by Susan King
"How silly." She straightened the metal frames on her nose. "A fun little game, like an apres-diner amusement."
"Perhaps I shall suggest it to my Cousin Amy, who loves after dinner games. She will have us scrutinizing everyone over coffee and brandy. Mrs. Blackburn, you did not share your assessment of the two versions." He regarded her expectantly.
"One is a painted rendition of a sleeping beauty," she said crisply. "A vision of innocence and untried passion. The other... is a plain and dull little woman. All they have in common is the shape of the face, the color of the hair."
"You do not know, do you."
"Know what?"
"How lovely you are. How intriguing."
The words hung in the air. She glanced away. "I cannot compare to the girl in that painting. She is a confection, a fictional image, based on my features, made from a lot of paint and the artist's own fancy. She made me seem beautiful, when I am not. Just for a moment—then—I was." She shrugged.
His steady gaze, the crinkling around his eyes, showed how carefully he listened. She saw his subtle expressions—a tilt of the head, a tightening of the lips, a flicker in the eyes. He seemed bemused and yet sympathetic.
"You need a new mirror, Mrs. Blackburn. You are every bit as lovely as that painting. More so. And I know, for I have enjoyed that painting for years."
She bristled, gathered her skirts. "Perhaps you like being closeted alone with a picture of a scantily robed woman. Many men enjoy that kind of thing, I suppose. Good night, Sir Aedan." She moved past him.
One long step placed him between her and the door. He leaned against it, folded his arms. "I meant to say that I greatly admire everything in that painting. Damn," he swore, shaking his head. "It does not sound right no matter how I word it."
She laughed in spite of herself. "Thank you. But the picture was never meant to be seen by anyone other than... my husband. He promised never to exhibit it or sell it, but he broke his word. I cannot change the fact that you own it, unless you were to sell it to me. And I doubt I could afford it."
"I would never sell that painting. It means too much to me."
"I am glad you like it. Please let me pass, sir." She sidestepped, for he still blocked her way.
"Before you storm out of here, all righteous fire and cold indignation, hear me out." He frowned down at her. "I am no lecher, Mrs. Blackburn, who bought a picture of a lady in her nightdress to appease some prurient interest." He stepped toward her, resolute and close. She went back until her skirts crushed against the desk. "Nor do I think your morals or modesty are in question because you posed for that, once upon a time."
She sensed his anger and felt her own keenly. "Why hide this painting in your private rooms? Why do you even own it? And why do you... look... at me like that?" The words flew out.
"How is that?"
"As if you... care for me and would..."
"Kiss you?"
She nodded slowly. He leaned toward her.
For a moment she thought he might indeed kiss her. She saw the intent flash clearly in his eyes and in the downward glance that took in her lips.
Feeling as if she were under some dreamy power, she leaned toward him and closed her eyes.
Her lips brushed his, warm and astonishing. She did not know who touched first, but she let her lips move under his. Surely she dreamed. Her head whirled. Sliding her hand up his arm, she stepped in closer, drawn by some magical force, like sunlight spilling through storm clouds.
When she thought he would pull away, his lips caressed hers, teased, drank deeper. His hand moved to cup her cheek, and a power that she could not stop filled her with the wild, raw ache of passion, long denied, bursting full. She gasped, and wanted to weep for the tenderness, the richness of the moment, for the sheer beauty of it.
His mouth parted from hers, and she sank against him, weak suddenly, trembling and stunned. He drew her to him.
"My dear," he murmured, his arm around her shoulders, "we must get you upstairs to rest."
"Sir," she said, gasping for breath. "I am not—please do not think me—because of the painting—"
"Not at all, Mrs. Blackburn," he said, guiding her toward the door. He reached for a candle, and they stepped out onto the landing. "My fault entirely. It is clear that you are a very proper young woman caught in a rather odd circumstance."
"That part is true," she murmured, and stepped out into the stairwell again, with even greater care this time.
* * *
He wanted to kiss her again, to never stop. Desire drove hard through him, startling in its demand, but he fought it fiercely, welcoming cool reason and his customary shielding of self and heart. He escorted her politely up the stairs, but felt like a thorough cad.
He was at a loss to explain what had come over him, simply because he had come face-to-face with the model of a painting he particularly admired. He was not one to give rein to imagination.
"Here is your door, Mrs. Blackburn. Good night," he said as they reached the higher landing. He forced himself to sound especially cool and reserved.
The girl had stirred him too deeply, come too damn close to touching dreams and pain. The only woman he had ever yearned to love stood before him now—and his longing was only a fancy.
As the laird of Dundrennan, he could never allow himself to risk the enduring passion of genuine love. According to the old Dundrennan curse, that was dangerous—particularly for the woman to whom the laird gave his heart.
"Good night, then," he said, inclining his head.
Christina adjusted her spectacles, frowning as she gazed at him. "Good night, Sir Aedan." Her eyes seemed full of yearning.
God, how he wanted to kiss her again. Falling in love had nothing to do with it, he told himself. One kiss could dissolve the spell that the woman in the painting held over him, and that Mrs. Blackburn seemed to share. With one more kiss he could prove that he felt only lust, and nothing more, for her.
"Well," he said, and he cleared his throat. "If you want to take these stairs again, be careful not to wear those dainty slippers. Though they are fetching," he added. "But I might not be here to help you the next time."
Her chin lifted. "I can take care of myself."
"No doubt," he murmured. Nodding in silence, he waited until she went into her room, then he turned and went back down the stairs.
For years her image had fascinated him, but the painting was a pale reflection of the model herself. Mrs. Blackburn might hide behind spectacles and sober colors, but he sensed real fire in her, and a compelling sensuality in her wounded, smoldering gaze.
He wanted far more than to kiss her. He wanted to be the man who awakened the enchantress inside. Loving Christina Blackburn would be rare and ecstatic, he thought—the sort of love that would last forever, days spinning into years, into a lifetime of passion and joy, fulfillment and companionship.
But loving like that was a risk he could never afford.
Chapter 4
A saucer hurtled past his shoulder, pale porcelain gleaming, to shatter against the wall. Aedan swept the toe of one black boot over the shards, recognizing a hand-painted view of the Great Exhibition of a few years earlier.
"Crystal Palace," he said.
"Not the one with the queen on it, I hope." His cousin Amy turned, a length of flowered fabric in her hands.
"The one with Prince Albert." Aedan glanced at the women in the room, Lady Balmossie seated, Amy Stewart standing beside her brother Dougal's bride, the renowned beauty Lady Strathlin—or Meg, as she preferred to be called. The two young women stood holding yards of chintz between them. The cloth flowed over their belled skirts like a stream of cabbage roses.
"Oh, dear, Aunt Lillias gave that tea set to your father," Amy said. "A pity to lose a piece of it. Knick-knacks and memorabilia lend such charm and tradition to a home."
"And images of the monarch are so verra cheering to the spirit." His father's sister, Lillias—Lady Balmossie—peered at him from her place on
the sofa. She leaned to pick up her embroidery in its hand frame and smiled at him, cheeks dimpling and lace cap bobbing, black taffeta skirt rustling as she moved.
"Cousin Aedan will have no nice things left at Dundrennan if Miss Thistle is allowed to run about." Amy turned in her flounced lavender gown just as a silver spoon sailed past her blond head and dropped to the floor.
"Miss Thistle, stop tossing the whigmaleeries aboot!" Lady Balmossie snapped without looking up from her embroidery. Meg laughed, standing by the window, its glass lashed in pouring rain.
Perched on the arm of a chair, Miss Thistle chattered loudly in reply, showed her small teeth, then reached for another dish from the tea tray. Aedan took an abrupt warning step toward the little monkey. She retreated hastily, tail swirling beneath the frills of her peach satin gown.
"She misbehaves so," Amy complained.
Aedan gathered the saucer shards in his handkerchief and set them on a table with the spoon. "Thistle, fling the pewter instead. It will only dent up a bit."
"You missed tea again yesterday, Aedan," Amy said. "We waited it for you, but Aunt Lill was famished for her sweets." She pouted prettily.
"I was at the work site, dear cousin," he said mildly.
"You should not work like a laborer. You are laird of an ancient estate now."
"A day's labor is honest means for many Highland men. I only use a shovel now and then to help my crew."
"We did not see your guests at breakfast," Amy said. "Mrs. Gunn said they arrived last night."
"Most people take their breakfast a little earlier than you, Amy." Aedan smiled. "I didn't see them either, but I went early to the site. The rains proved too much today, so I returned and went with Tam to fetch Dougal and his bride from the train station." He glanced at Meg, who returned an enchanting smile. In the months since he had met her, Aedan could easily understand why his cousin and good friend, Dougal Stewart, had fallen in love with her.
"Mrs. Gunn will bring the museum guests here for introductions," Lady Balmossie said. "Mornings are for visiting, after all. You can bring them out to your wee hill later, Aedan."
"That may have to be tomorrow. It's raining now, and it looks to continue much of the day. Thistle," he warned, seeing the little creature reaching for Lady Balmossie's teacup. The monkey chittered and folded her arms. Lady Balmossie laughed.
"Aunt Lill, why must we always bring Miss Thistle with us when we come to Dundrennan?" Amy asked. "We should leave her at Balmossie."
"She likes it here. Dundrennan was her home when my dear brother Hugh was alive," Lady Balmossie answered, as Thistle crossed the back of the sofa behind her, tail waving.
"But she is tiresome." Amy went to the window to help Meg hold up the fabric. "Look. This would make lovely drapes," she went on. "And we should replace that rug with a tartan pattern carpet like the carpet we're putting in the corridors. The plaid would look so well with the flowers. What do you think, Aedan?"
He glanced at the blue draperies, worn brocaded sofa, faded but handsome Turkey carpet. The furnishings in the sitting room were shabby and outdated, but they would do, and had belonged to his mother. He cherished the childhood memories and comfort here, and did not think everything should change at Dundrennan.
"This room is fine," he answered, watching Thistle's tail disappear beneath a chair.
"Dougal said the same!" Amy sighed in exasperation.
"Then they agree." Meg smiled.
Aedan wrinkled his nose at her in amusement. He had felt at ease with his cousin's wife from the beginning despite her impressive status as Lady Strathlin, said to be the wealthiest woman in Scotland. The pretty blond was honest and natural, lacking guile or conceit, and he was already fond of her. He was very fond of Amy, but keeping pace with her whims and moods could be exhausting.
"Where is Dougal?" Aedan asked, glad for the bulwark of another male presence when the ladies of Balmossie were in a decorating humor.
"In the library working on some plans for the lighthouse commission's approval," Meg said. "He must get into the afternoon post."
"Hiding out, is he?" Aedan drawled. Meg laughed.
"Thistle!" Lady Balmossie said as the monkey clambered up the hangings. "She never acts so shoogly at Balmossie."
"That's because she stays in the conservatory there, climbing rhododendrons instead of curtains," Amy answered.
Aedan walked over to pluck the monkey off the drape, letting her swarm over his shoulders while he looked out the window. Although rain now fell in earnest, he could see the jagged contour of Cairn Drishan. His work crew had stopped all efforts there, not due to the rain, but due to the orders of the National Museum, citing the treasure trove law. He sighed and stood silently.
Then he realized that he was listening for a knock on the door that would announce the Blackburns. Anticipation like that suited schoolboys, he told himself. Yet he felt on fire to see Mrs. Blackburn again, in the clear light of this rainy day.
He could not easily forget his first meeting with her, nor the kiss he had boldly stolen from her.
"Thistle wants your attention," Amy said, startling Aedan out of his thoughts.
The monkey had begun to groom his hair. Aedan removed her from his shoulder, and she tumbled upside down, showing lacy pantaloons.
"Wench," he drawled.
"Naughty Thistle!" Lady Balmossie offered her a treat.
"If you spoil her, she will never behave," Amy pointed out.
"She was spoilt years ago, long before dear Hugh left her to me," Lady Balmossie said. "And he got her from a soldier who bought her in India, where she was ruined by Hottentots."
Aedan smothered a laugh, knowing it was no use to point out to his aunt that there were no Hottentots in India, or Oaten-toads, her term for Highland "savages" in Scotland, either. Although she had married a viscount in her youth, her upbringing was rustic Lowland, and she was inherently stubborn in her views.
"Well, when this antiquarian lady comes in, you must not scowl, Aedan," Amy said. "That glower you like to adopt would frighten anyone."
"He means to frighten her," Lady Balmossie remarked. "He isna keen on wicked Sir Edgar Neaves, who sent the antiquarian here, nor is he keen on the lady stopping his wee road."
Keen. Remembering that exquisite face, those delicious lips, he was far more than keen. His heart beat as if he were a boy about to encounter the object of a fervent crush.
"I'm sure Aedan will be very polite to her," Meg said.
"Certainly I will," he murmured.
* * *
MacGregor, the butler, looked old enough to be a great-grandfather, but Christina had to rush to keep up with him. Knobby-kneed and gnarly, wearing a red plaid kilt and black coat, tartan socks and creaky leather shoes, the old man led Christina and John across the foyer, up the stairs, and down a corridor.
As he picked up speed, Christina lifted her skirts to harry, petticoats rustling. Behind her, she heard the rhythm of John's stride with the cane.
Their footsteps were muffled on green tartan carpeting, and the walls, warm salmon pink above polished oak, glowed brightly. As in the other corridors she had seen, paintings, antique furniture, and shining weapons were artfully displayed here, too.
The butler turned. "Are you having an umbrella, bonny sir?" His accent was the soft, precise English of a Gael.
She blinked, realizing he addressed her. "It's raining today, I know, but... we are not going outside just now."
"You may be needing an umbrella in here, bonny sir. Or a targe," he muttered, pointing to some round shields on the wall.
Christina followed, wondering if the old house leaked.
She saw a man nailing tartan carpet into place, which explained the thumping of a hammer she had heard. Down another hallway she saw a ladder, paint buckets, and brushes. She turned to wait for John, while MacGregor barreled onward.
"I should tell the laird that I'm a painter," John said. "He might let me paint some of the walls here with a brush and
bucket. I'm that desperate for the work."
"Don't jest, John. You should not climb a ladder."
"No joke, dear. I've had few commissions since my injury."
MacGregor stopped before double oak doors. "Bonny sir. And sir." He bowed.
"Tapadh leat, mac Griogair," Christina said, thanking him.
He smiled quickly. "Tha Gaidhlig mhath agad."
"What did he say?" John asked.
"He said I have good Gaelic," Christina replied. "Our mother was born in the Highlands," she explained to the butler. "She taught her children the Gaelic."
"I forgot most of what I learned," John added. "But my sister taught in a Gaelic school in Fife a few years ago."
"Helping Highland families?" MacGregor smiled. "Good, good."
He turned to knock on the door. A masculine reply sounded, and the butler opened the door to peer into the gap, his caution puzzling. Then he opened the door and waited for Christina to enter first.
Christina caught a glimpse of a sitting room, but she had no time to notice anything else. A blur of motion and sound whirled toward her, and a man's hand lashed out in front of her face. She heard the hard smack as he caught something. His fist brushed the tip of her nose, knocking her eyeglasses askew.
Gasping, she stumbled back against the doorjamb. A sun-bronzed hand clutched a teacup in long fingers. Broad shoulders in a black wool coat filled her view. Stunned, she looked up.
Aedan MacBride peered down at her from over his shoulder. "Why, Mrs. Blackburn," he murmured.
"Well done, sir!" John crowed. "Excellent catch!"
"It comes of practice. Madam, I do apologize." Aedan MacBride held a teacup, caught within an inch of her nose. Christina could not imagine why.
"Tcha," MacGregor said as he drew the door closed behind them. "You are needing that umbrella."
"Och, puir lass!" an elderly lady in black, seated on a sofa, called out. "Do come in and sit doon. Miss Thistle!" She snapped as something small and brown—a cat?—scurried under a draped table. Two young women, both blond, exclaimed, and one bent down to look under a linen-covered table.
Bewildered, Christina glanced at Aedan MacBride, who stood calmly beside her. "Welcome," he said. "Please excuse the rather unusual reception. I am... Sir Aedan MacBride."