by Susan King
For a little while, he had set himself free, but he had forgotten, essentially, that he could never allow himself to fall in love. For Christina's sake, he could not.
Edgar might be an arrogant boor, but he was wealthy, socially prominent, a handsome fellow, and willing and able to marry Christina. He loved her as much as he was capable of it, and his scholarly interests matched her own.
Aedan's own fortune had dwindled with the vast expenses of the house. Nor did he have a bookish bone in him, despite a taste for poetry. But he longed for Christina, the urge burning all the hotter as he drew back.
He loved her, and owed her honesty. He must tell her his feelings—it burned in him, it frightened him—but he had to explain that he could not be with her, because he loved her.
Not eager to voice the finality of that, he had kept silent.
The afternoon heat had grown stifling. Aedan wiped his brow, then drank from a silver flask. Lemonade laced with whisky, he discovered—Effie's donation for a long day's work that would once again go deep into the night. Sighing, he stuck the flask into his jacket pocket and looked up at the ominous sky.
"Damn this rainy luck," he said as Hector came back to join him. "The highway will never be finished if the weather continues to plague us with water and mud."
"Mebbe the queen can float to Dundrennan," Hector said.
Aedan smiled. Hearing Rob shout that the fuse was about to be ignited, he stepped behind the protection of the steam engine with Hector. Rob and the others ran to join them.
Moments later, he felt the rock shiver under his leaning hand as the powder ignited and watched dirt and stones spew outward. Aedan thought of the blast weeks ago that had torn open the other side of the hill, exposing the ancient wall.
That previous blast had initiated events that had sent deep and everlasting shocks through his life. He knew, now, that he would never be the same. And he wondered what this explosion would bring in its wake.
Chapter 26
"One of the Jeanies should be here soon with tea," John told Christina. "I asked that it be brought here for Aedan and me. Perhaps you'll join us, Christina." He crossed the room, leaning heavily on the ivory head of his cane.
Seeing how much her brother relied on the cane today, she knew that he had taxed his strength while painting the mural. Christina sighed and turned to glance at Aedan, who studied a partially finished section of the mural.
Surprised to find Aedan here when she had entered the room a few minutes earlier, Christina felt almost shy near him. With so much unsaid between them, they had exchanged banalities—the weather had been pleasant, the rain would likely resume, the nights were growing darker quickly these days.
All the while, she wanted to be alone with him, to tell him how she felt. She needed to feel his arms around her.
Smoothing her hands nervously over the bell of her dark green skirt, she smiled at John.
"I just took tea with Lady Balmossie and the others," she said. "We missed you—both of you—up in the sitting room. Thistle was with us today," she added.
"Oh? How did she agree with Edgar?" John asked.
"She seemed to fancy him. He had to run and change his coat after she put cake in his pockets." She smiled at the memory of Edgar fending off Miss Thistle's attentions.
"Fickle lass," Aedan drawled. "She usually prefers to mess my coat."
John laughed, turning as a knock sounded. "Ah, must be tea at last!" He opened the door.
"Good afternoon, John." Sir Edgar strode past without invitation. "Ah, Christina. Miss Stewart said I might find you in the dining room. And Sir Aedan, too. Good afternoon, sir. You've been a bit scarce."
"I've been rather busy, blasting the hills," Aedan said. He crossed his arms and leaned against the table, which was covered in cloths and the chaos of John's art materials.
Edgar did not answer, simply turning away. "The mural!" He looked at the walls with their elaborate compositions partially completed in line and color. "Very interesting."
John limped forward to stand protectively between Edgar and the wall. "It is not ready to be seen. I've asked for privacy in here until the mural is finished."
"So I heard," Edgar said without remorse. He turned a slow circle, looking at the walls. "But we are old friends, after all, and your sister is here, as is the laird. I assume your ban does not apply to me. Parts of this are quite good," he murmured. "But will it be done in time for the queen's visit?"
"It will be presentable by then," John said curtly.
Edgar strolled toward the other wall. "You are fortunate that I am here, as you may want the recommendation of a director of the National Museum of Antiquities. We might commission a large mural for the Industries Hall."
"I had not heard," John said.
"And you have a certain gift. You should submit sketches for the Industries project. My father heads the committee. Winning such an assignment would be a plum for you. And the Blackburn name might be good for us, in that capacity."
"How kind of you, Edgar," Christina said, while John murmured thanks.
"I am glad to help." Edgar joined his hands behind him as he strolled beside the wall, studying scene after scene. "Ingenious, really. The mural has a medieval sense. This is the legend of the Dundrennan princess, I take it?"
"Aye," Aedan said. "But Mr. Blackburn does not care to have his mural examined quite yet."
Ignoring that, Edgar peered closely at an image of the prince and princess facing each other, hands joined, framed in a painted stone arch. Edgar frowned.
"So, Christina," he said, turning, "You and Sir Aedan are posing for these figures?"
"Yes," Christina answered.
Edgar narrowed his eyes. "But you promised to reform your behavior."
She stared at him, speechless, and remembered that when Stephen's painting of the briar princess had been exhibited at the Royal Scottish Academy, Edgar had ordered the picture taken down early, ending her public embarrassment. She had been grateful for that, and had told Edgar that she intended never to make the same mistake again.
She looked away, feeling her cheeks burn.
"That was ungentlemanly, sir." Aedan stepped forward.
"Considering her unfortunate experience in the past, I cannot approve of her posing. And this time with a man—it is most unseemly."
"She does not need your approval," Aedan answered.
"Edgar, there is no harm in this," Christina said. "John is creating a beautiful artwork. I'm proud to be part of it."
"Lady Balmossie posed for the princess's mother, as you can see, " John said, pointing to one of the figures. "Lady Strathlin herself modeled for a serving maid—the pretty blond lass there. If those ladies had no objection to modeling for this, Christina cannot be criticized for it."
Edgar frowned, studying the wall, strolling along to the last scene, pencilled on white plaster, showing the prince lifting the unconscious princess in his arms. Slipping a monocle from his pocket, Edgar leaned forward.
"Really, Christina," he said with disdain.
Aedan moved toward him. "Sir, the project is not ready to be seen. I'm sure you understand. The door is there." He gestured toward it.
Edgar inclined his head. "Sir Aedan, I've been meaning to speak with you. Since you are unable to meet the conditions of your father's will, it is time for your advocate to meet with the museum's advocate to discuss the transfer of the house."
Christina gasped and moved forward. Aedan took her elbow, fingers tight on her arm.
"No need. The conditions will be met," he growled.
"But the renovations are not done, including the mural. Now that ancient walls have been discovered on the property, that voids your claim to the house, according to your father's wishes." Edgar smiled smugly.
"You yourself said the stones had little significance," Aedan pointed out. Christina caught her breath, looking from one man to the other, sensing the hostility building.
"Regardless, it is a historic site,"
Edgar said. "But we at the museum are not so heartless as to take away your ancestral home. The museum board discussed the matter before I came here. I am authorized to make an offer to you."
"What is that?" Aedan asked flatly.
"Dundrennan's historical collection belongs in a museum, not hidden away from the public."
"You know I will not sell my father's collection."
"The costs of these renovations must be enormous. Your father's fortune dwindled in the years before his death. One wonders how you pay your creditors."
"That is not your concern. I have the funds."
"Not for long, I'm sure, with all the remodeling. But we will not render you penniless or homeless. The board members request that you donate your father's historical memorabilia to the National Museum. We cannot offer you a fee, but we can take over the care and maintenance of the objects. In return, we will relinquish our claim on the house. It is a fair offer."
Aedan frowned. "My father wanted those objects kept here."
Christina looked up at him. "It is something to consider," she said quietly. "House the collection in the museum, and save your house. Please, Aedan," she added in a fervent whisper.
Aedan studied her for a moment, his black brows lowered over cool blue eyes. "I will think about it," he told Edgar.
"The directors are not unanimously agreed about this," Edgar said. "I could be persuaded to vote in favor of the compromise, and could convince my father to vote for it as well. The vote would be sure to go your way, and the house would remain yours."
Tilting his head, Aedan watched him with a stony glare. "And what would be your price for those votes?"
"Stephen Blackburn's painting. You own it, sir. I want it."
Christina gasped. "What?"
"I offered to purchase it years ago, but Sir Hugh would never sell it. Give it to me in return for my influence, and keep the house. It is a bargain, sir."
Silence filled the room. Aedan stared at Edgar, and drew Christina close to his side, his fingers painful on her elbow.
"The painting is not mine," he finally said. "It belongs to Mrs. Blackburn. And I doubt she would give it to anyone."
She stared at Aedan in astonishment, then looked at Edgar. "Yes," she said quickly. "It is mine now. Why do you want it?"
Edgar walked toward the door, which John yanked open for him, clearly wanting him to leave.
"My dear," Edgar said with a little bow, "that image of you should belong only to your husband. Since I hope to be that someday, despite your reluctance so far to accept, I thought to own the painting now as we contemplate our happy wedding."
"That will never happen," she said.
"No?" He smiled. "Sir Aedan, if you want to keep the house, I suggest you release that painting to me—and relinquish your hold on Mrs. Blackburn. I see you have her arm in a tight grip even now—where are your manners? She has fallen under some sort of spell since she came here. No common sense whatsoever. My dear, it is disappointing to see the weak and rebellious side of your character returning. I thought you learned your lesson when Stephen died after that terrible scandal."
"Edgar, how could you—" Christina began.
Letting her arm go, Aedan strode across the room toward Edgar, who ducked quickly through the doorway. John lunged forward too, but Christina rushed after them, snatching John's sleeve and grabbing Aedan's arm. Her brother went back into the room, but Aedan jerked away from her, stepping forward.
Hurrying after him, once again she grabbed his coat sleeve, his arm muscled hard under her hand. "Aedan, please! Edgar is not worth this!"
He stopped, looking down at her with cold, angry eyes. Ahead, Edgar breezed down the hallway and disappeared around a corner.
"At least you realize that now, " Aedan said.
She nodded. " I know you have been trying to convince me of it. Now I see. "
"Good." His tone, his demeanor were cold and angry.
She pressed his arm. "Thank you for the painting."
"It is yours. No one should have it but you," he said. "I will sign it over to you as a gift. Edgar will not be able to dispute it."
"Thank you. You should know," she said quickly, "that Edgar presumes too much. I never promised to marry him."
He watched her for a moment. "Perhaps you should."
"Why?" she breathed, stunned, watching him.
"He cares for you, in his way. He can offer you a great deal—a wealthy scholar, an eminent man, and free to marry. You're charming enough to reform him from a pompous ass into an obedient husband."
"I do not want to reform him. How absurd! I do not love him. I could not, could never love him." Her gaze was caught in his, melting into his.
"Love is not a condition for marriage."
"Just the opposite. I know," she said, hurting suddenly.
He nodded, silent, then walked away, striding down the corridor toward the staircase.
Christina stood in the hallway, feeling as if her world tipped wildly, and she could not find her balance.
"Christina," John said from the doorway. "Go after him."
She blinked, looked at him, then gathered her skirts and ran down the wide hallway.
When she reached the stairs, she heard the slam of the great oak door echoing in the foyer. By the time she hurried down the steps and reached the door, MacGregor was there to hastily open it for her.
Outside, the drive was empty. She heard Pog's hoofbeats echoing along the wooded lane.
Turning, she went back into the house, aware that MacGregor and Mrs. Gunn watched her, concern and sympathy in their eyes as she walked past them. Lifting her chin, she went upstairs and headed to the library, where she could be alone.
* * *
Moving the magnifying glass over the fragile vellum, Christina studied the phrases crammed along the margin of the second sheet. All afternoon, she had carefully copied the words into her notebook in pencil, not daring to use pen and ink near the old page, and she wore white gloves to handle the delicate vellum.
For two days, she had not seen Aedan—but the work sustained her, fascinated her. She went painstakingly through the marginal notations, deciphering lines of tiny, nearly illegible script. She flipped endlessly through the pages of Sir Hugh's thick Gaelic dictionary, seeking the oldest Irish root of each word she transcribed. Where the correlations were not obvious, she relied on logic and intuition to discern the meaning.
Finally she had come to the end of the text. When her translation was done, she planned to repeat the work again to be sure her interpretation was as accurate as she could make it. Then she would send a copy to Uncle Walter for his opinion. Surely these ancient verses, never before translated, would stir his interest and improve his spirits, and in turn benefit his health.
Glancing around the quiet, lamplit library, she wished she could share her discovery with Aedan, too. For two days, while she worked in the library or watched Edgar supervise the clearing on Cairn Drishan, she had only glimpsed Aedan from afar, and had not seen him in the house.
He was spending long hours at the site of the alternate road, returning too late at night to share formal meals with the others, and leaving before the others arose for breakfast. Christina suspected he was avoiding Edgar, and wondered if he was avoiding her, too.
Longing to speak with him, she hesitated to seek him out. After the clash with Edgar, and after their exquisite, impulsive lovemaking several nights before that, she knew that emotions were hot and deep, and perhaps they were both afraid to address them. Her own feelings were too powerful, the pull she felt to Aedan passionate. The time for truth was nigh, and he had retreated. So had she.
But she had awoken last night with a fierce revelation, and she wanted to tell Aedan. Love, she realized—true love, soul deep and profound—could heal all wounds, break all spells. That sort of love would transcend any threat. She believed it, deep within. She wanted him to believe it, too.
She loved him. She truly did. But she had to leave it b
e, say nothing, wait for him to think about the same things. She would not try to coerce or convince. He had to realize it for himself.
Sighing, she rubbed her eyes and reviewed her penciled translation once more to be certain it was correct. Though composed thirteen hundred years earlier, the ancient words were fresh and immediate, touching her deeply.
Hope and despair filled every phrase, as did the author's passion for his lost beloved. Christina felt that her translation was right—and she was sure, now, that the poet was Aedan mac Brudei himself, the Druid prince of Dundrennan's legend.
She traced her fingertip along a verse she had copied:
In dark of night and light of moon,
I, Aedan mac Brudei of Dun Droigheann,
a prince of Dal Riata, write these words.
I summon thee, Liadan, Daughter of the Bear
To hear me through the mist.
Come to me, my heart.
Shivers cascaded through her, crown to foot, sensual, provocative, as she felt the power in the words. Reading the lines again, startled by a sudden thought, Christina knew what the poet had intended.
She removed her eyeglasses and studied the aging brownish ink closely. The ancient poet's passion seemed to resonate in each letter he had drawn. Her heart beat fast with excitement as she looked again at her penciled translation.
Liadan, hear me. Come to me, my heart.
"Oh, my God," Christina whispered. Her hands trembled. "It's a spell. A magical incantation."
Mouthing the words, she felt something magnificent behind their simplicity. And she could almost feel the magic ripple through her, a poignant stirring of her heart. Tears pricked her eyes.
Writing down a spell or a charm would have been forbidden to Druid initiates, she knew from her research and discussions with her uncle. Not only did they protect their secret rituals, but they believed that the written word had force enough to transfix magic in eternity.
Yet Prince Aedan had inscribed, in his own handwriting, a charm to call a lost and wandering soul back to the realm of the living. Loving Liadan, he had risked all for her.
