by Susan King
"It's romantic and picturesque," Christina said.
"I agree." Meg glanced at the drizzling skies. "Oh, more rain starting. Shall we go inside? It's nearly time for tea, and Aunt Lillias will be expecting us. And Thistle, I suppose."
"This may be Miss Thistle's last tea at Dundrennan for a while," Amy said. "Cousin Aedan thinks the paint fumes could disturb the beastie's health, and suggested to Aunt Lillias that she keep Thistle at home in the conservatory. May we be so fortunate as to be without her company," she added.
Laughing, John opened the door for the ladies and made a quiet comment that set Amy to giggling.
At teatime, Miss Thistle's antics left Christina convinced that Aedan was wise to urge Lady Balmossie to take the monkey home. By the time they had finished tea, two saucers and a teacup lay broken on the carpet, a plum cake had been smashed on a footstool, and Lady Balmossie wore a shortbread biscuit on top of her lace cap until Christina plucked it free.
For some reason, Miss Thistle clung to Christina with utmost affection, pausing only to fire crockery at family members or at the door each time it was opened. Thistle's attachment to Christina made John laugh, and even Amy, who disliked the creature, giggled with delight.
"Sir Hugh always said Thistle had a keen eye for good people," Lady Balmossie said. "We must tell Aedan that she's approved Mrs. Blackburn. Where is Aedan today?"
No one knew, and when Christina realized that she watched the door closely, she turned away. He did not come to tea, and his kinswomen surmised that he was busy with his roadwork, although rain generally halted much progress, they explained.
After tea, Christina sat in her room, reading and writing a few letters, then fell asleep, dozing so deeply that she did not wake until she heard a persistent knocking at the door.
"Ye slept through supper, mistress." Sonsie Jean carried a silver tray with covered dishes as she entered the room. "Mrs. Gunn sent me to bring ye soup, toast, and tea. She told Sir Aedan ye was tired, puir lassie, but she thought a bowl o' Scotch broth would restore ye."
"Thank you, Muriel," Christina said, recalling Aedan's considerate use of the girl's real name. She rubbed her eyes and glanced at the little mantel clock, astonished that she had slept so long. Muriel set the tray in the sitting room, and Christina tasted the soup while the serving girl poured tea for her.
"Och, I nearly forgot, mistress. Sir Aedan said to tell ye that the lamps will be lit in the library tonight, d'ye want to work there on yer books and such. He might be there himself, he said, but he'd have work to do and wouldna disturb ye."
Her heart raced. "Thank you." Muriel nodded and left.
After finishing her meal, Christina combed her hair with trembling fingers, then smoothed her simple gown of dark green brocade, taking time to put on her sturdy brogans.
She might read for a little while in the library, and perhaps, if the weather permitted, she would stroll in the gardens. She was curious to see them, and the thought of the old monument in moonlight piqued her curiosity. Adding a lightweight tartan shawl, she descended the narrow stair to the library, taking care to go slowly. This time, unlike her last calamitous venture down the old steps, lamps in the wall recesses illuminated the way.
The laird had said the lamps would be lit for her. She wondered if he would be there himself. Her hand shook as she pulled on the door latch leading into the library.
Entering to discover herself alone, quelling the disappointment she felt, she chose a few books from the shelves. Then she found a comfortable chair in a quiet niche and settled down to read.
* * *
She was there, just as he had hoped. Golden lamplight pooled over Christina as she sat in a leather chair, her head bowed over a book and her feet curled beneath the folds of her skirt. She looked more like an adolescent girl than the seductive woman in the painting of the briar princess.
Yet when she glanced up at Aedan's approach, her simple, natural beauty was more alluring than any image. Her eyes were wide behind her little spectacles, her mouth a small moue as she closed her book at the sight of him and sat primly. Her shoes were brogans, he saw, not the slippers of the other night.
She would not lose her balance in those sensible things, he thought. While that was reassuring, he would have enjoyed another chance to catch her.
"Sir Aedan! I did not expect to see anyone here so late."
"Mrs. Blackburn. I came to check on the last things."
"The what?" She looked puzzled.
"Last things for the evening," he explained. "Or so we call it here. I take care of the lamps, the doors, check the hearths, make sure the dogs are all in for the night, and so on."
"One of the dogs is there, asleep." She indicated a corner under the gallery, where a white terrier lay curled on a worn leather chair. "She has been a sweet companion while I've been sitting here, though she was asleep most of that time."
He smiled, gazing at the dog, who had scarcely lifted her head at his entry, so familiar was she with the rhythm of his step and the sound of his voice. "That chair she's in was my father's favorite spot for reading. Gracie was his devoted pup and has not forgotten him. We let her sleep there now—even Mrs. Gunn does not object. She keeps a blanket for her on the chair. Gracie's getting older now and seems soothed by this place." He glanced around. "I have one more dog to find, our cairn terrier. She prefers a warm spot by the kitchen hearth. I'll check there before I finish up."
"Do you round up Thistle, too, when you do the last things?"
"My aunt's maid takes care of the creature." He made a wry face. "As did my father, who fancied Thistle. Gunnie would send the beastie back to India if she could. I heard you made a friend of our wee Thistle today at tea." He smiled.
Christina smiled. "Somehow I did," she answered. "I would have thought the butler would take care of the lamps and such at the end of the day, Sir Aedan."
"MacGregor is a feisty old rogue, but forgetful sometimes. And it is tradition at Dundrennan for the laird to see to the last things."
"You honor many traditions here, as the laird, I think."
"Some I honor, and some I forego. I was not raised to be the laird, though now that I am, I tend to my responsibilities. If you would prefer to read a bit, madam, I'll come back after I see to the rest of the house."
She stood, set down her book. "I thought I might go for a walk in the gardens before I went up to my room."
"Now? In the rain and the darkness?"
"The rain has cleared, I think, and there's some moonlight. I wanted to see the gardens and the monument... the Remembrance."
"Very well. I would be glad to show you."
"Oh, no, I cannot inconvenience you. Besides, if we were seen together so late, we would have much to explain."
"Does that matter? We both know it's perfectly innocent to go for a little walk at night."
"Truly, I can find my way. It's just through to the back of the garden. Shall I use the side door past the kitchen?"
"Aye, but do not wake Cook, who sleeps nearby—she can be disagreeable. Take the path straight back; do not veer left, for that leads to an oakwood. We would not want you to get lost. Go through the gate at the end of the path, and follow the yew walk out to the Remembrance."
"Thank you. It will be nice to see the Remembrance in moonlight."
"You are a romantic, Mrs. Blackburn." He thought it would be nice to view the monument in moonlight, too—with her. And he did not like the idea of sending her out alone, even within the grounds. "You may want to bring a lamp with you, for the path is overgrown with tree roots in some places. But the view at night is well worth the trouble."
"As Scott said, 'If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright...'"
"'Go visit it by the pale moonlight,'" he finished.
"You know it!" She smiled, and he shrugged. As she crossed the room, he admired the sway of her skirt. She turned at the open door. "Good night, sir."
He waved nonchalantly. "Keep watch for wildcats."
She paused, stared. "Wildcats?"
"We see them occasionally. They've been known to perch in the trees—though never close to the house, so far. Luckily, the wolves that used to harry this place are extinct now."
That last was heartless, he knew, but he could not resist teasing her a little. She was so very serious and so very damnably appealing.
"Wolves? Qh—" Christina bit her lip. "Perhaps I should take a lantern, after all."
"Stubborn bit lass," he muttered walking toward her. "Look here, Mrs. Blackburn. As host and laird, I do not want a female guest to wander about in the dark alone and on unfamiliar grounds."
"I assure you that I will be perfectly fine."
"And I assure you that I am a trustworthy escort."
"I just thought... that we should not be seen together at this hour, walking alone in a... well, a romantic setting."
He leaned a hand on the doorjamb above her head. "Everyone is asleep but you and I, so no one would know. It would be our secret. We already have one or two between us," he said, leaning closer, "do we not?"
"We do," she said. "But we do not need another one."
"Fair enough," he murmured, and he reached beside him to take up a small oil lamp. He handed it to her, then swung the door open for her, bowing his head in silent farewell as she left the room and headed for the kitchen corridor.
Chapter 12
Walking through threads of moonlight, Christina saw the monument at the far end of the path. Its slender, roofless arches rose upward to create a magical silhouette. Thick, flowering hedges of sweet briar grew to either side of the tree-lined path. The blossoms, spare now, gave off an applelike fragrance.
Rosa eglanteria, the true wild rose grew in abundance at Dundrennan, she realized; the dense, lovely briers, so fitting to this place and its legend, surrounded the medieval monument ahead and encircled the foundation of the house, as well.
She felt a sudden sense that she was not alone, and turned, expecting to see Aedan behind her. The path was empty. Hearing again the faint rustle of movement, she paused, listened. Nothing.
Had Aedan been joking or serious about the wildcats? She looked around, wishing she had accepted his offer to escort her after all. Assuring herself that she was alone, she moved ahead toward the silent, soaring Gothic ruin.
Nearing the structure, she gasped in awe. The Remembrance was a small and simple cloister, an arcade of slender columns and pointed arches forming four sides, enclosing an open, grassy area. Out of a wild, magical tangle of sweet briar, ivy, and moss, the ruined arches rose into the night sky.
Hesitating at the arched entranceway, Christina stepped inside to walk across the grassy atrium. At the far end stood a rectangular block, a bier or a tomb, placed before the elegant backdrop of columns. All else was empty, silent, and mysterious, a place of moonlit stones and inky shadows.
Looking around, she felt distinctly that she was not alone, as if someone, or something, watched her—or watched over her, for the sense was not threatening. As the magic of the place overwhelmed her, she turned in delight to take in its beauty.
A carved frieze ran above the slender stone arches and columns, cut with words that were difficult to decipher in the darkness. She went toward it, tipping her head back.
"'She sleeps,'" she read aloud, softly. "'Nor..."'
"'She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells, a perfect form in perfect rest,'" Aedan murmured. His voice shivered like silk through her soul. She whirled.
He leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded, watching her. The loneliness of his silhouette struck her.
"You came," she said.
He inclined his head a little. "I came," he said, "to make sure the wolves and wildcats did not come."
"How kind of you." She looked up at the words carved in the frieze again. "It's from Tennyson."
"Aye. When Lord Tennyson heard from my father about his plans to restore the Remembrance, Tennyson suggested those lines from a poem he was working on—a sleeping-beauty tale."
"Lord Tennyson knew of the Remembrance?"
"Nearly everyone knows about Scotland's own Sleeping Beauty." Aedan put his hands in his pockets and stayed in the doorway. "Many would like to make this place a sort of pilgrimage spot, because of our legendary princess—and because of my father, who was a bit of a legend himself. The Glasgow City Commissioners and the directors of the National Museum—including your Sir Edgar—want me to open this to the public. It has great cultural value, they claim."
"But you do not want to share it?"
"My father did not want to share it—not this place. The house, aye, but not the Remembrance. It would be full of tourists hauling travel rugs and looking for picnic spots. I want it to remain private."
"Then I am privileged to be here with the laird himself," she said, smiling a little.
"You are special, indeed, since Himself should be asleep at this hour," he drawled.
Smiling, Christina walked closer to the pale granite block. It stood waist high, like a tomb but lacking the recumbent sculpted figure so common in medieval monuments. Only a stone pillow, carved with tassels, lay on the flat surface. She swept her hand over the stone, which was smooth with the slight grit of age and exposure.
"Is she here?" she asked quietly.
"We do not know where she is. It's an empty memorial."
Seeing another frieze of words carved around the upper edge of the bier, she bent to look. "'What thou see'st when thou dost wake, do it for thy true-love take,'" she read. "Shakespeare, from A Midsummer Night's Dream."
"Exactly." His voice was rich as cream in the darkness.
Feeling a touch on her shoulder, a comforting caress, she straightened and turned, thinking Aedan had joined her.
But he still stood in the doorway, a dark, lean shadow. She sucked in a breath and stepped back. Clouds shifted, and cool moonlight veiled the granite bed and the gleaming pillow.
A form shimmered on the stone, and Christina saw—for one fleeting instant—the delicate figure of a girl. She lay still and beautiful, so translucent that the hard shape of the pillow showed through her shoulders.
Then she was gone. Christina widened her eyes, but she saw only stone, empty and flat.
Heart pounding, she stepped backward, then whirled and crossed the grass toward the door, toward Aedan and safety. It had been her imagination, she told herself, only that.
She hurled out of the cloister so fast that she collided with Aedan on the doorstep. He took her by the shoulders.
"Ho, was there a wildcat in there after all? You look as—what's wrong?" The amusement left his voice, and his hands tightened.
She shook her head. "Nothing—may we go now, please?"
"You're trembling. Are you cold? Give me your hands." He chafed warmth into her bare fingers. She had a habit of forgetting her gloves, and had done so again. He wore none either, and the direct, heated contact was both comfort and distraction.
Holding her hands, he regarded her with a frown. "Did something frighten you? This place can be eerie at night. I should not have let you come out here."
"I am not faint of heart. But I saw—" She half laughed, shook her head. "I imagined that I saw a girl lying there. It was just the trick of a moonbeam, but it startled me."
Concern flickered in his eyes. "Are you all right? Do you need to sit down or go back to the house?"
She shook her head. "I am quite fine."
"Bonny Mrs. Blackburn," he said, smiling. "Always strong and stubborn, no matter her calamities."
"I am not generally given to fancy," she said. But she was glad he held her hands, glad he stood close enough to warm and reassure her. The bell of her skirt enveloped his legs, and she leaned toward his strength.
He bowed his head toward her, and she thought suddenly that he might kiss her. Heart still pounding, she felt weak with distraction, with anticipation. Nothing else existed just then but the two of them. Propriety seemed a dim and unnecessary idea, easily ignored. Sh
e stared up at him, realizing that she stared at his lips, with their whimsical upper curve, a hint of impishness in an overly serious man.
"You saw her," he said. "Some do, or think they do. There have been a few stories of it over the centuries."
"If she is not buried in there, why would she haunt this place? She... lay there," she said softly, remembering, "so peaceful. So very delicate and beautiful."
"Aye." He watched her for a moment. "At least, so I've heard. You must be a sensitive, or perhaps you have the Sight in your family line somewhere. It must have been a shock to see."
"It was." She lifted her chin. "But I do not have the Sight that I am aware. It was only a trick of moonlight in this romantic, picturesque place. I am not about to swoon over it."
"Pity," he said. "Then I could catch you."
Her heart bounded to hear his soft, intimate tone. "Perhaps you should go catch your wee ghost," she said lightly.
"I would, but I have never gone inside."
She blinked. "You what?"
"The lairds of Dundrennan never set foot inside the Remembrance. My brother and I were not allowed here as boys. And as an adult, I have never gone inside."
"Why? It's so beautiful in there."
He glanced through the arches. "They say that if a laird of Dundrennan sets foot in the Remembrance... he will fall in love."
"Oh," she said, looking up at him. "Is that bad?"
"It could be disastrous."
"That is part of the legend I've never heard."
"We keep it to ourselves," he murmured. "The Remembrance was built in the twelfth century." He dropped her hands, took a breath. "One of the lairds of Dundrennan commissioned it as a memorial to his lost wife."
"Just as the Druid in the legend lost the princess tragically," she said. Aedan nodded. His closeness in the dark, even without his touch, made her knees wobble strangely.
"And so it is believed that the laird of Dundrennan cannot risk marriage if there is real love. It is dangerous."
"How is it dangerous to the laird?" she asked, puzzled.