Waking the Princess

by Susan King

Christina stared at her brother, then glanced quickly at Aedan. He frowned slightly. Neither replied.

  "Please. You are perfect for this couple," John urged. "I knew it the night you played Romeo and Juliet together. That scene gave me the idea for the last image in the mural."

  Christina shook her head. "Oh, John, I could not."

  Aedan glanced at her. "Your sister seems uninterested, but I am sure Amy would leap at the chance."

  "Miss Amy was disappointed, but has agreed to model for sister of the princess—I'll invent one for the mural—as for some of the other figures. She seems pleased."

  "Because she will be a princess also." Aedan smiled.

  "Aye. But the two main characters in the piece must have the perfect models, or none of it will be as good as it could be," John said. "You want the mural done in several weeks, sir. Now that I have my scheme, I could do the sketches, the overall design, and have the figures roughly painted in that time, and attend to the details at leisure."

  "You would have to work very fast," Christina said.

  "With the right models, the work will be much easier."

  Aedan looked at Christina. "He has a point. Mrs. Blackburn?"

  She shook her head mutely.

  "Stephen's painting of the princess is here, too, do not forget," John said.

  "How could I forget that?" Christina asked quietly.

  "If both images of the princess agree, it enhances the romantic appeal of both, and even adds a sense of reality to the legend, something that would be magical, here at Dundrennan."

  "Another good point," Aedan commented. John nodded.

  "I do not think I can do this," Christina said.

  "No one else could do this but you, Christina," John said. "Sir, will you agree to pose?"

  "If the princess will agree, the prince is willing."

  She scowled at Aedan, then at her brother.

  "We could begin today," John said. "It would take only a few sessions on your part."

  "Evenings might be best for both of us," Aedan said. "That is, providing Mrs. Blackburn agrees." He waited.

  "Really, I cannot—" She felt trapped, desperate, with both of them watching her. The thought of posing for the briar princess again made her breath catch in her throat.

  Looking away, she suddenly remembered Stephen's gaze, hungry and critical upon her while she lay half clothed. She had been young, so naive and willing to please, easily succumbing to his charm, believing in his talent, believing in the ideals of true love—and fooling herself.

  But when she thought about posing with Aedan, she wavered, wanted to do this. Hours spent with Aedan, posing in his arms while John drew them—that would be a small heaven. She could find solace, comfort, some secret joy to keep for her own when she left Dundrennan.

  Biting her lip, she looked at her brother and nearly agreed. But then she remembered that others would see the pictures. She shook her head. "I cannot."

  "Christina, please," John said. "This time it would be different. It would be wonderful."

  "Different?" Aedan frowned, watching them both.

  She turned. "You may as well know, Sir Aedan, since you own the original painting. I brought about tragedy and scandal when I modeled for that picture. My... husband's death, the painting itself, brought scandal and sorrow and embarrassment to my family." She stood, slapped her napkin down on the table. "Sit, both of you," she snapped when they began to stand out of courtesy. "Decide on another princess, for I will not do it."

  She fled from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  * * *

  "Stay, sir," John said, when Aedan rose to pursue her. "It is no use talking to her now. Let her cool a little."

  "Believe me, I am acquainted with your sister's temper," Aedan said. He subsided into a chair, shoving a hand through his thick, dark hair. "I knew she did not like the original painting, but I had no idea she felt so strongly about it."

  "Later, perhaps you could talk to her about this. She might listen to you, Sir Aedan. Perhaps between us we can convince her to do this."

  "It's Aedan—I prefer it, to be frank. 'Sir Aedan' makes me sound fond of cigars and shooting parties." John laughed and offered his first name in return. "If your sister is so opposed to modeling for the princess, why press the matter?"

  "She is the princess—there can be no other, in my mind. Even when I was a lad and read your father's poem for the first time, before Stephen ever painted her, I imagined Christina as the briar princess. She has a natural elegance, that quiet, dark beauty, and she is both delicate and yet very strong."

  "I understand, believe me," Aedan said. "What happened to Stephen Blackburn? I knew there was some scandal surrounding the artist. I thought perhaps the picture shocked polite society, but truly, it is beautiful, a noble and exquisite work of art. And scandal is not uncommon among painters, begging your pardon."

  "Of course. You're correct, Aedan. The female body is not considered scandalous in a work of art. But posing for it, then seeing it exhibited, with the model's identity widely known, followed by the artist's death—it created an uproar for a while. Nothing we Blackburns could not handle, mind you. But Christina took it all very hard. She lost her husband, her dignity, her ideals, all at once. She lost faith in herself."

  "What happened?"

  "Stephen drowned," John said bluntly. "He was found in the river within a few months of his marriage to my sister, just after the painting was exhibited at the Royal Academy—it took a prize that year, as you no doubt know. The police said his death was an accident, perhaps a suicide. I believe he fell in, coming home late one night. Drunken fool," John muttered.

  "Intoxicated? Was that a usual state for him?"

  "Unfortunately, it was. He said liquor freed his artistic genius. He had that Saturnian temperament, if you know what I mean."

  "I do. Passionate, addictive, rather unpredictable."

  "Brilliant but troubled, and that inner darkness intensified his art. He was twenty-three when he died; my sister just eighteen. And she was willful and passionate too, brilliant in her own way."

  "Not always a bookish wee thing, then?"

  "Always intelligent and keen on her studies, but hotheaded and eager to be independent. Stephen was older, a distant cousin, more worldly, already known for his genius. He fascinated her, and she fascinated him. She was his beautiful muse. He began The Enchanted Briar just after their marriage. It is his most sublime work, I think."

  "Did your sister know about his difficult nature when she married him?"

  "Not really. She was young, impulsive, headstrong, and so was he. They eloped. He was a distant cousin on the Blackburn side, and they were not strangers. He was very charming, and she fell rather desperately in love—I think he did, too, as much as he was capable. Our families were furious. By the time she realized she had made a mistake, it was too late."

  Aedan went to the window, shoving his hands in his pockets. He saw Christina hurrying along the garden path, black bonneted, her gray skirt swinging like a bell. "So she married for true love," he said thoughtfully.

  "She thought so, but she was wrong. True love betrayed her. She said she would never wed again, though she has allowed someone to court her recently."

  Aedan half turned. "Court her?"

  "Sir Edgar Neaves, sir. He's been helpful to her in her academic pursuits and has been very attentive to her. She gave him permission to court her. The fellow wants to marry her."

  "Does he?" he murmured, narrowing his eyes.

  "Aye, but I wonder if it is wise. She can be too trusting, my sister. With Stephen, with Edgar. She married young and mourned Stephen grievously, and she has little experience with men."

  Aedan's frown deepened as he watched Christina in her solitary walk. He felt John's remark like a blow to his gut. All he had wanted was to protect her, cherish her. But she was irresistible, and he had taken advantage of her. Was he no better than the other two, in his way?

  "She felt responsible
for Stephen's accident, you see, and has blamed herself, cloistered herself. It was especially hard for her because he lingered so long afterward."

  Aedan felt a cold chill. "He what?"

  "He lay in an unconscious state for weeks before his death. She nursed him selflessly and compassionately, but she has never been the same. She went from a fiery, vibrant girl to a sad wee thing. I have rarely seen that bright lass in her since."

  Aedan watched as Christina left the garden gate and advanced over the meadow. "No wonder she refuses to pose."

  "The memories are painful for her."

  "Then why insist?" Aedan glanced over his shoulder.

  "I believe posing and enjoying it might help... heal her."

  Instinctively he knew what John meant. "Posing for the same thing, the princess, under different circumstances."

  "Aye. She protects herself with books and intellect and one task after another. In the years since Stephen's death, she has devoted herself to Uncle Walter and his work—he took her into his home after Stephen died, when our father was cold to her. Now Uncle Walter is unwell and suffering a fallen reputation as a scholar, and Christina wants to help him somehow. She takes that responsibility upon her shoulders."

  "A serious wee lass, your sister."

  "She is not a simple wee lass, I give her that. And I asked her to pose only because I care about her. I want to see her happy again, filled with dreams again. But she must come out of her bookish old tower first."

  "Aye," Aedan murmured. "I understand."

  In the distance, Christina climbed a low hill. He felt a deep tug within, as if his heart were some tightly closed bud straining to open, petal by petal, and straining with it.

  "John," he said, "do you believe true love exists?"

  "I like to think so. But we may not recognize it always, or perhaps we fear its power. But it is real, that sort of love. I am a sentimental sort who thinks love helps us all, heals us, clarifies our lives. And no one deserves it more than my sister," he added softly. "Why do you ask?"

  Aedan shook his head. "Excuse me," he said, turning toward the door. "I should to head out for the day. If I run into your sister, I will try to convince her... to pose for the mural."

  "Run into her? You might have to run her down to convince her of that, Aedan," John said dryly.

  * * *

  Aedan stood beside his horse at the base of Cairn Drishan as Christina approached. He held the reins in one hand, the other hand at his waist. He waited for her, but she stepped to one side, intending to pass him entirely.

  "Why, Mrs. Blackburn," he said pleasantly.

  "How did you get here so quickly?" she snapped.

  "Pog and I used my road," he said. "It's a fine wee road." He tied Pog's reins to a nearby bush and turned. "You took the route over the moor and the hills. A longer route, though well suited to contemplation."

  "If John sent you here to plead with me, you can just take that fine road of yours somewhere else." She began to move past him, but he reached out and caught her arm.

  "Christina—"

  "I will not pose, even for John. He can ask someone else, and his mural will still be wonderful. It is his talent and vision, not the model, that will make it so."

  "Listen to me," he said. He did not let go of her arm, and she made no effort to pull away. Though she wanted to be left in peace, she did not want to break this rare contact with him—not yet, when they had both agreed to be only friends.

  "Do not tell me how it would please my brother, or whatever it is you agreed to tell me," she said. "Because then I would appear heartless when I refuse."

  "Christina," he said. "I know all about Stephen's painting."

  "You do not know. No one truly does," she said. Though something in her cried out to stay, she jerked free from him and began to climb the hill.

  "Listen to me, you wee fool," he said, stepping after her, taking her shoulder, turning her to stand in the middle of the earthen path between the wooden stakes.

  "What?" She looked up impatiently. "I have work to do."

  "So do I. But this is important. Christina, I know about Stephen and the scandal of the painting you posed for."

  "So John told you. I did not tell you the whole of it. Not that it makes a difference, since you and I... are only acquaintances. Friends." She glanced away. "The more you know about it, the less you will care to know me at all."

  "Don't be ridiculous. I care very much about you."

  She glanced up at him, wary, watchful.

  "I feel we have made great... progress in our friendship."

  She huffed and looked away. Aedan rested his hand on her shoulder, slid his fingers down to encircle her arm. "Christina, I've always known there was a scandal—the artist's death, the shocking picture he painted of his wife. It was never shocking to me, just beautiful, so I gave it no credence. I'm sorry for your tragedy, my dear. But none of the rest matters a whit to me."

  She looked up at him. "You are not shocked by my behavior? Running off, marrying my cousin, posing for him?"

  He shook his head. "You had your reasons. And the result is... breathtaking." He rubbed her arm gently. "Not just the painting. The model. The woman herself. You've grown, learned. You know what you want... now."

  "Then you understand why I do not want to pose for the princess again. Why pursue me on this?"

  "I agree with your brother. You are perfect for this. And it would not be the same at all. John's vision is very different from Stephen's. The first version is... a seductress. An innocent siren."

  She gazed up at him, remembering the sultry game they had played that first night in his room, when she had fallen and he had seduced her with kindness and earthy charisma and a simple, exquisite kiss. "And the later version?" she asked, tipping her head a little, tentative, hopeful. "What of that one?"

  He smiled, his thumb brushing circles on her arm, raising shivers in her. "The later princess," he said, "is vividly beautiful, but she does not know it. John's version will be magnificent, I think. The entire tale told in a sparkling visual narrative. I want you to be part of it—to be its heart."

  She shook her head, looked away, so she would not have to meet his eyes, blue as the bright summer sky behind him.

  "When I saw that painting in your room," she said, "so much came back to me—all the broken promises Stephen made to me, all his fits of temper, the days and nights that he painted and did not eat, only drank.... There are things no one knows, not John, not anyone. Only myself."

  "My dear," he murmured. "I'm sorry."

  She drew a breath. "He liked to paint at night, and he would drag me out of a sound sleep to pose for him if he did not have something just right. He would tear my clothing off to get me out of it—he never had patience. He said we would buy new things for me. We could never afford them."

  "Did he... harm you?" Aedan asked in a low rumble.

  "Not that way," she answered, shaking her head. "He was fierce about his work, selfish with it, but not cruel beyond it. He loved me... in his way. But when John asked me to pose for the princess again," she went on, "all the fear, the unhappiness, the broken dreams, came flooding back. So many long nights when he left me alone and came staggering back, drunk, to lock himself in his studio." She blinked back tears. "My wild, haunted artist. He could not be anything but what he was."

  "You loved him?"

  "I thought I did. I cared deeply, tried—but I learned how wrong I was about love. And then he died.... he struggled with that, too, just as he fought with every force in his life—genius, love, death itself—" She gasped a little and lowered her head.

  "And you were always there for him, weren't you?" Aedan drew her close, wrapped an arm around her. She leaned her cheek on his chest, pressing against the sturdy wool of his jacket. He felt solid and strong, so reliable and earthy and real, and devastatingly attractive. But a friend. Just a friend, his hand kind on her back.

  She wanted so much more with him, but he did not take t
his embrace further. That hurt deeply, secretly. She sighed.

  "I realized later that it was not love so much as pity," she said. "I wanted to save him and foster his genius. I have lived with the regret and the shame ever since."

  "Christina," he murmured. He tipped her head up. "This time, if you pose for the princess, all will be well. You will help John, and you will have something that you can be proud of, I promise it. And I," he said, brushing at a wayward strand of her hair, "will be the prince. We together will do this. What do you say?"

  "I... Let me think about it."

  He brushed his hand over her cheek slowly, his blue eyes intent, deep and sparkling, so that her heart pounded fiercely in her chest. "Good," he said. "Tell yourself that you are safe in this. Perfectly safe, my lass." He kissed her on the cheek, only that, and so tenderly that her knees melted beneath her.

  He let go of her, and he watched him step away. Her heart felt heavy, hollow, knowing they were friends only. But she wanted to pose with him—wanted that, at least, with him.

  "Perhaps there will be a happy ending for this princess, at least the one on the dining room walls, hey," he said, and reached for Pog's reins.

  "Perhaps," she said quietly.

  He bounded into the saddle and then looked down at her. "Mrs. Blackburn, good day."

  She watched him go, and she knew that there could be no happy ending for her, no matter how magnificent John's mural would be when it was done.

  Because when it was done, she would have to leave.

  * * *

  Flowers everywhere she went. Lavender stems filled a tall vase on the table beside her bed, while marigolds and daisies glowed in a glass beside her place at breakfast. Heather bells tied with ribbons brightened the stone wall when she arrived on the hill in the morning. Blowsy pink roses floated in a glass bowl in her little sitting room when she returned in the afternoon, filling the air with sweetness.

  Now, a chain of daisies surrounded her dinner plate, and a posy of wild roses lay on the table beside it. She knew who was responsible. Smiling, she looked at him across the table.

  "John," she said, "enough. You will give me hay fever."

  Seated at the head of the table adjacent to her, Aedan chuckled.