Chapter Nine
Within moments, galloping alongside the bay, Aedan reached out to grab the horse’s bridle, pulling steadily as he rode in tandem, guiding both horses with all of his strength.
They slowed and stopped, and as the gig clattered to a halt, one of its two wheels struck a rock, lurching wildly.
Christina Blackburn nearly flew out of her seat, but grabbed the iron side bar and sprawled on the bench.
Aedan settled the bay horse, its breath heaving, and shifted Pog to face the driver. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
She sat upright, skirts flounced and mussed, showing the flare of red-and-white petticoats above slim ankles and calves over sturdy boots. She shoved down her sober gray skirts and sat up, righting her hat and tugging at her jacket.
“Not—hurt,” she said breathlessly, patting her hat.
How on earth she had managed to keep that hat in place, he could not imagine.
But he was concerned, for her cheeks were deathly pale, her spectacles were awry, auburn curls danced over her shoulder, and her hands trembled as she righted hat, spectacles, curls, and skirts.
Then she faced him, folding her hands. “Not hurt,” she repeated. “Thank you for your help.”
“Of course. Have you been taking driving lessons from Tam Durie?” he drawled.
Silent, she glared at him from under the brim of her hat.
For a moment he wanted to laugh, for she was adorable and he was so damn relieved that she had not been hurt—or killed.
And he wanted to shout at her for scaring the wits out of him.
Crossing his hands calmly on the saddle pommel, he gave her a tense smile.
“It got away from you,” he surmised.
“It did. Your quick action saved me. Thank you.”
He nodded. “I believe I have saved you three times in twenty-four hours—monkey, stairs, now the gig. In primitive cultures, that means your soul is mine.”
She tugged on her gloves. “Thankfully, this is not a primitive culture.”
“It is the Highlands, the land of savage Gaels. And I am fully Gael by blood, though I am civilized—”
“Somewhat,” she said tersely.
“I could ask for your soul in return for your life.” His heart still hammered with fear and concern, not for the valuable Clyde-bred horse and the London-made gig, but for the harm that could have come to the girl had he not reached her in time.
She brushed at her skirts. “There is no need to be sour with me, sir.”
“Then I will be direct. Why in the name of all the devil’s henchmen did you drive my gig like that?” He raised his voice, then drew a breath to gather his composure. “What is the emergency? Is your brother hurt? Should we hurry?”
“He is fine. I apologize. I am not used to driving Highland roads, and I lost control. Something frightened him. Her.”
“If you handle a cart like that in Edinburgh, I am warned to be wary the next time I cross the High Street on one of your shopping days.”
“Stop,” she snapped, startling him. “You have cause to be upset, but you need not be harsh. The horse bolted. And I am grateful. Please accept my gratitude in lieu of my soul.”
He drew his brows together, mollified and impressed at how calmly and firmly she cut through his response. “I beg your pardon. I was…alarmed.”
“Then just say so directly.”
“I was worried for your safety. I was—frightened,” he admitted.
She watched him from under that hat. “So was I. Thank you.”
He nodded curtly. “Was it the machine that frightened her?”
She looked past him. “Aye, that thing there made such a noise. What is it?”
“The beast? A steam engine. Surely you have seen them.”
“I have, but never with a scoop on it.”
“It is a shovel. We need to finish this section, and the beast expedites the digging.”
“Digging! Sir Aedan, I came here to ask a favor.” She folded her gloved hands in her lap and looked at him as primly as if they were at tea, not both recovering breath and tremble and temper.
He waited expectantly, admired the tilt of her fine-boned oval face, her wide eyes, framed in dark-auburn curls. She was alluring. Distracting. He tipped a brow. “Aye?”
“The site on Cairn Drishan merits closer investigation.”
He sighed. “I cannot say I am surprised.”
“I believe it is part of an ancient structure. It could prove to be a magnificent find. So it must be excavated.”
“What does that entail? Apart from stopping my roadwork.”
“Careful digging must be done to clear the area.”
“Your raced here to borrow a shovel from me?”
“Several shovels, and men to use them. And I did not mean to race.”
He scowled. “My men have a great deal of work to do here.”
“I need them for only a few days. The turf layer must be cleared away carefully so I can better examine the walls.”
“A few days of digging would hardly make a dent up there.”
“Longer, then. But I need a crew of men to do the labor. Or I could do the digging myself, which would take a long time.”
He raised a brow. “Do not tempt me, Mrs. Blackburn.”
“I cannot make a complete report until I have some idea what is buried in that hill.”
“More rock, and lots of it,” he said. “Digging up there would exhaust my crew men unnecessarily and use days of good weather needed for roadwork. That pile of stone up there was created by the hand of man, I agree, but drystone walls are common in the Highlands, and it could still be a black house. They are so called from the dark color of the interior from the smoke of peat fires.”
“I know all about black houses. I lived in one.”
“You what?” He blinked at her.
“I lived in one. My mother was a Highlander, and when I was younger, she went north to teach English to Gaelic children, and took my sister and me. My father went to Italy to paint and teach, and took my brother. We rented a crofter’s house.
My mother had grown up in a similar house before her father inherited some property and their situation changed.
So I know a black house when I see one. And that, sir, is not one. ”
“Then what is it?”
“It may be a Pictish house of great antiquity.”
“Any Pictish structure is of great antiquity,” he pointed out. “Can you support this outside of fervent academic hope?”
She glowered at him, then reached down to the floor of the gig to lift a dark chunk rock the size of her fist. For a moment he thought she might lob it at him. “I brought this. Somehow it did not fall out of the gig.”
“A rock,” he said.
“It is vitrified. The result of burning timbers inside a stone structure, creating a fire so intense that the very stone melts and forms a vitreous, glassy surface. Sometimes it is from an accidental fire—or it might have been burned purposely to increase the hardness of the walls and make it impervious.”
“Let me see.” He reached for the rock, turning it to examine the dark-greenish glaze. “You may be right, Mrs. Blackburn. This has a glassy surface. Odd.”
“I saw many stones with just one face like that, as if the interior of the wall was burned. Wherever I scraped away some of the earth, I found vitrification on one side of the stones.”
“A black house could have burned. It does not prove an ancient structure.”
“But it is curious. We need time to dig. This rock is suggestive evidence. Even you must admit it.”
He sighed, exasperated, but reluctantly seeing the truth. “Very well, then. You may have some of the crew for a few days. I assume the museum will pay extra wages?”
“I will recommend it to Sir Edgar. Could they start tomorrow morning?”
“You are not shy about your requirements. Give me a few days. But if you want the behemoth, I must refuse.”
“I do not—” She stopped. “Oh. You are joking.”
He smiled, then turned to see Hector coming toward them. “Ah! here is my foreman. Hector MacDonald, this is Mrs. Blackburn.”
“Och, I saw ye coming o’er the road like a fireball, Missus! Are ye well and fine then?”
“Well and fine, sir, thank you. And thanks to Sir Aedan.”
“He has a quick hand in danger, he does. So ye’ve seen the gawpin’ hole in the hill?”
“I have, Mr. MacDonald.”
“There’s king’s gold on Cairn Drishan somewhere.” He grinned. “Arthur’s gold, they do say. My father believed it. So did his,” he added, pointing to Aedan.
“Interesting! Perhaps you could to help us find it.” She smiled.
Watching Hector’s beaming face, Aedan knew his foreman was lost. “Hector, the lady would like a crew to do some digging under her supervision. Choose three men to start work on Cairn Drishan in a few days.”
“Aye, sir. Missus.” Hector tipped his hat and walked back toward the crew.
“Thank you, sir.” Christina’s smile flashed and was gone. Quick, hot, certain lust clenched inside him. Aedan frowned, wary of how easily he was falling under her spell.
“Aye, well,” he said. “Where is your brother? Disinclined to ride with you, is he?”
“John is making some sketches of the site.” She gathered the reins.
“When you leave, Mrs. Blackburn, try to drive like a snail. I would sleep more peacefully at night knowing I would not have to chase my gig and horse again.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Or claim my soul?”
“Or that.”
“Then look forward to sleeping well.” She turned gig and horse at a slow pace that was almost saucy.
Aedan smiled to himself. “Oh, lady,” he murmured. “If only you were there beside me when I sleep.” But he shook his head to dispel the image that stirred.
Aside from her resemblance to the girl in the painting, Christina Blackburn continued to intrigue him.
Prim and scholarly, sensual and lovely, her wit and spirit made her even more seductive.
She stirred much in him that was private, including a strong urge to be protective.
The girl had no small talent for calamity.
But he needed to be cautious. The laird of Dundrennan could not let his heart be captured. He turned Pog to guide her back down the road toward his crew.
*
“Halloo, Effie MacDonald!” Aedan called as he approached the croft house. In the afternoon light, the whitewashed walls and heather-thatched roof were bright against the hillside. “Halloo, the house!”