Waking the Princess (27 page)

He shaded his eyes with his hand and wondered if she could see him now—one still dot upon the moorland—as he could see her. He wondered if she sensed his spirit or felt the same pull he felt, like an invisible gossamer thread spun out between them.

A great, aching need rose in him to go to her, to declare his feelings, to take the advice he had just given Rob Campbell. He wanted her desperately—the intensity of it shook him, astonished him—but he dared not acknowledge that need.

If the curse of his forbearers held true, declaring his feelings for Christina would doom her. He was not a superstitious or fearful man by nature, but that risk he could not take.

Hearing a rumble, he looked up, seeing greenish gray clouds gathering from the west. He muttered a low oath, realizing that yet more rain would bring fresh mud and further delays. He shook his head at the prospect.

More thunder. The air felt alive, charged with the power of the storm. What drove through him in that moment felt even greater, capable of shifting his life out of its habitual track.

Change. He felt its inevitable strength, dreaded it, unsure where it would sweep him. He did not particularly like change, but he was a realist. He knew it had already entered his life. Whether he would continue to resist it, or if he would surrender to its power, remained to be seen.

Fat drops of water pelted his shoulders as he whirled and marched off, calling to his men to cover the great metal beast before the thing began to rust.

* * *

"I would rather you were not alone up here, Mrs. Blackburn," Aedan said. "There is a thunderstorm brewing. There were some raindrops not long ago, and those clouds look ominous."

Startled, Christina glanced up through the fall of black lace fringing the brim of her straw hat. She was kneeling, so that Aedan's spare, muscular form silhouetted against the pewter sky seemed vastly tall. Glowering, hands fisted at his waist, he did not look pleased.

Resuming her task, she stretched a measuring tape across part of the souterrain's stone cover. "Good afternoon to you, too, sir. I will not melt in the rain," she said stiffly.

"Nevertheless, there is a danger of mud and potential rockslides up here. You should always have someone with you on this hill. I saw Hector down on the moor just now, as I was coming from Dundrennan." He looked up as thunder rumbled. "He said you wanted me to come up here. I thought you might need me urgently for something, so I hurried."

Need him,
she thought. Yes, she did, heart and soul, but she could not let it show—she had only begun to admit the possibility to herself. "I am perfectly fine alone up here."

He glanced around. "Where are the Gowans?"

"If you must have a count of heads, Mr. MacDonald has gone to take luncheon with his mother, and Angus and his sons went with him. I was invited as well, but I thought to finish this part of the work before going down the hill." Picking up her memorandum book, she recorded the measurements, then pulled the ruled ribbon over a long edge of the stone, stretching to reach.

Aedan took the metal-tabbed end and drew it out to span the stone. "You might come to harm here alone, with a storm on its way. Six and one-half feet," he said, releasing the tape.

She wrote down the number. "I am not helpless, sir. I can find shelter if I need it. And since you're here, you can save me if I faint from the exertion of using my sewing tape," she snapped as she yanked the tape outward.

He huffed at that and silently helped her stretch the tape over another section of stone. Christina jotted the numbers down and made rough sketches, all the while aware that Aedan stood just beside her. She glanced at him from beneath the brim of her lace-trimmed hat.

One booted foot propped on the stone wall, his black jacket draping from his hand, resting on his shoulder, he seemed all earthy strength and ease. A slight breeze ruffled the rolled sleeves of his white shirt and lifted his dark, wavy hair. He looked far cooler and more comfortable than Christina felt.

Gloved, bonneted, and swathed in several layers, she longed to be half so unencumbered. Because of the day's warmth and the nature of her work, she had worn only three petticoats beneath her dark gray skirt, and had done without her stays, which had made the long climb to the excavation site easier and had proven cooler. Although she had opened the top button of her linen blouse, sweat trickled between her breasts and ran down her back beneath her chemise and camisole.

She picked up a little fan to flutter air over her face and throat, glad for the shade of the straw hat.

"A little rain will give us some relief from this heat," Aedan said. "You look rather warm, Mrs. Blackburn. I have some lemonade—not so cool as when Mrs. Gunn gave it to me this morning, but at least it's wet." He handed her a silver flask wrapped in leather.

Accepting the flask, she drank the sweet, tart liquid gratefully then handed it back.

"The men have made a good bit of progress since I was last here," Aedan said, glancing around. "Have you found anything in particular? Hordes of gold, chests of silver, that sort of thing?" His tone was amused rather than sarcastic.

"We've exposed more of the walls, which I think are the foundation of an ancient Pictish house. And this hole here is a storage chamber." She stood, smacking earth from her hands.

Aedan frowned. "Ancient Pictish house? Are you sure?"

"It's nothing modern, I can assure you of that. The walls are rounded and nearly six feet thick in stacked stone. Not so large as a fortress, but fine enough for its day. Over there is the entrance of the house or tower, with the fallen lintel—do you see that long stone, there?"

In silence, Aedan walked toward the ancient stones and touched them thoughtfully. Christina followed.

"That square niche over there is a stone cupboard. Along there are three beds built into the thickness of the wall. And in the center is a hearth." While she spoke, he went there to look.

"Cozy," he said. "This is no black house at all, is it? I see I must admit defeat, Mrs. Blackburn." He looked at her over his shoulder.

"We were never at war," she said quietly, and he lifted a skeptical brow. She went on. "The house has certain features in common with Pictish habitats. My uncle studied ancient ruins in the north while writing his history of Celtic Scotland, and I traveled with him to examine some of them. These are very like what we saw."

He walked toward the storage pit. "And this hole?"

"A souterrain, an underground chamber." She followed him. "We found it this morning. A storage cellar, lined in stone. There are over a dozen tall clay jars inside."

"So I see." He crouched and peered into the opening. "Do you know what they might contain?"

"Grain, most likely oats or barley. Perhaps oil or wine. It's an exciting find, and I think that Edgar and the other directors will be pleased. Dundrennan could become famous for this site alone."

Aedan rubbed a hand over his eyes, then sighed. "So that will be the end of it," he murmured.

"The end? Aedan, this is only the beginning." She wondered what troubled him. The wind picked up, rippling her skirts and her hat ribbons, and she put a hand to her hat. "I hoped you would be pleased by this."

"Pleased?" He gazed down into the dark gap and did not answer further. Fat raindrops began to spatter the earth and the stones, quickly dampening their shoulders.

"Well, you may as well show me this storage chamber of yours. It will give us some shelter from the storm. We've stayed out too long, and now we're caught." Thunder rumbled as Aedan held out a hand to her.

Glancing at the ominous sky, Christina saw lightning strike silver through the clouds. She accepted his hand in assistance and proceeded ahead of him down the ladder, while the rain began to pound in earnest around them.

Chapter 18

Whether grain or gold filled those vats, his chances of cutting a road through this part of Cairn Drishan were done. Even worse, his hope of keeping Dundrennan House was sorely jeopardized.

Aedan sighed and leaned back against the musty stone wall, one knee raised as he sat gazing around the little storage chamber. Two rows of waist-high, round-bodied clay vessels stood in the shadows. Painted linear designs graced the dusty, untouched shoulders of the clay jars. Eerie and silent, filled with secrets, those simple containers had the power to stop his project cold and send changes rippling through his life.

His father would have been delighted by the potential of a few humble pots in an earthen pit. Sitting in the darkness, Aedan smiled sadly, wishing Sir Hugh MacBride could have seen these. As for himself, he had no choice but to accept the significance of the site with all the implied consequences and carry on as best he could.

He glanced at Christina, who was scribbling in her little notebook by the light of an oil lamp that she and his men had left there earlier. They had also left behind a few candles, a canvas tarpaulin, a ladder, and couple of plaid blankets, on which Aedan and Christina now sat.

Rain pounded on the stone cover that partially roofed the souterrain, and drizzle slipped down one wall, muddying a patch of the earthen floor. Aedan rose and took the tarpaulin, climbing up the ladder to drape the stiff cloth over the opening.

"If this place is truly ancient," he said, "we do not want it soaked."

"Thank you," Christina said, putting down her little book and her pencil. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. "It was warm on the hill in the sun earlier, but it's quite chilly down here."

"Well, it is a cellar," Aedan pointed out. "And we're both damp from the rain. We should sit over there, away from the leak." He moved with her to a dark corner, closer to the pots and away from the opening. Christina spread out both plaids, and Aedan settled into the corner while she sat beside him.

From the inner pocket of his jacket, he produced a small silver flask. "We finished the lemonade, but there's some whisky in here that should warm you nicely." He offered it to her.

He half expected her to refuse, but she took it and drank, swallowing twice and gasping a little before handing it back to him. He sipped and set it aside.

The chamber smelled faintly of ancient earth and stone, and the rain drummed steadily on the stiffened canvas draped overhead. Somewhere outside, thunder rumbled low and faint. Christina shivered slightly, her shoulder pressing against him. He lifted an arm to encircle her and share the warmth of his body. Neither of them spoke.

Listening to the rhythm and rumble of the storm, Aedan felt his earlier impatience dissolve, and a sense of contentment wrapped around him like magic. Here in this dark, ancient place, being alone with her felt wholly right, without impropriety.

Thunder boomed again, followed by a sharp crack of lightning. Christina leaped a little in surprise, and Aedan pulled her gently toward him. She did not protest, but nestled against him naturally, turning her body slightly to fit to his, her gloved hands folded demurely in her lap. Beneath layers of skirts, her legs stretched out beside his longer legs, the leather toes of her sensible boots peeking out. Aedan lifted his knee and rested his other arm there, keeping one arm tucked around Christina.

Her straw hat poked into his jaw, and he angled away his head. "Madam, I beg you, divest yourself of that bonny thing before you put out my eye."

"Oh!" she said in apology, and she reached up to untie the black satin ribbons, drawing the hat away and setting it down.

Aedan brushed his hand over her hair, where strands were mussed from the hat. She allowed that touch, and he felt the echo of his innocent caress like thunder down to his toes. With her head lifted, his lowered slightly, her breath fell sweet upon his cheek. There was a waiting sense to that breath, soft, receptive.

The need to kiss her pulsed boldly through him, but he resisted its strength. Days earlier, they had agreed to be friends only. Posing with her for John each night was temptation enough, he thought—sitting here with her could be devastating to his resolve. With luck, the storm would be short-lived.

And yet he hoped it would go on and on, trapping him here with her, just the two of them, away from the outside world.

A lightning crack sounded again, and she jumped. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Do not apologize," he said. "Not everyone likes storms." He rubbed her outermost arm. "Thunderstorms in these hills can be quite fierce. They come fast over the moorland from the west and hit the hillsides with a good deal of power. The lightning up here has struck solitary trees and killed sheep and has even started rock-slides. Now you know why I did not like to see you alone here with a storm in the offing."