Chapter Nineteen #2
“Darkling swan,” she said quickly. “How did you know? I just translated those words yesterday from a marginal note on the page.”
“For Liadan?” he asked. She nodded. He tapped the table beside the parchment. “I had heard her name in family stories, but this may be certain proof.”
“It may appear again. There are additional lines in the margin of another page. I mean to work on those as well.”
He smiled. “Father would have loved this. And he would have loved you,” he added.
She blushed again, but seeing Aedan’s fond smile stirred feelings that only made her face grow even warmer. To distract herself, she traced a gloved fingertip along the margin of the parchment page.
“So interesting that it is in a form of Gaelic that is fairly readable, once the letters are deciphered,” she said.
“We do not know the language the Picts used, as they recorded so little in writing. But by the sixth century, if that is indeed the era here, Irish Gaelic was in widely use in the north and Scottish Gaelic was developing. What I have managed to decipher so far is lovely. I even wonder if the words were written by your ancestor named Aedan.”
“The prince? Why so?”
“His name is on the roster of warriors, and I found it again on one of these pages. See.” She pointed to the inked words in the margin. “It reads Aedan mac Brudei a Dun Droigheann, which means ‘the place of the briars.’ He must be Liadan’s husband, the woman who legend says died in a rose briar.”
“So they say. Interesting. He might have written these marginal notes? Fascinating.” He used the magnifying glass to look at the ancient scribblings again.
“I cannot read a word of it, but this is a brilliant discovery, madam.” He leaned against the table and regarded her.
“Sir Edgar will be delighted. Have you written to tell him?”
“Not yet. He—he would drop everything and rush here if he knew.”
“Seems he will do that anyway, given the old stones on the hill. This might validate the Dundrennan legend as actual history. Interesting,” he added pensively.
“It’s all coming together in curious ways, isn’t it? John is painting the legend on the walls, and we found the house and souterrain on Cairn Drishan. And now this.”
“It is odd. Could the hillside find be connected to the legend, though?”
“It could be. The age of the stone house and the folio pages is close. And the lines here have the pattern of very old charms or prayers in ancient Highland tradition.”
He peered at her penciled notes. “What do the old lines say so far?”
“If I am correct, this says…” She traced a finger along the border of the page. “‘Liadan, my dark swan, thy promise was as the sun,’” she read. “‘Thy kiss bright as the moonbeam. I will follow thee and bring thee back.’”
“My God,” Aedan said in a hushed tone.
“There is more, if my translation is correct.” She gave him her notebook, open to the page where she had copied the lines. “Read it for yourself.”
“‘Smooth thou, soft thou; well I love thee under the plaid,’” he read. The quiet richness of his voice sent shivers down her spine. “‘Thou art splendid; thou shalt be wanton.’” He looked up, and his glance met hers, keen as fire.
“I think the translation is close. Uncle Walter will know for sure.”
“Wanton,” he said, shaking his head as if bemused.
As his fingers traced the notebook page, Christina remembered the feel of his strong and loving touch on her body. Wanton, indeed, she thought. She burned for him now, wished suddenly that he would take her into his arms.
He simply turned a page and read on silently. “Beautiful,” he said then. “And here I thought Celtic poetry was all heroics and battles.”
“Much of it is. A few love poems exist, similar to these.”
“He wrote this for her,” Aedan murmured.
She met his glance, swift and startled, and suddenly knew what he said was true.
A magnificent pull, stronger than before, drew her so that she leaned toward him.
She wanted to throw herself into his arms, be bold and wild in welcoming his hands, his lips.
She wanted to sink into his arms and be his beloved forever. It took her over. She gasped.
“Aedan,” she began. “Oh, Aedan.”
“Mm?” He looked up with a faint smile, then glanced at the clock on the mantel.
“Good Lord, it’s late. I must bring these maps to Hector and Rob.
” He stood. “Thank you, Christina. This is fascinating. So important. But I wonder—what the implications are for Dundrennan, once the museum discovers this.” He shrugged. “But I must go now.”
If he felt even half what she felt, he gave no sign.
Perhaps he simply did not share the depth of her feelings.
Yet she knew now that the laird of Dundrennan was cautious about such feelings.
But he was man, in the end, and if he had lost part of his tight control with her down in the souterrain, he would surely gain it and keep it in daylight.
Cheeks burning, she stood to gather her notebook and other things. He waited, but made no move toward her. She had been the wanton little fool with him, impulsive again, though she had prided herself on mastering her eager, passionate heart these past years.
Stepping away, flustered and breathless, she nodded. “I promised I would join the ladies for tea.” She bound the silk packet with ribbon as she spoke.
“Leave the pages,” Aedan said. “I will put them back.”
“Thank you. But you must go too.” She added the packet to the box.
“Mrs. Blackburn, I—”
She glanced at him, hopeful. He began to speak, hesitated, then stopped at the sound of the door. Christina jumped, startled to see Amy Stewart enter the library, the wide flounces of her blue gown gracefully floating over the carpet.
“There you are, Aedan! Rob Campbell is here, asking about some maps.”
Aedan cleared his throat. “I have them. I will be there directly.”
Amy approached. “Good afternoon, Christina,” she said pleasantly.
“Amy. I was just coming to tea. And Sir Aedan was just leaving.”
“I am glad I managed to catch him. I will come to tea shortly,” Amy said.
Christina all but fled the room, all too aware of Aedan’s glance following her.