by Susan King
"And who is this fellow? Your rescuer?" Edgar looked at him with cool blue eyes, his long, perfect features pulled in a critical frown. "Are you Dundrennan's factor, sir? I hardly think you should ride with the lady like that, even if she was caught in the rain. I shall have a word with the laird of Dundrennan."
Aedan removed his hat. "Then have that word with me, Sir Edgar. I am the laird of Dundrennan, Sir Aedan MacBride."
"Great heavens, Sir Aedan, I did not realize! We've met only briefly, once or twice. You looked like a farmer or a laborer, sir, in that exceedingly plain suit and... low bowler."
"I sometimes do a little idle work about the estate," Aedan drawled. "Just now I was assisting the lady, who was walking back to the house when the rains hit."
The rain increased, slanting so hard that he nearly lost his apparently unfashionable bowler. He put a hand up to save it, feeling absurd as he sat in the rain exchanging pleasantries with a man who sat neat and dry inside his carriage.
"Thank you for assisting my fiancée." Edgar smiled, showing long, perfect teeth beneath his long, perfect nose. Aedan felt a primitive urge to put his fist through that chiseled countenance.
He glanced at Christina, whose cheeks flushed. "Ah, fiancée," he said expansively. "May I extend my congratulations, madam. Sir." He touched his hat.
"I never accepted his proposal," she said between her teeth.
"But he did propose," Aedan answered in a murmur, sending her a stony glare. "He knew you well enough for that."
"You know me better," she said.
"Ah," he replied. He did not vary his stare.
Edgar beckoned as lightning split the sky. "Christina, come into the carriage." He opened the door from inside. "Driver, help the lady," he directed.
Aedan noted that Neaves had no intention of helping her himself. The rain might have spoiled his top hat, frock coat, and pale kid gloves. As the driver got down from his perch, Aedan slid a leg over the horse's head, dismounted, and lifted Christina down to the muddy ground himself.
With a quick, almost frightened glance, she grabbed her bedraggled skirts and climbed into the carriage with the driver's help. Edgar slammed shut the door and nodded farewell.
As the carriage rolled off toward Dundrennan, Aedan sat his horse, rain dripping from his hat brim, and watched them go.
* * *
"My dear, your gown is a dreadful mess," Edgar said as he handed her a folded carriage rug. "I would kiss you, but we will save that until you are presentable. Whatever possessed you to climb into a saddle with MacBride? He ought to know better than to share a horse with a young lady."
"He meant only to save me from a drenching," she answered, drawing the rug over her skirts. Sniffling, she dug into her pocket for a handkerchief, found none, and dabbed at her nose with her gloved hand. "Excuse me," she said.
Edgar made a disparaging sound and handed her his handkerchief. "You are always forgetting something," he said, "either gloves, or handkerchief, or losing your spectacles." He tilted his head. "Although you are always fetching, regardless. It is good to see you again." He smiled.
"Thank you, Edgar," she murmured flatly.
"I am anxious to hear about your discoveries here. I read your letters carefully, but you gave little detail away. Saving the best to surprise me, are you?" He smiled.
She used his handkerchief. "I told you as much as I know about the hillside. I sent you the measurements and sketches of the foundation walls, the dimensions of the souterrain, the number of clay jars in it, their shape, and the nature of their decoration."
"Have you found any artifacts yet?" he asked. "Have you instructed your workers to dig farther to look for valuable pieces?" He leaned forward. "Did you open those jars yet?"
"No, I decided to wait—"
"Yes, wait for me, as you should."
"—I decided to wait until digging revealed more of the site," she said, bristling. "If you believe me to be an incompetent, sir, why did you send me here?"
"My dear, you can be so prickly at times, but that's just your charming feminine nature. You are not incompetent, of course, and you have the Reverend Carriston to advise and guide you. Have you written to ask the reverend's assessment of this? I am curious to hear his opinion."
"I have not troubled Uncle Walter with much of this as yet. He is ill, as you will recall."
"Indeed. A pity. Tomorrow we will go to the site and have the men dig deeper. Perhaps there is something to bring out."
"You would do that so soon? I proceeded slowly, thinking caution the wisest course."
"It is in some things, but I will decide what is best now that I am here. You ought to return to Edinburgh in the next day or so, my dear. I told Lord Neaves that you would call on him in his office at the museum. My father is anxious to learn more of our progress. If your father can accompany you, all the better."
"Father is still in Italy," she murmured. Lord George Neaves, Edgar's father and the high director of the museum, was a close friend of both her father and her uncle.
"Dear Christina," he said. "I confess I am anxious to know if you have considered my proposal, and if you are ready to give me your answer." He smiled confidently—smugly, she thought—and crossed one gloved hand over the other on his knee.
She hesitated. "Oh, Edgar. You've only just arrived, and I'm chilled through. I really need to rest."
"Of course."
"We will have time to talk. I wish to stay at Dundrennan a little while longer." I want to stay here forever, she thought. Even a few minutes with Edgar, now, made it profoundly clear that she had made a grave error in allowing him to court her. He seemed even more imperious now that she knew Aedan.
Needing affection, and doubting herself greatly, she had accepted Edgar's criticisms and controlling ways as the best that she deserved after her tragic marriage. Edgar was fond of her in his way, but now she knew, really knew, what love could be.
She watched the rain, unable to look at Edgar. Even if staying with Aedan was impossible, she knew with chilling certainty that she could not be with Edgar in the future.
"Why do you want to stay here?" Edgar asked coldly.
"I am translating an early document from the Dundrennan Folio, which my uncle worked with years ago. It's not done."
"Oh." He leaned back, looking at her with interest. "Are these pages of any historical significance?"
"So far, they are just part of the family records." She watched the angled, silvery rain.
Smooth thou, soft thou, she heard in the rhythm of the carriage wheels. They were the ancient, timeless words of a lover.
Smooth thou, soft thou, well I love thee under the plaid....
Chapter 24
"A pity Miss Thistle is not here," John murmured to Aedan while they sat at a game of cards with Christina and Amy. "It would be such a diversion for her to meet Sir Edgar. Perhaps we should invite her for tea tomorrow."
Smiling, Aedan tossed down his next card. "What a truly excellent idea," he said in a droll tone. "Thistle has been languishing in her palm tree in the conservatory at Balmossie House, hoping for an invitation to Dundrennan. She would adore Sir Edgar."
"She might particularly enjoy his hat," John said.
Aedan grinned as he examined his cards. Beside him, Amy giggled and turned to look at the man who strolled the drawing room arm in arm with Lady Balmossie.
"Stop behaving like bairns," Christina said tersely.
"Well, he's an insufferable boor," John said, low enough that only they could hear him. "He's spoken only of himself all evening. Lady Balmossie told him that he was a blatherskite, and he did not even realize she called him a braggart." He laid down a card after Amy did. "Seven of hearts. Trump suit. That stops your eight of clubs."
"I am allowed to lay mine down if I want to clear my hand," Amy insisted primly, while John reached out to spin the round painted tray used to play the game Pope Joan.
"Minx." John wiggled his eyebrows at Amy.
"Wi
ll you need me to model again soon?" Amy asked.
"Not quite yet, sad to say," John replied, and Amy blushed. "Though I might need Aedan and Christina for one or two more sessions, if that could be arranged."
"Perhaps," Christina murmured.
"When might the mural be done?" Aedan asked, glancing at Christina. Her mood had been subdued ever since she had returned in Edgar's carriage.
"Several months at least," John answered. "Such things take time. But I will have the color washes done for the queen's visit. The finished project will take longer."
"Of course. Take as long as you need, sir," Aedan said. "It promises to be an extraordinary piece of work."
"How wonderful to have you both here for an extended stay." Amy smiled, her glance trained on John. Aedan watched with interest, remembering Amy's earlier confidence to him.
"Thank you, Miss Stewart," John said. "Although I believe my sister plans to return home to Edinburgh soon."
"Sir Edgar feels I should return, now that he is here," Christina said. "There seems little reason for me to stay."
Aedan frowned. He could think of many reasons for her to remain, none of which he could voice here. "What about the translation?" he asked. "You will want to finish it."
"That will be done very soon." She finally looked at him, and he felt it like a blow to his midsection. He was sure he saw need, and fire, spark in her eyes.
"We will be sorry to see you go, Christina," Amy said.
"Indeed," Aedan said, as Amy deposited a card. He resolved to find a chance to talk to Christina soon, tonight. He hungered to hold her, to make love to her again in that hidden stairway—but she had to want it, too.
She looked enticing tonight in the brown plaid skirt and a matching bodice, her shining hair pulled back in graceful wings, her bare shoulders like silk and cream. Knowing the taste of her, the feel of her, beneath those fetching garments, he pulled in his breath sharply.
A slow burn filled her cheeks, and her eyes glimmered. Aedan was sure she felt more than indignance toward him. Tonight he would sort this through with her, he thought, remembering that John had said he needed them to pose again.
Christina laid a card on the table. "Knave of hearts."
"Oh! Christina won 'intrigue' in this game," Amy said. "So she gets some game counters." Dipping her fingers into the tray, Amy rained mother-of-pearl pieces into Christina's hand.
Aedan turned his own card over. "Queen of hearts."
"Good! That is 'marriage,' in Pope Joan," Amy said.
He turned to Christina and held out his hand. Silently, she dribbled several mother-of-pearl slices into his palm, and his closing fingers brushed her gloved ones.
"Excellent," he said.
"No laird of Dundrennan ever wants marriage," Amy teased.
"There is a first time for all things," he murmured, calmly rearranging his cards.
* * *
"Both of you seem stiff and tense tonight," John said. "We need something vibrant and full of passion. Whatever is the matter?" He peered around his easel to frown at Aedan and Christina, who had joined him, in costume, in the long gallery.
"I suppose we are both tired," Christina said. "It is late."
Aedan glanced down at Christina, who stood rather woodenly in his arms while gowned in the cream silk with a red tartan shawl tossed over her shoulders. Aedan wore a hauberk of chain mail over the red tunic, with a sword from his father's collection attached to his belt. The weight of the steel mesh pulled on his shoulders.
"Aye, we're tired," Aedan said. "Let's get on with it."
"What I want to show here is the moment when the prince discovers his beloved in the briars," John said. "This one is the most emotional and dramatic of these scenes, I think. Stephen painted the princess sleeping in the rose briar, and though it was passionately rendered, it was a passive pose. I'd like something more dynamic."
Aedan felt Christina tense in his arms. "Yes, a new variation would be good," she said.
"I thought perhaps he could discover her?... but how?..." John frowned thoughtfully, looking through a sheaf of drawings.
"You need to show urgency and danger," Aedan said. He scooped his arms under Christina and lifted her high. Gasping, she looped her arm around his neck. "You could show the moment when he takes her from the briar, before he tries to revive her."
"As in Sir Hugh's poem," John said. "Bring out the prince's desperate grief and determination to save her—excellent." He adjusted their pose and returned to his easel.
"Are you comfortable?" Aedan asked Christina.
"Very. But how long can you hold me like this?"
Forever, he thought. "No need to worry. If my arms get weary, I will simply drop you to save myself the trouble."
"Oh," she said in a small voice. He huffed a laugh.
"Hush," John said. "Christina, try to look unconscious."
She drooped her head back, and her soft, loosened hair swept over his arm. Aedan caught his breath, held her closer.
"Very good," John said. "I'll paint the prince climbing Cairn Drishan, I think." He drew intently for several minutes, working fast and free with the chalk. Candlelight flickered, and rain drove against the windows.
"'She lay among the briars, lost to him, oh! Lost,'" John recited in a quiet baritone. He continued through the last few verses of the poem, and Aedan heard Christina sigh softly.
The sight of Christina collapsed in his arms reminded Aedan of the painting he had studied for six years and of the times she had lain in his embrace. A strange magic seemed to work its way through him, an urge to hold her and protect her, though there was nothing to save her from but himself.
"John," Christina said, "have a heart. Sir Aedan has been holding me for a long time."
"It's no hardship," Aedan said.
"Put her down, if you like. I have what I need now. Thank you—that's all for tonight." John sifted through his drawings, murmuring to himself, on fire with creativity despite the hour.
Removing weapon and chain mail, Aedan dropped the hauberk with a heavy chiming sound into the wooden trunk with the rest of the costumery. He laid the old sword on the table and turned.
Christina stood looking out the window, the Highland tartan drooping on her slender shoulders. He walked toward her.
"You look fatigued," he murmured.
She nodded. "I should go to my room."
"I'd be happy to escort you there."
She glanced at him. "To see me safely down the stair?"
"If you like," he answered, watching her steadily. He wanted to be alone with her, wanted to sweep her up in his arms again and carry her off. Perhaps the medieval costume he still wore made him feel virile, forceful, and passionate beyond the bounds of his usual somber self. Or perhaps it was his very real need to unburden his heart to her and to feel her love wrap around him.
Dear God, he thought, watching her. He adored her. She stood all unmoored and simple in her plain gown and Highland blanket, her shining dark hair bedraggled, her face somewhat forlorn just then. Love filled him, flowed over, poured full from his soul.
Quietly magnificent, the sense of well-being and balance, of a generous, fulfilled heart, could hardly be a curse. Loving her like this could only invite joy upon joy.
She glanced at him. "What is it? Why do you look at me so?"
I love you. The need to say it set him on fire. He leaned toward her. "Mrs. Blackburn—"
She watched him, eyes intent and beautiful.
He gestured toward the door. "Shall we go?" he murmured.
She nodded and put her hand upon his arm, as if he were about to escort her to dinner. They bid John good night while he was still working on a drawing. Aedan picked up a flaming candle and then opened the door for Christina.
In silence, he conducted her to the narrow door in the hallway and stepped inside first, so that if she tripped or fell on the steps, he would be there to catch her.
Candlelight flickered on the stone walls as th
ey went down the steps, their feet quiet on the stone. He wore the tunic, and she wore her medieval gown; he realized that neither of them had noticed or had worried about changing.
Each step took him deeper into the secluded spiral of the stairwell with her. He had not been on these steps since the night of their last encounter, and the very air seemed charged with the lightning ecstasy of those moments. He felt it infuse every part of him, quickening his breath, making him hard and fervent for her.
Soon he could bear it no longer—the silence, the tension, the raw need. His feelings fought for expression. He turned, holding the candle out in its dish, and waited as she glided down to the step above where he stood. Being taller, he faced her directly, and he reached out.
Pulling her close, he kissed her, hard and fast and swift, holding the candle out in one hand, the other arm snug around her waist. He kissed her breathless, kissed her until he felt the tension drain from her, until she sagged her weight against his chest in surrender. Soon her tongue danced over his, and her hands came up to frame his jaw. He partook, as she did, of the feelings that swirled like warm honey, never wanting to let go.
But the candle sputtered and dripped wax on his hand, and he pulled back at last, resting his brow against hers, his heart hammering while he caught his breath.
I love you. He ached to say it, while she looked at him, silent and curious. Instead, he took her hand and led her downward, past her doorstep, where they had made love once. He drew her along with him to his own landing, where she had fallen one night on his doorstep and where his own heart had fallen like fruit from a tree.
Opening the door, he stepped back, waiting, blood and heart pounding. Christina stepped into the room, which was shadowy and warm with a newly laid fire. Shutting the door, he set down the candle dish and turned toward her.
A step, a cry, and she flowed into his arms. Wild with need and a joy that felt strange and new, he kissed her with the deepest hunger he had ever felt. She bent like a willow, graceful and supple, and he felt her give in to the need, as he did.
He had desired other women, had made love to them when circumstances allowed; years ago, he had lost his young heart to Dora's pretty cousin Elspeth, and they had tumbled together in heather and hay whenever chance allowed. Later, he had developed the wry, distant veneer that kept him safe from onslaughts of the heart and the vulnerable emotions that went with them.