Chapter One
Scotland, the Highlands
Startled awake, Sir Aedan Arthur MacBride, laird and baron of Dundrennan, bolted upright in his leather chair. Grasping at the dream, he tried to recapture it as it faded.
That damned painting, he thought, glancing up at the framed artwork hung above the fireplace in his small study.
The girl in the picture had worked her way into his dreams again—a maiden, a prince, a briarwood laced into a dream where he walked and worried and tried to help her.
He had been settled comfortably in the small study off his bedroom, reviewing account ledgers, when sleep overtook him.
Shoving back a lock of thick dark hair, he tried to dispel a haunted feeling.
Glancing at his pocket watch, he swore under his breath. Nearly teatime. The ladies of Balmossie would be put out if he did not attend. Their temperamental little companion, Miss Thistle, would also fuss, and that would not do at all.
Well, he thought, rising from his chair. Some unpleasant matters must be addressed with the ladies, issues Aedan had postponed long enough. The preparations for the royal visit in October had added challenges, and the time had come for some grim truths.
He must inform his charming but impractical kinswomen that the estate’s finances could not fully support their eagerness to ready his house to receive royalty. He wanted Dundrennan House restored to its former magnificence, true, but within a budget.
After his father’s death a year ago, Aedan had taken on Sir Hugh MacBride’s plans to improve Dundrennan House.
His father had the funds, the desire, and the imagination to do so.
A newspaper journal had once described the famous poet as “the Queen’s own Highland bard,” and the name had stuck.
His father had earned fame and a fair fortune writing epic poems lauded for power and artistry.
Aedan found them interesting, if overblown and dripping with sentiment, but he kept his opinion to himself.
Though he agreed some portions of the property could use improvement, a decorative overhaul was neither affordable nor necessary.
Over the years, his father had devoted his energy and cash to restoring and modernizing the family seat, a long-term project.
Lately Aedan had discovered that Sir Hugh’s fortune had diminished over time, although the will specified that the work must be completed if Aedan inherited the property.
Although he had used his own funds toward the renovation, soon it would prove difficult to repay the debts and also foot the bill for changes.
If things continued in that way, he could lose the house and the estate too.
He straightened his black brocade vest, snugged the dark-brown silk neckcloth around his white collar, then slid into his black wool coat, settling the lapels.
He brushed at a few mud stains on his clothing, knowing that his Aunt Lillias—Lady Balmossie—and his cousin, Amy Stewart, fretted when he looked less than immaculate.
But dust and mud spatters were a hazard in his work as a civil engineer and builder of highways and byways in Scotland. He preferred to wear a shabby tweed coat and trousers or kilt while out supervising roadways. He never minded a bit of mud here and there, for it meant work well done.
He sighed, rubbed his face, hair. He felt oddly displaced somehow. A remnant of the emotional residue of the strange dream. Some undefined yearning spun in his gut, lost and unfulfilled. Rest, comfort, affection. Love.
Love. He huffed, low and bitter. Love was a waste of time for the lairds of Dundrennan, so a longstanding family legend claimed. Love could even be dangerous for them, tradition insisted. True love should be avoided at all cost by Dundrennan’s heirs.
He had fallen in love a few years ago, when he was not the direct heir. Then his elder brother, the heir, had died, and the inheritance shifted to Aedan. Soon after, his fiancée had died unexpectedly. Once again, tragedy proved the legend’s power.
Now, as laird and baron of Dundrennan, the family curse lay squarely upon his shoulders. Even his name pegged him subject to the tale that began long ago with the original Aedan mac Brudei of Dundrennan and his love, known as the Briar Princess.
True love had not done that ancient fellow any good, he thought sourly. The original Aedan had lost his princess, setting off a legend and curse that ran through generations.
This Aedan MacBride had stumbled into the path of the curse, and he had no intention of testing it again. Love had gone poorly for him; lesson learned.
A scrap of the dream floated past: a lovely young woman lay ill and asleep while he sat with her. He felt desperate with the loss of hope, ready to do anything to save her. And the girl had been the young woman in the painting that invaded his dreams now and then.
He glanced toward the framed oil painting, then away. What nonsense. He had much on his mind and too little sleep—that was all. He ought to have the painting moved to an attic, but he would miss seeing her every day.
Enough. He closed the ledger with its frustrating numbers. Nothing would improve those figures, and it was time to put his foot down with the charming ladies of Balmossie.
He must also tell them that a museum representative would arrive soon to examine something his road crew uncovered recently.
The discovery on Cairn Drishan, a hill at the edge of Dundrennan’s policies where Aedan and his crew were working, might be ancient.
It would need to be examined by an authority before roadwork could resume.
An explosion of black powder through rock had revealed stones in the hillside that had been placed deliberately, looking like a ragged old wall.
Aedan and his crew had been working on a portion of a parliamentary highway meant to cut through the Dundrennan estate.
Aedan hoped the stones would prove to be some forgotten croft.
But a deeper sense told him the structure was much older.
According to a provision in his father’s will, if such was found on Dundrennan and proved important, Aedan could lose part or all of the estate to the National Museum.
Be that as it may, the new law of treasure trove declared that any such discovery must be evaluated by a museum representative and academics before anything else was done. Frustrated at the delay to his project, Aedan had to comply.
The letter he had received that morning from Sir Edgar Neaves of the National Museum had promised the arrival of an antiquarian, a Mrs. B., to examine the stone wall.
Good, Aedan thought. Any old fusspot would do over that sour fellow.
He never wanted to see Edgar Neaves again.
Last year, the man’s covetous interest in the Dundrennan collection of art and valuable objects was beyond annoying.
He had even wanted to acquire the painting—the one Aedan would never give up.
He went to the fireplace to stare up at the painting hung above the mantel.
A young woman reclined on pillows, surrounded by a dense briar of wild pink roses.
She was a classic beauty, her graceful form peaceful in contrast to the unsettling cushion of the rose briar.
Her skin was creamy, her long, rippling hair a cascade of dark auburn, and her long-lidded eyes were a seductive blue-gray.
A pale gauzy chemise swathed and enhanced her body’s lush curves; the blushed fullness of her breasts, taut abdomen, and thighs were just visible through the fabric.
Loose brushwork, rich color, and linear detail depicted the exquisite subject in a gorgeous play of shadow and light. She seemed to glow.
A narrow brass plaque on the frame read The Enchanted Briar Maiden by Stephen Blackburn, 1850.
The artwork had been a sound investment, its value already increased.
Any work by an artist of the prolific and talented Blackburn family was desirable.
Dundrennan’s modest art collection contained other Blackburn paintings, but this was the best of them.
Aedan and his father had first seen it at an exhibit of the Royal Scottish Academy in Edinburgh, and Sir Hugh had purchased it on the spot.
He was enchanted to think that the “briar maiden” in the painting could even represent Dundrennan’s legend of the princess in the briar, had the artist known about it.
Aedan saw more than investment. He saw magic. The woman fascinated and haunted him. He had moved the painting to his private study in a wish to protect her from prying eyes. He saw her as gorgeous, vulnerable, unforgettable, and strangely his.
Her uncommon beauty reminded him of the Dundrennan curse that now lay on his shoulders. Unsure of the story of the local Briar Princess, he knew she had died tragically. If only someone had rescued her, the lairds of Dundrennan would have been free of trouble.
He was even dreaming of her now. That had to stop. He was too practical for whimsy. Perhaps he would have the thing moved out of sight after all.
Hands in his pockets, he stared. Tranquil, sensual, the painting had a darker thread, for beneath the blowsy roses, luscious model, and joyous bursts of color lay the subtle traces of a mesh of thorns. He felt unease, fascination, and a strange desire to know her.
A force swept through him then. A trace of longing on the shore of his soul or a remnant of the dream he had not yet shaken. He stepped back.
Scowling—it was an oil painting, for God’s sake—he left the room. His kinswomen, bless their wickedly impish souls, would be upset if he was late for tea again.
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