Chapter Twelve
Walking through soft moonlit beams, Christina saw the monument at the far end of the path and headed toward it.
Slender, roofless arches rose upward to create a magical silhouette, and thick, flowering hedges of sweet briar grew to either side of the path.
The blossoms, spare now, gave off an apple-like fragrance.
Rosa eglanteria, the true wild rose, grew in abundance at Dundrennan, she had noticed. Its dense, lovely briars, so fitting to this place and its legend, surrounded the medieval monument, and also cushioned the foundation of the house.
She had an odd sense that she was not alone, and turned, expecting to see Aedan. But the path was empty. Hearing again a faint rustle of movement, she paused. Nothing.
Had Aedan been serious about wildcats? They did roam parts of the Highlands. She looked around nervously, wishing she had accepted his escort after all. Picking up her pace, she walked toward the soaring Gothic ruin.
Emerging from a wild, magical tangle of sweet briar, ivy, and moss, the ruined arches of the Remembrance rose into the night sky.
The pillars and broken arches had once been part of an arcade forming a simple cloister, perhaps attached to a small chapel long ago. At the center lay an open grassy area.
Christina passed beneath the most intact of the arches and entered the grassy atrium. At one end stood a rectangular block like the plinth of a tomb. The monument was silent, mysterious, a place of moonlit stones and inky shadows.
A chill went through her, and she felt again as if she were not alone, felt as if someone, or something, watched her—or watched over her. The feeling was not threatening or fearful, but distinctly there all the same, peaceful and almost magical. She turned slowly to take in its beauty.
A carved frieze ran above the slender stone arches and columns, cut with words that were broken up, and difficult to decipher in the darkness. She went closer, tipping her head back to examine it.
“‘She sleeps,’” she read aloud, softly. “‘Nor dreams, but … dwells …perfect rest…”’
“‘She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells, a perfect form in perfect rest,’” Aedan’s murmur shivered like warm silk. She whirled.
He leaned against a column, arms folded. He was elegant and lonely somehow, like a sculpture isolated forever in moonlight.
“You came,” she said.
He inclined his head. “I want to make sure the wolves and wildcats keep away.”
“How kind.” She looked up at the words carved in the frieze. “Is that a line from Tennyson?”
“It is. When Lord Tennyson heard that Father wanted to restore the Remembrance, he suggested those lines from a poem he was working on. A sleeping-beauty tale.”
“Lord Tennyson knew about this place?”
“He did. He was a friend of Sir Hugh.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he stayed by the entrance.
“Some think this place should be a pilgrimage spot for our legendary princess, and because Father was a bit of a legend himself. The Glasgow City Commissioners and the directors of the National Museum—including your Sir Edgar—have asked me to open this to the public. It has great cultural value, they think.”
She knew Sir Edgar valued something about Dundrennan. Perhaps this was it. “But you do not want to share it?”
“And see it overrun with tourists hauling travel rugs and looking for picnic spots? I mean to keep it private.”
“Then I am privileged to be here with the laird himself.” She smiled a little.
“Indeed, for the laird should be asleep at this hour,” he drawled. “In the morning, he must dig earth and move stone, and beware of fetching little antiquaries.”
Laughing softly at that, Christina went toward the pale granite plinth.
It stood breast high, plain and weather pocked, lacking a recumbent sculpted figure that it might have carried once.
The broken remnant of a stone pillow lay at one end.
She smoothed her fingers over the stone, feeling the grit of age and exposure.
“Is the princess here?” she asked quietly.
“Actually, no one knows where she lies. It’s an empty memorial.”
Spying words carved around the plinth, she bent. “‘What thou see’st when thou dost wake … for thy true-love take.’ Shakespeare, from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“Exactly.” In the darkness, his voice was rich as cream.
Feeling a touch on her shoulder, a comforting caress, she straightened and turned.
But Aedan was not there, as she thought. He still stood at the entrance several feet away. Startled, she gasped and stepped back. Overhead, clouds shifted, and cool moonlight bathed plinth and pillow again.
In that fleeting instant, a form shimmered on the stone—the delicate figure of a girl in a long gown, lying still and lovely on the stone. She was a translucent moonlit glow, for the hard curve of the pillow showed through her shoulders. Then she vanished.
Christina blinked. The stone was flat and empty.
With a soft cry, she whirled and ran toward the entrance, toward Aedan and safety, nearly colliding with him. He took her by the shoulders.
“What is it? I was only joking about the wildcat. What’s wrong?” he added, the amusement leaving his voice. His grip tightened.
She shook her head. “Nothing! May we go now, please?”
“You’re trembling. Cold? Give me your hands.” He chafed warmth into her bare fingers. The direct, heated contact was both comfort and distraction.
Holding her hands in his, he frowned. “What frightened you? This place is eerie. I should not have let you come out here at night.”
“You did not let me. I came. And I am not faint of heart. But I saw—” She shook her head, tried to laugh. “I imagined a girl was lying there. A trick of the moonlight, but it startled me.”
“Do you want to sit down?”
She shook her head. “I am fine. But I am ready to go back to the house.”
“Bonny Mrs. Blackburn, strong and stubborn, despite her calamities.” He smiled. His warm, steady hands covered hers. She was not inclined to pull away from that comfort.
“I am not generally given to fancy,” she defended. But she was glad he stood close, strong and reassuring. The bell of her skirt enveloped his legs as she leaned toward him.
“I am sure of that, madam.” He bowed his head toward her, as if he might kiss her.
Heart pounding, she felt trembly with anticipation.
They were alone in the moonlight, with ghosts and mist and each other.
Propriety seemed a dim and unnecessary concept, easily ignored.
She stared at him, at his lips, noticing their whimsical upper curve, a hint of impishness in such a serious man.
“I think I saw her,” she said then. “The princess.”
“Some do, or think they do. Rarely, but there have been tales over the years.”
“If she is not buried here, why would she haunt this place?”
“Who knows? Tell me what you saw.”
“She looked peaceful. So delicate and beautiful, lying there.”
He nodded. “Others have said the same. But you could not have known that.”
She shook her head. “I knew nothing of it.”
“May I ask—is the Sight in your family line?”
“Not that I am aware. Perhaps my Highland granny. But it was just the moonlight in this romantic, picturesque spot. And I am not about to swoon over it.”
“Pity. Then I could catch you.”
Her heart bounded at his intimate tone. “Perhaps you could catch your wee ghost.”
“I would, but I have never gone inside.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“The lairds of Dundrennan never set foot inside the Remembrance. My brother and I were not allowed here as boys. I am brave enough to stand here, but I have never gone inside.”
“I think you are brave enough for anything,” she said.
“Not this.” He glanced through the arches toward the grass and the plinth. “They say that if a laird of Dundrennan sets foot in the Remembrance, he risks falling in love.”
She tipped her head, wondering. “Is that so bad?”
“It could be disastrous.”
“Amy only said you dislike it, but did not say why.”
“We keep it to ourselves, but I will tell you.” He dropped her hands, took a breath, turning to face the grassy moonlit area. “The Remembrance was built in the twelfth century. One of the lairds of Dundrennan commissioned it as a memorial to his lost wife.”
“For the princess?”
“Another lost Dundrennan bride.”
She waited. His closeness in the dark, even without his touch on her hands, made her knees fairly wobble.
She reached out for balance, took his forearm, fine wool and hard muscle under her fingertips.
He rotated his arm to catch her hand in his palm.
Reminded of a Celtic knot, she glanced up at the decorative knotted carving overhead.
“They say,” he went on, “that any laird of Dundrennan takes a risk if he marries for love. It is dangerous. We marry for companionship and progeny.”
“That seems so cold. How could love be dangerous?”
“Not to the laird, but to his love. Whenever a laird of our line defies the curse and makes a match for love, the wife suffers. She takes ill, and often dies.”
“How awful!” She pressed his arm. He pressed hers in response. “It cannot be true.”
He shrugged. “If you were laird here, would you take the chance?”
“Surely some do, or your line would cease to exist.”
“Love is not necessary for procreation, Mrs. Blackburn. We wed, but we do not fall in love.” He looked at her for a moment. “Not exactly the stuff of fairy tales, is it.”
“It is—so sad.” She studied his moonlit face. Somehow knowing more about this made him easier to understand. “Surely some of your line married successfully for love.”
“My father adored my mother, and they wed for the sake of real, passionate love, defying the tradition.”
“So the curse does not always come to bear.”
“They were married ten years, a long time in Dundrennan terms. Mother died. The curse won. Tragedy will out.”
“Just the wife suffers?” She frowned. “It is—misogynistic.”