Chapter Fourteen #2
Rain pattered the library windows, a peaceful susurration, as Christina sat in a niche beneath the upper gallery. At a table across the room, John and Amy looked at a book of ancient history together, talking softly while John sketched ideas for costumes.
Reading one of her uncle’s books, Christina paused to glance at John. She had the sense that something was forming between him and Amy, something kind and affectionate and full of possibility. She smiled privately when she saw him smile, knowing he had been lonely for years.
So had she. Remembering slow, tender kisses with Aedan MacBride, she craved that shamelessly.
And yet she knew, and must accept, that it was likely impossible.
Though he felt a physical attraction, he would not let himself open up to love—even, as he had once said, with her.
Intelligent though he was, for some reason he had chosen to believe that he would only endanger whoever he loved.
Perhaps she was only infatuated, she told herself. Then it would be easier if he did not love her. Then she could care about him as a friend. But she wanted more. Long lonely years and stifled passions within now wanted release and satisfaction. Wanted love.
For a little time, years back, she had experienced that with Stephen—when he was charming, when he was not sodden drunk or exhausted from a painting frenzy.
Bed play had been good, thrilling, until she learned what a cad he could be, before he destroyed his health with the inner illness that drove him so hard.
Aedan had a reserved side, cautious, deep, and private. But he was not driven to the edge of madness. Beyond that protective layer, he was tender, kind, with a core of integrity that had already put the safety of others, of a wife, before his own needs.
Thinking of him, she felt a yearning tighten in her body in secret ways. Her cheeks flamed with heat. Stop, she told herself. Impossible, improbable dreams of love and happiness served no purpose now. What she felt with Aedan could not grow.
Soon she would have to leave and return to Edinburgh, the museum work, and Edgar, if she chose that dull compromise. Sighing, she turned another page in the book, and another, until her curiosity was caught again.
She did not hear footsteps until Aedan stood in front of her.
“Sir Aedan.” She closed the book. “Good afternoon.”
“Mrs. Blackburn.” He inclined his head. A smile tweaked his lips, was suppressed. He wore a neat black suit, a tall and devastatingly handsome man, pleasant and smiling and yet aloof.
“If you plan to work here, the library is a busy room today.” Her heart fluttered.
“It seems to be the place for rendezvous today,” he drawled as Amy’s trill of laughter floated across the room.
“John asked Amy to pose for a figure in his mural. She is very pleased.”
“I see that.” Rocking back on his heels, hands behind his back, he cleared his throat. “We’ve had a good bit of rain this week, and the moorland is awash with mud. The hill is a mire, too. I sent the men home for the day. No work can be done for the time being.”
“I thought so, and did not venture out to the hill. Did you want to discuss the weather, or the digging, perhaps?”
He shook his head and looked oddly awkward suddenly. “No. I have been remiss, Mrs. Blackburn.”
“Remiss?” They had both stolen kisses, returned them, stolen them again.
“I should have shown you the Dundrennan Folio by now.”
“Oh, I had nearly forgotten you mentioned that. I would love to see it.”
“Come with me.” He held out a hand, but dropped it as she stood.
She followed him into the adjacent study. He closed the door partially, then went to a tall mahogany cabinet. Inserting a key, he opened the narrow glass doors, removed two hefty boxes covered in black linen and tied with red ribbon. He brought them to his desk.
“The Dundrennan Folio is a collection of family documents and writings, stored in these two volumes,” he explained, loosening one set of ribbons. “The pages range from a few loose early parchments to some of my father’s papers, outside his poetry.”
“Uncle Walter spoke of these boxes. He came to Dundrennan years ago to translate some medieval pages for Sir Hugh. I was always curious to see the originals.”
“Reverend Carriston probably saw the old poems kept here.” The velvet-lined sides of the box flattened out to reveal packets wrapped in brown paper and pale silk.
“Sir Edgar came to Dundrennan another time, hoping to acquire these.”
He shot her a grim look. “I will never sell the family papers.” He opened a silk packet. “I believe these are the pages your uncle translated.”
“Oh, they’re beautiful,” she gasped as she saw the loose vellum sheets. By the calligraphy and the ink color, she could see they were very old.
“I thought you might like them.” She looked at his quiet smile. “Two of the pages are attributed to a writer that scholars call the Dundrennan Poet.”
He edged out a parchment page that was tattered at its edges, the parchment foxed with pale-brown stains. Neat text rows filled the page and crowded into the margins. The light-brown ink letters had the distinctive round, controlled elegance of old Celtic script.
“I have heard of the Dundrennan Poet. He wrote verses about battles and also wrote about some historical Celtic heroes as well as mythic,” she said. “I have seen Uncle Walter’s translations. But it is fascinating to see the original pages.”
“There are two—here, and part of the third. Not much remains from that time period. I believe he wrote in the sixth century.”
“Two or three pages only makes them more valuable.” She dared not touch the pages, wishing she had the cotton gloves she used in the museum for handling precious things.
In addition to the beautifully consistent lettering, the page contained larger initials that divided sections, intricately illuminated in dark and colored inks.
Swirling tails and finials transformed into vines and animal heads in a style that was delicate and yet sure.
“Family tradition says the poet was one of the first lairds of Dundrennan. The estate is that old. My ancestors have been here going back ages. So I will never give these up.”
“Of course you must not.” She peered closer, examining a line of phrases.
“The language looks like Old Irish. My uncle feels that Scots Gaelic had not yet developed at that date. I see Latin phrases mixed in too, which indicates a Christian education. Thank you for showing me these. They must be so special to your family.”
“And to you. Take your time examining them.”
She nodded, leaning closer to look at the contents of the box. Her shoulder brushed his arm as he opened another packet, spreading the silk so she could see some of the loose pages. A few pages were covered in columns of tiny words, cramped but neat.
“This is an ancient register of households, I think,” he said.
“My uncle worked with this document too. It is like a muster roll, listing warriors able to fight for some Pictish king or another. Look here.” She traced her finger down the page without touching the vellum. “Isn’t this your ancestor? Aedan mac Brudei.”
“I heard he was mentioned here, but I had not seen it. That Aedan was a bit of a mystery. A warrior who settled in the area of Dundrennan with his people. They became Clan MacBride. Aedan is a family name.”
“So you said. If this is a sixth-century document also, then he may have been of the Dal Riata tribe that settled in this region of Scotland. We know too little about the early Scots, but many came from Ireland and settled here.”
“What are those notations in the margin? Some clerk’s afterthought?”
“Uncle Walter mentioned the roster had marginalia that he could not decipher. He thought the lines might have been added by a later hand.” Christina shrugged.
“Marginal notes often occur in old manuscripts. Writing surfaces were scarce, so pages already in books were used for notes if necessary. A book owner might jot something down in an old book—for example, how many cows went to market that month, or how many cheeses were produced that season.”
“Perhaps the margin has a list of Pictish cheeses.”
She laughed. “It could be! I’d love to study it more closely.”
“Whenever you like.”
At his glance, she blushed, looking away to protect her fervent feelings that were so strong today, especially near him. “This is such a treasure,” she said. “Thank you.”
“No need. If the rain continues, you can translate treasures instead of going about digging them up.” He rewrapped the pages, and she tied the ribbons. Aedan replaced the cases in the cabinet and locked the narrow doors. Then he held out the little key.
She stood beside him in the wedge of space behind the door. “Oh, I cannot.”
“Nonsense. Take the key.” He pressed the bit of iron into her palm, let go.
“Thank you.” Her gaze held his, skimmed away. “The folio is extraordinary. No wonder Sir Edgar wants it for the museum.”
“Huh,” he grunted. “He wants more than the folios. He offered a blanket sum for the collection. Father refused. Since then, so have I.”
“Edgar is impressed with the entire Dundrennan collection. If you ever want to part with some of it, I am sure he would give you a good price.”
“I do not mind sharing some of these things one day with a good collection. But I will not give them to Edgar.”
“He is a superb scholar, and a museum director.”
“He is a sly snake.”
“I do not understand.” She slanted her head, contemplating him.
“Let me be honest. He attempted to wheedle away things my father treasured.”
“He told me he negotiated and was refused.”
“Manipulated. Cajoled. Pestered. His offers were insultingly low. Father was unwell, yet Neaves would not leave the man be. He pestered me to convince Father. I began to avoid him, for there were times when I wanted to throttle him. I believe he endangered Father’s health with his damnable persistence.
It may have led to that last fatal attack. ”
“That is very harsh. Edgar can be cool and businesslike, and at times he can be … insensitive. He simply is a man of high intellect with sometimes poor manners. At heart he is decent enough.”
“Even so, I would not sell him a jar of jam. If it were up to me, he would never set foot here again. But now we have the government looking at that damned hill as treasure trove, and in their bailiwick.”
“True, they would be part of the decision. But you are wrong about Edgar.”
“Am I? Or are you the one mistaken about him?” He frowned. “Are you on such close terms that you would defend him?”
The heat grew fierce in her cheeks. She did not want to say that Edgar had a keen personal interest in her. She wanted to forget that, particularly now. She shrugged. “I have known him for years. Our fathers were friends.”
“I see,” he murmured, watching her for a moment. “Miss Burn, when you blush,” he went on, “your feelings are on display.”
“I hope not all of them. Sir Aedan,” she said, choosing formality when she did not want it, “I will need to return to Edinburgh soon. That was always the plan.”
“I know,” he said, folding his arms, leaning against the wall. The wedged space behind the door lent a sense of privacy and intimacy. “Do you want to go?”
“I cannot yet. There is much to be done yet. I confess I am confused about what—what I should do.”
“Confused about what happened between us?” he asked softly. “I am equally confused, my lass. We should be more … cautious.”
Her heart broke just then, but he was right. “Best we do not let it develop.”
“I suppose. But it is extraordinary to be confused over you. Christina,” he said low. “I behaved improperly, and should not have let it continue.”
“That was not your doing. I also—”
He held up a hand. “Hear me. What I did was improper. There is no excuse.”
“We responded to natural urges. Such things happen.”
“And such things can end as easily as they began.”
“Can they?” She looked down. “I must apologize too. I have never—felt like that.”
“I pressed too far with you. I am sorry. Truly.”
Christina watched him, disappointed, yet not surprised. The moment had to come, given his conviction about his role as laird of Dundrennan. Yet part of her did not want to end it, did not care about legends and superstitions and holding back for propriety’s sake.
She only wanted him to kiss her, hold her, do what he would with her so that she could do the same with him.
At her core, she wanted to be with him, and hoped he felt it too, somewhere inside.
Yet she faltered, uncertain and hurt. She might be foolish indeed to give her feelings rein without his equal interest and invitation.
“If we can overlook what happened, we could consider it a prelude to friendship.”
She laughed bitterly. “Friendship. Of course.”
Could she overlook it? The need she felt was powerful. Yet he stood tense, arms folded, legs crossed as he leaned. Locked up, feelings locked away, heart shuttered.
Dalliance was fine in his eyes. Anything more was not.
She was a simpleton to lose her heart to this intense, beautiful, exasperating man so quickly. For several years, she had locked away her own feelings, shelved her needs, hidden her feelings from everyone, including herself. She had never wanted to fall in love again.
Yet she was falling like a star from the sky, plummeting, and he would not be there to catch her.
“Aye then,” he went on. “We can forget this?”
She drew a shaky breath. “Is it so easy?”
“We can manage.” He reached past her to catch the door. “Shall we go, Mrs. Blackburn? It is time for tea. It should be pleasant, as Miss Thistle is over at Balmossie, probably lobbing plantains at all and sundry.” He smiled, but it was hollow.
She moved past him in silence.