Chapter Five #2
Propriety said she should step back, but she felt at ease with him, and found his animal grace, the silent power he exuded, attractive and exhilarating.
Last night, the unusual situation had thrown them together rather intimately.
He had helped her when she was hurt—and later, when he had ventured a kiss, she had allowed it—to be honest with herself, she had wanted it.
No man had touched her since Stephen, before his brief illness.
Sir Edgar had tried to kiss her once, but it was quick, dry, and forgettable.
She doubted he was capable of the passion Aedan MacBride had stirred in her in a quick, blazing kiss that he had apologized for, and without need, for she had wanted it too. Craved it of him.
Her knees went weak as she remembered it. She grabbed the edge of a shelf.
“Mrs. Blackburn?”
Summoning herself, she smiled. “You were going to show me my uncle’s books.”
“Of course.” He beckoned, and she followed. Dear Lord, she thought, she might follow him anywhere, which was just madness. He stopped in a dim, cozy alcove, a bastion of tall shelves around a red leather chair and small table.
“This was my father’s favorite reading corner, where he kept the books he especially treasured. Reverend Carriston’s volumes are in pride of place, just here.”
As he opened the brass mesh doors of one of the cases, she gasped in delight to see the familiar spines of her uncle’s multivolume work on Celtic history.
She moved closer, and his arm brushed hers.
Inhaling the scent of spicy soap, she heard the quiet rhythm of his breathing beside her, and for a moment, she could hardly focus on the books.
“All the volumes of Celtic Scotland,” she said, touching the dark-blue leather spines stamped in gold. “It is like seeing old friends.”
“I suppose it must be. If you need them for reference when you assess the old stones on the hill, please feel free to use them, as well as anything we have here.”
“It is an excellent collection of histories,” she said, scanning the spines adjacent to her uncle’s books. “Hume, Chambers, Carlyle—I am familiar with those too. Uncle Walter would be honored to know his books are shelved with these as favorites.”
MacBride took out the first of her uncle’s books and flipped it open to show her a signed page. She traced her fingers over her uncle’s signature, and her finger brushed MacBride’s thumb. A soft internal spark went through her. She withdrew her hand.
“‘To Sir Hugh, fellow admirer of the ancient Celts, from his friend, Rev. Walter Carriston,’” she read.
“Your uncle was a good friend to my father. Please tell him how much we appreciate it, when you see him next.”
“I will, thank you. He is growing older, and I know it will mean much to him.” She scanned some of the nearby volumes. “He translated some medieval documents for Sir Hugh. They came out of the MacBride family papers. Are they here?”
He shelved the book. “The Dundrennan Folio? It is locked away, but you may use it if you wish. I will fetch it if you need it.” He glanced down at her.
“Of course.”
“Sir Hugh kept his own books here, I see,” she said, reaching up to touch the spines on another shelf. “The queen’s own Highland bard.”
“You know his poetry?”
“Aye, wonderful epics, full of romance and adventure.”
“He would have liked you very much, Mrs. Blackburn,” he said with a low chuckle. “Do you have a favorite?”
“More than one! Children of the Mist and The Warrior are exciting adventures, and The Wanderer has a mythical sort of power. But The Enchanted Briar is my favorite, I think.” Finding it, she touched the book’s red leather spine. “I have read it several times.”
“Because of the painting?”
She blushed. “Because it is a superb study of how tragedy shapes character, and how a good man can be driven to desperate measures by love and grief.”
“Spoken like a scholar. Now tell me why Christina Blackburn likes it.” He leaned a shoulder against a bookcase, expectant.
“Truly? Because each time I read it, I weep,” she confessed.
“Oh, aye, he would have loved you,” he murmured. “He wanted his poetry to stir the heart, rend it, heal it again, so he once said. It is a beautiful tragedy, I must admit.”
“I loved it. A Druid prince meets the daughter of a king, and it is love at first sight. But her father wants her to marry a rival. When she refuses, he imprisons her in a tower. Soon the prince climbs secretly to her bower, and wants her rescue her, take her away. But she dares not disobey her father.” She shook her head.
“It is heartbreaking when she gives birth to their son with just her old nurse in the tower. That news infuriates her father, and he summons another Druid to cast a spell over her, imprisoning her forever.” She sighed.
“A spell to sleep forever,” he murmured, watching her. “Like the old tale of the Sleeping Beauty. Briar Rose, some call it.”
“And yet it happened, so Sir Hugh wrote in his preface. Happened in your family.”
“So they say,” he murmured. “I have my doubts. Legends are often exaggerations.”
“I believe it was true.”
“You are a romantic.”
“And a historian, and yet I trust the source. Your father, and something in the documents, so my uncle said.”
“Did he,” MacBride murmured. “I have not read those papers.”
“She was lost to him, yet just within reach. It makes me weep just to think about it.” She half laughed to hide the feeling that spun through her even then.
“Why so?” he asked gently. “It is just a legend.”
“They had such a pure love, beyond anything most ever know. And they lost each other.” Tears pricked her eyes. “True love exists.”
“Do you genuinely think so?” He raised a skeptical brow as he gazed down at her. Those blue eyes and that long, lean, powerful form were distracting. Her heart thumped.
“I do think so,” she said, lifting her chin. “Love is essential, sir. It is the miracle that continues human life, not just generations, but—but the heart. The soul.”
“Perhaps.” The words were dry.
“Surely you have felt—or do you only—feel attraction, without emotion?” It was a bold statement, and she looked at him with near defiance. “Last night—” But she stopped, for the very thought roused wickedly sensual feelings. Not love. Attraction. She was guilty of it herself, and glanced away.
“Ah, I must apologize again. I sincerely regret any affront or harm to you.”
She shrugged. “It was—there were—unusual circumstances.”
“And it will not happen again.”
“Of course,” she said quickly, looking away.
“Since we are talking about this legend, Mrs. Blackburn,” he said.
“And since my cousin brought it up earlier—as a rule, the lairds of Dundrennan do not risk love. Certainly we feel affection and, aye, attraction, for the fairer species. The line would have died out otherwise.” He smiled, yet his blue gaze went dark with a smoldering quality.
“But we do not pine for what is called true love. We do not indulge.”
“Indulge! Sir, real love is extraordinary and irresistible. It is thunder and lightning. A hurricane,” she said, gesturing. “The blaze of the sun and the shine of the moon. A force of nature, powerful and inexplicable. It cannot be stopped or denied. It is not an indulgence, like…like chocolate!”
“For a bookish wee thing, you have a passionate soul. A bit of the poet in you, I think.” His eyes sparkled, almost teasing, but not malicious. Almost affectionate, for his dark-blue eyes softened. All the while, she felt her cheeks go fiery.
“I believe in love at first sight.”
“And no doubt, a whole rasher of other nonsense.” But his smile was soft.
Christina raised her chin. “I see you refuse to be convinced.”
“Are you trying to convince me, Mrs. Blackburn?”
“I would not bother. I know a brick wall when I see one.”
He laughed easily. “I will tread carefully the next time you are in a mood to exercise your brainpan, madam. I cannot keep up with such a passionate soul as yours.”
“Laugh, sir. But true love, and love at first sight, do happen. I wish—” She stopped.
“That you could find it?” he finished gently.
She shrugged. “Well, I think Mr. Stewart and Lady Strathlin have found it.” Her face felt heated with the intensity of her conviction and her desire, a yearning for the same.
His smile sobered. “I admire them. But such a state is dangerous for a laird of Dundrennan.”
“Dangerous! What an odd thing to say.”
“Not if you know our family history.” He looked at her for a long moment, so that she felt more heat rise in her face. “Your name should be Miss Burn, I think. You blush like fire, do you know?”
She put a hand to her warm cheek. “Oh!”
“Take it as a compliment. It is lovely, I must say.” His voice was graveled but gentle. “You may be a cool scholar on the outside, Miss Burn. But you have fire in your spirit.”
“Oh,” she said again, not sure how to answer. Should she return the compliment and tell him he was indeed steel and earth and she liked it far too much?
He straightened away from where he had relaxed against the bookcase. “I hear others entering the library. Likely Cousin Amy showing your brother around. Shall we join them?”
*
“Amy has expensive taste, I will give her that,” Aedan said.
Dougal chuckled as he walked beside Aedan. “My sister is determined to drag Dundrennan into a more modern era. Tartan everywhere. And if she has her way, you will soon by paying for newfangled ovens and every gadget you can imagine.”
Aedan huffed as they walked along a garden path, crushed stones damp underfoot but rainy skies above clearing nicely.
“I gave her approval to freshen some of the older features. But I told her I like old, threadbare rugs over acres of tartan wool carpeting. At the least, it may save a few shillings.”
“At the least, did you make it clear you are not looking for a bride? She is interested, you know.”
“I know. But the answer is easy. We are cousins. Friends.”
“And you have no interest in marriage.”