Waking the Princess (37 page)

He turned to Christina and held out his hand. Silently, she dribbled several mother-of-pearl slices into his palm, and his closing fingers brushed her gloved ones.

"Excellent," he said.

"No laird of Dundrennan ever wants marriage," Amy teased.

"There is a first time for all things," he murmured, calmly rearranging his cards.

* * *

"Both of you seem stiff and tense tonight," John said. "We need something vibrant and full of passion. Whatever is the matter?" He peered around his easel to frown at Aedan and Christina, who had joined him, in costume, in the long gallery.

"I suppose we are both tired," Christina said. "It is late."

Aedan glanced down at Christina, who stood rather woodenly in his arms while gowned in the cream silk with a red tartan shawl tossed over her shoulders. Aedan wore a hauberk of chain mail over the red tunic, with a sword from his father's collection attached to his belt. The weight of the steel mesh pulled on his shoulders.

"Aye, we're tired," Aedan said. "Let's get on with it."

"What I want to show here is the moment when the prince discovers his beloved in the briars," John said. "This one is the most emotional and dramatic of these scenes, I think. Stephen painted the princess sleeping in the rose briar, and though it was passionately rendered, it was a passive pose. I'd like something more dynamic."

Aedan felt Christina tense in his arms. "Yes, a new variation would be good," she said.

"I thought perhaps he could discover her?... but how?..." John frowned thoughtfully, looking through a sheaf of drawings.

"You need to show urgency and danger," Aedan said. He scooped his arms under Christina and lifted her high. Gasping, she looped her arm around his neck. "You could show the moment when he takes her from the briar, before he tries to revive her."

"As in Sir Hugh's poem," John said. "Bring out the prince's desperate grief and determination to save her—excellent." He adjusted their pose and returned to his easel.

"Are you comfortable?" Aedan asked Christina.

"Very. But how long can you hold me like this?"

Forever,
he thought. "No need to worry. If my arms get weary, I will simply drop you to save myself the trouble."

"Oh," she said in a small voice. He huffed a laugh.

"Hush," John said. "Christina, try to look unconscious."

She drooped her head back, and her soft, loosened hair swept over his arm. Aedan caught his breath, held her closer.

"Very good," John said. "I'll paint the prince climbing Cairn Drishan, I think." He drew intently for several minutes, working fast and free with the chalk. Candlelight flickered, and rain drove against the windows.

"'She lay among the briars, lost to him, oh! Lost,'" John recited in a quiet baritone. He continued through the last few verses of the poem, and Aedan heard Christina sigh softly.

The sight of Christina collapsed in his arms reminded Aedan of the painting he had studied for six years and of the times she had lain in his embrace. A strange magic seemed to work its way through him, an urge to hold her and protect her, though there was nothing to save her from but himself.

"John," Christina said, "have a heart. Sir Aedan has been holding me for a long time."

"It's no hardship," Aedan said.

"Put her down, if you like. I have what I need now. Thank you—that's all for tonight." John sifted through his drawings, murmuring to himself, on fire with creativity despite the hour.

Removing weapon and chain mail, Aedan dropped the hauberk with a heavy chiming sound into the wooden trunk with the rest of the costumery. He laid the old sword on the table and turned.

Christina stood looking out the window, the Highland tartan drooping on her slender shoulders. He walked toward her.

"You look fatigued," he murmured.

She nodded. "I should go to my room."

"I'd be happy to escort you there."

She glanced at him. "To see me safely down the stair?"

"If you like," he answered, watching her steadily. He wanted to be alone with her, wanted to sweep her up in his arms again and carry her off. Perhaps the medieval costume he still wore made him feel virile, forceful, and passionate beyond the bounds of his usual somber self. Or perhaps it was his very real need to unburden his heart to her and to feel her love wrap around him.

Dear God, he thought, watching her. He adored her. She stood all unmoored and simple in her plain gown and Highland blanket, her shining dark hair bedraggled, her face somewhat forlorn just then. Love filled him, flowed over, poured full from his soul.

Quietly magnificent, the sense of well-being and balance, of a generous, fulfilled heart, could hardly be a curse. Loving her like this could only invite joy upon joy.

She glanced at him. "What is it? Why do you look at me so?"

I love you.
The need to say it set him on fire. He leaned toward her. "Mrs. Blackburn—"

She watched him, eyes intent and beautiful.

He gestured toward the door. "Shall we go?" he murmured.

She nodded and put her hand upon his arm, as if he were about to escort her to dinner. They bid John good night while he was still working on a drawing. Aedan picked up a flaming candle and then opened the door for Christina.

In silence, he conducted her to the narrow door in the hallway and stepped inside first, so that if she tripped or fell on the steps, he would be there to catch her.

Candlelight flickered on the stone walls as they went down the steps, their feet quiet on the stone. He wore the tunic, and she wore her medieval gown; he realized that neither of them had noticed or had worried about changing.

Each step took him deeper into the secluded spiral of the stairwell with her. He had not been on these steps since the night of their last encounter, and the very air seemed charged with the lightning ecstasy of those moments. He felt it infuse every part of him, quickening his breath, making him hard and fervent for her.

Soon he could bear it no longer—the silence, the tension, the raw need. His feelings fought for expression. He turned, holding the candle out in its dish, and waited as she glided down to the step above where he stood. Being taller, he faced her directly, and he reached out.

Pulling her close, he kissed her, hard and fast and swift, holding the candle out in one hand, the other arm snug around her waist. He kissed her breathless, kissed her until he felt the tension drain from her, until she sagged her weight against his chest in surrender. Soon her tongue danced over his, and her hands came up to frame his jaw. He partook, as she did, of the feelings that swirled like warm honey, never wanting to let go.

But the candle sputtered and dripped wax on his hand, and he pulled back at last, resting his brow against hers, his heart hammering while he caught his breath.

I love you.
He ached to say it, while she looked at him, silent and curious. Instead, he took her hand and led her downward, past her doorstep, where they had made love once. He drew her along with him to his own landing, where she had fallen one night on his doorstep and where his own heart had fallen like fruit from a tree.

Opening the door, he stepped back, waiting, blood and heart pounding. Christina stepped into the room, which was shadowy and warm with a newly laid fire. Shutting the door, he set down the candle dish and turned toward her.

A step, a cry, and she flowed into his arms. Wild with need and a joy that felt strange and new, he kissed her with the deepest hunger he had ever felt. She bent like a willow, graceful and supple, and he felt her give in to the need, as he did.

He had desired other women, had made love to them when circumstances allowed; years ago, he had lost his young heart to Dora's pretty cousin Elspeth, and they had tumbled together in heather and hay whenever chance allowed. Later, he had developed the wry, distant veneer that kept him safe from onslaughts of the heart and the vulnerable emotions that went with them.

But he had never felt like this, never. He was filled with a pure, bright, burning need to lose himself in her and to share it with her. Once he had believed he could never fall victim to this. Now he knew that love could happen in an instant, like the sudden dazzle of a sunbeam.

He had first dreamed of her years ago, when she was but a likeness in a painting, the one that overlooked them now, its presence lush and provocative. But she was real and warm under his touch, a hundredfold more seductive, and his body grew hotter and more firm as he absorbed the sight and feel of her.

Reaching out, he touched the glint of the fire in her hair, traced his fingers over her smooth shoulders. She leaned back her head, her throat beautiful, her hair rippling, swinging, and he kissed her cheek, her throat, felt her lips upon his jaw and soft upon his ear.

Questioning but silent, he pulled back to look down at her, and she gave her answer, leaning forward to kiss him, deep and open. He knew then that she wanted this as much as he did. He took her plaid, let it fall to the floor, then removed her little spectacles carefully. He kissed her eyelids, one and then the other, and then she looked up at him with honesty and gentleness.

He fell, once again, in love with her. The painting on the wall was but a dim, lovely shadow of the woman before him.

His mouth moved over hers, succored, withdrew, discovered again. She seemed to melt in his arms and under his lips. Deftly he untied cotton and lace and silk and floated them to the floor.

She stood unashamed before him, her body marvelous in the warm gold light, satiny and beautiful. His own body grew hard and full, and he ached to lose himself in her softness.

When she reached for him and tugged at his tunic, he removed it quickly, let it drop away. He slid his palms along her waist, following the curves to span her hips, then upward around her ribs, his hands gliding over her breasts. He felt her falter, heard her soft, breathy gasp as she surged toward him, pressing her body to his, seeking his mouth with her own.

Lowering her to the floor, he lay with her on a pool of discarded silk and wool. Tracing his lips over hers again, he slipped his mouth downward, kissing, nibbling along her throat to her breasts. He sensed her heartbeat quickening like his own.

Loving her was not wrong or shameful. Loving her, he felt clarified and whole. This was no risk, he told himself—this was salvation in itself; it was bliss and forgiveness and nurturing. He could not stop himself, for an inexorable current pulled him onward. He thought it drew her, too, in its swift path.

Lying with her on the pool of fabrics, sensing the warmth of the fire on his back, he lifted slightly and traced his lips over her shoulders, over the living silk of her breasts, the nipples pearling for him, one, the other. She arched, her arms encircling him.

Her breasts filled his hands and he tasted her, tracing his mouth lower over her taut abdomen, slipping his hand downward, finding her heated, honey slick. He touched, caressed until she shivered, moved, sighed, as her hands smoothed up over his back, around, along his abdomen, until he felt the hot leap of desire as she sheathed him with warm, firm fingers, measuring, teasing until he burned for more, until he pulled her to him and took her mouth, tasted her, all the while aching for release.

Rolling her gently to her back, as she curved toward him, he surged into her, into the sumptuous heat of her, and she moved with him, softly gasping. He felt as if all her secrets were his now, all his secrets were hers. The feeling shook his soul, unstoppable, ecstatic.

I love you,
he wanted to say.
I love you.
His body said what he could not, his hands and lips said it. He felt love flowing, enveloping him, resonating, and he could not say it.

Soon he gathered her close, curled with her beside the fire, drew the plaid over them, kept his silence. He watched her as she slept, set his lips against her hair, and knew he must find a way for them to stay together forever.

* * *

Christina slipped out of Aedan's large, comfortable bed, then pulled on her chemise and the silk costume. She had slept only a little, waking in his arms. Her body ached sweetly in secret places, and she smiled to herself, remembering.

She tugged the quilted coverlet high over his bare shoulder, for the room was chilly as dawn approached. Admiring the firm beauty of his form, She wanted to feel his arms around her again. But she stepped away.

He loved her—she felt that he did, at least in some moments. She knew it in his lips, his touch, his gentleness. But she did not truly know if he felt it beyond the warmth between their bodies, the comfort and solace there.

But she could not be found here, in his bedchamber. Gathering her things quickly, she went barefoot to the door and climbed the stairs, cold stone underfoot, to her room.

She would not press him to talk of love, would not ask of him what he could not freely give. She loved him too much.

Chapter 25