Waking the Princess (14 page)

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. Blackburn."

"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."

"I am."

"Then why did you ask what it meant?"

"I did not—" He sighed, exasperated, and reached for the rock, turning it to look at the dark greenish glaze. "You may be right, Mrs. Blackburn. This has a glass surface. Odd."

"The entire wall seems to be like that, but on the inside portions only, indicating a fire inside the structure. I found it everywhere that I scraped away dirt."

"A black house or shieling could have burned, resulting in verification of the stone. But it's not proof of an ancient house and ancient inhabitants."

"I expect to find proof of that, too, with time to dig there. This rock is highly suggestive. Even you must admit that."

He sighed, realizing that she had the advantage as the museum's representative and could order as long a delay as she pleased. "Very well, then. You will have your crew, but only for a few days. I assume the museum will pay their wages for the work." He looked hard at her.

"I will recommend to Sir Edgar that they be compensated. Can they start tomorrow morning?"

"You are not shy about your requirements, are you? Not for a few days yet. If you decide you want the loan of the behemoth, too, I must refuse."

"That is not—" She stopped. "Oh. You are joking."

He smiled fleetingly, then turned. "Here is my foreman," he said, as Hector arrived. "Hector MacDonald—Mrs. Blackburn."

"Aye, mistress, I saw ye coming o'er the road like a fireball. So ye've seen the great gawpin' hole in the hill?"

"I have, and I find it very interesting, Mr. MacDonald."

"There's king's gold on Cairn Drishan somewhere, mistress." He grinned. "Arthur's gold, they do say."

"So I've heard. Perhaps you would be so good as to help me find it." She smiled. Watching Hector's beaming face, Aedan knew that his foreman was already lost to her charm.

"Hector, the lady would like a crew to do some digging under her supervision. I want you to choose two or three men to start work on Cairn Drishan in a few days."

"Aye, sir. Mistress." Hector tipped his hat, then walked back toward the men to speak with them.

"Thank you, Sir Aedan." Christina's smile flashed through the veil. Quick, hot, certain lust clenched inside him. He frowned, aware of just how easy it was to fall under her spell.

"Aye, well," he answered. "Where is your brother? Disinclined to ride with you, is he?"

She had the grace to chuckle. "John stayed on the hill to make some landscape sketches." She gathered the reins. "I will go back to fetch him. Good day, sir."

"Mrs. Blackburn, one favor. Allow your brother to drive back to Dundrennan. My day would proceed more peacefully if I did not have to chase my gig and bay again."

Her eyes sparked behind the veil and the spectacles—he saw that flinty fire. "Or rescue me again?"

"Or that."

"I assure you it will not be necessary, Sir Aedan." She snapped the reins and turned the gig.

Watching her go, Aedan realized he was smiling. Wholly aside from her resemblance to the girl in that painting, Christina deeply intrigued him. Prim and scholarly, sensual and lovely, she also had no small talent for calamity. With all that wit and spirit, she was far more seductive than she could possibly know.

Frowning thoughtfully, he watched the gig travel toward the sloping hillside.

Pog turned her head, blew softly, and Aedan gave the horse a distracted pat. Then he guided her back toward the road and his crew. Some of the men hastened to busy themselves, while others—like Hector—stood grinning openly at him.

* * *

"Halloo, Effie MacDonald!" Aedan called as he approached the croft house. In the afternoon light, the whitewashed walls and heather-thatched roof were bright against the hillside. "Halloo, the house!" he called again.

The door was flung open. "Och, 'tis the laird himself, come to see auld Effie! Dora, here's our laird!" An older woman grinned at him and waved him inside. Tall and buxom, her gray hair drawn tight beneath a white mutch, her apron spotless over a dark, striped dress, she waited in the doorway.

Aedan dismounted and led Pog into the shelter of a thatched-roof byre that protruded from one end of the house. A goat looked up, blinking its strange yellow eyes, while the black cow occupying most of the space hardly moved.

"Pardon me, Flora. Hello, Hamish, you old devil," Aedan said affectionately as he lifted a burlap sack and spilled oats into a manger for the animals to share. He walked toward the house while Effie MacDonald stood, holding the door open for him.

"Come in. Come in," she told him. He greeted Effie and entered the dim, smoky interior. A young woman stood silently beside the fire. "Bide a wee, Sir Aedan," Effie said. "We've just made tea, and there's scones with currants and cinnamon. Ye like those well."

"Dora," he said. "I'm here, lass." He walked toward her, and the smiling girl held out her hands. She wore a brown dress, and her hair had a pretty bronze sheen in the firelight. He took her hands, her fingers calloused but slender and graceful. Her face was a pale oval, and her lovely eyes, once wide brown pools, were clouded and unfocused.

"Aedan," she said, accepting his gentle kiss on her cheek. "Sit by me." He settled beside her on a long wooden bench.

"What brings ye, Aedan?" Effie said while she served steaming, fragrant tea in two delicate china cups for them and poured her own serving into a plain mug.

"The scones, my dear," he answered. "I could smell them across the moor—it's four o'clock, and Effie MacDonald's making cinnamon scones again, I told myself, and I leaped on my horse."

Both women laughed. "I'll get them. They're just out of the oven," Dora said, rising, trailing her hand along the edge of the table until she reached a cupboard. She fetched a covered plate, which she laid on the table near Aedan.

"I just wanted to visit, really," he said. "It's been two weeks since I was here last." He accepted a plate with hot, buttered scones on it, while Dora sat beside him.

"I'm so glad you've come," Dora said. "I wanted to tell you the news. Mrs. Farquharson said she'd take more of my crochet work in her ladies' shop in Milngavie and sell them for a good price! She said the shawls and dainties I made sold, all of them, and she had requests for more. I must work quickly to finish the new things." She indicated a big basket beside the bench, filled with lacy crochet work and a ball of creamy wool.