“There’s no need to get pissy,” she said pissily. “I planned to say it; I just wanted to clear a few things up first—”
“Thr—”
“All right, I’m saying it! I’m saying it! Lialth bree che bree—”
“Bloody hell, wench, finally!”
* * *
7
“—Cian MacKeltar, drachme se-sidh!” Jessi finished breathlessly.
Heart hammering inside her chest, she eased back nervously, her gaze riveted to the mirror.
The silver went smoky and dark, boiling with shadows, like a doorway opening onto a storm. Then the black stain around the edges expanded, swallowing up the entire surface. Simultaneously, golden light blazed from within the engravings on the frame, painting fiery runes across her clothing, the furniture, the walls of the office. The disconcerting sensation of spatial distortion in the room increased to a nails-on-a-chalkboard degree, rasping over her nerve endings.
Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the light dimmed and the black cleared, revealing a watery silver that rippled and danced like the surface of Lake Michigan on a windy day.
One booted foot pushed through, then a powerful thigh, as the one-dimensional image crossed some kind of fairy-tale threshold and transformed from a mere reflection into a three-dimensional man, bit by bit.
It was impossible. It was terrifying. It was the most thrilling thing she’d ever seen.
Out came those kilt-clad hips, that six-pack abdomen, followed by his sculpted upper body rippling with those wicked-looking crimson-and-black tattoos.
Last came that sinfully gorgeous dark face, his white teeth flashing in an exultant smile, his whisky eyes glittering with triumph.
He gave a regal, full-of-himself toss of his head, beaded braids tinkling, as he fully exited the mirror.
The sensation of spatial distortion eased and the glass went flat silver again, reflecting his tight ass and beautifully muscled back
Jessi braced herself, trying to console herself with the thought that if she was going to die now, at least she’d gotten one final heaping helping of eye-candy. This man belonged in the RBL Romantica Braw and Bonny Beefcake Farm. Crimeny, this man probably owned the farm or, if not, had stood stud to the mothers of half the other members.
Though he’d looked massive enough inside the glass, outside it, he seemed even larger. The man had presence, that elusive quality that made some people lodestones, drawing others, even against their will. And he knew it.
From the looks of him, he’d always known it.
Arrogant, cocky prick.
But was he a murderous one? That was the important question.
“If you’re going to kill me, I’d appre—”
“Cease speaking, wench. You will bring that sweet ass over here and kiss me now.”
Jessi gaped, mouth open, midword. Snapped her mouth closed. Opened it again. Her head suddenly itched just beneath the skin, above her metal plate. She rubbed at her scalp. “As if.” She meant to hiss it indignantly, but it came out more of a squeak. Sweet ass? He thought she had a sweet ass? They could form a mutual admiration society of two.
“Remove that woolen, woman, and show me your breasts.”
Choking on an inhalation, she sputtered for several seconds. Numerous were the men who’d tried to go there—even she knew she had exceptional breasts—but none quite so obviously and without exerting even an ounce of seductive effort. She clamped her hands over them defensively. “Oh, I so don’t think that’s going to ha—”
“Cease speaking,” he roared. “You will not speak again unless I tell you to.”
Jessi drew back like a cobra, scratching her scalp again. He couldn’t be serious!
He certainly looked like he was.
After a moment’s stunned silence, in a voice sweet enough to cause cavities in porcelain caps, she said, “You can go fuck yourself, you great big domineering Neanderthal. Wake-up call: Guess what? We’re not in the Stone Age anymore.”
“As I pointed out earlier, a physical impossibility. And I ken full well what epoch it is. Come here, Jessica St. James. Now.”
Jessi blinked at him. A sudden thought occurred to her; one that would explain much about this man. “How long have you been inside that mirror?” she demanded.
A muscle worked in his jaw. “I told you to cease speaking.”
Despite his persistent asininity, her temper was decreasing as her suspicion that she was correct was increasing. “Well, duh, clearly I’m not going to, so you may as well answer my question.”
His eyes narrowed, that whisky gaze swept her from head to toe intently. “Eleven hundred and thirty-three years.”
Whuh. She sucked in an astounded breath. That would place him in—no! The ninth century? No way. A living, breathing, ninth-century man, right here in front of her, somehow trapped in an ancient relic and cast forward eleven centuries?