by Susan King
"He began it after talks with my father, but weeks into it, took ill and died quite suddenly. Awful, of course, for so many reasons. Please feel free to make your own judgment on the scheme. You may want to complete his design, or you may start again."
John nodded, his blue-gray eyes steady. "I'd like to incorporate his work with my own ideas and style. I've been making some sketches and thinking about it."
"I apologize for the lack of time. We do not want to rush you, sir. I'm honored and grateful for the stroke of luck that brought you here, by the way. We despaired of finding an artist who could complete the wall in a timely and economical way. And being familiar with your work, I'm especially thankful. You're a talented man, Mr. Blackburn." He indicated John's framed painting, which they had owned for years, on the far wall.
"Thank you," John said quietly. "I'd like to take a closer look at that painting, sir. I haven't seen it for years." He turned with Aedan to stroll across the room, passing Christina, who chatted with the Stewart sisters and Lady Strathlin. "Come see the Isabella," John told her.
Christina excused herself to glide between the men, her wide skirt swaying, her gloved hands riding on the swell. Aedan repeatedly glanced down at her.
What the devil was happening to him? First secretly smitten by the painted image of a girl—now smitten a thousand times harder by the one who had posed for it. Without expression, he stood with the Blackburns to gaze at the gilt-framed painting.
The jewel colors of John's picture caught the firelight's glow. Its simple composition showed a seated knight and a standing young woman with long blond hair. She held a shining crown in her uplifted hands, and a halo of light suffused the couple, giving them a mythic ambience.
"Robert Bruce Crowned by Isabella of Buchan," Aedan said, reading the brass tag on the frame. "My father favored scenes from Scottish history and particularly liked this one of yours, Mr. Blackburn. I understand you trained in the Pre-Raphaelite circle for a time. Any work of art out of that group has a rising value these days."
"I was fortunate to live for some time in London after I left university," John said. "I studied with Rossetti and then Millais and began to form my own style apart from my father's, although he tutored me initially."
"Father is best known for history paintings in the grand style," Christina told Aedan. "John enjoys historical and mythological subjects, but his pictures have less pageantry and a more intimate emotionalism." She smiled.
Rob Campbell, Aedan's engineering assistant, came to join them and regarded the painting. "Excellent piece, Mr. Blackburn. May I ask if the female figure is intended to resemble your lovely sister? Or is that my imagination?"
Christina stood quite still, and Aedan felt her tension. He too had noticed the resemblance.
"Christina did model for Isabella," John answered. "She was about sixteen years old then. How astute of you to notice."
Rob nodded. "A wonderful likeness, Mrs. Blackburn, aside from the difference in hair color. A remarkable testament to your brother's skill and to your own loveliness."
She had gone pale, Aedan noticed.
"Thank you, but it was years ago, Mr. Campbell. I was scarcely out of the schoolroom, and John was actually still at university then."
"Your gifts were evident at a young age, sir," Aedan said.
"It is a joy to draw my sister's classic features. She modeled for my father, too, and for our siblings. Our cousin Stephen, as well—her late husband."
"He was also a painter?" Rob asked.
Christina colored passionately, Aedan saw, but she need not have worried, since Rob had never seen the painting in Aedan's private rooms. "Yes, he was," she told Rob. "I often sat for the artists in our family. It gave me an excuse to daydream."
"Miss Burn" was an accurate name, Aedan thought. Christina blushed like a living ember, searing heat just below the surface. She tempered it with elegant dignity and perfect composure. "Ah, MacGregor is here to call us in to dinner," she said. Aedan turned to see the butler opening the door.
"Good. Rob, you're to escort the Misses Stewart," Aedan told his assistant, "while Mr. Blackburn will escort Lady Balmossie." They nodded and walked off to fulfill their duties.
Christina glanced around, her skirt floating, as she clearly looked for her own escort.
"Mrs. Blackburn," Aedan said quietly, extending his arm.
She accepted, the touch of her gloved hand light on his forearm. Her silken skirt rustled against his thigh.
Only that, and desire struck through him like lightning.
Her flowery scent and the whisky husk of her voice, the sway of silk, the hint of skin through delicate fabric, all mingled with the memory of their passionate kiss. The girl in the painting was but pale cardboard compared to this vivid creature.
Yet he must not forget that Christina Blackburn was poised to destroy his road, his career, possibly more. He must maintain aloofness—though that already proved a challenge.
MacGregor held open the door while the others followed Aedan and Christina into the dining room. Crystal and silverware gleamed under candlelight, and the muted colors of the unfinished mural danced over the walls. As they walked, Aedan leaned down.
"Do not fret, Mrs. Blackburn," he murmured. "No one will see that other painting."
She glanced up. "No one, sir?" she whispered.
"Only myself," he said, and he drew out her chair.
* * *
Tasting little of the dessert of raspberry tartlet and lemon ice or the excellent fare of lamb cutlets, roasted potatoes, and vegetables that had preceded it, Christina set down her spoon. She had no appetite, and her thoughts distracted her so much that she could scarcely pay adequate attention to the dinner conversation around her.
Throughout dinner she had sat next to Aedan MacBride, but had said little to him. After his murmured reminder about the painting, she had remained too aware that he saw her en deshabille daily. The picture hallmarked a time when she had been wild, passionate, beautiful, happy... and terribly unwise.
To his credit, Aedan had been quietly considerate and attentive to her throughout dinner, despite her near silence. She sensed no lascivious glimmer in his eyes, no residue of that day's anger, either. On the contrary, she had sensed admiration, even concern. Touching her wine goblet to her lips, she glanced at him again.
Framed by a high-backed chair whose Jacobean strength suited him, he wore Highland dress—a pleated kilt of the red tartan preferred by the MacBrides of Dundrennan, with a black jacket, a vest, and a white shirt. In the drawing room, waiting for dinner, Christina could not help but notice his taut and powerful bare legs. Along with the golden tan on his high cheekbones, his strong physique revealed his time spent out-of-doors, active in his work.
He had the savage appeal of raw masculine beauty, enhanced by the rugged elegance of formal Highland dress. Once again she felt the undeniable pull that had swept her away on the night she had allowed him to kiss her.
Blushing, she told herself to finally forget that kiss. But she could not. Sipping her wine, she smiled at the chattering company around her, nodded as if listening and agreeing, and made an effort to abandon her unladylike thoughts.
"You are indeed quiet this evening, Mrs. Blackburn."
She met Aedan's direct, steel-blue gaze in the candlelight. He toyed with his own half-eaten dessert, she saw, his silver spoon resting in long, sun-browned fingers.
"I am a little fatigued," she admitted.
"No doubt so, after your adventure today, madam," he said. She flashed him a sour look, but saw only a twinkle in his eyes. "No harm done, I hope. Please do not feel that you must stay if you would rather retire."
She shook her head, though she did long to escape. Her head felt stuffed with cotton wool—too much wine, too little sleep, too many thoughts.
"It's really very good work," John said, turning to look at the partly completed painting on the wall behind him. He was seated opposite Christina, beside Amy Stewart, who swivel
ed to look with him, though she must have seen it a thousand times.
The others murmured agreement, and Christina looked up. In shadows and candlelight, she could make out some lightly sketched areas of landscape and a few figures on a whitewashed background that swept around three walls.
"Sir Aedan, do you know the ground?" John asked.
"Ground?" Aedan looked puzzled.
"The support for the mural," Christina murmured.
"Ah. The artist asked the housepainter to apply a coat of whitewashed plaster before he began his sketches. I remember that he insisted it dry thoroughly first."
"Good," John said. "Then he knew what he was about. Wall murals done in buon fresco—where the paint is applied on damp plaster, essentially—do not endure in the British climate, unlike hot, dry Italy, where the fresco technique of the Old Masters was so highly developed. My father and some others did a fresco mural at Windsor for the royal family a few years ago. It was a disaster, saved only by altering the technique to fresco secco, or painting upon dry plaster."
"Very sensible, since our weather can be damp in any season." Aedan nodded. "Is there a chance you could complete this within a few weeks, Mr. Blackburn?"
"I cannot guarantee it, Sir Aedan. Is there a particular need to have it done so quickly?"
"The verra queen is coming in October," Lady Balmossie commented from her position at the other end of the table.
"Ah, that's reason, indeed," John said. "I will do my best."
"Pray do not rush, Mr. Blackburn," Amy said, tilting prettily toward him, "if haste would spoil the effect."
"Of course, Miss Stewart," John said with a ready flush. "Sir Aedan, do you know what you'd like done on these walls?"
"The murals in this room were my father's dream," Aedan said. "A codicil to his will dictates his plans for each part of the house. Aside from fabric choices and so on—which I've primarily left to Amy," he said, smiling down the table at his cousin, "his list must be honored and the work finished by the end of this year—if we wish to keep the house in the family."
"Oh!" Christina looked at him in surprise. "Oh, my."
He lifted a brow in silent agreement and sipped his wine. "Still, it can be done. My father's codicil is so precisely detailed that Miss Thistle could oversee the work," he said. "Most of the changes were underway when he died. I will see them done."
"The mural is the one of the last projects," Amy said. "Uncle Hugh chose the subject himself. We will leave the rest to you, Mr. Blackburn."
"I hope I am up to the task. What is the theme?"
"Dundrennan's legend," MacBride said. "The tale of the princess in the briar."
A chill ran through Christina. Glancing at Aedan, who looked steadily at her, she searched the sketchy wall images for the elements of the story. She saw only landscape and a few figures.
"Certainly you must make the mural your own, regardless of what is already there," Lady Balmossie said.
"I am fortunate to have come here with my sister, then," John said, startling Christina. "Being an expert in the history and lore of Celtic Scotland, she's often advised me on authentic detail for my paintings."
"She should model for the princess," Rob suggested. "She was perfect as the medieval heroine in your other painting."
"That's a marvelous idea," Lady Balmossie said.
Stunned, Christina frowned. Her brother blithely ignored her, though Aedan MacBride caught her eye. She glanced away.
"A fine suggestion," Aedan said.
"I agree." John said, smiling. "Christina?"
She stabbed her spoon into melted lemon ice, tasting it quickly so she would not have to answer.
Chapter 11
"You've seen most everything in the house now," Amy said, "but for the gardens and that old monument out in the back garden." She led Christina, John, and Lady Strathlin into the foyer after a thorough tour of Dundrennan House. Although the Blackburas had been at Dundrennan for a week, Amy had declared the rainy day perfect for a complete tour of the house and its collections.
"With such rain, you will have to look at the gardens another day," Lady Strathlin said. "But here in the foyer you can see the stained-glass windows that were recently added. They're beautiful, Amy," she added with an approving smile.
"They give the foyer a nice medieval feeling, I think," Amy said. "Sir Hugh wanted a design that featured a briar-rose vine—the flowers are a theme throughout the house." She pointed to the tall, narrow windows flanking the door and another window on the landing of the stairs, all of which featured briar-rose vines in colored glass.
Christina turned, looking with delight. After luncheon with Lady Balmossie, who had retired to nap, the four of them had strolled through the rooms while Amy pointed out the redecorating effort. They had lingered over Sir Hugh's extensive collection of historical artifacts, some objects hung on the wall and others protected in glass cases, and John had been fascinated by the art collection displayed in various rooms.
"The house is beautiful," Christina said. "Quite unique. It must be a wonderful place to live." Beside her, John murmured his agreement.
"Only Cousin Aedan lives here now, though we visit often," Amy said. "Eventually he will marry and the house will be busy again, I hope."
"I'm sure he will," Christina commented, wondering if Amy were interested in the position herself. "Thank you for showing us the house, Miss Stewart. And Lady Strathlin—so kind of you to take the time. I know you must be anxious to return to your children at Balmossie."
"Their nurse takes very good care of them. I'm planning to go back after tea. And please call me Meg—the other makes me sound so stuffy." She smiled.
"And of course, it's Amy," Aedan's cousin added.
Christina smiled her thanks and offered her first name to both young women.
"Are your plans for the mural proceeding, Mr. Blackburn?" Meg asked, for John had paused to look at a Scottish landscape painting in the foyer.
"I've been sketching ideas for the program, and I hope to begin some painting soon," he replied.
"Wonderful!" Amy smiled, spreading her hands on her blue crinolined skirt as she glided toward the main staircase. "Come with me, if you please. There is something I want to show you upstairs, on the uppermost floor."
They climbed to a landing that split in two directions to lead to the dining room and drawing room on one side and the billiard and breakfast rooms on the other. Christina knew now that the rest of the rooms in the central tower section were bedrooms. Amy and Meg then led them upstairs to the highest level, where they had not gone earlier.
Throughout the house, dim hallways were brightened by wood wainscoting and vibrant walls in salmon pink or ochre. Paintings glowed in lamplight, as did neat rows of weapons—shields, swords, axes, and halberds glittered overhead.
"That sword up there was used by Robert the Bruce." Amy indicated a longsword with a worn leather hilt. "And that small dagger is said to have belonged to MacBeth himself. Those two swords were lost by English knights at the battle of Stirling. The long axe over there belonged to Rob Roy MacGregor."
"Dundrennan is a sort of museum," Christina said.
"In a way," Meg said. "Sir Hugh catalogued much of the collection before he died, and he discussed the provenance and value of several pieces with Sir Edgar from the National Museum. There was some discussion of buying the collection, but Aedan refuses to consider it."
"The sale of a few pieces would ease the cost of the repairs and refurbishments," Amy said. "I wish Aedan would reconsider. We do not need all these old weapons. Some of them are quite vile." She wrinkled her nose. "One of the swords still has blood on it."
"I'm sure Mrs. Blackburn is aware of the museum's interest," Meg said.
"I know little about it," Christina replied. "Such dealings are kept private. I am merely a Lady Associate of the Society of Antiquaries, although I do some research and other work for Sir Edgar."
"We're grateful for the good fortune that brought y
ou both here," Meg said, and she smiled.
They reached the uppermost hallway, where Amy opened a door. "This is the long gallery. Once it was used as a schoolroom, but no one uses it now. Sir Aedan thought that you might like to use it for an artist's studio, Mr. Blackburn."
"This would be excellent," John said when they entered. The long gallery was a huge room with whitewashed walls and dark wood floors. Rainy daylight streamed silvery through the windows. Sparsely furnished with a cupboard, bench, long table, and hard chairs, it looked like the schoolroom it once had been.
"The light is good, and from the north, clear and even," John said. "And that huge table is ideal, since I'll be working on very large sketches for the wall."
"Then it is yours for the duration," Amy said, handing him a key. "My cousin said you will be going to Edinburgh for a day or two to fetch some supplies."
"Yes, I'll leave tomorrow and return shortly with trunks full of paint and so on, even some costumes and props."
"Oh, costumes! It sounds like great fun!" Amy said as they all left the room together.
"I hope so. Does that lead out to the roof?" John asked as they passed a door at the far end of the hall, where there seemed to be no space for another room.
"Yes, come and look," Amy said. "The view is marvelous." She opened the stout door and led them into the cool, damp air on the balaustraded roof. "Centuries ago, sentinels would post up here. There is an overhang, so our gowns will not get wet."
Christina smiled, feeling the clean kiss of the wind on her face and stirring her skirts. Rain pattered the stone wall walk and half walls.
Dundrennan's policies extended in all directions, miles of heathery hills, golden meadows, and thick forest, the whole softened by mist. The arches of the Remembrance, the medieval monument beyond the orchard, thrust upward.
"That's so beautiful," she said, feeling a powerful urge to see the romantic old monument to a lost princess. "I wish we could go see it."
"The Remembrance is a gloomy place, especially in the rain," Amy said. "I think it's eerie and morbid. It should be closed off. Not even the lairds of Dundrennan will go there."
