Waking the Princess (24 page)

"Run into her? You might have to run her down to convince her of that, Aedan," John said dryly.

* * *

Aedan stood beside his horse at the base of Cairn Drishan as Christina approached. He held the reins in one hand, the other hand at his waist. He waited for her, but she stepped to one side, intending to pass him entirely.

"Why, Mrs. Blackburn," he said pleasantly.

"How did you get here so quickly?" she snapped.

"Pog and I used my road," he said. "It's a fine wee road." He tied Pog's reins to a nearby bush and turned. "You took the route over the moor and the hills. A longer route, though well suited to contemplation."

"If John sent you here to plead with me, you can just take that fine road of yours somewhere else." She began to move past him, but he reached out and caught her arm.

"Christina—"

"I will not pose, even for John. He can ask someone else, and his mural will still be wonderful. It is his talent and vision, not the model, that will make it so."

"Listen to me," he said. He did not let go of her arm, and she made no effort to pull away. Though she wanted to be left in peace, she did not want to break this rare contact with him—not yet, when they had both agreed to be only friends.

"Do not tell me how it would please my brother, or whatever it is you agreed to tell me," she said. "Because then I would appear heartless when I refuse."

"Christina," he said. "I know all about Stephen's painting."

"You do not know. No one truly does," she said. Though something in her cried out to stay, she jerked free from him and began to climb the hill.

"Listen to me, you wee fool," he said, stepping after her, taking her shoulder, turning her to stand in the middle of the earthen path between the wooden stakes.

"What?" She looked up impatiently. "I have work to do."

"So do I. But this is important. Christina, I know about Stephen and the scandal of the painting you posed for."

"So John told you. I did not tell you the whole of it. Not that it makes a difference, since you and I... are only acquaintances. Friends." She glanced away. "The more you know about it, the less you will care to know me at all."

"Don't be ridiculous. I care very much about you."

She glanced up at him, wary, watchful.

"I feel we have made great... progress in our friendship."

She huffed and looked away. Aedan rested his hand on her shoulder, slid his fingers down to encircle her arm. "Christina, I've always known there was a scandal—the artist's death, the shocking picture he painted of his wife. It was never shocking to me, just beautiful, so I gave it no credence. I'm sorry for your tragedy, my dear. But none of the rest matters a whit to me."

She looked up at him. "You are not shocked by my behavior? Running off, marrying my cousin, posing for him?"

He shook his head. "You had your reasons. And the result is... breathtaking." He rubbed her arm gently. "Not just the painting. The model. The woman herself. You've grown, learned. You know what you want... now."

"Then you understand why I do not want to pose for the princess again. Why pursue me on this?"

"I agree with your brother. You are perfect for this. And it would not be the same at all. John's vision is very different from Stephen's. The first version is... a seductress. An innocent siren."

She gazed up at him, remembering the sultry game they had played that first night in his room, when she had fallen and he had seduced her with kindness and earthy charisma and a simple, exquisite kiss. "And the later version?" she asked, tipping her head a little, tentative, hopeful. "What of that one?"

He smiled, his thumb brushing circles on her arm, raising shivers in her. "The later princess," he said, "is vividly beautiful, but she does not know it. John's version will be magnificent, I think. The entire tale told in a sparkling visual narrative. I want you to be part of it—to be its heart."

She shook her head, looked away, so she would not have to meet his eyes, blue as the bright summer sky behind him.

"When I saw that painting in your room," she said, "so much came back to me—all the broken promises Stephen made to me, all his fits of temper, the days and nights that he painted and did not eat, only drank.... There are things no one knows, not John, not anyone. Only myself."

"My dear," he murmured. "I'm sorry."

She drew a breath. "He liked to paint at night, and he would drag me out of a sound sleep to pose for him if he did not have something just right. He would tear my clothing off to get me out of it—he never had patience. He said we would buy new things for me. We could never afford them."

"Did he... harm you?" Aedan asked in a low rumble.

"Not that way," she answered, shaking her head. "He was fierce about his work, selfish with it, but not cruel beyond it. He loved me... in his way. But when John asked me to pose for the princess again," she went on, "all the fear, the unhappiness, the broken dreams, came flooding back. So many long nights when he left me alone and came staggering back, drunk, to lock himself in his studio." She blinked back tears. "My wild, haunted artist. He could not be anything but what he was."

"You loved him?"

"I thought I did. I cared deeply, tried—but I learned how wrong I was about love. And then he died.... he struggled with that, too, just as he fought with every force in his life—genius, love, death itself—" She gasped a little and lowered her head.

"And you were always there for him, weren't you?" Aedan drew her close, wrapped an arm around her. She leaned her cheek on his chest, pressing against the sturdy wool of his jacket. He felt solid and strong, so reliable and earthy and real, and devastatingly attractive. But a friend. Just a friend, his hand kind on her back.

She wanted so much more with him, but he did not take this embrace further. That hurt deeply, secretly. She sighed.

"I realized later that it was not love so much as pity," she said. "I wanted to save him and foster his genius. I have lived with the regret and the shame ever since."

"Christina," he murmured. He tipped her head up. "This time, if you pose for the princess, all will be well. You will help John, and you will have something that you can be proud of, I promise it. And I," he said, brushing at a wayward strand of her hair, "will be the prince. We together will do this. What do you say?"

"I... Let me think about it."

He brushed his hand over her cheek slowly, his blue eyes intent, deep and sparkling, so that her heart pounded fiercely in her chest. "Good," he said. "Tell yourself that you are safe in this. Perfectly safe, my lass." He kissed her on the cheek, only that, and so tenderly that her knees melted beneath her.

He let go of her, and he watched him step away. Her heart felt heavy, hollow, knowing they were friends only. But she wanted to pose with him—wanted that, at least, with him.

"Perhaps there will be a happy ending for this princess, at least the one on the dining room walls, hey," he said, and reached for Pog's reins.

"Perhaps," she said quietly.

He bounded into the saddle and then looked down at her. "Mrs. Blackburn, good day."

She watched him go, and she knew that there could be no happy ending for her, no matter how magnificent John's mural would be when it was done.

Because when it was done, she would have to leave.

* * *

Flowers everywhere she went. Lavender stems filled a tall vase on the table beside her bed, while marigolds and daisies glowed in a glass beside her place at breakfast. Heather bells tied with ribbons brightened the stone wall when she arrived on the hill in the morning. Blowsy pink roses floated in a glass bowl in her little sitting room when she returned in the afternoon, filling the air with sweetness.

Now, a chain of daisies surrounded her dinner plate, and a posy of wild roses lay on the table beside it. She knew who was responsible. Smiling, she looked at him across the table.

"John," she said, "enough. You will give me hay fever."

Seated at the head of the table adjacent to her, Aedan chuckled.

"Will you do it?" John asked eagerly.

She half laughed, half sighed, glancing at Aedan. He lifted his brows in silence. They were only three for dinner that night, as the ladies of Balmossie had stayed home to nurse colds, and Meg and Dougal had gone to Glasgow.

"How did you find so many flowers in September?" she asked.

"Sonsie Jean—Muriel—helped me," he said. "And Sir Aedan suggested the wild roses."

Quickly she met gazes with Aedan, then looked away.

"I do hope you'll agree, Christina. Those flowers were a good deal of work," John said, grinning sheepishly.

"Sir Aedan helped, too, did he?"

"Certainly," Aedan said. "I get to be the prince, after all." His lips twitched in a little smile.

Twirling the little posy of wild roses, she finally nodded. "Very well. But you will have to sketch like mad to capture me, John Blackburn, for I will not do it again."

"Pity," Aedan commented. She sent him a little scowl, but he only raised a brow.

"We'll start tonight, then, after dinner," John said. "Meet me in the long gallery."

"Tonight, madam?" Aedan murmured, his gaze steady as he waited for her answer. A thrill of pleasure and anticipation slipped down her back.

"Tonight," she said, and she took a sip of wine.

Chapter 16

"For now, let's start with the meeting of the prince and princess," John said. Seated at an easel that held brownish paper, he picked through a box of charcoal sticks, chalks, and pencils. He glanced at Aedan and Christina, who stood side by side. "Face each another... Yes, like that. Good. Now, Aedan, take Christina's hands in yours, as if you have just met."

She offered her hands to Aedan, her fingers quivering slightly. His clasp was warm and firm as Aedan raised their linked hands toward his chest. "How is this?"

"I like that," John said. "It shows both tenderness and fascination, as if these two sense they are meant for each other. The overpowering strength of love at first sight will be part of the theme of the mural."

"Ah," Aedan murmured.

Silent, Christina felt delicate shivers ripple through her. Love at first sight, indeed. She was very much afraid that she had succumbed to that already. The laird of Dundrennan was far too enticing for her lonely, needy imagination to resist.

"Excellent. Hold that," John said, sketching with a bit of chalk, his arm moving in long, loose strokes. "I knew you two would be an excellent match for this. Your complementary coloring and trim figures, your classic, balanced features—all perfect. And there is something... quite indefinable between you," he went on as he drew them. "It fairly sparks around you."

"That might be due to our arguments over Cairn Drishan," Aedan said wryly. Christina frowned at him, and he raised one eyebrow without changing his expression.

"Whatever it is, it's perfect for this mural." John worked quickly, folding back the paper to begin a new drawing while they kept still in the pose.

"This will be the first meeting of the briar princess and the Druid who came at her father's request to teach her to read and write," John said. "I shall use MacGregor for the Pictish king, Mrs. Gunn for his queen, and I thought Lady Balmossie would make a wonderful Celtic priestess."

Aedan chuckled. "She'll want her familiar on her shoulder. Did Druids keep monkeys?"

John snorted with laughter. "The focus of each scene will be the developing love between the prince and princess," he said. "I'll fade the other characters using washed color, so that you two will stand out in brighter colors, with strong linear touches. Now, gaze into each other's eyes—oh, aye, just like that! I'm nearly done with this, and then we'll go to another pose, if you are not tired."

"Not in the least. Madam?" Aedan pressed her fingers.

"I can continue," she answered. Head tilted upward to look at Aedan, Christina flexed her shoulders a little.

John looked up. "Christina, your eyeglasses—"

"Oh!" She set them aside, and Aedan took her hands again.

"And your hair—it must be long and loose," her brother said. "And your skirts... well, I did hope to draw you in costume. I brought a trunk of art materials and some costumes with me from Edinburgh on this last trip. I have the gown Mother wore for Father's painting from the tales of Ossian—you know the one, Christina."