Waking the Princess

by Susan King

  He half sat on the table, looking amused and relaxed, folding his hands on his thigh. She could easily imagine him as an ancient warrior, exuding a powerful presence.

  "And you might be called... a lark. Or a swan. A dark swan." He smiled a little.

  "Darkling swan," she said quickly. "How did you know? I just translated those words yesterday from the marginal text."

  "I did not know. I was only naming your... grace and beauty."

  She stared at him, entranced.

  Instead of coming closer to kiss her, as she rather hoped would happen, he looked down at the parchment. "Liadan. This is really quite a discovery, you know. I did not know her name was in these documents. My father told me her name, but it was hearsay, passed down along generations. Now there is proof."

  "The name has been there all along, but no one had translated it in recent memory, I suppose. And there are a couple of poems in these marginal notes as well."

  "Poems? Truly? My father would have loved this. He would have adored you simply for that, Miss Burn," he said, looking at her keenly.

  She blushed, wishing she could control it, but he only smiled. She traced her gloved fingertip down the margin of the parchment, glad to share with Aedan what she had recently discovered through translating the old text.

  "The verses are lovely. And I think these words may have been written by your ancestor, the prince himself."

  "The prince?" He looked pleased. "What makes you say so?"

  "His name is on the roster, and it appears again in the margin. Aedan mac Brudei a Dun Droigheann—Aedan MacBride of Dundrennan." She pointed to the name on the list, then the marginal notes. "'Dun Droigheann' means 'the place of the briars.' This is your ancestor, the one who loved and lost the princess of Dundrennan."

  He nodded slowly. "If his name appears in the margin, it may have been overlooked all this time as part of the roster."

  "I think so. And I believe he wrote these additional scribblings with his own hand."

  "Fascinating." Aedan bent forward and used the magnifying glass. "I cannot read the text myself, but there's no doubt this is a brilliant discovery." He sat back, regarded her. "Sir Edgar will be very pleased. Have you written to tell him?"

  "No," she said, looking down. She had been avoiding that, knowing Edgar would hurry to Dundrennan once he knew.

  "You must be very proud of this."

  "I feel honored to be trusted with the folio pages."

  "My father would have been delighted with this. It brings Dundrennan's legend to life."

  She nodded. "It's coming to life in other ways, too, isn't it? John is painting the legend on the walls, and now we've found something on Cairn Drishan."

  "Odd that it's all happening at once. I wonder if the hillside is actually connected to the legend."

  "It's possible, since the dates may be similar, but it's too soon to say. The structure on the hill may be of a later time."

  "I see. Tell me about Prince Aedan's poems in the margin."

  "There are a few verses scribbled there, similar in pattern to Highland charms or prayers, which are a very old tradition among the Gaels. I haven't finished translating the lines yet."

  He peered at her penciled notes. "Would you read some of it?" he asked.

  She nodded, traced her finger over the page. "'Liadan, my darkling swan... thy promise was as the sun to me,'" she read quietly. "'Thy kiss was bright as the moonbeam. I will follow after thee and bring thee back.'"

  "My God," Aedan said in a hushed tone. "May I see?"

  She gave him the notebook. "You may read it, if you like."

  "'Smooth thou, soft thou; well I love thee under the plaid,'" he murmured. The quiet richness of his voice sent shivers down her spine. "'Thou are splendid; thou shalt be wanton.'" He looked up, and his glance met hers, keen as fire.

  Her breath caught. She watched him in silence. His fingers on the notebook were spare and strong, and she remembered how his hands felt upon her body. Wanton, indeed, she thought.

  In that moment, she burned so for him, wishing desperately that he would take her into his arms. He made no move to do so, simply leaning forward to look at her page of notes.

  "Beautiful stuff," he said. "But I thought Celtic poetry was all heroics and bloody battles."

  "Much of it is. A few love poems have been found, similar, to these." Her gloved fingers trembled as she turned a page in her notebook.

  "He wrote them for her," Aedan murmured.

  She glanced at him swiftly, her heart pounding. She knew it was true—inexorably, startlingly true. Aedan mac Brudei had written those lines for his beloved Liadan.

  A pull unlike any she had ever felt, a magnificent, engulfing power, drew her toward him. She wanted to be bold and wild. She wanted to be wanton with him again, as she had been before, and sink into his arms forever. She wanted to be his beloved.

  "Aedan—" she began.

  "Mm?" He looked up at the clock on the mantel. "Good Lord, it's late. I need to take these maps out to the work site." He stood. "Thank you for showing me your work. Fascinating, truly." He inclined his head.

  If he felt what she felt, he gave no sign and chose not to act on it. Perhaps she was wrong after all—perhaps he did not share her feelings at all.

  Then she realized that the laird of Dundrennan would not want her as she wanted him. Of course he had loved her freely and divinely, but he was a man, after all, and she had offered herself to him in a very wanton manner.

  Cheeks burning, she stood, hastily putting her notes away in her leather writing case. Aedan watched her, his expression unreadable, curious, thoughtful.

  He did not seem inclined to make any affectionate moves toward her now, she thought. Obviously he had not come to the library to declare his burning, undying devotion.

  She had been every bit the little fool yesterday. Once again she had fallen in love impulsively, with utter trust and naivete. Apparently six years of sorrow and penance had not taught her to guard her eager little heart any more carefully.

  Stepping back, she felt flustered and breathless, swamped by disappointment and acute embarrassment. "It is very late," she agreed. "I promised the ladies I would join them for tea. Lady Strathlin... Meg... said she and Mr. Stewart would be leaving with the children for Strathlin Castle tomorrow, and I wanted to say goodbye. And I... I must return these parchments to the folio." She bound the silk packet with ribbon as she spoke.

  "Leave them," Aedan said. "I will put them back."

  "Thank you. I... I must go. Good day, sir."

  "Mrs. Blackburn," he murmured. "I—"

  She glanced up at him. "Yes?"

  He began to speak, and the sound of a door closing made her nearly leap out of her skin. Amy Stewart stepped into the library, the wide flounces of her blue gown sweeping the carpet gracefully.

  "There you are, Aedan!" she said. "Mr. Campbell has been looking for you—he says you have some maps he needs."

  "Aye," Aedan said while looking at Christina. "I'll be there directly."

  Amy came toward them. "Good afternoon, Christina," she said pleasantly.

  Christina murmured a greeting, then excused herself quickly. Turning, she crossed the room, aware that Aedan watched her.

  Had she stayed, had Amy not entered, she might have thrown herself on him again, desperate for his love, eager for the secure and marvelous circle of his embrace. Her anchor, her rock.

  But his neutral manner today, after yesterday's passion, only proved that it was not meant to be—that he did not want it as much as she did. She wanted love from him, wanted to give him her own love, but as laird of Dundrennan, he could not reciprocate. Love of a physical nature, yes, he gave that gladly and skillfully—but not the love of the heart that she now craved from him.

  Hearing Amy chatter and laugh with Aedan, Christina exited through the glass-fronted doors and took the hallway toward the foyer, intending to return to her room before tea.

  Love. She almost sobbed aloud. Ente
ring Dundrennan, with its nearly magical weaving of legends and dreams, she had somehow been waylaid by love. She could not deny that to herself.

  Pausing at the stairs, her hand on the newel-post, she remembered that Aedan had kissed her in this place, late one night. That melting, glorious power rushed through her again with the very thought, and she leaned her head against her hand and sighed out.

  Straightening, she covered her face and attempted to compose herself. She would keep silent about her feelings, for she did not think they would ever be returned as she hoped, as she might dream. At least when she and Aedan posed for John, she could be close to him. In that fantasy world, her dream could exist, and she could be in love with him as the princess and he her prince.

  But soon the dream would end, and she would wake one morning knowing that the time had come for her to leave Dundrennan—and Aedan—forever.

  Chapter 20

  Through the slick of heavy silk under his palms, Aedan felt the warmth of her body. He savored the feel of her natural curves under his fingers. She looked up at him, motionless, beautiful.

  "Spectacles," he reminded her.

  "Oh." Christina lifted the frames from her nose and set them on a table. Aedan gathered her close again, spreading his fingers across the small of her back.

  "Good," John said. "Hold that, now."

  Her hands rested on his chest, and she leaned into him, so that her torso met his, with only thin fabrics sandwiched between her belly and his. Her breasts were soft and full against his chest. Stirred and awed by the freedom of touch that their posing sessions allowed, he felt his body arouse and shifted his hips to retain his dignity.

  Frowning, he felt tempted to throttle John for thinking up this situation. The posing sessions night after night for over a week taxed his control immensely. Her slight weight against him, her warm, firm body, the play of textures under his hands, the soft thickness of her unbound hair, all set him afire. He ached to kiss her as thoroughly as he had done before, burned to continue what they had begun the other afternoon in that ancient storage chamber. Her half-closed eyes and soft breathing, her subtle fragrance—flowers and warm woman—made these hours of posing sweet torture for him.

  How long could he pretend that she meant little to him, that he was impervious? He felt tested beyond his mettle. Christina had seeped into every part of him—blood, bone, and being.

  Yet he could not finish what had started between them. He knew that intellectually, though his blood and his heart urged him to pursue it and continue it far into the future.

  "They meet secretly in her bower and are about to be parted," John said as he drew on the paper leaned against the easel. "The princess knows she must marry her father's choice for her, but she cannot bear to be parted from her Druid lover. They ache for each other. I want to show that."

  He ought to throttle the lad, Aedan thought.

  John seemed absorbed in his drawing, his chalk dashing as sheets of paper flew off the easel, slid untidily over the table. He began one new sketch after another, hardly stopping. Aedan had glimpsed elegant studies of faces, hands, and drapery, and several of full-length couples, their bodies joined like rising fountains, passion and love translated into fluid dark lines.

  "Beautiful, that standing pose," John murmured as he glanced toward his models. "The princess gazes up at him with her heart in her eyes. The prince cannot resist her charms. They are enchanted, swept up in the magic."

  "Oh," Christina said in a breathy voice. Aedan felt her desire, suddenly, like a flame stoking his own.

  John came toward them, reached out to adjust his sister's gown. "Christina, it would help to see more of your shoulder here... a graceful, expressive line along the shoulder and throat. It's less than you'd show in one of your dinner gowns, actually. Good." He retreated to his easel.

  Aedan had seen countless feminine bosoms bursting from countless dinner dresses, but he had never seen a sweep of skin as alluring as the slender curve of Christina's shoulder emerging from that drape of cream silk. He stood silent and motionless, though every part of him demanded he take her, kiss her, taste, touch, and thrust into her luscious body.

  He cleared his throat and tried to angle his pelvis away from hers. Contact would be disastrous indeed, he thought, for he wore only a simple skirted tunic of red wool.

  "Tip your head toward hers, Aedan," John said. "Better. Ah, the very picture of love." He nodded to himself as he drew.

  Seeing Christina's eyes close in a sort of ecstasy, Aedan wanted to kiss her so much that he trembled with it. A light sweat broke out on his brow. This modeling venture had been a colossal mistake, he told himself.

  The only sounds were the whisper of chalk over paper, the sputter of a candle, the sound of breathing. He thought he would go mad. His body heated like steel in a forge, and he could only stand there like a blasted statue.

  "'Struck deep to her soul, the winsome creature smiled,'" John said after a while, reciting Sir Hugh's poem while he drew.

  Grateful for the distraction, Aedan listened. John had a rich voice, and he knew the poem well. He understood its meter, its meaning, and every verse was beautifully inflected.

  Aedan had not heard The Enchanted Briar spoken aloud in a long time and had not read his father's poem in years. Now, as John's voice wove the story fresh for him, and Christina leaned in his arms, Aedan understood the poem as he never had before. He felt the characters and themes come to life in a tapestry of words, threads of destiny, passion, and poignant emotions.

  "'She lay among the briars, lost to him, oh! Lost,'" John recited while his drawing hand swept over the paper. "'Fallen among the wanton blooms, the cruel thorns."

  Still and silent, Aedan sensed Christina listening as intently as he did. He held her while her brother spoke the last verse, sounding like a bard.

  Oh! My love, come back to me

  And oh! My love, come home.

  But she drifted moorless upon that distant sea

  Where no soul sails, but for the last time.

  Hearing a sniffle, Aedan looked down. Christina's eyes welled with tears. "That always makes me cry," she whispered, chin wobbling.

  Unable to resist, he kissed her brow quickly in sympathy, inhaling the sweet womanly fragrance of her hair. She sniffled again.

  John continued to sketch, then looked up. "I know you two are not the fondest of friends," he said, "but I must ask you to pretend to kiss, if you would. Aedan, draw her to you. Christina, lean back and look as if you are... well, enraptured. But remember, sir," John added good-naturedly, "she is my sister. This is only for the sake of the painting."

  "Of course," Aedan murmured. His heart slammed.

  John dropped his chalk, stood. "I left some sketches in the dining room, where I was working earlier—I've started to transfer some of these scenes to the walls. I'd like to look at one of them for this pose, so I'll go down and get it. You both need some rest anyway." He grabbed his cane and hastened from the room. The door swung shut and clicked into place.

  The silence was heavy. Aedan straightened, fighting the burden of his control, for his body thundered, his blood pounded. As he started to release her, he found that he simply could not.

  "Damn," he breathed, an apology of sorts, and pulled her to him to kiss her soundly and thoroughly. She opened her lips beneath his in passionate welcome, tilting her head as she fit her mouth to his. A fierce hunger overtook him. He kissed her, slaked, drew back, delved again, helpless as a drunken man.

  He cupped her face, and she rested her hands at his waist, leaning back her head. Taking her with his mouth, then his tongue, he could not quench his thirst for her, no matter how much he tried. His hands trembled on her body, slipped over silk as he took her by the waist.

  As she pressed against him, he could not hide how profoundly he wanted her. Pulling her forward, he arched into her and let her feel his erection and his obvious, mounting desire. She moaned into his mouth and gave a sensuous movement of her hips.
>
  Dimly he heard the rhythm of John's footsteps outside. Again he kissed her, deeper, open, and felt the delicate, wet caress of her tongue upon his own.

  Then the door handle turned, and the candle flames vanished in the draft as John entered, cloaking them in sudden darkness. Aedan felt ecstasy tear through him, goad him onward, but he ended the heartrending kiss and drew back.

  While John lit the candles, Aedan resumed the pose, sensing Christina trembling. His mind was fogged, so that he could not remember their exact pose. Drawing her to him, he touched her cheek gently with his right hand, and with his left hand he captured her fingers against his chest. His heart pounded furiously under their joined hands.

  John looked up. "Oh," he said. "You changed your position. I like this one even more."

  * * *

  "Today I started working on the dining-room wall," John told Christina later, after nearly an hour of posing, when she and Aedan had taken another break from standing together in stillness. The tension between them remained high, her body throbbing rebelliously, his hands upon her hot enough to burn.

  "Yes, so you said," she answered. "I haven't seen it yet."

  "I transferred several drawings with Miss Amy's help. She's an eager apprentice. Lady Balmossie watched us and even assisted. We made quite a little party of it."

  Laughing, Christina looked at some drawings on sheets of brown paper, glued at the edges to form large cartoons. Using the point of a steel compass, he had punched tiny holes around each sketched figure. Once they were tacked in place on the mural, he had pounced chalk or charcoal in little bags, tracing over the punch marks to transfer the outlines onto the wall.

  Christina nodded while John talked about the transfer technique that their father had taught him. She relaxed as she sat on the table. Hearing the turn of a door handle, she glanced up and saw Aedan emerge from the little sitting room.

  Deep within, something turned in her, bounding in response to the mere sight of him. He had changed out of the tunic and back into the coat and kilt he had worn earlier that evening at dinner, when they had gathered in the breakfast room, now in temporary use as a dining room until John finished his murals. They had shared a simple supper of vegetable soup, roast fowl, and lemon pudding. She particularly remembered the pudding, for she had spilled some on her blouse and brown plaid skirt.