Waking the Princess (25 page)

She nodded, looking at Aedan. "Father won first place for it at the Royal Scottish Academy. It's a stunning picture, nearly as large as one of these walls, filled with gorgeous figures in a misty, magical setting."

"Christina and I were among the models for that picture when we were bairns," John added, intent on his drawing.

"My father owned an engraving of that painting," Aedan said. "It's quite a stunning piece. Very dramatic. You must show me where you and John are in the engraving. I'd very much like to see you both as bairns."

She smiled, surprised and warmed by his interest.

"If Christina wears a costume—Aedan, would you mind wearing a tunic? Seeing the drapery would help speed my work along. You are accustomed to wearing the kilt, sir. The tunic costume I have in mind is similar to that."

"Certainly," Aedan said. "Shall we change now?"

"Please. Christina, the costumes are over there." John pointed to a large steamer trunk that servants had lugged up the stairs for him days earlier. Its lid was propped open.

"There is a sitting room through that door, where you can change privately," Aedan said.

She hesitated, frowning. "Oh, very well," she conceded. "But I'll pose in costume only if no one else is allowed to see us."

"Really, Christina, we are not running a brothel up here," John remarked. "And besides, the human body expressed in art is a beautiful thing. It is something to admire, not leer at."

"Absolutely," Aedan murmured.

Frowning at them, she turned and went to the wardrobe to choose the long, pale gown that her mother had worn years ago. She saw the red tunic that John had in mind for Aedan, and she draped that over the trunk lid for him.

"Christina," John said. He came close to her. "What I want to capture in the princess is elegance and extraordinary beauty. The fluid drape of clothing over the human form will help create that. The Pre-Raphaelite women—Jane Morris and Lizzie Siddall and the rest—often favor a medieval style of dress: long, loose, flowing day gowns." He hesitated, shrugged. "This may be a sensitive topic for a lady to discuss, but I am your brother. Jane and Lizzie go without stays and the thickness of several petticoats. I rather like the look," he confided. "The antique waist, I believe they call it."

"Wretch, thinking only of your art," she said, half teasing. "Very well, then. So long as I'm fully dressed," she muttered.

"Of course," he said. "And thank you."

She nodded, glancing at Aedan, who leaned against the table, arms folded. He wore the kilt and black jacket he had worn at dinner, his legs hewn muscle, arms and shoulders broad, all of him so appealing she looked away, blushing.

Slipping into that silken gown without her supporting undergarments, she realized, did not shock her so much as John supposed. Instead, she felt secretly excited by the tacit permission to embrace Aedan without the barrier of formal clothing. She craved to be near him, wanted it so.

Perhaps Aedan and John had been right after all. Posing for the mural would be enjoyable rather than regrettable or embarrassing. She took the dress into the sitting room to change.

Accustomed to doing for herself without a lady's maid, she removed her gown and crinoline, down to corset, chemise, drawers, and stockings. She paused, took a breath.

She had not acted so boldly for years. Popping the hooks and eyes of the snug stays, she removed them and set them aside. Taking a deep breath, she stood in her chemise and long cotton drawers, and lifted the medieval costume.

The heavy silk slid fluidly over her body, so comfortable with its slightly fitted shape, low neck, long belled sleeves and trailing hem edged in golden embroidery. She ran her hands over the natural curves of her torso and felt—free.

Smiling, she loosened her braided, pinned hair and combed it with her fingers to a thick, soft cloud over her shoulders. Tying a golden fillet across her brow, she spun around, loving the sensual, flowing delight of silk and cotton.

When she opened the door and walked into the long gallery, Aedan and John simply stared at her.

In turn, she blinked at Aedan—wearing a tunic of dark red, a plaid cloak draped over one shoulder, fastened with a huge paste brooch of Celtic design. His legs were bare, his feet in soft leather boots, and his muscled arms and neck gleamed in the lamplight. His torso was taut and strong beneath the soft woolen fabric.

She moved toward him dreamily, feeling as if she had stepped into the misty surround of another place and time, a world of legends and magic.

"Beautiful," Aedan murmured, drawing her toward him at her waist. He took her hands and lifted them, clasped with his to form a knot between them.

Her heart quickened, and she was lost, taken up by love and held fast. Unable to look away from his gaze, for a moment she forgot why they were there, what they were doing, even forgot that their devotion was feigned. It felt so real.

"Excellent—hold that," John said, taking up his chalk. "The prince and princess falling in love, entirely focused on each other, so that the rest of the world disappears for them." He shifted the easel. "The profile view of this pose is striking—like some Celtic god and goddess, drawn together by love and destiny. Perfect," he murmured, drawing.

"Comfortable?" Aedan squeezed her fingers affectionately.

Christina nodded and felt the sudden prick of tears in her eyes. Neither Stephen nor Edgar would ever have shown her this sort of kindness, couched in quiet, iron strength.

"Relax for a moment," John said after they had held the pose for a few minutes. "This is going very well—you are both such a pleasure to draw. I have an idea for the next pose—Aedan, would you help me move that small table over here?"

Aedan nodded and helped John shift a compact, sturdy table near Christina. Then John showed them the first of his sketches, and they admired the deft, fluid line with which he had captured their pose.

"Now, the prince comes to his princess through the window of her tower. She welcomes him with open arms," John directed. "Aedan, use the table as if it's a window ledge. You must look as if you have just come over the windowsill."

Lifting one knee to the table as if climbing, Aedan kept his other foot firm on the floor. When he beckoned, Christina moved toward him like iron to a magnet.

"My apologies if this makes you two feel awkward," John said, "but this next pose needs a rather impassioned embrace. You must go into his arms, silly lass," he went on when Christina hesitated. "Aye, and see how he welcomes you."

Resting his hands at the back of her waist, he pulled her toward him. Her breasts, draped in silk and cotton, brushed against his chest. Even in pretense, the pose felt so natural, and his touch upon her so compelling, that she had to close her eyes for a moment and simply breathe to maintain her composure.

Aedan leaned his forehead against hers, his breath soft on her cheek. Supported in his arms, Christina thought she might dissolve, then and there. She was thankful he did not know the wild track of her thoughts or how hard her heart was beating.

"What were their names?" John asked as he sketched. "The prince and princess?"

"Aedan mac Brudei and—" Aedan paused.

"Liadan," Christina finished.

"Liadan, aye! How did you know?" Aedan murmured. "I thought that was known only to the family. My father did not include that in his poem, keeping the detail for the family."

"I've been studying the old parchment in the Dundrennan Folio, remember? It's written in the margin."

"Is it?" he asked. "I want to see it."

She nodded, and her nose brushed his. Again she closed her eyes, for a secret, burning ecstasy built steadily within her. She wondered if he felt it too, for his fingers at her waist grew hot through the thin layers of her clothing.

"Hold that. It's wonderful, very loving," John said, absorbed in his work.

Aedan sighed low, so that only she heard. Keeping her eyes closed, not daring to move or speak, Christina felt very much afraid that she was falling deeply, rapturously in love.

"What was that opening verse, where the princess and prince meet for the first time?" John mused while he sketched. "Ah, now I remember it—

'A glance, a murmur, a touch of hands,

Their souls entwined, and the need began:

Storm-fierce, falcon-swift, deep as time.'

Love at first sight. Christina realized suddenly what she had felt in the moment she had looked up to see Aedan silhouetted in the window when she first arrived—and the moment she had looked into his eyes when he had discovered her fallen on the stairs outside his door.

The inexorable, dynamic pull of one soul toward another, one twin seeking the other, compelled to find its own perfection and completion. She had fallen in love with Aedan MacBride the instant she had seen him, and she tumbled deeper with every encounter.

But if it stirred in him, too, he would refuse to allow the possibility—and she ought to do the same herself. She sighed, sad and low.

"Are you tired?" Aedan whispered.

She shook her head mutely.

"Don't move. That's perfect," John murmured as the silence spun out, filled only with the scratching of chalk. "Perfect."

* * *

"Damn it all," Aedan swore softly, shuffling amid the papers and maps scattered on the library table. Two days had passed since he and Christina had modeled for John, and in the midst of that pleasant distraction—he wondered when John might require their presence again—Aedan had arranged to meet with his assistant engineer to discuss the roadwork. "There has to be another solution. Hand me the other map—the Ordnance Survey for the region of the moor."

Rob Campbell, his sun-bleached hair gleaming gold in the sunlight that poured through the library windows, slid the map across the table. "We've both gone over the maps many times, sir," Aedan's assistant said quietly. "There are few good options. We can take the road over the other side of Cairn Drishan, or take it around the base of the hill—"

"Straight through Effie MacDonald's kailyard," Aedan finished. "And I refuse to do that." He bent down to peer at the area, measured carefully on the most recent Ordnance Survey map. He traced a fingertip over it thoughtfully.

"Effie has said she would not mind," Rob said.

"She felt obligated to agree, I'm sure. She would certainly mind losing the only home she's ever known. And I would mind, too. I promised my father that I would never oust our tenants. Even if the queen demanded it, I would have to refuse."

"Sir, it is by far the better route to go through Effie's property. The second option, on the other side of that hill, would take us through even more rock than we've already encountered. It would require considerable blasting, and the museum has banned our use of black powder, for now, at least." Rob glanced across the library, where Christina Blackburn sat curled in a leather chair, reading.

"I know." Aedan dragged over another map to compare it to the first. He took up a pencil to sketch the profile of the hill again, although the table was littered with drawings of various angles of Cairn Drishan. "If we make cuts here and here," he said, indicating the sites with arrows, "using black powder in modest amounts for a minimum of rubble and debris, we could cut through quickly. But this route would be longer and steeper than the one I originally designed."

"We could vary the gradient with slight adjustments as we take the path up the hillside and down again," Rob said. "It would be on the other side of hill, a safe distance from the site of the old wall."

Aedan nodded. "If we are to finish the route by the time the queen makes her jaunt from Glasgow to Dundrennan, we will have to start the work immediately."

Rob nodded. While his apprentice engineer studied the drawings and maps, Aedan took a moment to glance toward Christina.

Lately he had spent more time working in the library. He preferred the larger table and brighter natural light there—and he liked it even more if Christina was also working there.

He now had a habit of looking for her whenever he entered the room, feeling a little fillip of excitement when he saw her and a tug of disappointment when he did not. He liked hearing the scratching of her pen on paper if she sat writing letters, liked looking up to see that she was there somewhere, tucked in a chair reading intently or sitting at a table with the folio open before her.

When she was there, the room seemed warmer and more inviting, regardless of the quality of weather or lighting. Sometimes he caught the faint fragrance of roses and lavender mingling with the familiar scent of books or heard the whisper of silk and skirts.

Most of all, he liked it when she put down her pen or her book and glided toward him. She showed genuine interest in his work, in the maps he used or the careful drawings he made, which were precise and clean rather than artistic. In turn, he asked her about the progress of her translation, or which book she was reading and what she thought of it.

He did not particularly care about this or that book. They did not hold the magic for him that they had held for his father or his sister or for Christina. He asked because he wanted to hear her thoughts and listen to her melodic, slightly husky voice. He asked so that he could study her face, with its fascinating blend of purity and allure.