by Susan King
Aedan turned toward Christina. "What interests you most here, Mrs. Blackburn? History, art, literature, antique manuscripts? We have all those here and more."
You interest me most, she thought suddenly, gazing into his eyes, blue and guarded. He displayed politeness, patience, humor, but she sensed a sadness, even a bitterness in him too.
"All of it interests me. I've read all of Sir Hugh's poetry, so it's wonderful to see his collection of books. And my uncle and Sir Hugh corresponded on matters of history."
"My father spoke highly of him. Well, come this way, Mrs. Blackburn." She strolled with him around the library while he pointed out sections devoted to different subjects.
"Oh," she said as they walked along, reading the spines of some of the books. "Scott, Shakespeare, Milton, Dante, Tennyson, Burns, Hogg, Carlyle, Chambers... wonderful. Books can be like such old friends, do you agree?"
"My dominie made me read them," Aedan commented, "though I was not a willing scholar. I built bridges and towers with the books more often than read them." He smiled, and she could easily imagine, for a moment, that little boy.
"My brothers were like that," she said. "My sister Marianna and I were always readers."
"You will be in heaven here," he answered. "The books are organized in categories. This bay, for example, holds folklore and mythology, that one has sciences. There are a great many books on the gallery level, too. You may want to call a groom, or myself when I am at home, to fetch books from the higher shelves."
"I'm not afraid to climb ladders or walk the gallery, sir."
"Not nervous at heights, then?"
"Not particularly."
"Good." She heard a grudging approval in his voice. "You will need that to climb Cairn Drishan. It's moderately high and a rough walk in places."
"I am eager to see it. May we go soon?"
"When the weather improves. Tomorrow, I imagine."
They paused, and she pulled a volume from the shelf to leaf through it. "How marvelous to grow up in this place... even if you did use books for building blocks," she added, chuckling.
"Oh, I am not a complete boor." His mouth twitched in a smile. "We were raised on bards and poets instead of Mother Goose. We recited Sir Walter Scott and Robert Burns in our cradles, and we sang ballads about Border thieves before we could walk. And of course we learned Father's poems by heart."
She heard his teasing tone, but she sensed truth too. "Do you write poetry yourself, Sir Aedan?"
"Not a whit. I have a good memory for the stuff, but lack an artist's soul. Our dominie despaired of me in the schoolroom when it came to writing. My father said I was made from numbers and steel—he meant it as a compliment, I hope. I took it as one." He looked down at her. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Blackburn. Generally I do not go on about myself."
"I am enjoying it," Christina said. Standing so close, she was keenly aware that they were alone together in the little alcove. The flexible bell of her skirts brushed his legs, enveloped him, letting him to breach her outermost perimeter.
She should have stepped back for propriety. But he had helped her last night when she was hurt—and he had kissed her, and she had felt no shock or shame in it. She felt at ease with him, found his animal grace exhilarating. Having spent so much time in the company of books and her elderly uncle, then the museum, she rarely socialized with men her own age.
And Sir Edgar, for all his suave handsomeness and intellect, simply did not compare to this strong, earthy, genuine man. Edgar did not stir her heart or her blood, had never kissed her as Aedan had. She did not think Edgar capable of passion.
"These books might interest you," Aedan MacBride said. As she followed him, she heard John and the others enter the library, murmuring quietly.
Aedan opened the brass mesh doors of a tall bookcase. As she moved closer, Christina's arm brushed his. She inhaled the clean spicy soap he used, heard the quiet rhythm of his breathing. She could hardly concentrate on the books. Nor did she understand the man's effect on her.
"Oh, yes, histories," she said quickly, scanning the spines. "Hume, Chambers, Carlyle—I've read most of these. And up there is Uncle Walter's Celtic Scotland." She pointed above their heads. "Those, with the dark blue spines."
He fetched down the first volume and flipped it open. "'To Sir Hugh, friend and fellow admirer of the ancient Celts, from Rev. Walter Carriston.'"
Christina traced her fingers over her uncle's familiar signature. Her finger brushed Sir Aedan's thumb, and she felt a sparklike sensation. She withdrew her hand quickly.
"My uncle translated some medieval manuscript pages for Sir Hugh," she said. "Some old documents found in family papers."
He shelved the book. "Aye, the Dundrennan Folio. We keep it locked away, but you may see it if you wish. We can leave that for later." He glanced down at her.
"Of course."
"Here is Sir Hugh's study." He led her to the corner room, standing back for her to enter first. She gasped in awe to see the man's mahogany desk, his leather chair, the reference books on the shelves. A bowl of fresh wild roses sat on the desk.
"The queen's own Highland bard. You must miss him very much," she said softly.
"We do," he murmured. "So you know his poetry?"
"Oh, yes. Wonderful epics, full of romance and adventure."
"He would have been pleased to hear that. He valued the opinions of his readers. Which is your favorite?" He went to a bookcase that Christina saw held a full collection of his father's books. Opening its doors, he stood back.
"Oh, there are so many," she said. "Children of the Mist and The Warrior are such exciting adventures, and The Wanderer has a mythical, unforgettable power. But The Enchanted Briar is my favorite, I think." She touched the book's red leather spine.
"Why is that?"
"It is a superb study of how tragedy shapes character, how small mistakes can change the lives of many, and how a good man can be driven to desperate ends by love and grief."
"Spoken like a scholar. Now tell me why Christina Blackburn likes it." He leaned against the desk, waited.
"Because... each time I read it, I cry."
"Honestly spoken, and kind praise. My father would have appreciated that. He wanted his poetry to stir the heart, rend it, heal it again, he used to say. What made you cry, Mrs. Blackburn, if I may ask?"
She tilted her head, thinking. "It is a beautiful, tragic love story. The Druid prince meets the daughter of a king, and they fall in love at first sight. Their meeting is heroic and poignant. Then her father forces her to marry a rival, and when she refuses, he imprisons her in a tower. Her only joy is when the prince comes secretly to her bower, but she will not disobey her father and escape with him." She shook her head. "And her anguish is heartbreaking when she gives birth to their son alone in the tower, but for her old nurse. Even when she is released and defies her father at last, they cannot be together, for she falls under a spell cast by the prince's enemy."
"And sleeps forever," he said quietly, watching her.
"Forever, lost to her lover for eternity, yet always within his reach. I weep each time I read it," she said again.
"Every time?" he asked gently.
She nodded. "Because of the love they have for each other. He loved her beyond everything, and lost her. He never gave up, would not leave her side." She felt tears prick her eyes.
"Aye." He watched her. "True love."
She tipped her head. "It exists."
"Does it?" He raised his brows skeptically, gazed down his nose at her. Those blue eyes and long, lean, powerful form distracted her, made her heart beat faster.
"I think so," she said, returning his gaze defiantly.
"Have you known it yourself, Mrs. Blackburn?"
She looked away. "That is a very personal question, sir."
"I apologize. If it soothes your ruffled feathers, I do believe true love exists for some. Just not for everyone." His gaze remained steady.
"Love is essential, sir. Th
rough that miracle, human beings thrive. Surely you have known—" She stopped, remembering his kiss, his hands warm upon her, arousing wickedly sensual feelings, so that her cheeks heated in a rising blush.
"The lairds of Dundrennan do not risk love as a rule. We certainly have affection for the fairer of our species—the MacBrides would have died out otherwise." He smiled, a impish quirk of his lips, yet his gaze held a smoldering quality. "But we do not pine for, or indulge in, what some call true love."
"Indulge? Sir, real love is extraordinary and irresistible. It is thunder and lightning, a—a hurricane," she went on, gesturing. "The blaze of the sun and the shine of the moon. A force of nature, powerful and inexplicable. It cannot be stopped or denied. It is not an indulgence, like... like chocolate!"
"For a bookish wee thing, you have a romantic soul." His eyes sparkled, and she felt her face go fiery. "I suppose you believe in love at first sight and a whole rasher of other nonsense."
Christina lifted her chin. "I see you refuse to be convinced."
"Are you trying to convince me of it, Mrs. Blackburn?"
"Not at all. This is just... an intellectual exercise."
He laughed easily and without malice. "Remind me to tread carefully next time you are in a mood to exercise your brainpan, madam. I cannot keep up with such a passionate soul as yours."
"Laugh if you will, sir. But true love and love at first sight can happen. I wish—" She stopped.
"That you might find it?" he finished gently.
She shrugged. "Your cousin and his bride have found it. I admire that."
His smile sobered. "So do I. But I will leave it to them. Extraordinary love is... dangerous at Dundrennan."
"What an odd thing to say."
He regarded her for a moment. "Your name ought to be Miss Burn, I think. You blush like fire, do you know that?"
She put a hand to her warm cheek. "Oh!"
"I meant it as a compliment." He spoke affectionately, his tone gentle. "You may be a cool little scholar on the exterior, my dear Miss Burn, but you have a fire of the spirit. My father would have liked you very much."
"Thank you," she said in surprise.
He stood. "Shall we join the others to look at engravings?"
* * *
"Amy has expensive taste, I give her that," Aedan said. He glanced at Amy's older brother. Dougal chuckled as he walked beside Aedan. "Dundrennan would not be as fine a place as it is without her advice, and Lady Balmossie's as well."
Dougal nodded, glancing up at the back of the house as he and Aedan walked along a graveled garden path, stones underfoot still damp but skies above clearing nicely. "Amy said you've taken a sudden liking to plain color on the walls."
"I also told her I like old, threadbare rugs rather than new carpeting. Ultimately, it may save a few shillings."
He could be honest about financial matters with his cousin and childhood friend. He and Dougal had attended university together, along with their friend Evan Mackenzie—now Earl of Kildonan. All three were engineers. Dougal, always a daredevil vying to prove himself, had gravitated to the dangers of lighthouse construction. Aedan, used to striving for practicality in an impractical household, had chosen to design highways, while Evan had applied his talents to creating beautiful bridges.
Dougal's greatest feat of daring was his recent marriage to Lady Strathlin, surprising everyone who knew him—except Aedan. He had hoped that his cousin would settle down once he found his match—and he had done so, admirably.
Though happy for Dougal and Meg, Aedan felt a twinge of envy. Privately he did long for love. Having lost his fiancée three years ago, he was older and wiser. He knew now that he had mistaken friendship for love, thought he was taking a risk.
True love was not in the cards for the lairds of Dundrennan, he reminded himself. He had no business yearning after it.
And certainly no business kissing a delectable stranger, a guest in his own house, late at night, he thought sternly.
He cleared his throat. "I'm doing my best to afford the work my father wanted done in this house. But I cannot fault him for poor accounting. A good part of his fortune went to grain shipments to feed Highlanders and Islanders ousted from their homes in the clearances."
"Aye, it was good work he did. My wife did the same when she had the chance. By the way, Meg wants to offer to help with Dundrennan's expenses," Dougal added quietly.
Aedan shook his head, aware of Meg's enormous personal fortune as well as her giving nature. "I'm touched by her generosity, but I can bear the costs here for yet a while."
"At what personal cost? Fund all of your father's whims here, and you will soon be out of pocket."
Aedan looked at him. He trusted his cousin as he did few others. "I have the resources," he answered. "I have a good income from road contracts, and my investments in jute and whisky have been profitable. And lately I have invested in silver darlings."
"Herrings, whisky, and jute are good business for Scotland. But you cannot funnel all your available cash into Dundrennan."
"My father's will specifies that improvements in the house be completed by year's end. We have only a little more to do."
Their steps crushed out a rhythm on the stones of the garden path. A cool breeze, hinting of autumn to come, ruffled Aedan's hair and fluttered the lapel of his jacket. Nearly autumn. Time had him fast by the short hairs.
"This place is marvelous," Dougal agreed. "It is a veritable museum, an homage to Scottish history."
"Aye, jammed with artifacts and paintings, swathed in tartan, forested with old swords."
"Luckily for you, the ladies of Balmossie have a fever for decorating." Dougal smiled.
"Which confounds me," Aedan said.
"You love this old place."
Aedan nodded in silent agreement as they walked.
"The antiquarian is not so antique after all," Dougal commented. "Rather lovely, this Mrs. Blackburn."
"Pleasant enough."
"I wonder why Neaves sent her in his stead."
"Claims he's busy. I can only hope he stays away entirely, but I rather think he sent the lady here to do a little digging about to see if it's worth his precious time. I just had a letter from the museum's advocates—they reminded me of the clause in my father's will that favors the museum." He glanced at Dougal. "Neaves drools at the mere thought that this house could revert to the care of the National Museum, as my father stated in a provision. If the house is not restored like some blasted tartaned-up Highland tableau, they win the lot."
"You must comply, or lose damn near all? Good God."
"Exactly."
"And if the fetching little antiquarian finds something of historical significance on that hillside?"
"Then I have a problem indeed. The treasure trove law will dictate, and the museum could take it all."
"Even if it was treasure enough to save this house and pay off the debts?"
"Even then." Aedan glanced up at the house as he and Dougal walked in its shadow. Seeing that massive, familiar, beloved silhouette, he felt a wrenching in heart and gut. He did, indeed, love this old place.
"Mrs. Blackburn seems astute," Dougal said. "If there is something in that hill, she will find it. If so, God help you."
Aedan nodded, while he listened to the crush of quartz stones beneath their bootsoles, pressing into the earth of his ancestors. He looked at the foundation of the house, surrounded in thick wild rose hedges, still sprinkled with late summer flowers of pale pink.
Generations of MacBrides had lived here—though they had not often loved here, in keeping with their peculiar family tradition. And his father's poetry had been written here.
The briars had always protected this place. Aedan would protect it too, no matter the price. He could not lose Dundrennan.
Chapter 6
Hearing the faint creak of the door and the gentle rustle of skirts, Aedan peered over his newspaper. Christina Blackburn crossed the sunny, oak-paneled breakfast room,
her figure neat in a skirt and trim jacket of dark gray wool. He nodded in silent greeting, and she smiled shyly.
In the plain skirt and jacket, with her hair winged back in a low knot, her spectacles perched on her nose, and her cheeks a delicate pink, she looked demure and scholarly. Yet a sensual, delectable quality seemed to emanate from her, and each time he saw her, desire rushed through him, hot and strong. He found it difficult to remain detached whenever the museum antiquarian was in the room.
He was beginning to wish that Sir Edgar Neaves had come after all. Aedan rose to pull out a chair at the table, near his own chair. "Good morning, Mrs. Blackburn."
"Sir Aedan," she murmured. He caught a waft of lavender. "This is a lovely room," she remarked, looking around.
He glanced at the rose chintz draperies, the flowery seat coverings, and the green tartan carpet. "Nearly everything was redone in here a few months ago. I suppose it is nicer than before," he added, perusing his newspaper.
"It's cheerful and relaxing. We were sorry to have missed you at supper last evening," she said.
"A good deal of work prevented me... I had to go out to the building site, than took a late supper in my office. I sent my apologies."
"And so you did. Lady Strathlin and Mr. Stewart had gone out to visit friends, and so John and I had a lovely light supper in our rooms, and I enjoyed some time in the library."
"So you found your way." His lips twitched.
"I did. My brother was quite tired last night, though he can be loath to admit it, and it was all just as well. What was in this room before, sir, may I ask?" She looked around.
He frowned. "Dark drapes, I think reddish. Leather chair seats, worn but comfortable. The wood floor was creaky, but needed only polishing. It seemed fine as it was, but my father wanted some changes, so I left it to the ladies of Balmossie to finish the room. Apparently the queen likes flowery curtains," he said dryly, glancing up. "Cousin Amy certainly does."
"The rose pattern complements the marvelous view of the gardens at the back of the house."
"So it does." He glanced through the floral-draped window at the lawns, neat pathways, and beds filled with late-summer blooms. The stone arches of an old ruin soared above the orchard trees. "I had not noticed that before."