Waking the Princess (22 page)

Loneliness and long-stifled passions wanted release and satisfaction—she had enjoyed loving with Stephen, when he was capable, when he was not drunk, or exhausted from one of his painting frenzies. The bed play had been thrilling, when all had been good.

Aedan, she sensed, would be tender, would want her to feel pleasure—and the longing for it tightened in her body, secretly. Her cheeks flamed with heat.
Stop,
she told herself.
Just stop.
These were impossible dreams that served no purpose. Aedan would never love her—this could not blossom, would not end well for either of them if she did not put a stop to it now.

Sighing, she resumed reading the history book in her hands. She did not hear footsteps until Aedan stood in front of her.

"Sir Aedan." She set down the book. "Good afternoon."

"Mrs. Blackburn." He inclined his head. He was dressed in a neat black suit, a tall silhouette. "I hoped to find you here. The library seems to be the place for rendezvous today," he added as a trill of feminine laughter floated across the room from where John and Amy sat together.

"John has asked Amy to pose for a figure in his mural," Christina said. "She is very pleased."

"I see." Rocking on his heels, hands behind his back, he paused. "We've had a bit of rain this week, and the moorland road is awash with mud. The hill is a mire, too. I sent the men home for the day."

"Yes, Hector MacDonald sent word to me. Surely you did not seek me out to discuss the weather," she added warily. He looked awkward, as if something else was on his mind.

"No. I... have been remiss, Mrs. Blackburn."

So had she, thinking of kisses stolen in the dark. "Remiss?"

"I have not yet shown you the Dundrennan Folio."

"Oh!" Had she expected him to fall to his knees and profess his love of her? "I had nearly forgotten. I would love to see it."

"Come, then."

She rose and followed him to his father's study. Inside, he partially closed the door and went to a tall mahogany cabinet behind it. He inserted a key and opened the lock then removed two cases and brought them to his father's desk.

Red ribbons secured two collapsible boxes, and Aedan began to untie the first one. "The Dundrennan Folio is a collection of family documents and writings by family members, stored as two volumes," he explained. "The pages range from some loose early parchments to papers belonging to my father."

"Yes, I know. Uncle Walter visited Dundrennan years ago at your father's request and translated some medieval pages from copies Sir Hugh made. I have always wanted to see the originals."

"I believe Reverend Carriston saw the old poems. They are in this box." He opened the first volume. Velvet-lined box sides flattened to reveal several packets wrapped in white silk. "There are some old medieval poems and documents."

"Sir Edgar Neaves also came to Dundrennan, interested in acquiring some of the collection," she said.

He shot her a grim look. "He did not acquire any of it. Especially not this. These are family papers and will not be sold." Aedan opened the first silk packet. "I believe your uncle translated these pages."

"Oh, they're beautiful." She gasped to see a sheaf of loose vellum sheets, clearly very old, judging by the style of calligraphy and the ink color. "These are several poems by an ancient Gaelic poet, the Dundrennan Poet," she said.

The parchment page was unevenly shaped, tattered at its edges, slightly foxed with pale brown stains. Neat rows of text filled the page, and the brown ink lettering had the distinctive rounded, controlled elegance of old Celtic script.

"The Dundrennan Poet wrote about battles and some mythical and historical Celtic heroes," she said. "Oh, it is fascinating to see the original pages." The decoration was sparse, with the largest initials intricately illuminated in brownish black ink. Tails and finials swirled into vines and animal heads, the drawing style sure yet delicate.

"I believe the poet wrote in the sixth century," Aedan said. "The language is Gaelic, and family tradition says he was an early laird of Dundrennan, so we keep them in the folio."

"The language is Old Irish, the earlier form of our Scots Gaelic. There are Latin phrases mixed in here, too, I see, which would indicate a Christian education."

"I assume you are familiar with your uncle's translation?"

"Of course. I am delighted to see the originals."

"Examine them at your leisure. Spend as much time with them as you like, madam. The privilege is all yours." He smiled.

"Oh, Aedan, thank you," she breathed.

"You are welcome, Christina," he murmured.

She leaned closer to see, her shoulder brushing his arm. He turned the page to a parchment sheet covered with columns of neat words. More cramped, tiny writing filled the wide margin.

"This is not the poet's work," he said. "If I recall, it is an ancient register of households. Is it of interest to you?"

"My uncle translated this, too. It's a muster roll, listing the names of warriors available to fight for some Pictish king. Look." She traced her finger down the page without touching the vellum. "Your ancestor is listed here. Aedan mac Brudei."

"Ah. He was a bit of a mystery. A warrior—we know little about him or his people, but they settled here in the Dundrennan area and became Clan MacBride. Aedan is a family name."

"This early Aedan would have been of the Dal Riata tribe that inhabited this region of Scotland around the sixth century," she said. "We know so little about the Picts and early Scots. This list of names here is a rare, very valuable historical document."

"What are those notations in the margin? Some clerk's afterthought?"

"My uncle mentioned that the roster had some marginalia that he could not decipher, but he thought the lines were added by a later hand." She shrugged. "Marginal notes sometimes occur in old manuscripts. Writing surfaces were scarce, so book pages served for paper when necessary. The book's owner might jot something down in an old book—for example, how many cows were sent to market that month, or how many cheeses were bought from the local farm."

Aedan smiled. "Maybe it's a list of Pictish cheeses."

She laughed. "Perhaps. I'd like to study the inscription more closely."

"Anytime." In the sudden silence, with his gaze upon her, she felt a blush warm her cheeks.

She looked away, wanting to protect her fervent feelings for Aedan, so strong today, fed by the previous days and evenings. "This is indeed a treasure. Thank you. I would love to spend a little time with these pages."

"If it continues to rain with such frequency, you will be translating instead of digging," he said, wrapping the pages in the silk again. She helped him tie the ribbons.

After replacing the cases in the cabinet, he closed and locked the narrow doors, then held out the little key. "Here. Examine the folios whenever you like."

She stood beside him in the wedge of space behind the door. "I cannot take the key."

"Nonsense. Here." He pressed the bit of iron into her palm, let go of her hand. "I trust you, Mrs. Blackburn."

"Thank you." Her gaze held his, skimmed away. "The folio is extraordinary. No wonder Sir Edgar wants it for the museum."

"Huh," he grunted. "He wants more than the folios. He offered to buy the collection, a blanket sum. My father refused to sell. So have I."

"Edgar is impressed with the whole of the Dundrennan collection—the art, the books, and the historical memorabilia. Would you ever consider parting with some of it? The museum would be an excellent place for any of this collection, and you could share these wonderful things with the entire world."

"I do not mind sharing them one day," he said. '"But I will not give them over to Edgar."

"Edgar is a superb scholar, and director of the museum."

"Edgar is sly as a snake."

"I do not understand. You have made insinuations before this, but I do not know why you dislike him so."

"I do not insinuate. I know. Edgar is a snake in the grass. He repeatedly attempted to wheedle and manipulate my father's dearest possessions out of this place."

"He negotiated," she said.

"He wheedled," he said. "He cajoled. His offers were insulting. My father was unwell, and Sir Edgar would not leave the man be. He endangered my father's health with damnable persistence. I believe he caused the last fatal attack. In fact, I am certain of it."

"Edgar has a cool and businesslike manner, and at times he seems to be a little... well, insensitive to others' feelings, which can be mistaken for hauteur. I assure you, he is simply a very high intellect who is at heart a decent fellow."

"Hauteur, madam, hardly describes it. I will not sell a jam dish to him, and if I had my choice, he will not come here again—but for the hole in that damned hill."

"I believe you are wrong about Edgar."

"And I think you are the one mistaken about him." He frowned. "Edgar, is it? Are you on close terms with him? You are usually formal with me, though we have enjoyed some... intimate acquaintance."

She felt the heat grow fierce in her cheeks. "I have known Edgar since we were young. Our fathers were friends."

"I see," he said thoughtfully. Something shuttered in his eyes. "But you and I should keep things formal."

"I... it might be best. I will not be here much longer, and... what happened between us those few times—" She looked away. "I am confused, but perhaps it should not continue."

"I am equally confused, madam. But it is extraordinarily pleasant to be confused over you. Christina," he said in a low, gentle manner. "We have not behaved improperly. We each responded naturally to natural urges. Such things happen."

She blinked. "That was not something that occurs naturally between acquaintances."

"I am aware," he murmured. "And I am at a loss to explain it. But I know I pressed too far with you, and I am sorry."

Christina looked up at him, realizing what must be said, and yet she only wanted him to kiss her again. But her heart faltered, hurt. She had been foolish to give her feelings rein.

This had to end—she knew it, and he seemed to know it, too. She felt it plummet through her—cold, sad, lonely, and something she did not want.

"Perhaps we should overlook what happened, madam, and consider it... a prelude to friendship."

Disappointment punched into her. "I understand." She glanced away. "Of course we should... overlook it."

The pull, the need, she felt was so powerful that she nearly turned toward his arms. Yet he made it clear. Dalliance was fine. Emotional attachments were not.

What a simpleton she had been. In mere days, she had lost her heart to this intense, beautiful, exasperating man. For six years she had restrained her feelings, hidden her heart and her needs from herself and others. She had vowed never to fall in love again, always to be cautious and sensible.

Yet she had fallen for him like a rock from a cliff.

"Aye," he said. "Perhaps we are wise to forget this, then."

She watched him. "Can you... do that?"

"Not easily. But I will try." His face was close, his lips a breath from hers. His finger crooked her chin, lifted her face. She closed her eyes as his touch melted through her.

But she made herself step back, afraid she might cling.

He reached past her for the door. "Shall we go, Mrs. Blackburn? It is time for tea. And a pleasant interlude it will be, for Miss Thistle is happily plucking plantains at Balmossie today." He smiled, but it was hollow.

She moved past him in silence, chin high.

Chapter 15

"I have an idea," John said as he entered the breakfast room, limping with his cane. "And I think you will love it."

Christina glanced up, coffee cup lifted. She had come to the breakfast room early the next morning to find Aedan already seated at the table, reading his newspaper. After politely murmured greetings, they had eaten in silence. She was sorely tempted to ask him something, anything at all, when John arrived. His evident enthusiasm was like a fresh breeze clearing the tension in the room.

"Not 'Good morning; and how did you sleep, dear sister,' but simply 'I have an idea,'" she said, amused. "John, that's a sure sign that inspiration has you fast."