Chapter Two
Gables and turrets rose above a ring of trees, a fairy-tale profile in honey stone. Looking out of the coach window, Christina felt as if she had entered an enchanted realm formed from the gossamer and wonder of dreams.
Fairy tales did not exist, she reminded herself, and the carriage traveled too fast for a dream coach.
She had scarcely had time to savor the view of the hills and moorland leading toward Dundrennan House.
In the glow of early evening, she could see the house from a changing angle now.
Wreathed by trees, its turrets and towers thrust upward like something out of legend.
The long, bouncy ride over Highland roads for a few hours had left her a bit unkempt.
She tucked back the strands of auburn hair that had slipped loose from their thick knot, and smoothed her rumpled skirt of dark-gray muslin.
Her steel-rimmed eyeglasses slid down her nose and she pushed them up again.
John sat beside her, leg stretched out for comfort. He had dozed some, but now sat up, adjusting his hat brim, sending her a quick smile. “Nearly there?”
She nodded. The vehicle careened around another steep curve and she gripped the inner-door loop, leaning with the sway.
Through the gathering twilight, she glimpsed heather-bright hills and sweeping moors.
Clamping a gloved hand to her black bonnet, its blue satin ribbons fluttering, she smiled at her brother.
Then the carriage passed through tall iron gates that stood open, and Christina saw the house’s front shining through the trees lining the curving lane.
In honey sandstone, slate roofs, and sleepy windows, the house blended medieval and Georgian styles seamlessly.
Rosebushes still ripe with pink blossoms crowded along the foundation, and flowering bushes flopped and curled between them to touch the lawn.
The dense greenwood surrounded the house and the gardens just visible behind the building.
Far in the distance, a church tower reached upward toward the purpling sky.
The rose hedges reminded her of a thick protective briar around a fairy-tale castle, like an impenetrable barrier that would yield only to magic.
Reminded of Stephen’s painting, she sat forward, heart quickening with dread.
*
“Oh, my, they’re here,” the housekeeper said as Aedan encountered her in an upstairs hallway. Mrs. Mary Gunn went to a window overlooking the entrance and drew aside the lace curtain to peer out. “The lady looks a bonny wee lass, and the gentleman helping her is a braw and fine man, I will say.”
“Bonny lass?” Aedan asked, looking over her shoulder. “I understood that the museum was sending an antiquarian, a lady, an elderly sort.” Glad to be spared Neaves’s company, he was mildly surprised that a man and a young woman had arrived.
“A young lassie, and she looks tired by the journey. Auld Tam drives like a madman. I wonder you sent him after your guests.” Mrs. Gunn’s wide blue eyes sparked with irritation, and beneath her old-fashioned lace cap, her plump cheeks flushed.
“Tam had errands in Edinburgh, so it made sense for him to fetch them.” He looked down over the graveled drive, watching as Tam Durie, the driver, lifted out a tapestry bag and a leather bag.
A gentleman in a bowler hat and brown coat came forward with the aid of a cane.
Beside him was the woman who had stepped out of the carriage.
In the dusky twilight, she was slim and graceful in gray and black. Tucking stray curls under her black bonnet, she glanced up at the house. She was far younger than Aedan expected. Her face was serene, lovely, with the glint of spectacles perched on her nose.
Pewter-gray skirts billowed, full and plain, devoid of the flounces and fussy bits favored by so many. Wind stirred her short black cape and shivered the ribbons of her bonnet over glossy auburn hair, a touch of bronzed color amid gray and black. She was a vision of simple grace.
Odd. He felt as if he had seen her before, but could not think where. Perhaps he had glimpsed her at some soiree or supper in Edinburgh or Glasgow. He and Edgard Neaves knew some people in common, but he would have remembered this bespectacled and rather beautiful young woman.
“A young lady, that is.” Mrs. Gunn watched with vivid interest. “Is that her husband?”
“Could be,” he murmured, as the young woman turned to take the gentleman’s arm.
“Gunnie, it’s getting late. Perhaps you could show the guests to their rooms. They can have a quiet supper there and a chance to rest. The morning will suffice for introductions.
I would stay, but I must ride out to the village tavern to meet with my crew and will be back rather late.
But I will come down and introduce myself. ”
“Very well, sir. Lady Balmossie and Miss Amy will ride over from Balmossie Castle in the morning, likely with that wicked Miss Thistle. The last time she was here, she hit me on the head with a sugar spoon!”
“Thistle can be dangerous at teatime,” Aedan agreed.
Mrs. Gunn huffed. “Let yer guests meet the dafties together and have done with it.”
Aedan nodded. “A good thought.”
“Mr. Stewart will be here too, with his new bride, but they’re nae so daftie as the rest.” Mary Gunn’s blue eyes twinkled.
Aedan’s widowed fourth cousin, she had served as housekeeper at Dundrennan for thirty years; he had known her since he had been a small lad in skirts in the years before his mother’s death.
He could not imagine Dundrennan without Gunnie.
“Well, then. I’ll greet them and ask one of the Jeanies to bring them some supper, how’s that? ” Mrs. Gunn said.
“Very good.” As Aedan watched, the young woman tilted her head to look up at the window where he stood with Gunnie behind a swath of lace curtain. “My God,” he said.
“What is it?”
He did not answer. He felt as if he had taken a blow to the midsection. That face, exquisite and familiar—he saw her almost daily. He even dreamed of her.
That was madness. She could hardly be the girl in the painting, much as she resembled her. “Mrs. B,” Neaves had written. An antiquarian.
Blackburn? Could it be? It was too much of a coincidence. Heart pounding, he quelled his astonishment. But as the girl peered upward, he felt a deep, sudden tug.
Dear God, he thought. The way the soft evening glow fell upon her face—he would know her anywhere, despite eyeglasses and the prim gray gown.
“Oh, my!” Mrs. Gunn said. “That lass looks…och, me, she looks like the one in that painting you have!” She clapped her hand on her broad bosom. “Is it so? Och, me!”
It could not be, surely, he thought. “She looks a bit like her, perhaps,” he allowed.
“A bit? Are ye blind, man? Look at her! What a kerfuffle! The ladies will be heart-roasted to have an artist’s model in this house, sir! Heart-roasted!”
Something swirled in him—hope, anticipation. But such a coincidence was unlikely. He had no idea who that model might have been. “Mrs. Gunn, do not be hasty. She is the antiquarian the museum sent. That is all she is about in coming here.”
“If she’s an artist’s model, I can tell ye what she’s aboot,” Mrs. Gunn muttered.
“Gunnie,” Aedan admonished. “Off you go. I will be down directly.”
Mrs. Gunn hastened down the staircase to greet the newcomers. Aedan waited a few thumping heartbeats and followed.
The newcomers stood in the foyer with Mrs. Gunn as Aedan came down the stairs, hand sliding along the polished walnut banister, his boots quiet on the carpeted steps.
She looked up. For a long moment, his eyes met hers. Light-blue eyes, a hint of gray or aqua, depending on the light. Seeing him, she tipped her head with a polite smile.
“Good evening, miss. And sir,” he told them. “I am Aedan MacBride of Dundrennan.”
“May I presume you are the lady sent by the museum? And your escort?” He smiled.
“Sir Aedan, how good to meet you. I am Mrs. Blackburn. Christina Blackburn,” she said. “This is my brother, John Blackburn. Sir Edgar Neaves sent us on behalf of the museum to examine a find on your property.”
“Indeed. The stone wall. Welcome.” He extended a hand, and as each one nodded, he took their hands, the gentleman’s firm and long, hers delicately shaped within the glove.
“I must apologize, for I must leave. I have a meeting planned this evening with members of the road crew who found the wall. Have you any questions that I can convey?”
“Not as yet, sir,” John Blackburn answered with a quick smile.
Aedan hardly heard, his gaze devoted to the man’s sister. Oh, aye, he thought. She was very like the girl in the painting. And the name was Blackburn after all.
She was startling, a revelation. He wondered then if Edgar Neaves had sent her here on purpose. The man wanted that painting. Was he so conniving to think the girl’s presence might convince Aedan to give up the artwork?
On the contrary, it gave him more reason to keep it. Treasure it.
He had to know more about her and the painting, the circumstances, anything she could tell him. But he could not pounce on her for the information. And he simply had to leave. Members of his work crew waited in the tavern even now.
“You have met Dundrennan’s housekeeper, Mrs. Gunn.
She will take very good care of you, and show you to your rooms where you can rest. Perhaps you would like a bit of supper?
Mrs. Gunn will see to that as well. I do beg your pardon, but I must go.
Tomorrow let us find time to discuss the stone wall, and you will have a chance to examine it. I trust there will be a report?”
“Sir Edgar is expecting it, aye.” Her gaze was as trained on his as his had been on her.
That silent exchange of glances was strangely compelling, familiar, welcome, and exciting, as if he had always known her.
He was certainly startled to see her, but he could not think why she would look so surprised to meet him.