Waking the Princess (3 page)

Even with considerable funds drawn from his own accounts, Aedan found it difficult to repay the inherited debts. Honoring the tradesmen's fees incurred by his busy kinswomen proved an increasing challenge. The situation had to improve, or he stood to lose a great deal.

Aedan straightened his black brocade vest, snugged the dark brown silk neckcloth around his white collar, then slid into his black wool coat, settling the lapels. He brushed at a few mud stains on his clothing, certain that his Aunt Lillias—Lady Balmossie—and his second cousin, Amy Stewart, would fret over his appearance. Dust and spatters were a daily result of his occupation as a civil engineer and builder of highways and byways in Scotland, and he did not mind them so much.

He sighed, feeling displaced somehow—just the strange emotional residue from the dream. A keen longing spun in his gut, a yearning for something unfulfilled, like love.

Love.
He huffed, low and bitter. For the lairds of Dundrennan, love was a waste of time—even dangerous, tradition said. He had fallen in love once, years ago, and it had ended in tragedy. Now that he was laird, the Dundrennan curse lay squarely upon his shoulders, continuing from the time of the first Aedan of Dundrennan to the current day.

True love had not done that ancient fellow any good, he mused—that was the one who had lost the princess in the briar, and had started the whole legend and curse.

And the current Aedan MacBride had no intention of testing it again. Love had gone poorly for him the first time. So be it.

A remnant of his dream returned suddenly: a woman's sleeping face, his hand upon her brow, a feeling of desperation. In the dream, he had been the ancient warrior from Dundrennan's legend, and he would have done anything to save his princess. Anything. And the girl had been—

Absurdly, the girl had been the young woman in the painting. And some flicker of desire still burned in him.

Nonsense. Too much on his mind and too little sleep, he told himself. He would have the gilt-framed painting moved elsewhere, and improve his work, concentration and rest.

Slamming shut the ledger with its frustrating numbers, he sighed. Nothing would improve those figures. He must put his foot down with the ladies of Balmossie.

He would suggest painting the walls rather than putting up expensive hand-painted Irish wallpapers. He would point out that the old Turkish rugs, though worn, lent more character than new plaid carpeting.

He had best tell them, too, that a museum representative would arrive on Thursday to stay at Dundrennan House for a day or two while examining the recent discovery on Cairn Drishan, a hill at the edge of Dundrennan's policies.

Two weeks ago, Aedan and his crew had been working on a portion of the parliamentary highway that was to go over the slope of Cairn Drishan. True, he did not want to cut through the ancient, untouched segment of his own land, but he understood the larger benefits of improving Scotland—an issue over which he and his father had often argued.

An explosion of black powder through the rock had revealed stones protruding from the hillside cut like decayed teeth. Aedan, with his foreman and assistant, quickly realized that the blast had uncovered part of a stone foundation. He hoped that the walls dated back no more than fifty years, some forgotten croft. But a deeper sense told him that the structure was much older.

If so, he could very well lose Dundrennan in its entirety, according to a provision in his father's will.

New or old, the discovery had to be examined by a representative of the national museum, according to the recent treasure trove law, before road construction could continue. Frustrated, delayed in his work for the Parliamentary Commission for the Department of Roads and Highways, Aedan had no choice but to comply.

Sifting through the jumble of papers on his desk, he found the letter from Sir Edgar Neaves of the National Museum. Neaves had a busy schedule, but would send a competent antiquarian named Mrs. Blackburn to look at the stones.

Good. Any old fuss-pot would do in Neaves's place, Aedan thought.

The man's covetous interest in the collections and objets d'art at Dundrennan House was annoying—even more, slightly disturbing. When and if Neaves himself arrived, Aedan would instruct his housekeeper to lock up the plate and hide the keys.

Scowling, he tossed the letter down and went to the door, but paused before the fireplace.

Centered over the mantel, the oil painting had an allure he sometimes could not resist. A young woman reclined among a scattering of wild pink roses, her classic features and graceful hands peaceful, her skin creamy, her hair a rippled dark auburn cascade. The translucent folds of her white chemise, touched with lavender and butter yellow highlights, showed the pink fullness of her breasts and the rich curves of her body. Detailed yet lush in its free brushwork, its colors as richly beautiful as the enticing subject, the painting seemed to glow.

The small brass plaque on the frame read
The Enchanted Briar, Stephen Blackburn, 1852.
Aedan nodded to himself. A sound investment. Any work by a member of the prolific, talented Blackburn family had growing value, and there were three Blackburns in Dundrennan's art collection. Aedan had purchased this particular one himself at an exhibit at the Royal Scottish Academy in Edinburgh. He recognized the remarkable quality and potential value of the painting, and he knew that the subject could be Dundrennan's own famous legend of the princess in the briar. A worthy purchase indeed.

Yet there was more. The image fascinated him, haunted him. He kept it in his private rooms, never admitting to anyone how much the painting—the model, the subject—drew him.

The girl's exquisite face and sensuous form had become familiar to him. She was part of his life somehow.

And now he was dreaming of her. He was too practical for such whimsy, and it bothered him. He was an engineer, not a poet or a dreamer of any kind. He was nothing like his father.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, staring at the painting, still drawn to it. Tranquil, sensual and disturbing, too—beneath the blowsy roses and luscious model, a mesh of thorns hidden under the flowers held a threatening element. And each time he looked at the painting, it seemed to seduce him.

She
seduced him.

He rocked back on his boot heels. A force swept through him—a trace of longing on the shore of his soul. God, he wanted her, needed her. And she did not exist.

He stepped back. He would not indulge in fancies. His father had been brilliant but idealistic, running the finances to ruin. Pragmatism was sorely needed at Dundrennan, and Aedan was its sole source.

He would move the painting, consign it to some dark corner in this enormous folly of a house. Or perhaps he would sell it to pay off some of his father's debts.

But he could not do that. He loved the picture of the briar-caught maiden too much. He wanted her near him always.

Scowling, he turned on his heel and left the room.

Chapter 2

Gables and turrets rose above a ring of trees, a fairy-tale profile in honey stone. Looking out of the coach, Christina felt oddly as if she entered an enchanted realm formed from the gossamer of dreams, where life was filled with wonder.

Fairy tales did not exist, she reminded herself, and the open carriage was traveling too fast to be a dream coach. Its breathless pace barely allowed a decent view of the hills and moorland or Dundrennan House, which rose above trees in the distance. And the daylight was already fading.

A brisk ride in an open carriage had left Christina breathless and unkempt. Strands of auburn hair slipped loose from its thick knot, her cheeks felt wind-stung, her gray skirt was rumpled, and her steel-rimmed eyeglasses kept sliding down her nose. She pushed them up again and looked around.

As the vehicle careened around another steep curve, Christina gripped the inner door loop and leaned with the sway.

Through the twilight she glimpsed heather-bright hills and sweeping moors. Clamping a gloved hand to her black bonnet, its satin ribbons fluttering, she glanced at her brother.

John sat beside her, his left leg stretched out for comfort. He too held fast to his hat brim, but he smiled and seemed relaxed, clearly enjoying the reckless speed of the ride.

Then, jutting above a ring of trees, she saw towers, turrets, and balustraded roofs. As the carriage passed through open iron gates, Christina saw the house clearly at last.

All golden stone, blue slate roofs, and sleepy windows, the house blended medieval and later styles behind a facade of honey sandstone. The foundations were swathed in rosebushes scattered with pink blossoms, and more flowers filled a garden visible behind the house. A dense greenwood surrounded both gardens and house, and the arch of a church was visible in the distance.

Looking at the rose hedges and trees around the lovely old house, Christina thought of a protective briar around a fairy-tale castle, impossible to penetrate without magic.

Sitting forward, she felt her heart quicken in anticipation.

* * *

"Oh, my, they're here," the housekeeper said, as Aedan encountered her in an upstairs hallway. Mary Gunn drew aside the lace curtain of the window overlooking the entrance and peered out. "The lady looks a bonny wee lass, and the gentleman is braw and fine!"

"Bonny wee lass?" Aedan asked. "Neaves is sending an antiquarian from the museum, likely to be an elderly sort, and a companion." He was glad to be spared Neaves's company, but was mildly surprised that a man and a young woman had arrived.

"A young lassie, and she looks habbled by the wind. Auld Tam drives like a madman." Mrs. Gunn's blue eyes sparked, and her face flushed beneath a lace cap with old-fashioned lappets.

Curious, Aedan approached. Mrs. Gunn stood back as he looked down over the graveled drive.

Tam Durie, the driver, lifted out some baggage while a gentleman in a bowler hat and brown jacket stepped from an open carriage with the aid of a cane. He turned to assist his companion, a woman, from the carriage.

In the twilight shadows, she was slender and graceful in gray and black. Tucking stray curls under her black bonnet, she glanced up at the house.

She was younger than Aedan had expected, her face serene and lovely, with the surprising glint of spectacles on her nose.

Pewter-gray skirts billowed, full and plain, devoid of the flounces and fussy bits favored by his cousins. Wind stirred her short black cape and shivered the ribbons of her bonnet over glossy dark hair. She was a vision of simplicity and grace.

He felt the odd notion that he had seen her before. Had they met at some soiree in Edinburgh or Glasgow? He and Sir Edgar knew people in common, including a couple of artists called Blackburn. But he would have remembered this delicate, bespectacled young woman.

"A wee bit lass." Behind him, Mrs. Gunn peered down with vivid interest. "Could that be her husband?"

"I do not know," he murmured, as the young woman turned toward her male companion, a hand upon his arm. "Gunnie, it's quite late, so perhaps you would show the guests to their rooms. They can have a quiet supper there and a chance to rest. The morning will suffice for introductions. I have a good deal of work to do in my study tonight."

"Very well, sir. Lady Balmossie and Miss Amy will ride over from Balmossie Castle in the morning, likely with that wicked Miss Thistle. The last time she was here, she hit me on the head with a sugar spoon," she complained.

"Thistle is a bit dangerous at teatime," Aedan agreed.

Mrs. Gunn huffed. "Aye, well, let yer guests meet the dafties all at once, and have done with it."

Aedan nearly smiled. "A good idea."

"Mr. Stewart will be here, too, with his new bride, but they're nae so daftie as the rest." Mary Gunn's blue eyes twinkled. Aedan's widowed fourth cousin, she had served as housekeeper at Dundrennan for thirty years, and he had known her since he had been a small lad in skirts, before his mother had died. He could not imagine his household without Gunnie. "Well, then. I'll greet them and ask one of the Jeanies to bring them some supper, how's that?" Mrs. Gunn said.

"Very good." As Aedan watched, the young woman tilted her head to look up at the window. "My God," he murmured.

Seeing the exquisite, familiar curve of her cheek and the line of her throat, he felt as if he took a blow to the midsection. He had dreamed endlessly of that face.