Chapter Twenty-Three
“A pity Miss Thistle is not here,” John said quietly to Aedan while they sat at a game of cards with Christina and Amy. “It would be such a diversion for her to meet Sir Edgar. Perhaps we shall invite her for tea tomorrow.”
“Excellent idea.” Aedan tossed down his next card. “Thistle has been languishing at Balmossie House, pining for another invitation. She would adore Sir Edgar.”
“She might particularly adore his hat,” John said.
Aedan grinned, imagining that scene with more relish than he should wisely show. Across from him, Christina smiled, though her mood had been very subdued ever since she had returned with Edgar and retired to her room until supper.
“Thistle might like to restyle Sir Edgar’s hair as well,” Amy said, giggling. Aedan chortled, turning to look at Edgar, who strolled around the drawing room arm in arm with Lady Balmossie.
“Stop behaving like bairns,” Christina said crossly.
“He’s an insufferable boor,” John said, low enough that only they could hear.
“He’s spoken only of himself all evening.
Lady Balmossie told him he was a blatherskite, and he did not even know she called him a braggart to his very face.
” He laid down a card. “Seven of hearts! That tops your card, Amy.”
“I am allowed to lay mine down if I want to clear my hand,” Amy insisted primly, while John reached out to spin the round painted tray used to play the game, Pope Joan. “And I do.” She set down more cards.
“Minx.” John wiggled his eyebrows at her.
“When shall I model for you again?” she asked.
“Not quite yet,” he replied. “Though I might need Aedan and Christina for one or two more sessions, if we can arrange it.”
“Of course,” Aedan said, glad for any reason for her to stay, wanting a chance to talk to her in private about what he had said.
He had meant it, but it had been cut short, and she did not seem impressed.
He had to talk to her. He had to clarify his thinking.
He had blurted out that he loved her, but he meant it.
For now, he had to appear cautious, reserved, polite, as long as Neaves was around.
“When might the mural be done?” Aedan asked, with another glance for Christina, who looked away.
“Several months at least,” John answered. “Such things take time. But I will have the color washes done for the royal visit. The finished project will take longer.”
“Take as long as you need,” Aedan said. “It promises to be extraordinary.”
“I appreciate it,” John said.
“How lovely to have you both stay here as long as you like.” Amy smiled, her gaze only for John. Aedan watched with interest, aware of Amy’s interest in John over him, which left Aedan feeling as if a burden had lifted.
“Thank you, Miss Stewart,” John said. “I believe my sister plans to return home to Edinburgh soon.”
“Sir Edgar would send me back now that he is here,” Christina said. “He feels there is little reason for me to stay.”
Aedan frowned. He could think of endless reasons for her to stay. “What about the translation? You wanted to finish it.”
“I do, but I am almost done.” She looked at him then, and he was sure there was spark and need in her eyes. Not anger now, thank heavens. His heart opened and he smiled faintly, just for her. She looked away again.
“We will be sorry to see you go, Christina,” Amy said.
“Indeed,” Aedan said, as Amy deposited another card over his. He resolved to talk to Christina soon, tonight. He hungered for her, but it was not the most important urge now.
She looked beautiful, enticing, in a brown plaid skirt and a matching bodice, her shining auburn hair pulled back in graceful wings, her slender neck framed in lace, her skin like cream over peaches. He knew the taste of her, the feel of her, beneath it all, and he pulled in a breath.
Then she caught his gaze, held it. A slow burn filled her cheeks and her eyes glimmered. Aedan held the look as long as he dared with others watching. Tonight he intended to sort through this with her. He glanced at the clock. It moved too slowly to please him.
Christina laid a card on the table. “Knave of hearts.”
“Aha! Christina, you win ‘intrigue’ this time,” Amy said. “So you get more game counters.” Dipping her fingers into the tray, Amy rained mother-of-pearl pieces into Christina’s hand.
Aedan turned his own card over. “Queen of hearts.”
“And that is ‘marriage’ in Pope Joan,” Amy said. “Christina owes you some pieces.”
He held out his hand as Christina dribbled a few polished mother-of-pearl stones into his palm. His closing fingers brushed hers.
“But no laird of Dundrennan ever wants marriage,” Amy teased.
“So they say,” he drawled, and rearranged his cards.
*
“We need something vibrant and full of passion tonight. Whatever is the matter with you two?” John peered around his easel to frown at Aedan and Christina where they had gathered in the long gallery.
“Tired, I suppose,” Christina said. “It is late.”
Aedan nodded silent agreement. Christina stood rather woodenly in his arms, wearing the simple tunic, this time with a green tartan shawl tossed around her shoulders.
Aedan wore a chain mail hauberk over his red woolen tunic and a sheathed sword belted and slung at his back.
The armor and sword were both from Dundrennan’s collection of items, though Christina had pointed out that the additions were not historically accurate to the Pictish era, but John did not seem to mind and insisted they use them.
“I want to show the moment when the prince finds his beloved in the briars,” John said.
“It will be the most emotional and dramatic scene in the mural. Christina once posed for the sleeping princess in the briar,” he said, referring to Stephen Blackburn’s painting, “and it was beautifully rendered, but a passive pose. We need a more dynamic feeling.”
“If she was in the briar, it is still passive. Should I pretend to sleep?” she asked.
“I want him to discover her.” John frowned, looking through a sheaf of drawings.
“You want his urgency, his despair,” Aedan said, and ducked to scoop Christina into his arms. “Show the moment he takes her out of the briar, desperate to save her.”
“Aye, that is it!” John came near to adjust their pose. “This way—step forward. Perfect.” He returned to the easel.
“Comfortable?” Aedan asked her.
“Aye. But how long can you hold me up like this?”
Forever, he thought. “If I get tired, I will just drop you to the floor.”
“Oh,” she said. “But would you?”
He laughed, shook his head. “Never.”
“Hush,” John said. “Christina, tip your head back so you look unconscious. There! The swan neck, the pale face, so lovely.”
As she leaned her head over his arm, her loose, soft hair swept over his skin. Aedan breathed in its lavender scent, shifted his weight slightly to keep her close and safe.
John worked fast and free with the chalk as candlelight flickered and rain drove against the windows. Aedan felt her soft breathing. He studied her face. Perfect.
The sight of her collapsed in his arms reminded him keenly of the painting he treasured, the girl made of paint who fascinated him. A strange magic worked its way through him, a powerful protective urge, as if she were truly in danger and only he could save her.
“John,” Christina said, “have a heart. Aedan has been holding me up a long while.”
“It’s no hardship,” Aedan defended.
“Very well, set her down. I have what I need. Thank you. That’s all for tonight.” John sifted through his drawings, muttering to himself, on fire with creativity despite the hour.
Removing weapon and chain mail, Aedan dropped the hauberk with a heavy chime on a table and laid the valuable old sword beside it. Turning, he saw Christina looking out the window, the green tartan drooping on her slender shoulders.
“You look tired,” he said, going to her.
“I am. I should go to my room.”
“Shall I see you safely down the stairs?”
She looked up, narrowed her eyes. “If you like.”
He wanted to sweep her into his arms again and carry her off like some medieval hero. Something about the posing sessions made him feel forceful and passionate beyond the bounds of his own reserved and somber self. Or perhaps it was his very real need to be with her, love her, protect her.
Dear God, he thought, he adored her. She stood with weary simplicity in the plain gown and Highland blanket, her dark-auburn hair bedraggled, her face forlorn. Love filled him, flowed over, poured full from his soul.
He had said he loved her fiercely. More than that, he loved her in a magnificent, generous, expansive way. How could a love that strong retain a curse that went against its very nature? True love could rise above trouble and invite joy upon joy.
He frowned. What if the Dundrennan curse was false? What if refusing to believe the legend could change fate? His thoughts tumbled and reshaped as a new possibility dawned. What if he expected only happiness instead of tragedy? Would that change the curse?
She glanced at him. “What is it? Why do you look at me so?”
I love you. The need to say it set him on fire. He leaned down. “Mrs. Blackburn—”
She watched him, eyes intent, a rich dark blue in candlelight. “Sir?”
He took her arm and led her away. She called good night to John, who answered absently, intent on his work.
Aedan picked up one of the flaming candles in a brass dish and conducted Christina to the narrow door in the hallway they had used before.
And as before, he went ahead, so that if she stumbled, he would be there to catch her.
Candlelight made patterns on the stone walls as they descended quietly. Each step took them deeper into the secluded spiral of the old stairwell. The very air seemed charged with what he felt, raw physical need and far more.
He had begun to hope, really hope this time. He intended to end the curse by denying its existence. It was just a story. Nothing more.