by Susan King
"I am."
"Then why did you ask what it meant?"
"I did not—" He sighed, exasperated, and reached for the rock, turning it to look at the dark greenish glaze. "You may be right, Mrs. Blackburn. This has a glass surface. Odd."
"The entire wall seems to be like that, but on the inside portions only, indicating a fire inside the structure. I found it everywhere that I scraped away dirt."
"A black house or shieling could have burned, resulting in verification of the stone. But it's not proof of an ancient house and ancient inhabitants."
"I expect to find proof of that, too, with time to dig there. This rock is highly suggestive. Even you must admit that."
He sighed, realizing that she had the advantage as the museum's representative and could order as long a delay as she pleased. "Very well, then. You will have your crew, but only for a few days. I assume the museum will pay their wages for the work." He looked hard at her.
"I will recommend to Sir Edgar that they be compensated. Can they start tomorrow morning?"
"You are not shy about your requirements, are you? Not for a few days yet. If you decide you want the loan of the behemoth, too, I must refuse."
"That is not—" She stopped. "Oh. You are joking."
He smiled fleetingly, then turned. "Here is my foreman," he said, as Hector arrived. "Hector MacDonald—Mrs. Blackburn."
"Aye, mistress, I saw ye coming o'er the road like a fireball. So ye've seen the great gawpin' hole in the hill?"
"I have, and I find it very interesting, Mr. MacDonald."
"There's king's gold on Cairn Drishan somewhere, mistress." He grinned. "Arthur's gold, they do say."
"So I've heard. Perhaps you would be so good as to help me find it." She smiled. Watching Hector's beaming face, Aedan knew that his foreman was already lost to her charm.
"Hector, the lady would like a crew to do some digging under her supervision. I want you to choose two or three men to start work on Cairn Drishan in a few days."
"Aye, sir. Mistress." Hector tipped his hat, then walked back toward the men to speak with them.
"Thank you, Sir Aedan." Christina's smile flashed through the veil. Quick, hot, certain lust clenched inside him. He frowned, aware of just how easy it was to fall under her spell.
"Aye, well," he answered. "Where is your brother? Disinclined to ride with you, is he?"
She had the grace to chuckle. "John stayed on the hill to make some landscape sketches." She gathered the reins. "I will go back to fetch him. Good day, sir."
"Mrs. Blackburn, one favor. Allow your brother to drive back to Dundrennan. My day would proceed more peacefully if I did not have to chase my gig and bay again."
Her eyes sparked behind the veil and the spectacles—he saw that flinty fire. "Or rescue me again?"
"Or that."
"I assure you it will not be necessary, Sir Aedan." She snapped the reins and turned the gig.
Watching her go, Aedan realized he was smiling. Wholly aside from her resemblance to the girl in that painting, Christina deeply intrigued him. Prim and scholarly, sensual and lovely, she also had no small talent for calamity. With all that wit and spirit, she was far more seductive than she could possibly know.
Frowning thoughtfully, he watched the gig travel toward the sloping hillside.
Pog turned her head, blew softly, and Aedan gave the horse a distracted pat. Then he guided her back toward the road and his crew. Some of the men hastened to busy themselves, while others—like Hector—stood grinning openly at him.
* * *
"Halloo, Effie MacDonald!" Aedan called as he approached the croft house. In the afternoon light, the whitewashed walls and heather-thatched roof were bright against the hillside. "Halloo, the house!" he called again.
The door was flung open. "Och, 'tis the laird himself, come to see auld Effie! Dora, here's our laird!" An older woman grinned at him and waved him inside. Tall and buxom, her gray hair drawn tight beneath a white mutch, her apron spotless over a dark, striped dress, she waited in the doorway.
Aedan dismounted and led Pog into the shelter of a thatched-roof byre that protruded from one end of the house. A goat looked up, blinking its strange yellow eyes, while the black cow occupying most of the space hardly moved.
"Pardon me, Flora. Hello, Hamish, you old devil," Aedan said affectionately as he lifted a burlap sack and spilled oats into a manger for the animals to share. He walked toward the house while Effie MacDonald stood, holding the door open for him.
"Come in. Come in," she told him. He greeted Effie and entered the dim, smoky interior. A young woman stood silently beside the fire. "Bide a wee, Sir Aedan," Effie said. "We've just made tea, and there's scones with currants and cinnamon. Ye like those well."
"Dora," he said. "I'm here, lass." He walked toward her, and the smiling girl held out her hands. She wore a brown dress, and her hair had a pretty bronze sheen in the firelight. He took her hands, her fingers calloused but slender and graceful. Her face was a pale oval, and her lovely eyes, once wide brown pools, were clouded and unfocused.
"Aedan," she said, accepting his gentle kiss on her cheek. "Sit by me." He settled beside her on a long wooden bench.
"What brings ye, Aedan?" Effie said while she served steaming, fragrant tea in two delicate china cups for them and poured her own serving into a plain mug.
"The scones, my dear," he answered. "I could smell them across the moor—it's four o'clock, and Effie MacDonald's making cinnamon scones again, I told myself, and I leaped on my horse."
Both women laughed. "I'll get them. They're just out of the oven," Dora said, rising, trailing her hand along the edge of the table until she reached a cupboard. She fetched a covered plate, which she laid on the table near Aedan.
"I just wanted to visit, really," he said. "It's been two weeks since I was here last." He accepted a plate with hot, buttered scones on it, while Dora sat beside him.
"I'm so glad you've come," Dora said. "I wanted to tell you the news. Mrs. Farquharson said she'd take more of my crochet work in her ladies' shop in Milngavie and sell them for a good price! She said the shawls and dainties I made sold, all of them, and she had requests for more. I must work quickly to finish the new things." She indicated a big basket beside the bench, filled with lacy crochet work and a ball of creamy wool.
"That's excellent, Dora," Aedan said. "I've seen Mrs. Farquharson's shop in Milngavie. It does a brisk business."
"And now that Grannie Effie does laundering and starching for the new English families that live on the other side of the glen, we'll soon be feeling rich as the queen." Dora smiled.
Aedan sipped his tea. "Effie MacDonald, you know there's no need for you to do that much work," he said quietly. "I'll always take care of you. I promised your husband that I would see to your welfare when he went off to war, and I mean to do that."
Effie shook her head. "I've done the laundering hereabouts since I was a lass, and now I'm an auld widow. What would I do wi' my time and my hands, otherwise?" She held them up. They were gnarled and strong, the kindest hands, powered by the kindest heart Aedan had ever known.
"You and Dora can come stay at Dundrennan. Put up your feet, rest your hands, and tell Gunnie and the rest what to do," he suggested lightly.
"Huh," Effie said. "I'll ne'er leave this auld hoose. I was born here and I'll dee here. Dora will leave one day to wed some braw lad, and I'll be alane wi' me washing and me visitors. I do like visitors." She gave Aedan a reproving look.
"I'll try to come more often," he promised. "Perhaps I'll bring some new friends. We have an antiquarian and an artist staying at Dundrennan House."
"Auntie Queerie? Who's that?" Effie demanded.
"Antiquarian. A historian, Grannie," Dora said. "A scholar. A lady, too. Rob Campbell told me when he was here."
"He didna tell me—he talked only to ye, my lassie, wi' yer heads tegither by the fire." Effie smiled, and Dora's pale cheeks turned pink. "An artist, too? Huh, Miss Amy is
scheming to fix that hoose the way she likes it, and then she'll snag ye in wedlock!"
"Amy is just doing what my father asked. And the antiquarian lady came to look at the hill for the museum. The artist is her brother. I hope he'll finish up some of the painting my father wanted done."
"Ah." She leaned forward. "Aedan, if ye find King Arthur's treasure in that hill, dinna let Dundrennan's gold go to a mooseum." She sniffed. "And dinna wed Miss Amy. She's a guid lass, but daftie as yer auntie, wha keeps that scunnersome wee beastie!" She made a face.
"Thistle is practically part of the family," Aedan said, chuckling. "And Amy will do fine for a laird's wife someday."
"Aye, but nae for ye," Effie said, while Dora rose to refill Aedan's cup with steaming brew from the teapot. "Ye could be the one to break the curse over Dundrennan. The one meant for ye is named True Love. Wait, lad. Ye'll know her when she comes."
He split and buttered another scone. "Oh, you know that's a bit of a risk," he said as lightly as he could. "I'm done with true love, after... well, I took on the curse of the Dundrennan lairds and after Elspeth died."
Effie leaned close, her face serious. "Ye're nae done yet, I'm thinking. There's a love for ye—a love of all time. A love like they write them poems aboot. I'm thinking ye'll be the one to break that ill curse. One day, true love will land on yer doorstep like a wee birdie, and ye'll know. Ye'll know."
Aedan stared at the old woman. The image of Christina Blackburn, who had dropped on the landing outside his study, came to him clearly. But that could not be, he told himself; that must not happen now that he was laird of Dundrennnan.
He shook his head. "I think you're a bit of a poet and dreamer, like my father." He took a bite of the scone while he gathered his wits, then turned to Dora. "I was in Edinburgh last week, and I saw my sister, Mary Faire, and her husband. They asked me to convey their greetings to you and Effie. You'll remember Connor MacBain?"
"Aye, a bonny braw man," Effie said. "Doctor MacBain."
Aedan nodded. "Connor has a medical practice in Edinburgh, and he has made it his life's work to study and treat the diseases and conditions of eyes in particular. He said he would be happy to examine your eyes, Dora."
She looked toward him, her eyes unfocused, her brow puckered. "Thank you, Aedan, but... well, none can help me. Mr. Johnstone said so after he tried all those spectacles with me, and the eye potions, too."
"Mr. Johnstone is an itinerant merchant," he said. "He sells eyeglasses out of pasteboard boxes. And God only knows what is in those potions of his."
She wrinkled her small, uplifted nose. "Doctors are so costly." She lifted her chin a little. "If God wants me to be blind eventually, then it will happen. There are worse things."
"True, but let's talk to Doctor MacBain." He took her hands, felt her initial resistance. "Please, Dora. I told him that I would pay his fee, but he insisted that he would charge you nothing for his services." He glanced at Effie, who watched them silently and seriously, leaving the decision to her granddaughter.
"It's verra nice, but—I do not think 'twould be of any use," Dora said.
"But I think we must at least find out if there is a chance. We would travel on the train to Edinburgh. Effie must come, too, of course," he said, glancing at the old woman.
Dora smiled. "I do like the train, and so does Grannie."
"We could stop in Milngavie and bring your baskets to Mrs. Farquharson's shop."
"Rob Campbell offered to drive me for that. But what if—Doctor MacBain canna help me?"
"Either way, he will be honest with you, and he'll give you the best medical attention you could have. Besides, I think you would both enjoy a couple of days in Edinburgh. I'll bet Effie would like to try some fruit ice creams there." He grinned.
"Ice creams? I'll go, even if Dora willna," Effie said, and she gave Aedan a conspiratorial wink.
Laughing, Dora nodded assent.
Chapter 10
Reluctant to shout into the corridor for a maid's help with dressing as Mrs. Gunn had suggested, Christina opened her wardrobe to find something suitable among the gowns and outfits she had brought for her first dinner party at Dundrennan House.
Sighing, she realized that she had packed only one dinner gown—a lavender-blue satin which seemed too formal for that evening, the third since she and John had arrived at the house. Since she had not expected to stay more than a week or two, her clothing choices were limited. As neither a social guest nor an employee, she was not certain what was appropriate.
Most of her clothing was dark or somber, though she was no longer obligated to wear black, or even shades of gray and purple, as a widow. Deciding on an outfit that was dressier than a day gown, she chose a skirt of brown plaid silk and a high-necked blouse of ivory lawn, so fine it was nearly translucent.
After tying black slippers on her feet, she quickly pulled a lace-edged camisole over her corset and stays and stepped into cotton petticoats and a full but lightweight crinoline. Dropping the brown plaid silk skirt over that, she snugged a black velvet waister around her slender middle.
Her hands, she noticed, were trembling. Just a genteel dinner party, she assured herself, though among relative strangers but for her brother. Aedan MacBride was better known to her, but he had been furious with her earlier in the day, and she expected to see the same tension in him that evening. Her own feelings toward him hovered somewhere between deep attraction and sizzling exasperation. Since a lady could express neither, she would show him only quiet dignity.
At the mirror over the washstand, she smoothed her bronze-sheened dark hair, knotted at the nape of her neck. After adding a black net snood and jet earbobs, she bit her lips for a little color, remembering that Aedan had called her "Miss Burn" for her tendency to blush easily. That thought brought high pink into her cheeks whether she wanted it or not.
Remembering their surprising kiss on the first night of her arrival, she felt her cheeks and throat grow even hotter. She ought to feel scandalized and insulted by his advances, she told herself. Instead, a fresh, wild excitement tingled all through her. His unexpected tenderness that night had made her feel lovely, made her feel desirable again. She wanted to see that side of him again, instead of the curt, cold man he had been at other times.
Do not be a daftie, she told herself. Nothing he did or said should matter to her. They would certainly share no more kisses. He was not looking for love or courtship, and neither was she.
If he entertained other intentions toward her simply because she had posed for that painting, then he could just rethink it, she thought crisply.
Yanking on ivory kid gloves, she resolved not to fret over him any longer. Nor should she anticipate his touch or his deep velvet voice at her ear. He was certainly capable of kindness, but he could be moody and bad tempered, too, especially regarding his infernal road.
Besides, she had found safety in her spinsterish, scholarly life. If she ever changed her status, it would be to marry Sir Edgar Neaves, who expected only intellectual passion from her. Her tempestuous marriage to Stephen Blackburn had been a heartbreaking folly. She would never again make the mistake of thinking herself in love.
Grabbing her needlepointed reticule, she gathered her skirts and went to the door.
* * *
"Mrs. Blackburn." Dougal Stewart smiled as he bowed over her hand. "You certainly are not the fusty antiquarian Sir Edgar led us to expect. Quite charming, madam."
"Thank you, Mr. Stewart." Her voice sounded slightly hoarse, Aedan noticed as he listened, as if she had a head cold.
And well she might catch cold, he thought sourly, in that thin film of a blouse. She was far too fetching—even happily wed Dougal was flirting a little. What man could help it, Aedan thought, in the presence of so beguiling a young woman?
Subtle feminine allure emanated from Mrs. Blackburn in veritable waves, he thought, but she seemed ignorant of her affect on the men in the room, particularly on himself. A siren indeed, but an innocent sor
t, her appeal guileless and genuine.
She looked at him, and he glanced away, straightening his shoulders, keeping his expression neutral.
"Aedan, you've said little enough." Dougal glanced at him. "Surely you agree Mrs. Blackburn looks a picture."
Unfortunate choice of words. "Hm? Aye," Aedan said casually. "A picture, indeed." He saw a quick blush stain her cheeks.
"Surly lad," Dougal told Christina. "Scarcely notices bonny lasses and winsome dinner gowns."
Oh, but he had noticed. Ever since Christina had entered the room, skirts floating, mahogany hair knotted at the curve of her nape, he had watched her discreetly. He had noticed how her sheer blouse veiled creamy skin, revealed graceful shoulders and tantalizing breasts swelling above a lacy undergarment. He had mentally gauged her trim waist, snug in black velvet, imagining his fingers spanned there. And would have imagined more, had he not forced himself to look away, only to look again.
Frowning, he rocked back on his heels. Normally he did not register what women wore except to quickly appreciate a form, a bosom, the pretty curve of a waist or an ankle. He had scarcely realized, until he looked around, that Amy looked innocent in pale blue, Meg elegant in dark green satin, and Amy's younger sister Sarah wore a flowery gown that swallowed her whole, poor chit, while Lady Balmossie wore her preferred black.
His glance strayed again to Christina Blackburn, drawn there again, noticing that somehow she seemed prim and seductive all at once, like a confection of chocolate, cream, and whisky. He craved her like sustenance.
Nonsense. Clearing his throat, he told himself he was just hungry for dinner. No doubt MacGregor would announce the meal soon enough. Turning, he nodded in response to whatever John Blackburn had just said to him.
"Er, aye," Aedan said, hoping that applied to the topic.
"I want to thank you again for inviting me to work on the mural, Sir Aedan," John said. "Miss Stewart showed it to me the other day. It would have been a grand thing—a pity the fellow could not finish it."
