Waking the Princess

by Susan King

  "John Blackburn, you are a genius! Are you ready to go down the hill, or would you rather rest here until I get back?"

  "I'll wait. It was a long walk up that hill, and I'd like to make some sketches here. Where are you going?"

  "I intend to convince Sir Scrooge to loan me more than just a shovel!" Hitching up her skirts, she hurried along the incline.

  Chapter 8

  Earth and rock sundered open, spitting debris into a blue sky as the blast shivered through the heather. Standing two hundred yards away, Aedan felt the vibration. He had witnessed countless explosions as a civil engineer, but this time the world—his very being—seemed to tilt. Swift as a shadow, a foreboding rushed through him and faded.

  Just a routine blast, he told himself, a safe and necessary phase in the construction of the parliamentary road under his supervision. His contract with the Commission for the Department of Roads and Highways required the timely completion of this Highland project, and he was determined to honor that commitment.

  Since the highway cut through the edge of the property where he was laird and baronet, he felt uneasy ordering permanent alterations in the land. Still, he agreed with the merits of improvements across Scotland, and he would do his part to help bring those benefits about.

  Underfoot, the wide road was topped with a tightly packed layer of crushed stone that stretched south over the fells toward Glasgow. Northward, the road met a line of hills that crossed the moorland for miles. Marked by wooden stakes, a rough earthen path zigzagged up the incline of Cairn Drishan.

  For two years Aedan and his crew had inched this gravel-packed route along the Highland Boundary Line, through rough terrain and unpredictable weather. Only seven weeks remained before the queen's visit to Dundrennan, when the government expected the new route to be completed. But the recent delay posed by the discovery of stone walls on Cairn Drishan had halted work on the vital hill section of the road.

  He glanced toward Cairn Drishan, over a mile away but easily visible as part of a curving chain of hills. The rounded top sat slightly askew, like a tilted hat. Notches halfway up one heathery slope marked the road cuts, and a deep gouge indicated the site of the ruined wall.

  Christina Blackburn was up there now, he thought, examining those stones. The very thought of her made his heart beat a little faster, he realized with a frown. She was so lush and spirited behind her gentle, bookish exterior that he felt all the more fascinated by her. He wanted to see her again soon, wanted to learn more about her, be with her—

  No, he cautioned himself. It would have been far better for Dundrennan and its laird if the museum antiquarian had turned out to be an old fusspot after all.

  He fervently hoped that the wall would prove to be recent and unremarkable enough to allow his work to continue as planned. An alternate route was plausible, but more complicated to execute.

  As the explosion's thunder gradually subsided, Aedan felt the wind, warm and dusty, though still fragrant with heather. He stepped out from behind the protection of a roadside boulder and saw members of his work crew doing the same near the side of the road. One of them, a young blond man, approached Aedan.

  "A touch of black powder reduced that cluster of boulders and saved days of hard labor," Aedan said. "Well done, Rob."

  "Thank you, sir." His assistant engineer, Robert Campbell, smiled. Rob looked more like a towheaded schoolboy than the most promising student in Rankine's classes in modern principles of engineering at Glasgow University, Aedan thought. "I know your plan calls for grading by hand digging whenever possible to preserve the landscape, Sir Aedan, but once again we found more rock than anticipated."

  "Blasting was the best solution." Aedan brushed earth dust from his shirtsleeves and dark brown linen vest. "You placed the charges cautiously, and kept the damage to a minimum."

  "Hector MacDonald watched me like a nursemaid." Rob turned to grin at the lanky, sun-browned man who approached them.

  "I made sure the lad didna pluff the cap off Cairn Drishan, too, and he did a fine job," Hector said as he approached. "Though the blast exposed that wall. Did yer lady antiquarian decide if 'tis a historical place?"

  "She's still up there, looking around." Earlier, Aedan had told his assistants the reason for his late arrival that morning. "My father always believed something of historic significance existed on Cairn Drishan. I only hope he was wrong."

  "Is that why Sir Hugh protested the highway project?" Rob asked. "I thought it was because he loathed improvements in the Highlands."

  "Both. He preferred an unsullied Scotland," Aedan said.

  "A landslide, even an earthquake, might have buried that wall years ago," Hector observed, glancing at the range of hills behind them.

  "Aye," Rob agreed. "The Drishan ridge runs into the Highland Boundary, and tremors have occurred nearby. I studied a semester in the new science of geology," he added.

  "Perhaps a mud slide took doon that wee house," Hector mused.

  "Those walls are six feet thick," Rob said. "I think it will prove to be a very ancient site."

  Aedan rubbed a hand over his face wearily. He felt a sense of dread, knowing Christina Blackburn had authority over part of his life now. His instincts said the wall was ancient. He just did not want to admit it, or be proved right.

  He stood to lose everything—road, career, estate, and ancestral home—if those stones proved ancient, thanks to that troublesome codicil in his father's will.

  "Damn," he whispered. He was anxious for Christina to come down from the hill and make her pronouncement. Glancing in that direction, he thought he saw her walking down the slope, but the figure disappeared behind an outcrop of rock.

  "The route has to go through that hill," he said, turning back. "We cannot afford to lose any more time on this project."

  "Still, there's no choice but to wait a bit," Rob said. "The new law of treasure trove requires investigation when something of possible historic significance is found in Scotland."

  "Treasure! Aye, that would be fine!" Hector rubbed his hands in delight.

  "It would belong to the government, not us," Aedan said.

  "I've heard that ancient kings lived in this area centuries ago," Rob mused, looking at the hill. "I wonder...."

  "The walls may be the auld castle in the legend," Hector said.

  "Exactly," Robert nodded. "Sir Hugh MacBride wrote about the legend of Dundrennan in The Enchanted Briar. I learned the verses as a lad. It mentions hidden gold."

  "Every schoolchild learned those verses, including the poet's own brood," Aedan snapped. "My father based that poem on the legend, but it is fiction."

  "Traditions do say there's treasure in those hills, hidden by magic, waiting to be found," Hector said. "King Arthur's gold."

  "'Deck'd in raiment of the sun,'" Rob recited, musing. "'A mighty horde of treasure bright..."

  "A fine wee poem." Hector nodded approval.

  "The thing is ten cantos long," Aedan said. "And nonsense. No treasure exists up there. Just a lot of random stones."

  "King Arthur's gold could be there," Hector insisted. "It could be found when the princess wakes from her magic spell."

  "You know better," Aedan said. "It's a child's fairy tale. My father invented most of it."

  "Some of that legend is true," Hector pointed out. "And if there is gold ye'd have nae more troubles, sir."

  "I'd have new troubles," Aedan countered.

  "Dundrennan House and its grounds would become a famous touristing site," Rob said.

  "Tourists!" Aedan shook his head. "I just want this damnable business over with. Well, nothing to be done now but tend to what's at hand. Hector, ask Angus Gowan to survey the new gradient, if you would."

  Nodding, the older man turned to walk toward the crew that worked farther down the road.

  Extracting a leather memorandum book and a stub of lead pencil from his pocket, Aedan made a quick sketch and scribbled some notes. He crossed the graveled road toward the work crew and
equipment, while Rob walked alongside him.

  "Rankine recommends the use of black powder wherever the rock is sufficiently dense to merit it over handwork," Rob said as they walked. "But it's clear that we cannot blow willy-nilly through any part of this route, no matter how hard the rock."

  "It's important to follow instinct and logic, as well as rote." Aedan glanced at his apprentice. "Oh, I have a message for you, Rob. My aunt and my cousin Amy wish to thank you for taking tea with them a couple of weeks ago when I was away. And they asked me to invite you to a small dinner party at Dundrennan House tomorrow evening. I didn't even know about it myself until this morning. They'd like to welcome the museum antiquarian and her brother."

  "Welcoming the enemy?" Rob grinned.

  "So it would seem," Aedan replied grimly.

  "Please tell the ladies that I would be honored to attend," Rob said. "I look forward to meeting your antiquarian. And I'm curious to see what surprises are in store at Dundrennan House. Last time I was there, Miss Stewart was keen to drape new curtains on your window poles, so I helped her."

  "Amy is in the throes of a decorating madness," Aedan muttered. A curious noise threaded through his awareness. Turning, he pointed toward a huge red steam engine secured on a platform wagon drawn by two oxen. "That great metal beast is rattling again."

  "Donald is waving for assistance. I'll see to it," Rob said, and sprinted away.

  Giant pistons and shovel arm pumping, the steam engine hissed and clicked loudly as it drove a huge metal scoop into the ground to dig a new section of the road. The machine dominated Aedan's attention as he watched Rob leap on the cart to adjust the controls.

  Dust mingled with smoke to form a cloud around the work site. Along the earthen track over the moorland, men wielded picks and hand shovels, clearing debris in the wake of the steam engine. The metal beast, rented from a Glasgow firm, was powerful and very useful, though finicky and often bothersome.

  When Hector shouted over the noise, Aedan scarcely heard him. Looking around, he saw Hector pointing in the direction of Cairn Drishan. Aedan glanced there.

  And swore, loud and sharp.

  Heading toward them from the hills, his own gig and bay came tearing down the road, raising dust. Christina Blackburn was at the reins, going at such a mad pace that he could see the black ribbons of her hat and a tail of skirt flapping in the wind.

  Realizing that the vehicle hurtled straight toward the work site, seeing his men drop their tools and scatter, Aedan broke into a run and hurried toward the gig's path.

  He shouted, waving Christina away, but the vehicle was going far too fast. Galloping onward, the bay whinnied and lurched sideways, and the gig turned, leaning dangerously.

  Dashing behind the canvas tent where he had tied Pog to keep her away from the dust and commotion, Aedan leaped into the saddle and raced toward the vehicle. As it careened wildly across the moor, he saw Christina pulling desperately on the reins.

  Chapter 9

  Galloping alongside, Aedan reached out and grabbed the bay's bridle, pulling steadily and rode in tandem, guiding both horses as they slowed and stopped. As the gig clattered to a halt, one of its two wheels struck a rock. Christina nearly flew out of her seat, landing with a smack on the bench, grabbing the side bar as she uttered a small shriek.

  Settling the bay horse, Aedan shifted Pog and faced the driver. She gathered herself from a sprawl and sat upright, showing a glimpse of slim ankles and calves in pale stockings and the flare of a red petticoat among white frills before she shoved her sober gray skirt down. She sat up, righting her hat, adjusting her jacket.

  How on earth she had kept that hat and veil in place, he could not imagine. Her face was pale beneath the filmy fabric. Her spectacles glittered faintly, and a few auburn curls danced free over her shoulder. She tucked them somewhere and faced him.

  "Have you been taking driving lessons from Tam Durie, madam?" he asked calmly.

  She glared at him from under her net and lifted her chin. He wanted to laugh, but even more, wanted to shout at her, shake her for being a fool and scaring the wits out of him. Crossing his hands on the saddle pommel, he returned a hard stare.

  "Your quick action saved me," she said. "Thank you."

  "And it saved the gig and a valuable horse." He regarded her. "I believe I have saved you three times in twenty-four hours. In primitive cultures, that means your soul is mine."

  She tilted her chin, adjusted her gloves. "Thankfully, this is not a primitive culture."

  "This is the Highlands, the land of savage Gaels. And I am fully Gael by blood, if civilized—"

  "Somewhat," she said tersely.

  "So you may well owe me your soul in return for the rescues," he said, striving to keep his temper. His heart still hammered with fear and concern, not for the expensive Clyde-bred horse and the London gig, but for what might have happened to Christina had he not intervened.

  She brushed at her skirt. "There is no need to be sour with me, Sir Aedan."

  "Then I will be direct. Why in the name of the devil's henchmen did you drive my gig like that and push that horse in such a manner?" He nearly shouted, but glanced away and drew a breath to gather his composure. He looked back. "Is there some emergency? Is your brother hurt?"

  "He's fine. I apologize. I am not used to driving country distances, and I lost control of the horse. Something frightened it. Her."

  "Him. That would have been obvious, had you taken care to observe your horse, like a responsible driver. Do you handle a cart like that in Edinburgh? I should be wary of being near the High Street on one of your shopping days."

  "Stop it," she snapped, startling him. "You have cause to be angry, but you need not be harsh. The horse bolted. And I am grateful to you for perhaps saving my life, sir. Please accept that in lieu of my soul, if you require something of me. And do not stir a needless argument. It suits neither of us."

  He drew his brows together, puzzled, mollified—and impressed at how easily she had cut through his angry response. "I beg your pardon. I was... alarmed."

  "Then just say so." She looked past him. "The horse was startled by the explosion as we came down the slope, and then again by that thing over there. What is it?"

  "A steam engine. Surely you have seen them."

  "Certainly, but never with a... scooping thing on it."

  "It holds a shovel, Mrs. Blackburn. We are hurrying to finish the road, and the beast expedites the digging."

  "Digging... Sir Aedan, I came here to ask a favor." She folded her gloved hands neatly in her lap and looked at him through the veil as primly if she were a guest at tea.

  He studied her face behind the seductive shadow. The finely spun thing was damnably alluring, he thought, for it enhanced her wide eyes and the fine bone structure of her face and gave him thoughts a man should not entertain in the presence of a lady.

  "Aye, what is it?" He patted the shoulder of the big bay horse, calming it. What was so important to Christina Blackburn that she would race to speak to him?

  "The site on Cairn Drishan merits closer investigation."

  "Does it." He waited, wary.

  "I believe it is part of an ancient structure. If the rest can be exposed, it could prove a magnificent find. It must be excavated."

  "What would that entail? Apart from having no roadwork done near it, of course." His tone was acerbic.

  "Careful digging must be done there to clear the area."

  "So you raced here to borrow a shovel from me?"

  "Several shovels, and men to use them."

  He scowled. "My men have a great deal of work to do."

  "They are needed on Cairn Drishan for a few days only. The turf layer must be cleared away so that I can properly examine the walls."

  "A few days of digging will hardly make a dent up there."

  "Longer, then. But I need a crew of men to do the labor. Or do you expect me to do the digging myself?"

  He raised a brow. "Do not tempt me, Mrs. Blackbu
rn."

  "I cannot make my report complete until I have some idea what is buried in that hill."

  "It is just more rock, and lots of it," he said firmly. "Digging there would exhaust my men unnecessarily and use days of good weather that we need for roadwork. Please try to be realistic, madam. That pile of stone up there was created by the hand of man, I agree—but not ancient man. Drystone walls are common in the Highlands. Black houses, we call them, after the color of the interior from the smoke of peat fires—"

  "I know all about black houses. I lived in one for a year. I have not forgotten the experience."

  "You what?" He blinked at her.

  "I lived in one. My mother was of a Highland family, and she went north to spend a year teaching English to Gaelic children. My father went to Italy at the time to paint and teach. He took my brother and half the house staff, and Mother took my sister and me. She taught in a Ladies' School, and we assisted her, and we lived in a rented crofter's house. My mother wanted to do something useful, rather than sit idle in Italy while my father painted and socialized."

  "So you lived in a black house?" He had thought her the product of an elite cosmopolitan upbringing, but now he looked at her in admiration. She was a constant surprise to him.

  "Yes. I know what a black house is, sir. And that, on Cairn Drishan, is not one."

  "Then what is it?"

  "It could be a Pictish house of great antiquity."

  "Most Pictish houses are of great antiquity," he pointed out logically. "Can you support this, other than with fervent academic hope?"

  She glowered behind the veil. Then she reached down to the floor of the gig and lifted something in her hand—a dark rock the size of her fist. For a moment he thought she was going to lob it at him. "The walls are vitrified," she said.

  "They are what?" Knowing what she meant, he was simply surprised by her once again.

  "Vitrified. The process of burning timbers inside a stone structure, resulting in a fire so intense that the stone melts and forms a vitreous, glassy surface, rendering the walls impervious to damage by missiles. Either the place was burned, or it was purposely set afire to increase its defensibility. As an engineer, you must be familiar with the term."