Waking the Princess (30 page)

"Is that dull? I'm sorry if it's so," he said. "It's just how I am. My father called me all steel and numbers. I suppose he found me a little dull, too." He shrugged, feeling a little bewildered suddenly.

"He might have, because he was a poet and you are a man of the earth. Your strengths are very different than his. And he was right. There is a good bit of steel in you—which I have always liked very much." Her eyes sparkled. She leaned closer, hands clasped. "May I confide the entire truth of my feelings?" she whispered.

Aedan nodded warily.

"Well, you see, I am rather fond... of Mr. Blackburn," Amy said. "And I think he likes me in return. He might wish to court me, but he will not if he thinks I am promised to you."

"I see," Aedan said slowly. He felt a sudden, unabashed relief. "You know I am very fond of you, Cousin, but you may be right—we may be better off as friends. If that pleases you, your happiness is all I care about."

"Well, of course you care," she said. "You want me to finish the rest of your house." She dimpled prettily.

He smiled. "You have done a marvelous job with the house, and I know you will continue to do so. I think it's wonderful that you have found someone who is more patient than I am, who will be more interested in colors and whatnot."

"You loon," Amy teased. She gave Aedan a radiant smile. "It is far more than his interest in talking about colors. He is a very talented man, a brilliant artist, really. And he finds me something of an artist, too, in my way."

"And so you are. You're very talented and very lovely, and he is a lucky man to have your affection. I'm sorry to lose my chances with you, but glad to see you happy."

Amy tilted her head, considering him. "And I'm glad to see you happy," she replied. "I know you hoped I might be a safe sort of wife for the laird of Dundrennan—because you do not really love me in that way."

"Oh come, now," he said. "I'm very fond of you, dear."

She leaned forward and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. She was soft and fragrant, and he loved her very much in that moment—loved her as he loved his sister, loved her as he might love a friend. He smiled at her, and rested his hand on her shoulder.

"Aedan," she said, "if you do love Christina in that way, what will you do? The laird of Dundrennan must never fall in love, they say. Not truly, not forever."

"My dear," he said, turning to escort her from the room, "I'm not that much of a daftie."

But he was, and he knew it, and he did not know what he would do at all.

* * *

Footsteps, quiet and close by, startled Christina as she sat at a table. Turning, she saw Aedan standing there. He smiled, warming her inside—but she immediately remembered their encounter in the souterrain the day before. Her cheeks flamed hot, and she ducked her head, nearly dropping her pencil.

She was not certain, a day later, how to respond to him now, whether affection was appropriate, or whether she should pretend that impulsive, secret interlude had not happened. They had been interrupted from further passionate exploring by the arrival of Hector and the Gowans. Both she and Aedan had hurried out of the souterrain and had not seen each other privately since.

"Christina," he murmured.

"Oh, Sir Aedan," she said, glancing around to determine if they were alone. The library was quiet and golden in the afternoon sunlight. "Aedan," she said again, looking up at him.

"I don't mean to disturb you. I came here to pick up some maps and saw you working. You were so involved that you did not hear me."

"Yes, I—I've been translating parts of the oldest pages in the Dundrennan Folio," she said, indicating the parchment sheets spread out on the table.

Aedan came around the table to stand behind her, leaning over her shoulder to glance at the pages. "You mentioned that you had seen the princess's name here somewhere," he said.

"Yes." She reached for one of the two parchments and pointed with a gloved fingertip. "It's there, along the margin. You may need the glass to see it clearly."

Leaning his hand on the table near her arm, he took up the magnifying glass and bent to examine the script that she indicated. His jacket brushed her shoulder, and she caught the scent of spice, soap, and the earthy musk that seemed part of him, a scent that always excited her subtly whenever he was near.

"Ah," he said. "Liadan. What does that line say?"

She leaned close. "Liadan nighean Math-ghamhainn. It means 'Liadan, daughter of the bear.'"

"Bear? Odd. The legend says her father was a Pictish king, but no name is given. He was this...
Math-ghamhainn,"
He pronounced the Gaelic hesitantly.

"Apparently. It may have been his nickname, or even a title of some sort. Animal names were common among Picts, it seems. Old poetry contains references to proper names attached to epithets like wolf, bear, eagle, raven, hawk, and so on." She tilted her head. "For example, if you had lived then, you might have been called... 'Aedan the Raven,' for your coloring. Or 'Aedan the Hawk,' for your keenness of vision and your decisive air."

He half sat on the table, looking amused and relaxed, folding his hands on his thigh. She could easily imagine him as an ancient warrior, exuding a powerful presence.

"And you might be called... a lark. Or a swan. A dark swan." He smiled a little.

"Darkling swan," she said quickly. "How did you know? I just translated those words yesterday from the marginal text."

"I did not know. I was only naming your... grace and beauty."

She stared at him, entranced.

Instead of coming closer to kiss her, as she rather hoped would happen, he looked down at the parchment. "Liadan. This is really quite a discovery, you know. I did not know her name was in these documents. My father told me her name, but it was hearsay, passed down along generations. Now there is proof."

"The name has been there all along, but no one had translated it in recent memory, I suppose. And there are a couple of poems in these marginal notes as well."

"Poems? Truly? My father would have loved this. He would have adored you simply for that, Miss Burn," he said, looking at her keenly.

She blushed, wishing she could control it, but he only smiled. She traced her gloved fingertip down the margin of the parchment, glad to share with Aedan what she had recently discovered through translating the old text.

"The verses are lovely. And I think these words may have been written by your ancestor, the prince himself."

"The prince?" He looked pleased. "What makes you say so?"

"His name is on the roster, and it appears again in the margin.
Aedan mac Brudei a Dun Droigheann
—Aedan MacBride of Dundrennan." She pointed to the name on the list, then the marginal notes. "'
Dun Droigheann'
means 'the place of the briars.' This is your ancestor, the one who loved and lost the princess of Dundrennan."

He nodded slowly. "If his name appears in the margin, it may have been overlooked all this time as part of the roster."

"I think so. And I believe he wrote these additional scribblings with his own hand."

"Fascinating." Aedan bent forward and used the magnifying glass. "I cannot read the text myself, but there's no doubt this is a brilliant discovery." He sat back, regarded her. "Sir Edgar will be very pleased. Have you written to tell him?"

"No," she said, looking down. She had been avoiding that, knowing Edgar would hurry to Dundrennan once he knew.

"You must be very proud of this."

"I feel honored to be trusted with the folio pages."

"My father would have been delighted with this. It brings Dundrennan's legend to life."

She nodded. "It's coming to life in other ways, too, isn't it? John is painting the legend on the walls, and now we've found something on Cairn Drishan."

"Odd that it's all happening at once. I wonder if the hillside is actually connected to the legend."

"It's possible, since the dates may be similar, but it's too soon to say. The structure on the hill may be of a later time."

"I see. Tell me about Prince Aedan's poems in the margin."

"There are a few verses scribbled there, similar in pattern to Highland charms or prayers, which are a very old tradition among the Gaels. I haven't finished translating the lines yet."

He peered at her penciled notes. "Would you read some of it?" he asked.

She nodded, traced her finger over the page. "'Liadan, my darkling swan... thy promise was as the sun to me,'" she read quietly. "'Thy kiss was bright as the moonbeam. I will follow after thee and bring thee back.'"

"My God," Aedan said in a hushed tone. "May I see?"

She gave him the notebook. "You may read it, if you like."

"'Smooth thou, soft thou; well I love thee under the plaid,'" he murmured. The quiet richness of his voice sent shivers down her spine. "'Thou are splendid; thou shalt be wanton.'" He looked up, and his glance met hers, keen as fire.

Her breath caught. She watched him in silence. His fingers on the notebook were spare and strong, and she remembered how his hands felt upon her body.
Wanton, indeed,
she thought.

In that moment, she burned so for him, wishing desperately that he would take her into his arms. He made no move to do so, simply leaning forward to look at her page of notes.

"Beautiful stuff," he said. "But I thought Celtic poetry was all heroics and bloody battles."

"Much of it is. A few love poems have been found, similar, to these." Her gloved fingers trembled as she turned a page in her notebook.

"He wrote them for her," Aedan murmured.

She glanced at him swiftly, her heart pounding. She knew it was true—inexorably, startlingly true. Aedan mac Brudei had written those lines for his beloved Liadan.

A pull unlike any she had ever felt, a magnificent, engulfing power, drew her toward him. She wanted to be bold and wild. She wanted to be wanton with him again, as she had been before, and sink into his arms forever. She wanted to be his beloved.

"Aedan—" she began.

"Mm?" He looked up at the clock on the mantel. "Good Lord, it's late. I need to take these maps out to the work site." He stood. "Thank you for showing me your work. Fascinating, truly." He inclined his head.

If he felt what she felt, he gave no sign and chose not to act on it. Perhaps she was wrong after all—perhaps he did not share her feelings at all.

Then she realized that the laird of Dundrennan would not want her as she wanted him. Of course he had loved her freely and divinely, but he was a man, after all, and she had offered herself to him in a very wanton manner.

Cheeks burning, she stood, hastily putting her notes away in her leather writing case. Aedan watched her, his expression unreadable, curious, thoughtful.

He did not seem inclined to make any affectionate moves toward her now, she thought. Obviously he had not come to the library to declare his burning, undying devotion.

She had been every bit the little fool yesterday. Once again she had fallen in love impulsively, with utter trust and naivete. Apparently six years of sorrow and penance had not taught her to guard her eager little heart any more carefully.

Stepping back, she felt flustered and breathless, swamped by disappointment and acute embarrassment. "It is very late," she agreed. "I promised the ladies I would join them for tea. Lady Strathlin... Meg... said she and Mr. Stewart would be leaving with the children for Strathlin Castle tomorrow, and I wanted to say goodbye. And I... I must return these parchments to the folio." She bound the silk packet with ribbon as she spoke.

"Leave them," Aedan said. "I will put them back."

"Thank you. I... I must go. Good day, sir."

"Mrs. Blackburn," he murmured. "I—"

She glanced up at him. "Yes?"

He began to speak, and the sound of a door closing made her nearly leap out of her skin. Amy Stewart stepped into the library, the wide flounces of her blue gown sweeping the carpet gracefully.

"There you are, Aedan!" she said. "Mr. Campbell has been looking for you—he says you have some maps he needs."

"Aye," Aedan said while looking at Christina. "I'll be there directly."

Amy came toward them. "Good afternoon, Christina," she said pleasantly.

Christina murmured a greeting, then excused herself quickly. Turning, she crossed the room, aware that Aedan watched her.

Had she stayed, had Amy not entered, she might have thrown herself on him again, desperate for his love, eager for the secure and marvelous circle of his embrace. Her anchor, her rock.

But his neutral manner today, after yesterday's passion, only proved that it was not meant to be—that he did not want it as much as she did. She wanted love from him, wanted to give him her own love, but as laird of Dundrennan, he could not reciprocate. Love of a physical nature, yes, he gave that gladly and skillfully—but not the love of the heart that she now craved from him.

Hearing Amy chatter and laugh with Aedan, Christina exited through the glass-fronted doors and took the hallway toward the foyer, intending to return to her room before tea.