Chapter Five
Christina gasped in awe as she followed Lady Strathlin into the library.
Walls wrapped in bookcases were crammed with the leather-and-gilt luster of thousands of books.
Rainy light streamed silver through tall windows, gleaming over polished tables and leather-covered chairs.
An ironwork spiral stair led to a gallery walk that skimmed the upper walls, where more bookshelves filled the space between the ceiling and the walkway.
“What a beautiful room,” Christina breathed. Despite its size, the library was cozy, warmed by wood, leather, bright carpets, leaded windows, and the enticing dusky vanilla smell of a wealth of books. A marble fireplace crackled with the heat of a fragrant peat fire.
“It is rather wonderful,” Lady Strathlin agreed. “Sir Aedan’s father designed it.”
Entranced, Christina went toward the fireplace to gaze at the painting above the mantel, a scene of Mary, Queen of Scots with her courtiers.
Christina’s father had painted it and her mother had modeled for the queen.
Her wealth of auburn hair was smoothed under a gabled headdress and her elegant, lovely face was perfect for the tragic, beloved queen.
Christina felt a sense of comfort to see her late mother’s serene smile again.
“The library was once the great hall of Dundrennan’s original medieval keep,” Lady Strathlin said. “Sir Hugh renovated it into a library. His study is through that alcove.” She pointed to an open door, where Christina saw a mahogany desk, chairs, and more shelves.
“How many books are in the collection?” she asked.
“Over eight thousand.” Aedan MacBride stepped through the study door, his thick hair somewhat mussed, looking like he had combed his fingers through it, as if he worried over something. Behind him she saw that the desk was scattered with papers and maps.
“Aedan!” Lady Strathlin said, turning as he came toward them.
“You finished your correspondence quickly,” Christina said, then caught her breath, realizing she had spoken to him naturally, almost intimately.
He smiled. “Almost. I heard you come in. The library was one of my father’s great passions, along with his poetry and Dundrennan House itself.”
“Beautiful place. Have you seen Dougal?” Lady Strathlin asked.
“I am here, love.” Another man came through from the study. His tall, powerful build and brown-gilt hair complemented Aedan MacBride’s lean, dark Celtic grace. He came forward to kiss Lady Strathlin’s tilted cheek and turned to take Christina’s hand.
“Mrs. Blackburn? How nice to meet you. I am Dougal Stewart, Lady Strathlin’s husband.” His hand was warm and gentle, his smile kind.
Christina liked him instantly. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Stewart. I am Christina Blackburn, sent here by the National Museum.”
“So I understand. We look forward to your opinion of the stones.”
“Mr. Stewart is also an engineer,” Aedan explained. “Lighthouses are his specialty. You might have heard of the Caran Lighthouse out in the Western Isles.”
“I have! It was completed recently, I understand, and was an admirable feat, working against the power of the sea.”
“That was a challenge, I admit—but it brought me a bride.” Dougal grinned. “My real fame is as the husband of the remarkable Lady Strathlin—and of course as Amy’s brother and Aedan’s cousin.”
“Ah,” Christina said. “I did not realize you were all related.”
“More or less.” Aedan MacBride huffed in amusement. “Lady Meg, I hope you’ve come to claim your husband. He is driving me mad with facts about the ratio of wave force to solid mass. Though I do enjoy his tales of nature’s temper.”
“Otherwise, Aedan just wants to talk about dirt roads,” Dougal Stewart chuckled.
His wife smiled. “I will take him off your hands if you will show Mrs. Blackburn the library and whatever books you mentioned.”
“Beware, lest he harangue you with tales of drystone walls,” Stewart drawled.
Christina laughed. It was lovely to be included in their camaraderie.
“We will leave you to your books,” Lady Strathlin said, as her husband took her hand tenderly in his. She glanced up at him, her fair skin suffused in a pretty flush.
The warm glow of their love and respect for each other was tangible, Christina thought, giving a tiny sigh. Her chance for an intimate, joyful relationship had been gambled and lost with Stephen. She may as well devote herself to books and matters of antiquity.
Glancing at Aedan MacBride then, she saw his slight, introspective frown, and wondered if he felt the same. She remembered Amy’s remark that the lairds of Dundrennan could not marry for love. Perhaps he also felt a twinge of envy to see the ease and happiness shared by his cousin and his bride.
For a moment, she sensed that longing, as if MacBride were like a lost boy standing out in the cold, peering inside at a cozy family scene. His frown masked something poignant, she was sure of it, and she understood. She felt distanced and yet drawn too.
“Mrs. Blackburn, I would be happy to show you the library collection,” Aedan said then. “The rain is enough of a downpour to prevent our examination of dry stones and roads,” he drawled. Dougal Stewart laughed.
Smiling, Lady Strathlin took her husband’s arm. “Come with me, Dougal. I want to introduce you to Mrs. Blackburn’s brother. He’s an artist! And I have been thinking about having portraits made,” she said as they left the library together.
Aedan turned to Christina. “What interests you most here, madam? History, art, literature, antique manuscripts? We have those and more here.”
You interest me most, she thought suddenly, meeting his gaze, so blue and guarded. He was polite, patient, and seemed amused. Yet she sensed something deeper hidden within. She wanted to know what it was, though she had no right to desire it, she thought.
“All of it interests me. I’ve read your father’s poetry, so it is wonderful to see his collection. Sometimes my uncle and Sir Hugh corresponded to discuss matters of history.”
“My father spoke highly of him. Come this way.”
She strolled with him around the library while he pointed out sections devoted to different subjects. As they walked along, pausing to look at a section of books, she smiled as she touched some of the spines.
“Scott, Shakespeare, Milton, Dante, Tennyson, Burns, Hogg, Carlyle, Chambers… they are all here! Books can be like old friends.”
“Sometimes. My dominie made me read them, though I was not a willing scholar. I built bridges and towers with books more often than I read them.”
“My brothers were like that. My sister and I were more devoted readers.”
“Then you will be in heaven here. My father organized his books in categories. This bay, for example, holds classic literature and poetry. That one there houses folklore and mythology, and another bay has a range of sciences. There are many volumes up on the gallery level, too. You may want to call a groom, or myself when I am at home, to fetch books from the higher shelves.”
“I’m not afraid to climb ladders or walk the gallery.”
“Not nervous about heights, then?”
“Not particularly.”
“Good.” She heard a grudging approval in his voice. “You will need that to climb Cairn Drishan. It’s moderately high and can be a rough walk.”
“I am eager to see it. May we go soon?”
“When the weather improves. It could be tomorrow or longer, depending on the rain and the level of mud on the hill. I wonder how long you planned to stay?”
“Sir Edgar thought a day or two would do. He is an efficient soul, and having to lose up a day or two to rain and mud would rather throw him, I think.”
“But you and your brother are willing to stay longer?”
“As long as we need to—if you will have us,” she said.
“Of course.” He kept her gaze for a long moment, and she felt herself blush. She turned to pull a volume from the shelf. “How marvelous to grow up here, even if you did use books for building blocks.”
“I did. But I am not a complete boor.” His mouth twitched in a smile. “We were raised on bards and poets instead of Mother Goose. We recited Sir Walter Scott and Robert Burns in our cradles, and sang ballads about Border thieves before we could walk. And we learned some of Father’s poems by heart.”
She heard his teasing tone, but sensed truth. “Do you write poetry too, Sir Aedan?”
“Not a whit. I lack an artist’s soul. Our dominie despaired of me in the schoolroom when it came to writing prose and poetry. My father once said I was made of numbers, earth, and steel. He meant it as a compliment. I did not take it that way at the time. But now I see his point.”
“Numbers, earth, and steel.” She studied him. “I see it. I also see—a bit of the poet.”
“Not a whit of it.” A flicker of amusement went through his eyes, his lips.
“Would a man of numbers appreciate a painting as deeply as you do?”
“He might. He does.” Tilting his head, he regarded her. “I must beg your pardon, Mrs. Blackburn. For more than one thing, I vow,” he added in a murmur. “But I do not usually go on about myself. I apologize.”
“You did not go on! And I enjoyed learning about you—about your thoughts.”
“Then you must share something of yourself.”
“We shall see,” she murmured with a half smile, and heard his chuckle as he pulled a book out to look at it, surely to escape the moment, as she had done.
Standing close to him, she felt keenly aware that they were alone in the snug alcove formed by bookshelves. The flexible bell of her skirts brushed his legs, enveloped him, as if he breached her perimeter and she allowed it.