Waking the Princess

by Susan King

  "Not to him, but to his love. Each time a laird in our line defies tradition and makes a love match, the wife dies."

  "How awful!" She rested her hand on her chest. "But—can it really be true?"

  He shrugged. "It seems to be the case."

  "But you marry, or your legitimate line would not exist."

  "We marry for friendship, for companionship. For procreation and survival. We wed, but we do not fall in love." He looked at her. "And that is our private legend, Mrs. Blackburn. Not exactly the stuff of fairy tales, is it?"

  "It's very sad." She studied his moonlit face. Like a piece of a puzzle, the revelation made him easier to understand, somehow. "Surely some of your ancestors must have married successfully for love."

  "Some. My own father adored my mother, and they wed for the sake of real, passionate love, defying the tradition."

  "So the curse does not always come to bear."

  "They were married ten years, a long time in Dundrennan terms. Then my mother died. So the curse won. Tragedy will out."

  "But just for the wife?" She frowned. "It is misogynistic."

  He laughed a little. "I assure you we have the utmost respect for your fair gender, madam. The legend of the princess repeats itself. She died tragically, and the prince survived, doomed to live without her. That is equally painful tragedy for the husband who survives, and must life with the knowledge that the curse, and the marriage, killed his wife."

  "Is that a curse at work, or is it part of the natural course of life? Women give birth—women take chances that way, and often they do not survive their spouses."

  "Men take chances, too, in war and other ways. You have a point, of course, though Dundrennan's tradition says it only happens if the laird loves his wife. Who can say what's true. But we are raised here to believe that love brings tragedy. It all goes back to the princess. And so those of us who inherit this place must weigh the risk. And then we decide." Quiet words, his gaze so steady that Christina caught her breath.

  "There is always something that breaks a spell in such tales. A charm, a miracle, a... kiss." She watched him.

  He moved toward her. "They say our curse would only be lifted when the ancient princess's true love finds a way to wake her up. Not very likely. Those two are long gone."

  Listening, Christina felt a flood of compassion, a sense of affection. She wanted to touch Aedan, console him, love him herself, this lonely, strong, intense man. She wanted him to be free to find the love he deserved and believed he could not have.

  Why did she feel so deeply toward him? She scarcely knew him. While she found him undeniably attractive and fascinating, he could be infuriating.

  "You are not a man who follows beliefs blindly," she observed. "I think you are a strong-willed man who goes his own path in all things. Why let the old curse bind you? It is sad to give up a precious dream without knowing if you could ever have the passion of true love, without allowing yourself to try." She stopped, blushed in the dark. "Do forgive me."

  "I enjoy your honesty. Until a few years ago, I never gave the curse much credence myself. I thought it would never affect me, since I was not the heir. Then my older brother died, and I learned the strength of our tradition."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You were wed, Mrs. Blackburn. You have known love."

  "I thought I did, once. But I was young, and it ended—in sorrow." She paused. "Have... you ever been in love?"

  "I had a fiancée a few years ago," he said, surprising her. "Elspeth was a bright and cheerful girl. You would have liked her, I think. She took a fever a few weeks after I became heir to Dundrennan. She died but two months after we had word that my brother Neil had been killed."

  "Oh, I am so sorry," she said in a rush.

  "I did not believe in the curse until then."

  "You loved her," she murmured.

  "I was very fond of her. I do not think it was the sort of love that... that fills the heart like sunshine in a dark place. But I cared for her very much."

  "Love has many degrees," Christina said.

  "So I hear." He looked at her piercingly. "But I cannot explore it. I will not risk a woman's life. Falling in love is... unthinkable for me."

  Her heart thumped very fast. "I thought you and Miss Stewart might wed someday. I had that impression."

  "My cousin and my aunt like to think so. Amy thinks she will reform me and end Dundrennan's curse. I might consider marrying her. She is young, but a pleasant lass, and it would not be an unhappy union. I do not love her in a romantic sense, but I am fond of her, and that is enough. If the curse is to be foiled... it is bests to keep a distant heart."

  She regarded him thoughtfully. "And she would always know that. That is sad."

  "It is," he agreed. She glimpsed something raw, something lost, in his face. "Well, Mrs. Blackburn, you have seen the Remembrance in moonlight, a rare treat and only for you. I hope you have enjoyed it." He inclined his head.

  "Are you not curious to venture inside?" she asked.

  "Curious, aye," he said. "But I will not cross that step in order to protect the life of someone... I may not even know." His gaze remained steady on hers.

  "It protects you, as well, from the sting of Cupid's arrow."

  "I am impervious to that by now."

  She tilted her head. "Are you?"

  He moved closer. "It could be tested."

  She tipped her head. "It could," she whispered.

  He bent down and his lips touched hers lightly, then with a heat like fire. She grabbed his arm, seeking support as his hand rose to cup her cheek. His lips moved over hers in a deep, slow kiss, and she faltered, sank a little, clutched at his coat.

  The kiss abated and she let him hungrily renew it, so that he groaned low, pulling her to him. Circling her arms around his waist, tilting her head, she drank in his strength, his mystery, his tenderness. She knew, with exquisite clarity, that she had wanted this with him, needed it desperately.

  Wrapped in his arms, she gathered close, went with him into another kiss. She could feel, through layered petticoats, the rock-hard certainty that he desired her now, now, and her own craving intensified, shook through her.

  Had he urged more beyond extraordinary kisses in the moonlight, she would have surrendered, willingly given him all, her very soul. The urge, powerful and real, astonished her.

  She moaned softly and he pulled away, stepped back. Cool air woke her from the last kiss, dissolving its hold, and she blinked as if coming out of a dream.

  "Madam," he said, his voice hoarse, "I took advantage of you to test my own limits. That was not chivalrous."

  "No," she said, wary and breathless. "But—"

  "I promised it would not happen again, and I am sorry. Let me assure you that I do not behave churlishly by habit."

  "Nor I." She straightened her shoulders. Why did she yield easily to his touch? He was a stranger to her, yet she felt as if she had known him and understood him forever, as if he were a part of her. "This—it's like madness. The moonlight, perhaps." Loneliness, perhaps, she thought. Need.

  "It may be. We should go back, Mrs. Blackburn."

  "Christina," she whispered.

  He repeated her name softly, warmly. "I am Aedan," he offered. Taking her arm, he guided her to the path, then took his hand from her elbow.

  She walked ahead of him through the tunnel of yews and into the gardens. Entering the house by a side door, they walked silently down a dark corridor to the foyer. Moonlight streamed through the stained-glass windows there.

  At the foot of the main staircase, she turned. "I must know," she said quietly.

  "Know what?" His voice was gentle. He rested a hand on the newel post, waiting for her to continue.

  "What did you discover? Were you... impervious?"

  He leaned toward her. "The laird of Dundrennan cannot fall in love," he murmured, so close she could smell the faint spice of his soap, feel the warm caress of his breath. He brushed his fingers over h
er hair, tucked some loose strands.

  She watched him, enthralled, silent.

  "But if I ever did"—his fingers tipped up her chin—"it would be with you."

  She sank her eyes closed, sighed.

  Then he drew her into his arms and kissed her again, exquisitely, so that she felt as if her heart blew open like a rose in sunlight.

  He let her go and stepped back. He tilted his head, then walked away along the shadowy hall that led to the library. She heard the door open, quietly close.

  Christina stood by the staircase, a hand flattened over her chest, legs trembling. A strange buttery weakness filled her. She sank to the step in the satiny pool of her skirts, her heart pounding.

  If I ever did, it would be with you.

  Chapter 13

  Christina climbed the slope of Cairn Drishan, using the walking stick that MacGregor had insisted she take. Learning that she planned to walk to the hill alone—John had returned briefly to Edinburgh—the old Highlander shook his head.

  "Bonny sir, you are needing this on those hills," MacGregor had told her, handing her a sturdy polished stripling nearly as tall as she was, with a leather strap set three-quarters high. Christina soon discovered it to be a practical aid on the steep parts of the slope.

  The morning sky was pearly, and mist veiled the moor and the hills, bright with heather. At the top of the ridge, four men awaited her. MacBride was not with them, and she felt a keen disappointment, for she had not seen him at breakfast, either. And the poignant memory of the night before lingered in her.

  Hector MacDonald walked toward her, a long, lanky man with a gaunt face, vivid blue eyes, and gray hair with heavy sideburns. "Mrs. Blackburn! Good morning to ye." He dipped his hat.

  "Good morning, Mr. MacDonald." She walked up to the site alongside the foreman, where the three other men were waiting, shovels and picks in their hands. Dressed in shabby trousers, nondescript coats and hats, and muddy boots, she would not have thought them to be Highlanders. But she heard the Gaelic they spoke and saw their Celtic heritage in their high-cheekboned faces, their height and strength, their ruddy coloring and intelligent gazes.

  A brown and white spaniel ran toward her, tail wagging, and Christina reached out to pet her. "Who's this?" she asked.

  "That's Cailin," Hector said. "She belongs to auld Angus Gowan, there. Those are his sons, Robbie and Donald."

  She nodded to the men, who touched their hats respectfully. Then she bent to rub the spaniel's shoulders. "Hey, girl," she said, as the name translated in Gaelic. "And a thousand welcomes to you, too, on this fine day." She laughed as the dog licked her bare wrist above her glove. Christina murmured to her affectionately in Gaelic.

  Angus stepped forward. "You know the language, mistress? Good! Cailin is coming with us when we are working on the roads. She is coming with me for years when we are herding cattle in the hills. She is a good lass, and she is not minding if we herd, or hunt, or dig—she is happy to be out with us."

  Christina nodded. "You no longer herd cattle, Mr. Gowan?"

  "No, mistress. Our farm was taken from us years ago, but Sir Hugh gave us a home on his estate. When part of his land was sold, we lost our land again, but now we work on the laird's road crew. Cailin is happy whatever we do. People can learn much from dogs about contentment, I say."

  "Oh, yes." She nodded. "Thank you for coming up here when you have so much other work along the highway. I know Sir Aedan is anxious to finish his road."

  "Aye, mistress, the laird has much responsibility there," MacDonald agreed. "But he can spare the Gowans for a few days."

  "He can dig with that metal beast," Robbie Gowan said. His kinsmen laughed. She noticed that the men spoke English in the same soft accent and odd speech patterns as MacGregor the butler.

  "Hopefully this will not take many days," she said. "It is easy to see where earth and rock cover the old wall. I would like the earth carefully cleared away from the top layer, if you will." She pointed as she spoke, and the men nodded.

  "What about the wall?" Angus asked, eyeing it dubiously.

  "Leave it be. I'll mark the loose stones with chalk—blue chalk if a stone should be removed, white for those to be left in place." She opened her reticule and removed two pieces of broken chalk that she had borrowed from her brother's wooden box of soft pastel sticks.

  "They'll grub the hill—clear the brush and bracken away," Hector explained, "and then start where the wee wall appears and dig across to the opposite wall, there. How far back into the hill, mistress?"

  "As far as is safe, Mr. MacDonald, or until the wall ends."

  "Aye." He spoke to the men, who walked off to begin their task. Hector whistled to the dog, who came to him for petting. "That split in the rock, there, is from the explosion, when Mr. Campbell set the black powder in the hill. It is not so safe here, I'm thinking. I will come here with the Gowans while there's digging to be done here. Sir Aedan asked that ye ne'er be alone on this hill."

  "Oh, did he? It is not necessary to protect me, Mr. MacDonald. I am neither foolish nor incautious. You can tell that to Sir Aedan."

  "Aye well," he said, wiping his forearm over his brow, "ye'd best tell him that yerself. I willna come atween ye. There's fire in ye both, and I dinna care to be burned by it." Hector grinned so engagingly that she had to laugh.

  * * *

  Sunshine split the cloud cover later, and the damp earth dried in the sun, making digging easier. While the men worked steadily, Christina knelt on the ground, skirts tucked around her, examining the stones in the wall and marking some with chalk. In the warm, bright sun, she dropped the veiling over her black bowler hat and removed her jacket to work unhampered in her linen blouse.

  She brushed her fingers over a stone, intrigued by cut marks along the side. Pulling her hatpin from the netting, she scraped at the embedded dirt. Pausing to pencil her observations in a small memorandum book, she took up the hatpin to scrape delicately at the rock.

  "If you are going to use that wee thing to clear the dirt from these stones," Aedan said, "you will be up here forever."

  Startled, she looked up, her heart leaping, as it always did when he was near. He stood tall over her, his back to the sun, his legs long, shoulders wide, stance masculine and assured.

  Last night they had shared astonishing kisses, and for a moment she longed for that warmth between them again. But he frowned down at her, cool and impenetrable.

  He did not look inclined to kiss her. He looked annoyed.

  "Good day, sir," she said pleasantly. "You are right, of course. It is futile to clean the rock with my hatpin." She opened her reticule to take out a small implement.

  "What is that?" He looked down.

  "A toothbrush." She waved it.

  "An odd time to be polishing your smile."

  She displayed a sweet grin and began to scrub at the stone.

  "For the love of God, woman! Scrubbing those rocks like a scullery maid will not improve their appearance or their value. It only prolongs the time being wasted here."

  "There is no need for oaths," she retorted. Wielding the little brush diligently inside a crevice, she blew at the loosened dirt. A few marks were visible on the stone, and she picked up her pencil to sketch them in her notebook.

  "Only a few weeks are left before this road must be finished. Mrs. Blackburn, are you listening?" He dropped to his haunches while she worked. "Why do this now?"

  "My uncle discovered Pictish carvings of great antiquity while cleaning some stones in a field with an old toothbrush," she explained. "The science of archaeology has made great strides since Uncle Walter was a lad digging flints in his kailyard. Even fifty years ago, fossil bones were still thought to be the remains of dragons and monsters. Celtic knives were thought to belong to fairies."

  "They don't?" he asked dryly.

  She scowled at him. "We are learning much about the past from careful digging. Now we know the value of caution and cataloguing, and we can unravel early history
more accurately. Time has its layers, just as the earth has its strata. Both will yield their secrets if treated with care and respect." She wiggled the toothbrush at him. "We must not dig willy-nilly on this site."

  "You may not be an archaeologist, but you seem to know what you are about," he said. She heard grudging respect.

  "I have assisted with other finds. I am primarily an amateur antiquarian. A scholar. My interests are Celtic history and literature. But cautious exploration is needed here, and I am prepared to do that. If there is something of merit, Sir Edgar will take over." She pursed her lips a little at that thought.

  "You will find no Pictish carvings here, nor is there time to search for them."

  "You may not have time, sir, but I do. You are an impatient man, I think." She brushed at the stone, then blew.

  "In this, aye. Not in all things."

  "It is senseless to hurry when historical treasures may be unwittingly destroyed."

  "So," he ground out, "this will take a long time."

  "It is important to be careful, observant, and organized. You would not proceed impatiently with your road"

  "We determine beforehand what we are digging into and laying down and how much time is required, give or take weather and other factors."

  "Like Pictish walls?" She brushed a stone close to his booted toe. He shifted his foot.

  "And stubborn little antiquarians."

  She sat back on her heels to look up at him. "We have something in common, you and I. We both dig in the earth and take it apart. You build roads, I resurrect history. I shepherd the past, you the future. And neither of us knows exactly what we will find. Look what you discovered with your blasting powder."

  "Aye," he said, watching her. "Look what I found."

  She thought of his words last night, when he tested himself against love—and was invulnerable. Feeling the sting of that again, she lifted her chin. "Since you are so very busy, Sir Aedan, perhaps you should get back to the moor and to your great metal beast."

  "Mrs. Blackburn, the commissioners are breathing down my neck. I had another letter from the queen's secretary, inquiring as to when this road will be ready for Her Majesty's wee jaunt from Glasgow. By the way, you have a letter from Sir Edgar in the same postal bag," he added. "He will want to know what you found and if it benefits him in any way. Of course I am impatient. We have no time for polishing stones."