by Susan King
Mrs. Blackburn smiled, ducking her head a little. Scowling, Aedan flicked his newspaper upright and went back to reading.
Sonsie Jean sailed into the room in a breezy hurry, her appearance fairylike with her wispy red-gold hair and her small build. After efficiently pouring coffee into a china cup for Mrs. Blackburn, she refilled Aedan's cup and set a packet of mail beside his elbow.
"Thank you, Muriel," he murmured. Smiling, the little maid bobbed her head and left the room.
Christina looked at him. "I thought she was Sonsie Jean."
"She is, but her given name is Muriel, so that's what I call her. My father called all the maids Jeanie to save himself the trouble of learning their names. He was a brilliant poet, but a featherhead about names." He turned the newspaper page. "I prefer to call her Muriel."
"What about Bonnie Jean and Wee Jean?"
"Bonnie Jean—that happens to be her name. And Wee Jeanie, who scrubs in the kitchen, is Eliza."
"So that's what you call her."
"Aye." He sipped his steaming coffee. "I consider it fair to show respect for the servants. Mrs. Gunn still calls the maids the Jeanies. She clings to my father's rules out of habit, perhaps because she misses him still."
"His presence and influence are everywhere here."
"True." Aware that she watched him steadily, Aedan held the newspaper up like a shield and tried to concentrate on a column that reported Queen Victoria's public schedule. The royal family would soon arrive at their Highland home of Balmoral, he saw, and the queen and her consort planned to attend the opening of the Glasgow Waterworks on October the sixteenth.
Scarcely two months, he thought, before his highway must be completed. He lowered the paper to glance at Christina Blackburn. How remarkable that this petite, lovely creature had the power to prevent him from meeting his obligations.
He turned the newspaper page, and when Christina rose to go to the sideboard, he stood when she did, then sat again to read the paper. He had eaten his fill earlier of the variety of foods arranged there. She selected fruit, porridge, eggs, and toast and carried her plate toward the table, pausing at the window.
"What's that?" she asked. "Beyond the trees—that arch of stone in the sunlight?"
Aedan looked up from his paper. "That's the Remembrance. It's a monument to the ancient princess of Dundrennan."
"How romantic! It looks like a medieval ruin."
"It's quite old. And it may be wildly romantic, but it's a maintenance problem—crumbling stones, mildew, so forth."
"Still, you must be proud to have it here on the estate."
He stood to hold out her chair while she sat again. "It is nicely picturesque," he admitted, glancing through the window at graceful arches surrounded by trees and roses. Odd how Christina Blackburn made him see familiar things with a fresh perspective. "My father hired stonemasons to restore the arcade and clean up the stone. You must see it before you leave." He sat and took up his newspaper again.
"My brother might like to sketch it, if that would be allowed, Sir Aedan."
"He may draw it to his heart's content, madam," he murmured, and turned another page. He was acting coolly toward her, but needed the distance. Since her arrival, he had revealed too much of himself. Now he must reel in any lines he had cast out. The woman was only a business acquaintance, and in a few days she would be gone.
Yet he felt as if he had known her all his life, as if she were a missing puzzle piece, newly discovered, that fit neatly and essentially into a space he had not even known was empty.
He frowned, but could not resist peeking at her over his newspaper.
She ate discreetly but with nice appetite, something he liked in women, who sometimes ate like birds due to silly notions about appearance and propriety. Amy regularly skipped breakfast and nibbled at luncheon and dinner, and fainted, albeit prettily, now and then, from hunger or tight stays.
He sipped his coffee and began to open his mail, finding a frantic plea from the Parliamentary Commissioners for a firm date on the completion of the road. Scowling, he pocketed the letter.
"Sir Aedan," Christina said, "am I late this morning? There is no one else about. My brother will be down soon, but I thought others might be breakfasting. It is nearly eight o'clock."
"You and I are the early risers this morning, but for Mr. Stewart, who has gone into Glasgow. Lady Strathlin has gone back to Balmossie to be with her children—they have a little boy and an infant girl. My aunt and my cousin are rarely seen before ten-thirty when they are here, and then they eat lightly. Mrs. Gunn is a good and practical soul, and she sees that what remains is wrapped and delivered to those who may need it. I am glad to see that you have an honest appetite," he added.
Her cheeks colored as she sliced a muffin to butter it. If he had said that to Amy, she would have stopped eating for the rest of the day. "Do you suppose Tam Durie could drive my brother and I up to Cairn Drishan this morning?"
"I would be glad to drive you there myself, if you can be ready to leave within the half hour."
"Thank you. I thought to walk the distance, but John is not comfortable with rugged walks."
He nodded. "May I ask whether his injury is temporary, or something more permanent?"
"John was in the Crimea," she answered quietly. "He was injured at Balaclava. He has regained much of his strength and abilities, and we hope for further recovery, but... well, he accepts his infirmity with good humor."
Aedan frowned and set down his newspaper. "My older brother, Neil, was at Sebastopol," he said. "He did not return."
She stared at him. "Oh, Aedan," she breathed impulsively. "I am so sorry."
He nodded curtly, fighting a sudden, unexpected onslaught of grief brought on by the tenderness in her tone, a grief he did not want to feel, not now. He fingered through the envelopes beside him without seeing them. "Well," he said. "Well. As we were saying, I would be happy to take you and Mr. Blackburn out to Cairn Drishan this morning. You may walk another day, or you may take ponies if you wish. We keep two garrons for hill terrain. Though you may need to go out to the hill only once."
"I expect to visit there several times. I have to examine it carefully and prepare my report for Sir Edgar."
"I was surprised he sent you here rather than coming here himself."
She sat straighter, her backbone curving away from the chair. "Sir Edgar intends to be here as soon as he is free, if that eases your doubts about a female's expertise and authority."
Aedan hid a smile. "I do not doubt your capability. You might well be more competent than Edgar, who boasts about his accomplishments, from what I recall, but does little. When does he mean to come here?" He nearly ground out the question.
"Not for a few weeks."
Aedan shrugged. "I expect you will find little of interest on Cairn Drishan. We uncovered an old wall, common enough around here in defining property boundaries."
"Sir Edgar feels that a Pictish ruin might be on that hill."
"I was there that day. I assure you it is an ordinary wall."
"Oh? Were you hunting, or walking the hills?"
"My work crew did the blasting, madam. I am the civil engineer for the Highland Highway in this region, appointed by the Parliamentary Commissioners of Roads and Highways."
Her eyes widened. "Oh! I knew you were an engineer, but I did not know... Sir, I apologize for my ignorance."
"No matter. Are you familiar with the highway project?"
"Yes, it is the prince consort's current favorite development to promote tourism and healthy industry in Scotland."
"Creating more roads is a good scheme, though some feel it will spoil Scotland. I support industries that increase Scotland's finances and provide work for those who have lost their means."
"Do you support Scotland's growing tourist industry?"
"To some extent. I do not want my own estate to become a well-trodden symbol of the romantic Highlands. My father regarded Dundrennan as a historical treasure and
would have thrown open our doors to the public, but I prefer that it stay private."
"Yet you allow a public road through your property."
"The estate and deed are mine, but most of the land in Scotland belongs to the crown. The landowner's permission is sometimes only a legal formality. Parliament takes precedence in matters like public roads, and the road would have been brought through here regardless. At least this way I have a say in how it cuts through my property."
"I see. What if the wall on that hillside proves to be a national treasure, Sir Aedan? You cannot deny access to it."
"I believe you will find that wall rather ordinary and a disappointment. There is no horde of treasure, no carved Pictish stones, nothing to indicate an ancient site."
"There does not have to be something fantastical sticking out of the ground for it to prove ancient. According to the treasure trove law, the National Museum must evaluate any discovery that might be historical, regardless of how ordinary it may appear."
"I am aware. But it is merely a legal exercise in this case, I think."
"We shall see, sir. There is a legend that King Arthur himself buried gold in those hills."
He lifted a brow. "You know of that legend? Ah, you have succumbed to my father's magic. I almost forgot."
"I am not certain I take your meaning."
"He invented that tale of a golden horde and added King Arthur to the cast of characters in his poem, The Enchanted Briar. Many think his tale was factual, but it was mostly fiction."
"Sir Hugh based his verses on legends founded in history."
"He took thin tales and fleshed them out in his imagination. Do not waste your time, or your museum's time, on fancies, Mrs. Blackburn."
He stood, aware that she stared up at him and regretting his sharp tone. But he was impatient where his interrupted road was concerned—and he could not soften any further toward her. He found her simply too damned intriguing.
"I will wait for you and your brother in the foyer, madam." With a courteous nod, he left the room.
* * *
A dark net draped over her neatly tipped black hat lessened the sun's glare as Christina followed Aedan's long-legged stride down the front steps. John made his way more slowly behind them. In the drive, Tam Durie waited beside a two-wheeled carriage harnessed to a huge bay with white feathered feet.
"Yer gig is ready, Sir Aedan," Tam said after greeting them. "Andrew Mor came doon frae the hoose to say ye wanted it, though we had Pog saddled for ye. D'ye want me to drive?"
"Thank you, Tam. I'll drive the gig, and Pog can follow on a lead. Unless, Mr. Blackburn, you would like to ride the mare." He indicated the gray horse walking up the drive in the care of a young groom, a slight blond lad in a shabby kilt and jacket.
"I'd be happy to ride her," John said, grinning.
Tam tipped his hat and departed. While John vaulted into the saddle, Christina accepted Aedan's assistance into the high seat of the gig. "I promise you that I drive more sedately than Tam," he commented, taking the reins.
"I found his driving rather refreshing," she answered.
"Somehow that does not surprise me."
They moved ahead, while John, mounted on the gray, rode beside them down the private lane to the wide public road. Aedan kept the huge feather-footed bay, harnessed to the gig, to an even pace. Perched on the springy, cushioned bench, Christina glanced at him.
"You needn't creep along for my benefit, Sir Aedan."
"I was considering my horse, Mrs. Blackburn. Pog is not accustomed to walking beside a vehicle, nor is she used to different riders, though your brother handles her well. She's a temperamental thing."
"Pog?" she asked, curious.
"Short for poigeanach." He glanced at her. "You know Gaelic, Mrs. Blackburn, do you not?" His eyes twinkled, and a smile played around his flexible lips.
"Poigeanach? What does it mean?" John asked.
"Fond of kissing," Christina answered.
Aedan grinned. "Tam named her. He kisses her on the nose each night, ever since she was a colt. He was present at her birth, and she's more his horse than mine. Tam swears she cries without her good-night kiss."
John hooted, and Christina laughed. She sat close to Aedan on the narrow seat, and even through her skirt and petticoats, she was aware of his long thigh beside hers and his arm brushing hers.
The road was a clean ribbon over the moor. "The route is in good repair," she observed. "So many Highland roads are rutted and rough, or have alarming curves and steep slopes."
"This is an old drover's track, which we rebuilt and surfaced. I've been overseeing the roads and byways in the western regions for about two years. This part is level, but it climbs once we near the hills. Steep gradients are impossible to avoid in the Highlands."
"Tam Durie showed us just how steep they can be," Christina said, and Aedan chuckled.
Soon he pointed to a farmhouse nestled at the foot of a high, bleak hill. "That's the home farm, which produces much of what we need at Dundrennan House. Parian MacDonald, who tends the farm, is also our factor, and he helps see to the welfare of our tenants. His brother Hector is my foreman on the road crew, and Hector's daughter and grandmother do the laundering for us at the house. Our tenants are fewer now, but there is still work for the factor, and we will find work for every tenant who needs it. My father always insisted on that, despite the troubles of the last seventy-five years or so, and I am determined to honor it."
"Were homes cleared here for sheep grazing, as they were all across the Highlands?" John asked.
Aedan shook his head. "Not here. My father and grandfather would not tolerate it. We were forced to sell off some of our land, though, and those homes were cleared to make room for sheep and hunting preserves. We could not stop it once our rights were sold. Some of the people left homes they had occupied for generations, and some were evicted by the new tenants."
"Did many of the men on the estate go to war?" John said.
"Aye, many of them joined the Highland regiments to gain some income for their families. A good number were killed in the Crimea and India, and many have gone on to other posts in India. Some of their widows and families left to live with kinfolk, and some have left Scotland entirely. Some are still here, though."
Christina sighed. "The sweeping away of the old ways."
"Scotland has seen war and strife throughout her history, but never change on such a scale as the last few generations. We are not at war, yet the enemy is at our gates."
"What enemy?" John asked.
"Poverty, sir, and greed. Ignorance and prejudice. Even tourism, greedy to see romantic settings, but disrespectful of our customs."
"There are groups who work to preserve Gaelic culture, sir," Christina said. "I belong to a few of them myself. Your father revived Scottish heritage in his poetry, like Scott and Burns and some others."
"All worthy efforts. I agree that our culture must be protected, but Scotland needs to enter the modern age in order to survive. The Highland culture, and the Highland people, would benefit from a little modernization. I support improvements and growth, rather than destruction, and the blending of new methods with the old. At the same time, I admire Highland history and culture and wish to do my part to protect and preserve them."
"What of the roads you build all over Scotland? Do you see that as protecting your country or interfering with it?"
"Inroads, Mrs. Blackburn. New pathways into the heart of an ailing nation. Roads and railways will bring new lifeblood into Scotland and help save it."
"Then you are as much a crusader for Scotland as I am," she said, glancing at him.
"I do what I can," he said. "And Dundrennan, a small part of Scotland entirely in my hands, is of chief concern to me."
The gig sped along the road, and John cantered ahead. The hills thrust dark shoulders into a blue sky, their rounded slopes tough with stones and grasses. Heather spread gorgeous plummy color over the inclines. Christina looked around
, admiring.
The finished road ended just ahead, and a raw earthen track curved up a hill, its path marked by wooden stakes. "The black powder was discharged up there," Aedan said, pointing.
Peering through her veil, Christina saw a dark gash along the right side of the hill. It seemed unremarkable, just as Aedan MacBride had said.
Clearly he thought the museum's investigation was little more than an inconvenience. But Christina was intrigued about whatever lay inside Cairn Drishan. What if some long-forgotten ancient treasure did exist there, as legend said? Suppose her uncle had been right about the presence of King Arthur in this region after all, and some proof of his theories could be found?
Imagination or not, Christina could not wait to explore the mysteries of that hill.
Chapter 7
"The sleeping king," Christina murmured. "Do you see him in the shape of the ridge?"
"What?" Aedan glanced at her.
"A Celtic tradition tells of a great king trapped under a mountain, held by magic," she explained, then pointed. "If we could see through the crust of the earth, we would see him lying there, asleep. His head is to the left, below that his shoulder, and the lesser slopes of his hip, knee, and so on down to his feet."
"Ah, now I see it. Though I wonder how you can see anything at all through that netting. You look fetching in that hat, madam, but it isn't very practical."
"It cuts the glare of the sun. You should try it for yourself. Perhaps you would not scowl quite so much."
He chuckled low, and the sound tempted Christina to smile herself, which she did secretly behind her veil. "So the king sleeps under a spell. And when he wakes?" he asked.
"Then all will be well in the land again, or so they say."
"We have a similar legend at Dundrennan, but ours is about a sleeping princess."
"And when she wakes, will all be right in the land?"
"So they say," he murmured. "But she will never wake, for no one can break the spell."
