Chapter Twenty-Five #2
He stopped, looking down at her with eyes gone dark with anger. Ahead, Edgar breezed down the hallway and disappeared around a corner.
“At least you see he’s not worth it,” Aedan said.
“I always have.” She pressed his arm. “Thank you for the painting. I did not know.”
“I thought of it then, but it belongs to you by right. I will sign it over to you as a gift so Edgar cannot dispute it.”
“Thank you. You should know,” she went on, “I would never marry Edgar.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps you should.”
“What?” she breathed, stunned.
“He cares for you. He is rich and well-positioned, and free to marry. You could reform him from a pompous ass into an obedient husband.”
“I would never try to reform him or anyone.” Her gaze melted into his. Her fingers gripped his arm. “And I do not love him.”
“Love is not a condition for marriage.”
“So say the lairds of Dundrennan. But you said you loved me,” she blurted.
“I did say that.” His gaze was steady on hers. “There was a moment—some hope, when I thought there was a chance for us here.”
“There is more than a chance, Aedan MacBride.”
“If I lose Dundrennan, I have nothing to offer, lass. You would be better off with Edgar. Stability. Safety.”
“House or none, you are more stable, safe, and sane than Edgar will ever be. And you have something he will never have. Me.”
He tipped his head. “Aye?”
“I love you, Aedan.” While not the sweet moment she wanted, she had to tell him.
“Dear girl.” He reached out a hand, stroked her cheek. She closed her eyes, savored what he would give now, distracted as he was, cool and troubled. Yet she trusted without doubt suddenly that he loved her. “But is love enough?”
“You know it is.” She took his hand in both of hers.
He raised her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles.
“I know. I do know,” he emphasized. “But this now, from Neaves and the museum—if the house falls at risk, it jeopardizes the estate, and so the livelihoods of those who depend on it and on me as laird. I will not risk their welfare. And I will not risk you.”
“I am not afraid. I feel safe with you.”
“Until I know what to do, I cannot chance your well-being, do you understand?”
“I will not go to Edgar just because you think I am safer. You are wrong.”
“Then I am wrong. Let me ask you,” he said. “When we were in the Remembrance that night, you saw something. A woman?”
She had nearly forgotten the shock of it. “A ghost—or a trick of the moonlight.”
“It was no illusion. Well,” he went on, “the safest course for you is to keep clear of the laird and his curse. If you no longer loved—”
“Never ask that of me,” she whispered.
“I cannot stop either, aye so. But we should part for now.” Without waiting for an answer, he strode away.
She set a hand to her heart, feeling as if the world tipped wildly and she was losing her balance. Hearing the dull tap-tap of her brother’s cane, she turned.
“Chrissy,” John said from the doorway. “Go after him.”
She nodded, gathered her skirts, and ran down the hallway.
As she reached the stairs, she heard the great oak door slam shut, echoing in the foyer. By the time she raced to the door, MacGregor the butler was crossing through and opened it for her.
“Mrs. Blackburn, the laird just went out.”
She looked out. The graveled drive was empty. Then she heard hoofbeats echoing along the wooded lane. There was no chance to catch him now. Was he off to the hill and his work—or had he gone after Edgar?
She wished he would send the man away forthwith and ignore his threats. But knowing Edgar, those threats would come to bear regardless.
Returning to the house, she walked past MacGregor and Mrs. Gunn.
Their gazes were soft with sympathy and concern.
Clearly they loved the laird and wanted him to be happy, wanted that for her as well.
Lifting her chin against stinging tears, she headed to the library, where her ongoing work awaited, and she could be alone.
There had to be a way to save them—and Dundrennan—but how?
*
“Where is he?” Aedan demanded over the groan and rasp of the steam shovel. Hector turned as Aedan strode toward him.
“Where is who, what?” Hector called.
“Neave! Did he come this way?”
“Sir Edgar? I saw him walking up to Cairn Drishan just now.” Hector pointed.
“What would he want up there now?” Aedan scowled, searching the hillside. “No one is there at the moment. Mrs. Blackburn is at the house.”
“He might be looking for ye, lad, to fash ye over summat that doesna please him,” Hector said. “He ordered Angus and the lads to be on the hill at screech o’ day tomorrow to move those pots to a cart.”
“Damn it,” Aedan muttered. “I’ll go after him. She does not want the pots moved.”
“Would he do fisticuffs wi’ a bonny lass over auld pots?”
“Fisticuffs with me,” Aedan growled. “Perhaps now, if he’s up there.”
“Wait for the rain to start. See that sky? That rascal will scurry back to the house fast enough in a spit o’ rain.” Hector chortled.
“Huh.” Aedan gave a reluctant laugh. “Best get back to work before the weather changes. Work as long as you think necessary. I’m off for the hill.”
“If I see that rascal flying o’er the top o’ Cairn Drishan, I’ll know why.”
Laughing despite himself, Aedan walked along the shoulder of the hill, where the raw strip of road was now lined with gravel. Behind him, a grinding sound emanated from the mechanical monster.
“Lewis Gowan!” Hector called. “Back that beastie up! That damn shovel is striking rock just there. Take it from another angle!”
Heading toward the harsh profile of the peak against yet another gray-clad sky, Aedan frowned.
Why was Neaves in such a hurry to move the pots into a workroom in Edinburgh?
If he suspected something valuable might be there, he could claim it wholly for the museum rather than divide it with the Dundrennan estate.
Fuming, Aedan sped up along the path and took the rough incline to the top of the hill. He spied the man walking the perimeter of the ancient foundation, and saw that Neaves was not alone. Angus and his son Kenneth were with him as Neaves pointed, clearly giving directions.
So. He would try to behave this time. Next time, he would send the man flying, as Hector suggested.
“Neaves!” he shouted. “Neaves!”
Sir Edgar turned, saw him, and rather than go to meet him, he backed into Angus as if seeking protection. Aedan barreled toward him.
“What do you want?” the man replied, stepping back again as Aedan came close.
“I want you off my property.” He flexed a fist at his side, set his jaw, glared. “Time for you to go.”
“I am not done. There is work to be done here.”
“You’ve done enough,” Aedan said. “Pack up. My driver can take you to Milngavie to catch a train tonight. If it’s not running, spend the night there and go in the morning.”
Neaves lifted his chin. “I am supervising the excavation.”
“Mrs. Blackburn is doing that admirably well. She does not need you here. Go back and write your reports. She will inform you of any further discoveries when she wants.”
“That is not the arrangement I have with her.”
“I do not care what arrangement you think you have. Leave now, or be escorted.” Aedan glanced at Angus, who nodded curtly and took a step toward Neaves.
“Ridiculous,” Edgar said. “I have ordered these men to load the pots onto carts in the morning. Then I will leave.”
“She wants the pots to stay,” Aedan growled.
“Mrs. Blackburn is not in charge here.”
“My land, my hill, my old wall, my damned pots,” Aedan said. “And the lady is my choice to supervise here. We both want you gone.”
“‘We’? That sounds almost… amorous.”
“If you like,” Aedan said. “Now go, or I will throw you out myself for interfering with an ancient site. And I will be happy to report that to the museum board.” He pointed toward the house in the distance. “You have one hour to pack your things.”
“Generous. Will you be there to make sure?”
“If I must.” He intended to go back and order his carriage brought round to take the fellow to the nearest town.
Edgar turned to Angus. “Tomorrow morning, first thing, with an oxcart. Two oxcarts, for there are several pots. And bring wooden crates.”
Angus glanced at Aedan, who shook his head. “I cannot promise that, sir.”
“When Dundrennan is owned by the government, you will be glad you cooperated.”
Angus folded his arms. So did Kenneth. “I am not inclined, sir, but if you need a ride back to Dundrennan now, we can do that.”
Rain began to sprinkle. Edgar Neaves looked up. “Never mind,” he said. “I will go back now, and do as I please. When I am ready to inform the museum further, I will leave. But those pots are coming with me.”
“We shall see,” Aedan said, as Edgar stalked off down the hill. “Hector was right.”
“About what?” Angus asked.
“A spit o’ rain would scare him away,” Aedan said, as the others laughed.
*
Floating a magnifying glass over the fragile vellum, Christina studied the phrases crammed along the margin of one of the parchment sheets.
She had carefully copied the words into her notebook in pencil, not daring to use pen and ink near the old page, and she wore white gloves to handle the delicate vellum.
The work sustained her, fascinated her, distracted her from thoughts of Aedan and Edgar.
Perhaps these documents could even help somehow.
She continued her painstaking progress, deciphering lines of tiny, sometimes illegible script, flipping through the pages of a Gaelic dictionary to seek the oldest Irish or Latin root of the words she found, and using logic and intuition to discern the meaning—everything Reverend Carriston had taught her.
When she was done, she planned to make a copy of her translation to ask Uncle Walter’s opinion. Ancient verses that had never been translated would stir his interest and improve his spirits; she wanted that even more than she wanted to read the old text.
The light was fading toward twilight, and rain further darkened the sky yet again. Working in the quiet, lamplit library, she wished Aedan could be here in case she discovered more about his family. But he had made his wishes clear.
She would wait. These weeks at Dundrennan had taught her not only that she could love again, and had more worth than she knew—she had also learned more patience.
Since he had not yet returned, she assumed he had either gone to the hill to meet his crew—or to look for Edgar. She shivered at the thought; those two would come to an inevitable clash.
In the last hour as she worked quietly, a revelation had come to her.
Love, she realized, true soul-deep, profound love, was healing and powerful.
Surely sincere love could outlast and undo any belief at Dundrennan that tried to diminish it.
The love she had for Aedan could transcend all.
Surely, he would realize it too. Another reason to wait.
Sighing, she returned to her penciled translation.
The phrases and scraps of poetic lines composed thirteen hundred years earlier or so had begun to make sense.
They were touching and immediate, full of hope, love, despair, and mystery.
The more she worked with it, the more she realized that the lines crammed along the margin of a page of psalms were scribbles by a poet mourning his lost beloved.
A feeling dawned on her, gave her chills.
The possible date of the pages, the fact that they had been tucked in the Dundrennan Folio, overlooked among family documents for centuries—even her uncle had overlooked them—she had a strong suspicion that the poet could even be Aedan mac Brudei himself, the Druid prince of Dundrennan.
That long-ago Aedan, according to the legend, was the husband of the lost briar princess. Christina traced a fingertip along a translated line:
Dark of night, light of moon … Aedan mac Brudei of Dun Droigheann writes these words.
Liadan, Daughter of the Bear, hear me through the mists. Come to me, my heart.
Shivers cascaded through her as she felt the power of the ancient words.
A new thought struck her, and she bent to study the original words in faded brownish ink, each letter carefully rounded in the ancient manner of early Irish and Scottish manuscripts.
She felt something resonant in the words, and caught her breath.
She whispered them aloud. “Liadan, Daughter of the Bear, hear me through the mists. Come to me my heart—oh my God,” she finished. Her hands shook.
It was a spell. A magical incantation. The power rippled through her as she whispered the words. And tears pricked her eyes.
Aedan, Aedan. Liadan, Liadan … it was as if she imagined their voices.
She sat back, stunned. Writing a spell or a charm had been forbidden in Druidic ritual except for the most masterful practitioners.
She remembered that from research and from discussions with her uncle.
Their secret rituals were protected, as they believed that the written word had tremendous power to transfix magic in eternity.
So it was used only by the most skilled and experienced Druidic priests.
Yet Prince Aedan had inscribed in his own handwriting a charm to call a lost and wandering soul back again. Perhaps Liadan had been ill or injured, unconscious, on the verge of death—metaphorically sleeping in a briar. Loving her dearly, Aedan mac Brudei had risked his own soul to save her.
And now Christina had read the words he had secretly penned so long ago. She felt their power like a tangible force, flowing through her, stirring her imagination, her heart, her soul. She sat stunned.
Come to me, my heart.
Her heart quickened, her head whirled. Then she remembered the verses from Sir Hugh MacBride’s epic poem about that ancient Aedan and his Liadan.
Journeying upward, come again down
Journeying outward, come again in
No peril shall befall thee on hill or in heather
Come again homeward, safe to me.
Hugh must have seen these pages. He had known.
He had the secret of these two lost and loving souls years ago.
What effect did Aedan mac Brudei’s summoning spell have on the Dundrennan legend?
Had it worked? Did she die—or recover? If she came back, then perhaps the legend of Dundrennan had no power after all.
She sat staring at the page as twilight shadows gathered around her.