Chapter Fifteen #2
“So she thought. But she felt betrayed, and swore she would never wed again. Though recently she has allowed someone to court her, so she may change her mind.”
Aedan stared out the window. “Court her?”
“Edgar Neaves. He’s been helpful in her academic pursuits and is very attentive to her. He wanted to court her. I believe she agreed. I am not sure of that, but I know the fellow wants to marry her.”
“Does he now?” Aedan narrowed his eyes.
“But I wonder if it is wise. She can be too trusting, my sister. With Stephen, with Edgar. She married young and mourned grievously, and has little experience with men.”
Aedan felt John’s remark like a blow to the gut. His frown deepened as he watched Christina take her solitary walk around the gardens. All he had wanted was to protect her, cherish her. She was irresistible, and he had taken advantage of her. He was no better than the other two in his own way.
“She felt responsible for Stephen’s accident, you see, and has blamed herself. It was very hard for her because he lingered for so long.”
Aedan felt a cold chill. “He what?”
“He lay in an unconscious state for weeks before he died. She nursed him selflessly, but in some ways she has never been the same. She went from a fiery, vibrant, glorious girl to a sad wee thing.”
Aedan watched Christina go through the garden gate and head out over the meadow. “No wonder she refuses to pose. If you know this, why insist?”
“I believe posing again and enjoying it might help heal her.”
“Posing as the same princess with different circumstances.”
“I thought she might like—to pose with you in particular. Aside from the fact that you descend from the Dundrennan line.”
He caught his breath, but shrugged. “Why me, otherwise?”
“You are kind to her. She is happy here, I think. Not threatened. Safe.”
“Ah.” But if he loved her, he was a threat. Something tragic could visit her.
“She protects herself with books and intellect and one task after another. And she has devoted herself to Uncle Walter and his work. He took her in after Stephen died, when our own father was cold to her. But Uncle Walter is unwell, and Christina wants to prove that his work was worthwhile.”
“A serious wee lass, your sister.”
“Serious, but not simple, I only asked her to do this because I care about her. I want to see her happy again. But she must come out of her bookish tower first.”
“I understand.”
In the distance, Christina climbed a low hill. He felt a deep tug within, as if his heart were a tightly closed bud straining to open, petal by petal. He knew where she was going.
“John,” he said, “do you believe true love exists?”
“I think so. But we may not always recognize it as such, and we may fear its power. But I am a sentimental sort who thinks love heals us all. No one deserves it more than my sister, in my mind. Why do you ask?”
Aedan shook his head. “Excuse me,” he said, turning. “I should head out for the day. If I run into your sister, I will try to convince her about the mural.”
“Run into her? You would have to run her down to convince her,” John drawled.
*
As Christina approached Cairn Drishan, she saw Aedan standing beside his horse, waiting. She stepped to one side attempting to pass by him. “Excuse me,” she said.
“Why, Mrs. Blackburn,” he said pleasantly. “How nice to meet you here.”
“How did you get here so quickly?” she snapped.
“Pog and I used my road. A fine wee road.” He tied Pog’s reins to a bush and turned. “You took the route over the moor. Longer, and well suited to contemplation.”
“Contemplation! If John sent you here to plead with me, you can follow that fine road of yours away from me.” She moved past, but he reached out to catch her arm.
“Christina—”
“I will not pose for John’s sake or yours. He can ask Amy. His mural will still be wonderful. It is his talent and vision, not the model, that will make it so.”
“Listen to me.” He held her arm, and she made no effort to pull away. She wanted to be left in peace, but wanted this rare contact with him, even if they were only friends.
“Do not lecture me about how it would please my brother, or whatever you two decided on. I do not want to appear heartless when I refuse.”
“Christina,” he said. “I know all about Stephen’s painting.”
She looked away. “You do not know. No one truly does.” She jerked free from him and began to climb the hill.
“Listen, you wee fool,” he said, stepping easily in front of her, taking her shoulder, turning her around to stand on the earthen path with him.
She tried to shrug him away. “I have work to do.”
“So do I. This is important. Christina, John told me about Stephen and the scandal of the painting. You are not at fault in any of that, and should not feel—”
“It does not matter what I did or did not do,” she snapped. “You and I are just acquaintances. Friends.” She glanced away. “The more you know, the less you will care to know me at all.”
“Do not be ridiculous.”
She glanced up at him, wary, watchful. He touched her shoulder, slid his fingers down to encircle her slender arm.
“Christina, I knew there was a scandal. The artist’s death, the picture he painted of his wife, and so on.
The painting never shocked me. It is beautiful.
I am sorry for your tragedy, my dear. But none of it changes how I feel about you. ”
She looked up at him. “How do you feel about me eloping with a cousin, then posing for that painting, a picture all would see of me—of my body?”
“Art. Passion. Youth. Whatever your reasons, lass,” he said, “the result is breathtaking. Not just the painting.” He rubbed his thumb on her arm. “The model. The woman. You’ve grown, you learned. Now you know what you want.”
“Then you understand why I do not want to pose for the princess again. Let it be.”
“Your brother is right. You are perfect for this. It would not be the same experience at all. You would have John. And me. The first version of the princess is as a seductress. A siren.”
She gazed at him, remembering so many moments at once—her collapse on the stairs, his kindness, an exquisite kiss. And then later… She drew a breath. “And the later version of the princess? Who is she?” She tipped her head.
His thumb brushed circles on her arm, raising shivers. “The later princess is vividly beautiful, but she does not know it. Nor does she realize that she is the heart of this narrative. There is no other who can play the ancient girl.”
She ducked her head to avoid his eyes, blue as the summer sky above.
“When I saw that painting in your room,” she began, “so much came back to me. A lot of broken promises, fits of temper, days and nights that he painted and did not eat, only drank. It is all in that painting when I look at it.”
“My dear,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”
“He liked to paint at night, and would drag me out of a sound sleep to pose if he did not have a detail right. He would tear my clothing off to get me out of it—so impatient. He said he would buy new things to replace the torn bits. But we could never afford it.”
“Did he… harm you?” Aedan asked in a low rumble.
“No,” she answered, shaking her head. “He was fierce about his work, selfish with it, but not cruel. He loved me in his way, but saw only what he wanted, what he and his art needed. So, when John asked me to pose again,” she went on, “all of that came flooding back.” She blinked back tears.
“My wild, haunted artist. He could only be what he was.”
“You loved him, then.”
“I thought I did. I cared, I tried—but I learned I was wrong about love. And when he died…. he struggled so, just as he fought against every force in his life—genius, love, death.” She gasped and lowered her head.
“But you were always there for him. He was fortunate in that.” Aedan reached out and drew her close, wrapped his arms 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 attractive.
But a friend, his arms a kind support. Not the passion she still felt. They had agreed on that. She wanted so much more, but he did not want that. It hurt deeply, secretly.
“It was not love as much as pity and sympathy,” she said then. “I wanted to save him and foster his genius. I have lived with regret and shame ever since.”
“Christina,” he murmured. He tipped her head up. “Pose this time, and all will be well. You will help John. The mural will be something you both will be proud of. And I will be the prince. Aye?”
He brushed fingers over her hair, affectionate and quick, as if he was determined to remain friends, as suggested. His vivid blue eyes were intent, sparkling. “Remember you are perfectly safe in this, my lass.” He kissed her cheek, only that, yet her knees melted.
He stepped away, and with even that distance, her heart felt heavy, hollow. She wanted more than friendship. She wanted to be with him. Near him. But she did not want to pose for the princess again. Still, it would mean more time with him before she must return to her quiet existence in Edinburgh.
“I will consider it,” she said.
“I wish we could create a happy ending for the princess in the dining room mural.” He took Pog’s reins, prepared to leave.
“How? She died. It is part of her legend.”
“John could end his tableau at her wedding,” he said, and bounded up into the saddle to look down at her. “We all know what happened after that. Good day, Mrs. Blackburn.”
She lifted a hand to wave, aware that he wanted her to feel better. She loved him for trying. But there could be no happy ending for her, not if she loved this man. And she did.
*
Flowers were everywhere. Lavender stems filled a tall vase on the table beside her bed—to help her sleep, said her brother’s note—and at breakfast, marigolds and daisies glowed like sunshine on the breakfast tray.
Heather bells tied with ribbon brightened the stone wall when she arrived on the hill that morning, and when she returned in the afternoon, blowsy pink roses floated in a glass bowl in the little sitting room in her bedchamber.
Now, at dinner, a chain of daisies surrounded her dinner plate and a posy of wild roses lay on the table beside it. She looked at her brother across the table.
“Stop,” she said, half laughing. “You will give me hay fever.”
“Not just me, Chrissy,” he said. “The laird is partly responsible. I was not sure where to get so many flowers out here. I would have collected wild roses from the briar, but Sir Aedan said they are too spare this time of year, and we should do more.”
“Sir,” she said, glancing at Aedan. He only chuckled and sipped some wine.
“Will you do it?” John asked eagerly.
She half laughed, glancing at Aedan again. He lifted his brows in silence. They were just three for dinner that night, as the ladies of Balmossie were home nursing colds.
“I hope you’ll agree, madam,” Aedan said. “Your brother did a good deal of work gathering all those blooms.” As he spoke, John grinned sheepishly.
“And you helped,” she told Aedan.
“I get to pose as the prince, after all.” His lips twitched in a little smile.
Twirling the little posy of wild roses, she nodded. “Very well.” She sighed. “If you insist and it means so much to you.”
“The artist will have it no other way,” Aedan said. She sent him a little scowl and he raised a brow in silent answer.
“We can start after dinner,” John said. “Meet me in the long gallery in an hour or so.”
She caught Aedan’s steady gaze as he waited for her answer. A thrill of pleasure and anticipation slipped through her. “Tonight,” she said, and took a quick sip of wine.