tiny gloves onto her fingertips…gloves very unlike the type ladies wore to dances. They didn’t even cover her whole hands. Then she’d begun to touch herself lasciviously. She’d lain on the bed naked, slightly parting her legs, so he could see everything….
Swift heat claimed his groin, making blood surge, but he couldn’t afford the feelings. He had to keep his mind keen. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to wind up as incapacitated as the woman in bed. And where would he be then?
“Back in my own painting,” he muttered. Who knew how much time he had before he was imprisoned once more? He had to spend every waking minute discovering the exact nature of Missus Llassa’s hex, so he could be set free. He had no time to court a wench. And if he did find time to spare, he’d be better off digging up the war booty he’d left on Manhattan Island and taking his gold to a pawn shop. Last time he was here, Julius Royle had explained that shopkeepers only took new greenbacks now. If he wound up stuck in his own painting again, it might as well be with a pocketful