Waking the Princess (18 page)

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. She 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.

"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.