Chapter Ten #2
“Miss Burn” was accurate, Aedan thought. She blushed like a living ember, searing heat just below the surface of her perfect translucent skin. Yet she displayed an elegant composure.
“Is that the call to dinner?” she asked, turning, as the butler opened the door.
“Rob, if you will escort the Misses Stewart,” Aedan said, “and if Mr. Blackburn will escort Lady Balmossie, I will take Mrs. Blackburn in.” The men nodded and walked away.
He extended his arm and she accepted, her gloved hand light on his forearm, her silken skirt rustling against his thigh. Just that, and desire struck through him like lightning.
Her vanilla scent, the sway of night-colored silk, the hint of skin through delicate lace, brought back the memory of passionate stolen kisses. The girl in the painting was but pale cardboard compared to this vivid creature.
He reminded himself that Christina Blackburn was poised to destroy his road, his career, perhaps his hold on his home and estate. He must remain aloof. But that was proving a challenge.
In the dining room, crystal and silverware gleamed under candlelight flame, its light dancing over the muted colors of the unfinished mural.
“Oh dear,” she said. “It is lovely, but—is that a scene of the briar princess?”
Aedan leaned down. “I believe so. But do not fret, madam. No one will see the other painting.”
She glanced up. “Can you promise that?” she whispered.
“I alone will see it,” he said, and drew out a chair for her.
The pink heat of her cheeks stained down her throat and beneath the delicate lace of her bodice. His entire body seemed to clench as he went to his seat at the head of the table.
*
Tasting little of the dessert of raspberry tartlet and lemon ice or the excellent fare of lamb cutlets, roasted potatoes, and vegetables that had preceded it, Christina set down her spoon.
She had no appetite, and her thoughts so distracting that she could scarcely pay attention to the dinner conversation around her.
Throughout the meal, she sat next to Aedan MacBride, who presided at one end, but she said little.
After his murmured reminder about the painting, she had felt too aware that he saw her en deshabille each time he saw that painting.
She had been wild then, passionate, beautiful, happy, and terribly unwise. Now she was terribly embarrassed.
To his credit, he had been discreet about the painting, and all through dinner, had been solicitous toward her despite her near silence.
She saw no lascivious glimmer in his eyes and no residue of his displeasure earlier that day.
He was polite, considerate, even gentle.
Touching her wine goblet to her lips, she glanced at him again.
The hefty high-backed Jacobean chair suited his solid presence.
He wore Highland dress that evening, a pleated kilt of red tartan of the Dundrennan MacBrides, as well as a black coat and vest, and a white shirt.
All evening she could not help but notice what a beautiful man he was, strong, taut, powerful, that strength somehow complimented by the red kilt and elegant coat.
She felt drawn to the savage appeal of raw masculine beauty, enhanced by the rugged elegance of Highland dress.
Once again, she felt an undeniable pull.
Feeling the heat of another blush, she tried to forget the kisses they had shared. Sipping wine, she smiled at the chattering company around her, nodded as if listening, and made an effort to quell some very unladylike thoughts.
“You are quiet this evening, Mrs. Blackburn.”
She nearly jumped, then met Aedan MacBride’s direct, steel-blue gaze in the candlelight. He toyed with his half-eaten dessert, she saw, his silver spoon resting in long, sun-browned fingers.
“I am a bit fatigued,” she admitted.
“No doubt, considering your adventurous day.”
She flashed him a sour look, but saw only an amused twinkle in his eyes. “It was a rather interesting day,” she allowed.
“Please do not feel you must stay if you would rather retire.”
She shook her head, though she longed to escape. Her head felt stuffed with cotton wool. Too much wine, too little sleep, too many thoughts.
“It is very good work,” John was saying in reply to someone. Seated opposite Christina, he turned to look at the mural. Beside him, Amy Stewart swiveled to look too.
Others murmured agreement, and Christina glanced at the painting again.
In shadows and candlelight, she saw some painted areas and some sketched in.
The scene was of a few figures on a whitewashed background, but she was sure that one of them reclined.
Surely it was another reference to Dundrennan’s legend of an ancient princess.
“Sir Aedan, do you know the ground?” John asked.
“Ground?” Aedan looked puzzled.
“The support for the mural,” Christina murmured.
“Ah. I believe the wall was coated in plaster and whitewash. I remember that he insisted that it be dry thoroughly before he worked on it.”
“Good,” John said. “Wall murals done in buon fresco—when paint is applied to damp plaster—do not do well in the damp British climate, unlike hot, dry Italy, where the fresco technique was highly developed. I know an artist who did a fresco mural at Windsor that was a disaster due to the climate. He had to alter it to fresco secco, painting on dry plaster.”
“Sensible, since our weather can be damp in any season,” Aedan said. “What chance is there of completing it within a few weeks, Mr. Blackburn, if I may ask?”
“I cannot guarantee it, sir. Is there a need to have it done so quickly?”
“The verra queen is coming soon,” Lady Balmossie commented from her position at the other end of the table.
“Reason indeed,” John said. “I will do my best.”
“Mr. Blackburn, please do not rush if haste will cause problems,” Amy said.
“My cousin makes a good point,” Aedan said.
“I will be careful, Miss Stewart,” John said. “Sir Aedan, do you know what you’d like done on these walls?”
“The murals in this room were my father’s dream,” Aedan said.
“A codicil to his will dictates his plans for each part of the house. Aside from fabric choices and so on, which I leave to Amy’s capable eye,” he said, nodding toward his cousin, “the work must be completed soon if we wish to keep the house in the family.”
“Oh my!” Christina looked at him in surprise.
He lifted a brow in silent acknowledgment. “But it can be accomplished. The will’s codicil is precisely detailed, and much of the work was being done under his supervision until he passed. I will see the rest of it done.”
“The mural is one of the last projects,” Amy added. “Uncle Hugh chose the subject himself. I think we can trust Mr. Blackburn to do something marvelous with it.”
“I hope I am up to the task. What is the theme?” John asked.
“Dundrennan’s legend,” MacBride said. “The tale of the princess in the briar.”
She had recognized the subject in the shadowy, sketchy mural. Yet Christina felt a chill at his words, and met his glance. Aedan returned a steady, almost intimate gaze for a moment. She looked away.
“Mr. Blackburn will want to make the mural his own, regardless of what is there now,” Lady Balmossie said.
“Thankfully my sister is here to help with that,” John said, as Christina startled. “She is an expert in Scottish lore and history, and helps me add authentic detail in my work.”
“Indeed, your painting of Bruce’s coronation shows that,” Rob said. “And Mrs. Blackburn modeled for the heroine in that work. Perhaps you could model for the princess in this mural, madam,” he added to her.
“What a wonderful idea!” Lady Balmossie exclaimed.
Stunned, Christina blinked in silence, and saw Aedan MacBride frown.
“Perhaps so.” John smiled. “Christina?”
Stabbing her spoon into melted lemon ice, she tasted it quickly to avoid answering.