Chapter Sixteen #2
She nodded mutely. Love at first sight—that had glimmered for her when she had first met Aedan in Dundrennan’s foyer, though she did not recognize it.
Later, when he had discovered her on the hidden stairs, she had looked into his eyes and felt the glimmer blow into full light.
Something stirred deep between them, and yet she did not know it for what it was.
Now she realized she felt the inexorable, dynamic pull of two souls seeking, drawn together, compelled. She had loved Aedan MacBride from the instant she had seen him, and she tumbled deeper with every encounter.
She thought, or hoped, he felt it too. But he refused to acknowledge it. Given his reasons, she should do the same. But she could not do that now. She sighed, sad and low.
“Tired?” Aedan murmured.
“Not tired,” she whispered. “Something else.”
“Hush. That’s perfect,” John murmured.
Stillness and silence spun out, filled with the scritch-scratch of chalk on paper, the warmth of hands, the mingling of breaths.
*
“Damn it,” Aedan swore low, sifting through the maps and documents scattered on the library table. He looked at his assistant engineer. “There has to be another solution, Rob. Let me see the Ordinance Survey for that part of the moor.”
Rob Campbell, hair gleaming gold in the sunlight pouring through a nearby window, slid the map across the table, folded to highlight the sector in question.
“We’ve both been over these maps countless times,” he said.
“We can either take the road over and across Cairn Drishan, or take it around the base of the hill—”
“And straight through Effie MacDonald’s kailyard, and other croft yards,” Aedan finished.
“I do not want to do that.” He peered at the specific corner on the survey map.
“Effie would agree, and the others might too, out of obligation. I have sworn not to oust our tenants—or in this case, impinge upon their kailyards and kitchen gardens to send coaches tearing past their houses. If the very queen demanded it, I would have to refuse.”
“The better option is through Effie’s property. Going around the other side of Cairn Drishan would take us through a good deal of rock.”
“And require considerable blasting, I know.”
“But the museum has banned using black powder for now,” Rob added.
“I am aware.” Aedan glanced toward a far corner of the library, where Christina Blackburn sat curled in a leather chair, reading in the daylight through a window, her back turned to them.
He sighed and picked up another map to compare it to the first. Taking up a pencil, he sketched the profile of the hill to draw yet another angle of Cairn Drishan.
“What if we make cuts here and here,” he said, adding arrows, “blasting in small amounts for a minimum of rubble and debris? The route would be longer and steeper than the one we originally designed, though it might have to do.”
“We could vary the gradient with slight adjustments as we go up the hillside and down again,” Rob said. “The larger blasts would be on the other side of hill, a good distance from the site of the old stone wall.”
Aedan nodded. “If we start immediately, we could finish the route in time for the queen to make her jaunt from Glasgow to Balmoral, with a stop here.”
“It’s possible.” As Rob studied the drawings and gathered up the papers, Aedan took a moment to watch Christina. He wondered if she had heard what they had said, and if she would plot on behalf of the museum—and those muddy old stones—to delay the work.
Lately he had spent more time working in the library rather than his smaller study. He preferred the larger table and brighter natural light for going over maps. He liked it even better when Christina was also working in there.
He had quickly developed a habit of looking for her when he entered the library, feeling a small thrill when he saw her and a tug of disappointment when he did not.
He rather liked hearing the scratch of her pen on paper as she wrote reports or letters, even if she wrote to Neaves that MacBride’s work must cease.
He liked glancing up to see her tucked in a chair or sitting at a table with the folio open before her.
The room seemed warmer and brighter when she was in it, regardless of weather or time of day. Sometimes he caught the faint fragrance of her favorite lavender mingled with the old vanilla-and-leather scent of books, or heard her light step, the shush of her skirts.
But he liked it best when she put down pen or book to glide toward him and inquire about his day, or his work.
She showed genuine interest in the maps and his precise engineer’s drawings.
And he would ask about her progress with the stones, with her research, or what she thought of a book she was reading.
He did not care about the content of the book; he just wanted to hear her thoughts and her adorable, slightly husky voice. He asked so he could study her beautiful face, a fascinating blend of innocence and allure.
Once the library, indeed much of the house, had been dominated by his father’s vigor and energy.
Now Christina’s presence had made subtle changes in the way Aedan saw the place.
He had begun to associate rooms, corners, spaces with her.
He knew Sir Hugh’s lingering spirit would not mind; the old poet would have liked her love of books, history, and legend—and of course her love of Hugh’s work.
“What do you think? About the hill, sir,” Rob added, with a glance for Christina.
Aedan blinked. “We should alter plans and change the route as soon as possible.”
“Aye. We can send a crew along that way to begin grubbing the other side of the hill to remove shrubbery, roots, rocks, and so forth. And hopefully nothing ancient.”
“Hopefully. Send the behemoth that way to shovel a new path.”
“Right.” Rob tucked some of the papers into a leather case. “I will ask Angus to survey the other side of the hill again with this in mind.”
“Do that. I need to work out new charts before I come out again.”
Sitting back, Aedan chewed his pencil’s blunt end thoughtfully while he watched Christina, curled with her back to him in Hugh’s favorite old chair, with Hugh’s terrier asleep at her feet.
He admired the rich, dark fire in her auburn hair as sunlight touched the crown of her head.
Several moments passed before he roused himself to focus on his work.