by Susan King
But he had never felt like this, never. He was filled with a pure, bright, burning need to lose himself in her and to share it with her. Once he had believed he could never fall victim to this. Now he knew that love could happen in an instant, like the sudden dazzle of a sunbeam.
He had first dreamed of her years ago, when she was but a likeness in a painting, the one that overlooked them now, its presence lush and provocative. But she was real and warm under his touch, a hundredfold more seductive, and his body grew hotter and more firm as he absorbed the sight and feel of her.
Reaching out, he touched the glint of the fire in her hair, traced his fingers over her smooth shoulders. She leaned back her head, her throat beautiful, her hair rippling, swinging, and he kissed her cheek, her throat, felt her lips upon his jaw and soft upon his ear.
Questioning but silent, he pulled back to look down at her, and she gave her answer, leaning forward to kiss him, deep and open. He knew then that she wanted this as much as he did. He took her plaid, let it fall to the floor, then removed her little spectacles carefully. He kissed her eyelids, one and then the other, and then she looked up at him with honesty and gentleness.
He fell, once again, in love with her. The painting on the wall was but a dim, lovely shadow of the woman before him.
His mouth moved over hers, succored, withdrew, discovered again. She seemed to melt in his arms and under his lips. Deftly he untied cotton and lace and silk and floated them to the floor.
She stood unashamed before him, her body marvelous in the warm gold light, satiny and beautiful. His own body grew hard and full, and he ached to lose himself in her softness.
When she reached for him and tugged at his tunic, he removed it quickly, let it drop away. He slid his palms along her waist, following the curves to span her hips, then upward around her ribs, his hands gliding over her breasts. He felt her falter, heard her soft, breathy gasp as she surged toward him, pressing her body to his, seeking his mouth with her own.
Lowering her to the floor, he lay with her on a pool of discarded silk and wool. Tracing his lips over hers again, he slipped his mouth downward, kissing, nibbling along her throat to her breasts. He sensed her heartbeat quickening like his own.
Loving her was not wrong or shameful. Loving her, he felt clarified and whole. This was no risk, he told himself—this was salvation in itself; it was bliss and forgiveness and nurturing. He could not stop himself, for an inexorable current pulled him onward. He thought it drew her, too, in its swift path.
Lying with her on the pool of fabrics, sensing the warmth of the fire on his back, he lifted slightly and traced his lips over her shoulders, over the living silk of her breasts, the nipples pearling for him, one, the other. She arched, her arms encircling him.
Her breasts filled his hands and he tasted her, tracing his mouth lower over her taut abdomen, slipping his hand downward, finding her heated, honey slick. He touched, caressed until she shivered, moved, sighed, as her hands smoothed up over his back, around, along his abdomen, until he felt the hot leap of desire as she sheathed him with warm, firm fingers, measuring, teasing until he burned for more, until he pulled her to him and took her mouth, tasted her, all the while aching for release.
Rolling her gently to her back, as she curved toward him, he surged into her, into the sumptuous heat of her, and she moved with him, softly gasping. He felt as if all her secrets were his now, all his secrets were hers. The feeling shook his soul, unstoppable, ecstatic.
I love you, he wanted to say. I love you. His body said what he could not, his hands and lips said it. He felt love flowing, enveloping him, resonating, and he could not say it.
Soon he gathered her close, curled with her beside the fire, drew the plaid over them, kept his silence. He watched her as she slept, set his lips against her hair, and knew he must find a way for them to stay together forever.
* * *
Christina slipped out of Aedan's large, comfortable bed, then pulled on her chemise and the silk costume. She had slept only a little, waking in his arms. Her body ached sweetly in secret places, and she smiled to herself, remembering.
She tugged the quilted coverlet high over his bare shoulder, for the room was chilly as dawn approached. Admiring the firm beauty of his form, She wanted to feel his arms around her again. But she stepped away.
He loved her—she felt that he did, at least in some moments. She knew it in his lips, his touch, his gentleness. But she did not truly know if he felt it beyond the warmth between their bodies, the comfort and solace there.
But she could not be found here, in his bedchamber. Gathering her things quickly, she went barefoot to the door and climbed the stairs, cold stone underfoot, to her room.
She would not press him to talk of love, would not ask of him what he could not freely give. She loved him too much.
Chapter 25
"Interesting," Edgar said, turning on his heel, his cane pressing into the dirt. Although he did not need the support as John did, he lounged elegantly upon the silver handle. "This is a nice find, Christina, but it seems to be of minor significance. Ruined walls and a storage chamber with a few pots are all things we've seen before."
"It is significant," Christina replied firmly. Guiding Edgar around the site, listening to him complain about the mud and the primitive conditions, her patience was sorely tried. "The pots in the souterrain are rare examples of early Celtic work, with beautiful animal designs. And the provisions in the jars will very likely tell us more about this ancient society."
"True, the pots are pretty, and they will make a curious exhibit, once they are cleaned and emptied."
"You cannot mean to simply dump them out!"
"Someone will list their contents and then dispose of any useless goods. The contents are certain to be spoiled."
"I'd like to open them myself, here on site. They could suffer damage if we move them to Edinburgh first."
"Here?" He looked down at her. She realized, suddenly, how very long his nose was. Its design suited his tall, aristocratic appearance. He was exceptionally handsome, with brown hair, blue eyes, and elegant features, but he made her think of a long-legged spider. She had long denied how uncomfortable he made her feel.
"Edgar, you know the newest methods of archaeology advocate painstaking work and careful records. I have done that here."
"I've always recommended careful working methods, though I see no harm in removing the items from the site to examine them at our leisure in the museum. It's tried and true."
"But usually items are not even catalogued properly. The Danish approach of careful labeling is very sensible. We must dig slowly through the entire site, listing and sketching everything here, in situ, and then again in the museum. I'd like to finish my work here before we move the pots—or heaven forfend, discard anything."
"The new scientific methods are useful with fragile fossil layers. But man-made artifacts can easily be removed from the earth and transported for study. You can hardly expect me to sit in the mud and the rain," he added, looking with disdain at her skirt and earth-stained hem. "We'll take the jars back to Edinburgh."
"But, Edgar—"
"My dear, we need not stay here to empty pots or dig with spoons or scrub stones, or whatever else you've been doing. Later, I'll decide how to manage the pots. And I think we should call them the Dundrennan Vases—it is less mundane than 'pots.'"
"They are pots," she said truculently.
"Nonetheless, we can create an interesting exhibit, if somewhat thin. Pity you found nothing more here. Perhaps some of these old stones should be transported as well, to appease curiosity. I shall talk to the museum board about opening this site to the public within a year or so. Many would travel to see Dundrennan, I think. This place could become quite an attraction. An inn might do near here, perhaps even a resort hotel someday." He turned. "The landscape is rather spectacular."
She frowned. "Sir Aedan would not approve of tourists here."
"He has little
choice now." Edgar waved a hand. "This place is a national treasure. The ruin isn't very romantic on its own, but we could make it seem so. The walls could be a Pictish foundation, after all. Ah! I have it. We could claim that this was the home of that sixth-century Dalriadan princess—you know, the one in Sir Hugh's poem."
"Yes," she murmured. "I know the one."
"Mr. MacDonald says that there is an old rumor that King Arthur's gold is hidden in these hills," Edgar said. "It's hardly believable looking at this paltry ruin, but it is a pretty fairy tale, after all. We could stir up public enthusiasm by hinting at ties to the days of the actual King Arthur and his twelve battles." He slid her a quick look. "What do you think, my dear?"
"Uncle Walter devoted his life to studying that subject, as you well know," she said. "I hardly think you can dismiss those theories as unscholarly fairy tales. It is perfectly feasible for the historical King Arthur to have had some contact with the Scots in this area."
"Christina, there would have to be some irrefutable proof of that, and there is not. This site is hardly Camelot—look around. But fairy tales attract tourists, and tourists have money, and that would greatly benefit the museum." He raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you could write up a little pamphlet about the Pictish influence in this area."
"All of this is very hasty, Edgar. We have scarcely begun the excavation."
"Since it's clear the site will yield only ordinary things, I am simply putting a more exciting face on it, for the good of the museum. Sir Hugh generously provided a condition in his will to allow our involvement." He smiled.
"I heard something about that," she said, staring at him. "I wondered if some compromise could be reached."
"Why would the directors compromise, when a prize like Dundrennan is in the offing? Oh, by the way, I shall need to see the notes you've made. You may make another copy for yourself, of course," he condescended.
"Perhaps your secretary can rewrite my notes," she said, thinking of the hours required for such a task.
"Oh, no, the fellow is much too busy," Edgar said. "You have little to occupy your time, now that I am here to oversee the excavation." He took her elbow to stroll with her beside the low, crumbling wall. "And besides, you will be returning to Edinburgh within a day or two."
She knew now that she could not bear to leave Aedan. Not yet, not after last night. There were feelings to sort through, things to be said. "I've decided to stay here for a while longer... to help with the site," she told Edgar.
"Well, if you really feel you must be near me, I suppose you could stay for a few days," he said indulgently. He looked down the slope. "Ah, here comes our Highland work crew."
Christina turned to see several men walking up the hill.
Her heart leaped as she recognized the man in the lead. "Sir Aedan has brought Hector MacDonald and the Gowans. The men have done the digging up here."
"Good. I'll speak to them about clearing this mud. And I want them to shovel down a few feet more in the interior of the house to determine if there is anything buried here."
"Shovel the interior?" She stared at him. "But we must go carefully through that area, or lose the chance to discover more about daily life at the time this house was in use. That sort of evidence is so fragile. Edgar, as a historian and an expert in early medieval culture, you cannot be so callous to that!"
"Of course. But Scotland is rather full of old walls. We have no guarantee yet that this place is even Pictish. Further digging might tell us more, of course, but it still could be—"
"Merely a black house, perhaps?" Aedan inquired as he strode toward them. "If this place is not that important, Sir Edgar, than you will have no objection to the road going through here as quickly as possible."
Edgar spun to face Aedan. Taller and thinner than the laird of Dundrennan, he seemed pale and bitter compared to Aedan's honest power and dark beauty. Christina gazed at Aedan, feeling overwhelmed, suddenly, by a desire to run to him, to stand in the lee of his solid strength, rather than here with Edgar's sharp fingers pressing her arm.
Aedan inclined his head. "Mrs. Blackburn," he murmured, and she read something deep and compelling in his vivid blue eyes. Then he looked at Edgar, and a muscle flashed in his jaw.
"Sir Aedan," she said quietly. Behind him, Hector and Angus nodded and tipped their hats to her.
"Sir, your highway cannot go through here yet," Edgar said. "You will have to find an alternative."
"Without a road over the hill, the two sections of highway down on the moorland will be rendered useless," Aedan said.
"I cannot help that," Edgar said.
Aedan put a fist to his waist, the wind whipping through his hair. "Luckily, we have an alternate route—the other side of this hill. I've directed my crew to prepare the other slope. Blasting will begin soon, then digging and topping."
"There must be no explosions near this site," Edgar said.
"If these walls are unremarkable, that will not matter," Aedan said. "And since the other side of the hill is also on my estate, I am well within my rights to do what I want there."
"It is not advisable," Edgar barked.
"If you object strongly, sir, then read this." Aedan pulled a folded letter from his pocket. "An order from the Parliamentary Commission of Roads and Highways. This road must be completed by mid-October. I've obtained permission from the commission to do whatever is necessary to complete the route for the queen's use. And I intend to cut a path on the other side of this hill."
"I warn you, sir, that would be a mistake. I remind you that the treasure trove law protects this place. And we still require your men to dig out this area, so you will be shorthanded until the museum sends some assistance here. I trust your hospitality will be extended to that group when they arrive."
"There is a good inn at Milngavie," Aedan said. "You will all be comfortable there. However, Mrs. Blackburn is welcome at Dundrennan for as long as she likes."
"Mrs. Blackburn will return to Edinburgh," Edgar said.
"Oh, will she?" Aedan asked, looking at her quickly.
"I have decided to stay for a bit," she said.
"Then it's settled." Aedan nodded.
"Nonsense," Edgar said. "There is no reason for you to stay, Christina. You have plenty to do in Edinburgh."
"Let the lady decide for herself," Aedan said.
"The lady," Edgar said, "will listen to me. We have been courting a fair amount of time, sir, so please do not interfere. If I may be so bold as to hope, the lady may soon consent to be my wife. Of course she will listen to me now." Edgar touched Christina's elbow in a proprietary way.
She frowned at him and stepped out of his reach.
"Oh? May he be so bold as to hope?" Aedan asked mildly.
"He may hope all he likes," she snapped, feeling irritated with both of them. One loved her and would not admit it. The other was incapable of real love, despite his proclamations.
She turned and snatched her walking stick from its position against a rock. "I'm going back to Dundrennan. You two can stay here and sort this through." She strode away.
Aedan caught up with her quickly and reached for her arm before she could avoid him. "Wait," he said in a low growl. "Tell me you don't want to be with that blatherskite fool."
She snatched her arm out of his grasp. "And which fool should I be with?" she whispered fiercely. "You, a man who wants me, but does not want me? Or him, with his lofty opinion of himself? I'm leaving. You and Edgar can stay here and lob rocks at each other, for all I care."
She strode away without looking back, and suppressing the sob that rose in her throat. Her feelings for Aedan had grown deep and dominant, and her respect for Edgar had quickly diminished. But she could not side with one over the other, and she could not bear to see them snipe at each other. She dreaded the inevitable confrontation that must come over the matter of Dundrennan, the site—and her, as well.
For though she knew her own choice, she was not certain that he would claim what she woul
d so gladly offer him.
* * *
"Beast and behemoth are here, lad," Hector told Aedan, pointing to the ox-drawn cart lumbering toward the earthen slope, drawing the steam shovel on the flatbed. "And Rob has already set another charge of black powder."
Aedan glanced at the wide, zigzagged path that climbed the opposite slope of Cairn Drishan. The new, raw-cut road had been grubbed free of undergrowth and marked by wooden stakes. High on the hill, Rob Campbell stood with a few men. Seeing Aedan and Hector below, the young engineer lifted a hand.
"We'll clear out of the way when he gives the signal," Aedan said. "Tell Donald Gowan to keep the behemoth at the foot of the incline. We don't want the ox hurt by debris or the engine scratched." Hector nodded and trotted off to give the order.
Sighing in exhaustion, Aedan wiped his forearm across his brow and surveyed the road. His crew, and he himself, had worked day and night to advance this far in just a few days. Most nights he had stumbled to his bed very late, after quick, cold meals on covered trays left out for him. One night he worked so far past midnight that he had slept by Effie MacDonald's hearth.
He had hardly seen Christina since the day he had met her on Cairn Drishan with Edgar. Three times he had gone to the excavation site to consult with Hector and the Gowans and had seen Christina there, but they had spoken no more than a greeting. Edgar had been there each time, talking with Christina. She had looked mildly pained, as if Edgar had become a pest—or perhaps, Aedan thought, that was his own interpretation.
And each time Aedan had left the site, he had nodded curtly to Christina, avoiding her somber, beautiful gaze. As he walked away, he had felt her watching him, and he had ignored the urge to turn around.
He had made a mistake, he thought, in giving way to his passions—in letting himself fall so deeply in love. Christina had a life of her own, a suitor, and she must return to that. And Aedan must retreat into his safely secluded heart.
