by Susan King
Waking the Princess
The Scottish Lairds Series
Book Two
by
Susan King
National Bestselling Author
WAKING THE PRINCESS
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"Unsurpassed—Susan King is one of the best!"
~Cathy Maxwell
"Susan King makes a delicious leap to the 19th century... never has Scotland been more magical or more romantic!"
~Mary Jo Putney
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ISBN: 978-1-61417-760-9
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Dedication
To my dear friend Joanne Zaslow with much love
Acknowledgements
I'm very grateful to my father, Mel Longhi, for information on civil engineering and methods of road construction, and for patiently explaining how to grade a road over a steep hill.
Also, thanks go to Meredith Bean McMath, Victorian costume expert extraordinaire, who found cool pictures of spectacular gowns and fetching little hats just when I needed them.
And to Mary Jo Putney for providing gracious sanctuary now and then, giving me a chance to write in peace... and kitty-sit too.
Prologue
Long ago...
She slept, her skin as pale as a river pearl, lips drained of warmth. Leaning down, he kissed her soft mouth and drew back. His heart broke to see her eyelids flutter without awareness, to see them close again.
"Liadan." He whispered her name and touched the dark silk of her hair. "Wife of Aedan mac Brudei. Hear me." Her breath seemed to quicken as he spoke.
How little it took to keep her alive. Breaths thin as ice on a spring pond, heartbeat faint but steady. Each day, the serving woman fed her mistress broth and water, which she swallowed even as she slept. Each evening, Aedan sat with her, the mother of his infant son, from twilight until dawn, his grief easing a little in the strange serenity of her presence.
Aedan rubbed weary fingers over his eyes, listening to the crackle of the fire in the low stone hearth. The hour was late, but sleep came hard. He took Liadan's hand and stroked his fingers thoughtfully over the pink scratches covering her forearms.
A wild rose briar had surrounded her that day of battle weeks earlier. He had carried her from that bed of thorns and blossoms, but she still slept. Yet her skin was healing, the gash on her forehead had sealed. If her body could renew and breath still flowed through her, life still existed—and so did hope.
She was gaunt now, a fragile shadow of the vibrant girl he had wed months ago, with his child great in her belly and the blush of it upon her cheek. Now he could count the bones in her hand, could set his thumb in the valley along her forearm.
He kissed her fingers, set her hand on the blanket again. Pushing his long dark hair back roughly, he closed his eyes in anguish.
Druid priests and healers had spoken spells over her, used every potion, salve, and charm to save her. Aedan himself, a warrior prince of the Dal Riata trained by Druids, had murmured incantations over her, tipping one infusion after another to her lips. In dark of moon, he had swept his hands above her in magical patterns. He had even recited Christian prayers in an effort to stir her soul to awakening.
Yet Liadan slept on.
Then he thought of the magic he and Liadan had created together—nights of sultry, tender love. He yearned for her touch, longed for her wild, bright spirit. Even now, exhausted and despairing, his body stirred at the memory.
Liadan was part of him, blood, heart, bone, and being. There was no greater torture than sitting helpless while she drifted away. Though he was a warrior and a Druid, a man of secrets and strengths, he could not save the woman he loved.
With a finger, he drew a spiral of protection on her brow and murmured again the charm to guide a lost soul back to its forsaken body.
Journeying upward, come again down
Journeying outward, come again in
No peril shall befall thee on hill or in heather
Come again homeward, safe to me.
A frown passed over her brow like a ripple through water. Sensing her struggle to live, Aedan leaned forward.
He knew how to tap the life force in every being, like drawing water from a well. He would continue to draw upon her spirit—he would never give up. She would come back to him.
"Liadan, hear my voice in the mist," he whispered. "Come to me, my heart."
The others implored him to set Liadan under the stars and let her die peacefully. They said his grief bound her to the earth like an iron chain. Let her go, they told him. She will find you again in another world, and you will be together once more.
But he loved her now, here. She was a lark to his brooding hawk. Liadan would live, he vowed, if he had to reach into the Otherworld himself and pull her soul back with his own hands.
One method remained untried, though Druidic law forbade it. Yet any risk seemed small to him. The enduring magic of the written word, the tool of the Christian priests, was his final resort. A ribbon of words could burn power into a spell like a flame on a wick.
Because a priest had educated him, though had not converted his soul, Aedan could write spells in ink in his own language. Perhaps he could send a hook into eternity with written words, and call back Liadan's soul from its moorless wandering.
Rising, he went to a wooden chest to fetch a piece of parchment. Already used, it would do—the vellum sheet was filled with neatly inked words, but there was space yet in the margins.
Aedan mac Brudei took the pot of lampblack ink and the feathery quill stored with it and carried them back to Liadan's bedside.
Come again homeward, safe to me....
Chapter 1
Scotland, Edinburgh August, 1858
"I will not do it." Christina Blackburn folded her hands demurely but stubbornly and turned away from the window in Sir Edgar Neaves's museum office, which overlooked Edinburgh's sloping streets, crowded with shops and tenements. The National Museum stood in the shadow of the great castle crag, so little sunlight penetrated the room.
"I cannot do this. Surely you both understand." She turned to face Sir Edgar and her brother, John Blackburn.
"My dear," Edgar said, rising from behind his enormous mahogany desk. Tall and handsome, his cool elegance suited the richly furnished room. "Investigating the ancient stone wall discovered at Dundrennan House would only need a few days of your time. You must
go. This a plum, Christina."
"You think it is a plum, Edgar," she replied. "You've always wanted to acquire Dundrennan's collection for the museum. You could go yourself, and make another offer to MacBride. Is it Sir Aedan, I believe, now?"
"Yes, Sir Aedan is the new laird, as the son of the late Sir Hugh MacBride. The great Highland bard left no poet in his heir, believe me. Sir Aedan is rather dull, an engineer who works on roadways like a common laborer. He has no interest in history and no sense of the importance of what may be there."
"It is a shame. But since you know him, it is more fitting for you to visit than me," Christina said.
"I am not free to travel just yet, and I would prefer that you go in my stead. The old wall that Sir Aedan discovered while blasting through rock for a highway could very well be ancient. You could publish a little paper about it. I will speak to Mr. Smith at Blackwood's Magazine on your behalf."
"Blackwood's has already published four articles by my sister," John spoke up, arms folded. "She's a respected antiquarian in her own right without your assistance, Edgar."
"Possibly. But she needn't be concerned about the trip. And someone should examine what has been found before they—blast again," he said, lip curling.
"It is not the journey. You simply cannot expect me to go... there, Edgar." Christina turned away from the window, her moss-green skirt over layered petticoats rustling softly.
"My dear, so charming, yet irrational." Edgar smiled indulgently. "Please do this for me. I have promised to deliver a series of lectures at the British Museum, so I cannot go to Dundrennan for several weeks yet. You can determine if this discovery is worth my time and the museum's interest. This stone wall may even be Pictish. You have a good understanding of the history. Reverend Carriston trained you well."
Christina nodded, thinking of her elderly uncle, who now lingered in ill health. The Reverend Walter Carriston was an authority on the ancient history of Scotland and had taught his niece much of what she knew about history, literature, and scholarly technique. "I appreciate your faith in me, Edgar. But surely someone else can do this."
She spoke calmly, though her heart thumped hard. She could not go to Dundrennan, of all places.
"Your uncle will be disappointed if you do not—" Edgar frowned. "Ah. Is it the painting?"
Christina felt her cheeks go hot, always a lamentable barometer of her thoughts. She had her mother's auburn hair and the translucent skin that went with it. Glancing at her brother, she saw John nod to himself. "Yes. The MacBrides of Dundrennan own the painting," she said.
"Indeed," Edgar murmured. "The Blackburn painters are too prolific, the lot of you. So Stephen's painting of you as the legendary Dundrennan princess is there? How awkward."
"Exactly," John said, standing slowly, his cane compensating for the weakness in his left leg. "Since the MacBrides now own the picture that caused Christina such grief and scandal, she cannot be expected to visit Dundrennan."
Edgar came around the desk. "That was the painting your husband completed just before his tragic death."
Stiffening at the reminder, Christina nodded. "Stephen sold the painting, though he had promised never to let it go."
"He was always unreliable," Edgar muttered. Lean and dark, his face chiseled perfection, his voice mellow, he was singularly attractive—yet Christina never felt drawn to him or comforted in his presence. She felt wary despite the family friendship. If only Edgar would learn to show a kinder side.
Sir Edgar Neaves, a respected museum director just ten years older than Christina, had been a friend of her father, and lately made no secret of his intentions and proclaimed fondness for the daughter of one of Scotland's most renowned painters. Edgar had a longstanding friendship with the Blackburn family, and had witnessed the humiliating scandal that had followed Stephen Blackburn's death six years earlier. Suddenly widowed and snubbed by society, Christina valued Edgar's continued loyalty through those years, and had supported her academic efforts.
A few weeks ago he had proposed marriage. Somewhat surprised, Christina had not yet answered, considering—and hesitating. She did not love Edgar in a romantic sense, the way she wanted to love again someday. She felt gratitude toward him, but no spark of what she yearned to feel again.
Years before, in her impulsive and rather wild marriage to her second cousin of the same surname, she had played dangerously with fiery passion, and had been burned. If she married Sir Edgar, the relationship would be intellectual, polite, safe—perhaps even content once she gave up the secret dream of something more. Edgar was a brilliant scholar who encouraged Christina's academic interests. Though convinced that a woman could never be the intellectual equal of a man, he did support her dabblings, as he called them.
Now Edgar smiled at her, cool and appreciative. "My dear, do not be concerned about the painting. No one would recognize you as the model for Stephen's princess. You are several years older now and have grown thin, not as... lush as you were then." He tipped his head. "Yet you are still attractive."
"Good God, Neaves," John burst out. "Show a little tact. She was seventeen then, and is scarce twenty-three now. She's hardly a thin old hag."
"I never said that," Edgar protested.
"Near enough. Christina is a beauty. There are many who would love to paint her, but she refuses to model—even for the artists in her own family."
Slipping a hand into her side pocket, Christina felt for her small spectacles, tucked in a little tapestried bag. She slipped them on, ducking her head. She generally wore the eyeglasses most of the time now, and it was true that she had grown thin and pale. For all her brother's kind defense, she knew Edgar was right. She had become a dull little widow, bookish and prim.
That was far better than the rebellious, wild girl she had been once.
"No harm intended. You artistic Blackburns all have that quick temper," Edgar said. "Even your sister shares it, though she has a sensible academic bent."
John frowned and leaned on his cane, and Christina saw the pink stain of anger in his cheeks. Her brother, with his angelic face haloed in glossy brown curls and a calm demeanor to match, rarely showed bad temper. But he disliked Edgar.
"Christina, you do not have to go to Dundrennan," John said firmly.
"She will go if she cares about Reverend Carriston's work," Edgar said. "Anyone else might overlook some important feature in this site. What of your uncle's research concerning King Arthur in Scotland?" He looked at Christina.
"Uncle Walter's work is very important," she admitted.
"And he was a great admirer of Sir Hugh MacBride's writings about the Dundrennan legend. Think, my dear," Edgar urged. "An archaeological discovery in those hills could vindicate your uncle from his... er, academic failures. And he has so little time left to him, sadly."
Christina caught her breath. Walter Carriston's theories of King Arthur's role in sixth-century Scotland and Arthurian links to Pictish tribes had been ridiculed by some scholars. Tradition placed the Arthurian tales in Britain rather than Scotland. A find of Pictish origin in the Strathclyde hills, where Walter had placed some Arthurian battles, might prove her uncle's lifework.
She straightened her shoulders. "You have a point about Uncle Walter," she conceded. "Very well. I will look at the site. But I will keep clear of Dundrennan House itself."
"That will be difficult. Sir Aedan has invited our representative to stay there, sparing us hotel expenses. We will tender the cost of your transportation, but you must stay at the house. Do not worry about the painting," Edgar added. "It is probably forgotten in some dusty corner."
"You may be right," she admitted.
"With your usual plainness, no one could ever be the wiser. John," Edgar said, turning, "perhaps you could clear your schedule to escort your sister. You have so few obligations now." Edgar glanced at John's leg and cane.
John bristled. "I would be happy to travel with her."
"Thank you, John," Christina said.
Wh
ile Edgar wrote a note for his secretary to arrange their transportation, Christina waited, her heart slamming. Dundrennan! She twisted her hands anxiously, dreading the sight of Stephen's picture again, with its unhappy memories.
Still, she felt an inner excitement growing as her curiosity and eagerness as a scholar compelled her to go. The chance to uncover something ancient, to touch it, learn about it, was a plum indeed. Edgar knew her well in that regard.
"Sir Aedan thinks the site will yield nothing much, so he expects this to take but a day or two," Edgar said. "He may be right, but I want you to send word to me of what you find. If it seems intriguing, I will come out as soon as can be arranged."
Christina nodded. As dread and anticipation swept through her again, she clasped her trembling hands.
* * *
Startled awake, Sir Aedan Arthur MacBride, baronet and laird of Dundrennan, bolted upright in his leather chair. Grasping at shifting reality, he tried to recapture the dream that was fading swiftly.
That damned painting, he thought, glancing up at the thing where it hung above the fireplace, had worked its way into his mind while he dozed. Some silly fairytale of briar maidens and princes had filled his dreams. He shoved back a lock of thick dark hair and shook his head, trying to dispel a haunted feeling.
He had fallen asleep, having settled comfortably in the small business room off his bedroom to review the account ledgers. But the air was too close, the silence too deep, the numbers on the page soporific. Sleep had won over tallying.
Glancing at his pocket watch, he swore softly. Nearly time for tea. The ladies of Balmossie would fuss at him if he did not appear, as would their tempestuous companion, Miss Thistle.
Well, he thought, rising from his chair. Unpleasant matters must be addressed with the ladies, issues that Aedan had postponed long enough. The preparations for the royal visit in October, which he dreaded more than welcomed, had made his life sheer hell, and the time had come for grim truths.
