by Susan King
"Thank you, Mrs. Gunn."
"There's a bath and a water closet, too, across the hall. Sir Hugh had lavatories added years back. A shower bath is in the bathroom, with hot and cold spigots," she said proudly.
"I'll enjoy that," Christina said. "Who are the Jeanies?"
"There's Bonnie Jean, the upper maid, and Sonsie Jean, wha does a bit o' everything, and Wee Jeanie in the kitchens. We've always called the housemaids Jeanie, and the grooms and gillies are all called Andrew at Dundrennan. It's our way here."
"What a curious custom!"
"Aye. Sir Aedan uses their own names now, but old habits die hard here, I say. We had a grand staff when Sir Hugh wrote his poems. Now 'tis Sir Aedan alone, though the ladies o' Balmossie often visit. Ye'll meet them tomorrow. I'll send Sonsie Jean to help ye dress, since ye didna bring yer own lass." Mrs. Gunn drew a long breath.
"I have no lady's maid," Christina admitted. "I live with my uncle and aunt in a small house, with only two servants, so I do for myself in most things. If I need something, I'll ring the bell for... Sonsie Jean, is it?"
"Och, dinna ring the bell! I'd startle so! We dinna ring the bell here! Sir Aedan and Sir Neil did once when they were lads, and then they hid in a cupboard, those rascals. But I found 'em and chased 'em, and that were the end o' the bell-ringing!"
Christina laughed. "I promise never to pull the bell."
"Just come oot the room and call," Mrs. Gunn said. "We'll hear ye. Lady Balmossie shouts like a fishwife."
Christina tried not to smile. "I'll do my best."
"Tonight ye'll sup here, but other nights we'll have a fine dinner party, especially if the ladies o' Balmossie are here too. Though ye may have supper in yer room whenever ye like."
"Thank you. I expect that my brother and I will be here only a few days, but your wonderful hospitality is much appreciated."
The housekeeper narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "That one's yer brother and ye live quiet-like wi' yer uncle, ye say?"
"Yes, a kirk minister. My brother lives with our father in Edinburgh, but I assist my uncle with his studies."
"But ye're a married lady by your name."
"I am widowed of my second cousin, also a Blackburn."
"Och, so young! I was widowed young, too. Tch, puir lass." She tilted her head. "D'ye have a sister, or... mebbe a twin?"
"A twin?" Christina frowned at the odd question. "I have a sister and two brothers, all painters."
"Ah, the sister is an artist! That must be it. Good night, mistress." Nodding, the housekeeper left the room.
Removing her bonnet, Christina went to the window to gaze at the gardens. Soon Sonsie Jean, an elfin, red-haired serving girl with a shy smile, brought her a supper tray with a simple, good meal of hot broth, cold meats, and fresh bread.
Afterward, she sat down with a book in the little sitting room but soon dozed. She dreamed that she climbed a steep, heathered hill at night, toward a high tower that seemed made of bronze and silver. A man approached through translucent moonbeams, and took her into his arms—
Christina awoke, startled, curiously longing. Rising, she unpacked her things and sat again to read her own well-thumbed copy of Sir Hugh MacBride's early poems until nearly midnight, judging by the little clock on the mantel.
She was eager to explore the hillside and the stones discovered there, but had hoped to have time to research the local history before arriving. Now she remembered that Mrs. Gunn had invited her to use the library downstairs.
Aware of the extensive collection of books that Sir Hugh had acquired, she felt tempted. Mrs. Gunn had said that the medieval stairway leading from her little sitting room would go directly to the library.
Dare she go there tonight? The household was asleep, and she was restless. She could slip down there without disturbing anyone, find a book on local Dundrennan history, and return to her room unnoticed.
She had changed from her traveling dress into a dark skirt and flannel petticoats, and now grabbed a simple dark shawl and slid her feet into black dancing slippers, which would be comfortable and quiet for moving about the house.
Taking up a candle in a brass dish, she opened the narrow door, its hinges creaking, and looked into a dark abyss that smelled of must, stone, and disuse.
The pool of candlelight revealed stone steps curving around a central pillar—a very old staircase indeed. She drew up her skirts with one hand, balanced the candle dish in the other, and descended.
The narrow, wedge-shaped steps fanned steeply downward. She moved carefully in the darkness. Her room was on the third level, so the library would be on the second or even the first level, but she saw no door. Moments later, she heard a squeak, and felt, over her foot, the light passage of what must be a mouse.
Gasping, startled, her thin sole skidded on the smooth, worn stone, and she reached for the wall, dropping the candle dish. Recovering her footing, she heard the brass dish clatter away, the flame extinguishing. Blackness engulfed her.
Muttering under her breath, she inched back up the steps. Hampered by her skirts, the darkness, the steep wedged steps, she tripped again and fell to one knee. Gathering her skirts, she went up again, but her foot hit the narrow part of the step and she slipped, tumbling into the inky darkness.
Half sliding down the steps, she felt her shoulder and head knock against the stone wall, and her hip struck the edge of a step. She slowed and stopped, collapsing on a stone platform that felt large and squarish in shape.
Groaning, she sat up, then winced. Her shoulder ached, her head spun wickedly. She leaned against the wall and touched her head with a shaking hand.
A latch clicked, a light bloomed golden, and a man emerged from a doorway just above her. Exclaiming softly, he came down, crouching toward her, his hands strong and gentle on her shoulders.
"My dear girl," he murmured. "Are you hurt?"
Chapter 3
Woozy, uncertain, Christina wondered if she had been knocked cold and now was dreaming—for a warrior angel had his arms around her.
But the various small aches and pains attested that she was awake. Another glance showed that he was just a man—but handsome enough to startle, with a touch of thunder in his snapping blue eyes. His straight, black brows drew together in a frown beneath a thick wave of raven black hair.
"Are you hurt?" he asked again.
"I'm fine." She winced and tried to sit up.
"Stay still," he ordered. "What the devil were you doing in this old stairwell? Don't move. Take a breath."
"I'm fine." She shifted awkwardly, feeling pain in her shoulder. "I'll just go back to my room—oh," she said, as she moved and her head swam. "Oh, my. Perhaps I'll sit here for a moment." She leaned against the warm, hard curve of his arm.
"Take all the time you need," he said.
* * *
Without a doubt, Aedan thought, this was the girl in the painting. The resemblance was identical, though she seemed smaller and more fragile than he would have expected. Fascinated, he tilted his head. If she had not modeled for that image, then she had a sensual, beautiful twin.
Behind steel-framed spectacles, her eyes were wide and beautiful, hazel ringed in black lashes. She seemed demure and modest, not the tantalizing, earthy goddess of the picture. But her graceful features, her lush lips, the long curve of her neck, all matched the girl in the painting.
She leaned her head against his upper arm—and her lovely face, her swanlike neck, her auburn hair spilling from its pins, all of it was the living image of the painting.
And he tried not to remember the exquisite breasts, the gentle swell of hips and abdomen, the long, smooth thighs, all veiled in the painting, covered now by plain clothing.
For an instant, he felt a burning need—more than lust, much more—he wanted to hold her, save her, love her. Though it made no sense, he felt it. Leaning forward, he felt her breath caress his face. He very nearly kissed her.
She gasped, and he leaned back, prevented from acting a
damned fool. The urge was still fervent, a deep force pulling at him. He cleared his throat.
"May I presume that you are the lady sent by the museum?"
"I am Mrs. Blackburn. Christina Blackburn."
"Welcome to Dundrennan, Mrs. Blackburn. I am the laird of Dundrennan."
"Oh! Sir Aedan MacBride?" She tried to sit up.
"Relax." He grasped her shoulder to keep her still. "You are not quite ready to climb the stairs."
"Please forgive me, Sir Aedan. I only meant to go to the library by these stairs. Mrs. Gunn said it would be all right—but there was a mouse—I tripped, and then fell. I do apologize."
"Not at all. Had I known, I would have ordered the sconces lit in the stairwell for you. Generally only I use these stairs. Can you stand now, Mrs. Blackburn?" He rose, helping her to her feet, a hand on her arm. She faltered, wincing.
"You're in no condition to go up or down, my lass," he murmured, and quickly scooped her up into his arms. She felt slender beneath layered clothing, and he held her effortlessly.
"Really, sir, I'm fine," she protested.
He shifted her and she circled an arm around his shoulders. "That was a nasty fall, Mrs. Blackburn. Come inside. I want to be sure you're uninjured before you go wandering anywhere else tonight."
* * *
Mortified, Christina rode in his arms as he carried her over the threshold into a cozy room in lamplight. Her head ached, so did her shoulder and hip, and though she felt a bit foolish, she was grateful for the easy strength of his arms.
His face was close to hers, his scent a pleasant mix of spice, wine, shirt starch, and subtle, earthy masculinity. Dressed in a white collarless shirt and a dark vest and trousers, his hard torso pressed against her, and she felt the heat between them, felt herself blush.
The room contained an armchair and a desk, and an oil lamp revealed untidy piles of papers and open books. The fireplace housed a cozy peat fire. Sir Aedan MacBride set her in the leather armchair by the hearth.
"Oh dear, this is too much fuss. I am fine. I should go." She rose, and pain sliced through her hip and shoulder. The man guided her back down with a firm hand on her shoulder.
"Not so fine as she claims," he said. His concern, his nearness, thrilled her—though he was a stranger, he seemed familiar somehow. His quiet, relaxed confidence was engaging.
"I must go," she repeated. "This is your... private sitting room." Through a door, she saw a bedroom with a canopied bed, its covers folded back, pillows plumped. A dark dressing robe lay on the bed. "This is very improper."
"It seems more improper to send you away limping," he said. "No one need know about this but us, madam." His voice was low, his glance penetrating.
She subsided in the chair, and he dropped to one knee beside her. Firelight flowed over him, and his eyes were dark blue and sparkling.
"Mrs. Blackburn, tell me where you are hurt, if you will."
She relented, shrugged. "My... left shoulder."
His hand slid up her arm, his fingers tracing over her shoulder, pressing lightly. Something elemental tumbled inside of her, and all she could do, when he asked what she felt, was nod dumbly or shake her head in silence. Withdrawing along her arm, he took her hand to move her fingers one by one.
Something wonderful surged through her, and her hurts seemed to lessen wherever he touched her. Feeling her cheeks heat like fire, she watched the grace of his hands upon her.
"Nothing seems broken. Where else does it hurt, madam?"
"My... head," she whispered. "And my..." She could hardly tell him that her hip and bottom felt bruised. "My... leg."
"I have a sister and female cousins. I've tended to twisted ankles before, without scandal, I assure you."
She extended one foot, and he pushed her skirts above her ankle. Sliding his fingers over her foot, he flexed it gently. Shivers cascaded all through her.
"Those slippers," he murmured, "are not suited to a medieval staircase."
"So I learned," she answered, setting her foot down.
"Your head hurts, too?" he asked. She nodded, and he spread his fingers in a cap over her head, probing. She nearly groaned with the sweet pleasure of it. When his arm brushed over her blouse, her breasts tingled, tightened.
"Oh," she breathed.
"Does something else hurt?" He glanced at her.
"Oh, no," she murmured.
"There is a bump on your head, but all seems well, though I am no doctor. No doubt you'll feel some bruising for a few days." He rested his hand on her shoulder.
Even the simplest of his touches stirred a craving in her, a ready rush of desire. She had not felt like that in a long time. His warm hands, the rhythm of his breaths, the clean male smell of him, all tapped a wellspring of need in her. Sucking in a breath, she leaned away, knowing those feelings came from her lonely, aching, foolish heart.
She began to stand. "I really must go. Thank you, sir."
"Wait. You should not take the stairs just yet."
Somewhat relieved, she sank into the chair again, glad for an excuse to rest, to feel his touch again.
"You'll need to rest quietly tomorrow and use soothing packs on those aches, I think," he said.
She shook her head. "I came here to work. I need to go out to the hillside in the morning."
"Stubborn lass." He rose beside her. "You could have broken your neck on the stairs in the dark, wearing those cumbersome skirts and little slippers. What was so important that you took the stairs alone, and at this hour?"
"I could not sleep, and I often study or read late at night, so I thought to fetch something from the library about the local history and geography before seeing the hill tomorrow. I'm sorry to be such trouble, sir. Thank you again." She stepped past him, wincing and stiff, feeling embarrassed and a little regretful, too, for she had enjoyed the quiet intimacy of their encounter.
Turning toward the door, she stopped, gasping.
The painting hung over the fireplace. She had not noticed it until now. Heart pounding, she gazed up at her own image.
She had forgotten what a masterpiece it was, exquisitely rendered, a passion of luminous color and sensuous shape, poignant and powerful. Lamplight and shadows heightened its astonishing dark grace.
"Dear God," she whispered.
He stood behind her. "You haven't changed."
So he knew. She turned to stare at him. "I wondered if it was here. Stephen said that he had sold it to the MacBrides of Dundrennan."
"Stephen Blackburn was a kinsman of yours?"
"My late husband," she said quietly.
"Ah." He nodded. "My condolences."
She tipped her head in gracious silence.
"I never met the artist. I bought the painting through the Royal Academy shortly after it was exhibited."
"That was just before he... died." Although she felt his steady gaze, she could not look at him. Tilting her head, she studied the painting.
"I was younger then. And a bit embonpoint," she added, looking up at her lush, rounded form in the painting.
"Not at all. Curvaceous, aye, and alluring. A beautiful young lass."
"A foolish young lass." She turned away. Sir Aedan stopped her with a hand to her elbow. Odd how his touch felt so natural. So did being alone with him, though it was scandalous. But his touch felt right, so good.
"Do you dislike the painting?" he asked.
"It—reminds me of an unpleasant time in my life. But that was long ago."
"It was painted but six years ago. Not so far in the past."
"Farther than you can imagine." She felt a sudden urge to cry. She lifted her head. "I've aged, changed."
"The model has only gained in beauty." A smile quirked his lips as he watched her.
"Oh, no, she's far plainer now."
"Hardly. Let me see. May I?" He slid free her eyeglasses and laid them aside.
Blinking at him, surprised, she did not protest. She wanted, selfishly perhaps, to hear his thoughts. Her visio
n softened around the edges but for his face, so close to hers. Studying him, she thought again of a protective angel, darkly beautiful, powerful in form and countenance.
He glanced from the framed painting back to her. "The earlier version has a pleasing roundness in the limbs, and the features are the same—elegantly classic. Yet the later version..." He touched her jaw with his fingers as if she were a statue and he an art critic. But her heart leaped.
"The later version?" she asked.
"Shh. I see a refinement in face and figure—some might call it slenderness—that enhances the graceful bone structure. The first version is lush and wild, but the second version has an honest beauty... a vibrancy that is very attractive, though in a quieter way than the other image."
"I do not know what you mean," she whispered. Spellbound, she felt no urge to stop him. Her pulse quickened as he tilted her cheek with his finger. "The first image has an innocence and wildness, but there is something... sad in the second. Cautious eyes, a wary mouth." His fingertip glided over her bottom lip.
Her knees faltered for that instant. "Cautious," she said in a spicy tone. "Afraid you might try to kiss me."
"Shall I?" His fingers stilled on her chin.
She drew a breath. "Do not press your good fortune, sir."
"Shall I go on?" he asked.
She nodded, feeling as if they played a dangerous, delicious, secret game.
"The girl in the painting is a sensual creature, yet immature. She knows love but not... life. She's lost and tragic."
"She's the tragic princess," she said. "From the story."
"Aye, but the first image has something the latter does not. A sort of... blissfulness."
"Happiness," she blurted. "She was happy then, for a little while. She was adored." She knew she sounded wistful.
"Ah. And now?" His fingers traced her cheek.
Caught by his sultry magic, she closed her eyes, felt swamped by loneliness. Then she forced herself out of it, yanked her heart back, stepped away.
"I'm sorry," she said. "This was a mistake."
He picked up her spectacles, handed them to her. "She hides herself in the later version, I think."
