My Heart Stood Still Lynn Kurland (some good books to read TXT) 📖

mirror. She found the private bathing chamber with a white bathing tub and what seemed to be the modern equivalent of a garderobe. She looked to her left and saw a mirror above a basin. It was adequate, but the light was poor. She looked up at the light-bulbs and Thomas's discourse on electricity and its ilk came back to her. She looked about her for the switch Thomas had claimed would bring them to life.

It was by the door, and she stared at it for several moments before she mustered up the courage to try to work it. Moving things from the physical world was always excessively difficult. She had heard tell of those ghosties who could move things with naught but their wills, but she suspected that was a great deal of wishful thinking on the part of the talebearers. She did the best she could with what strength she had, which meant it took almost all that strength to push the lever up.

And, miraculously, the lights kindled themselves as they were supposed to.

The light fell down softly on her, providing a far brighter light than any poor candle she'd ever put flame to. She looked at her reflection in wonder. Her hair was pleasing enough, and she had a goodly quantity of it. Her visage was something she couldn't judge with objectivity, so she contented herself with deciding that perhaps she wasn't as ugly as her half-siblings had always said she was.

Weariness came upon her almost immediately. It was what she deserved, she supposed, from having the vanity to wish to see herself by the light of those wee bulbs. She sat down on the edge of the bathing tub to catch her breath. Last night was the first time in decades she'd actually slept—and how pleasant it had been—and she suspected she would be sleeping again very soon.

A knock would have startled her to her feet had she not been so exhausted.

"Aye?" she called weakly.

"It's Thomas."

She couldn't move. Thomas knocked several more times, then the door opened a crack.

"Iolanthe?"

The sound of her name spoken by that man, she feared, might be her undoing. "In here," she managed.

He came into the chamber, saw her, and rushed with a flattering amount of speed to her side. He knelt down.

"You're pale," he said. "What happened to you?"

She pointed up. "I lit the lights."

He blinked at her for a moment, then frowned. "I don't understand."

"Things from your physical world," she said with a weary smile, "are for the most part beyond my strength."

"Then I should be impressed."

"Aye, you should."

She realized that Thomas was kneeling in front of her, looking at her in that searching way he had, and she was suddenly very nervous. She was quite sure she had never been this close to a man in her life—at least a man who had something besides ridicule on his mind where she was concerned. But what did he have on his mind? She thought back on his question of the night before. He seemed powerfully concerned that she not be able to read his thoughts.

The temptation was almost overwhelming.

Then again, perhaps they would be unkind thoughts, and for some reason, believing that they might be such was almost too much for her to bear. There had been men aplenty, when she was alive, who had had naught but heartless words for her. Either that, or they'd been full of naught but unflattering offers to share their beds. She'd been too old, too tall, and too full of her own mind for any man to want her to wife.

"Iolanthe?"

"What?"

"You were very far away."

"Do you men," she asked tartly, "have any redeeming thoughts at all about any of the women you meet?"

He seemed to consider his answer, which to her mind was admission enough of his guilt.

"I think," he said slowly, "that you are without a doubt the most beautiful woman I've ever met, and I would like nothing better than to spend the day talking to you while I work on our castle. I'd like to have you tell me of your home in the Highlands. I'd like to hear about the past several hundred years that you've spent here on the border."

"Hrmph," she began, but he apparently wasn't finished.

"And while I'm listening, I'll be thinking about how lovely you are, and how your hands move when you're talking about something exciting, how your eyes turn a stormy gray when you're particularly irritated. I'll also be looking around for a suitable place for the painter I've hired to put his easel."

She opened her mouth to tell him he was full of foolishness; then his last words sank in.

"A painter?"

"I'd like to have your portrait painted."

She would have been certain she was hearing things, but she'd seen his lips move as well. "Me?" she asked in a small voice.

"You."

"But 'tis very expensive," she managed. "Those bloody artists will beggar you, if you let them."

"I'll worry about the money. You worry about what to wear."

She found herself rendered completely silent. That a man would throw away his hard-earned gold on such a silly... well, a more ridiculous idea she couldn't have come up with on her best day of thinking.

A portrait.

Of her.

"The only thing is," Thomas began slowly, "do you think he'll be able to see you?"

"If he has two good eyes in his head he can," she said. "I can make myself quite visible."

He smiled. "I'm sure there are many who could attest to that fact, though I don't know that they would be quite so calm about it."

She pursed her lips but said nothing more. It was probably better that he not know how many men she had truly frightened to death.

"Tell me about the lightbulbs again," she said, trying to distract him.

"If you want," he said, settling in for what looked to be a very thorough explanation.

She sat on the edge of the bathing tub and listened as he explained yet again the whole process of electricity. He told her