While concealing her true identity as the subject of a painting that forever scandalized the Victorian art world, antiquarian Christina Blackburn is sent to Scotland where she once again encounters the disastrous painting, as well as its dashing owner--Sir Aedan Arthur MacBride. Original.
Chapter One
Scotland, Edinburgh
August, 1858
``I will not do it.'' Christina Blackburn folded her hands demurely but stubbornly and turned away from the window in Sir Edgar Neaves's museum office, which overlooked Edinburgh's sloping streets, crowded with shops and tenements. The National Museum stood in the shadow of the great crag that supported the castle, so that little sunlight penetrated the room.
``I cannot. Surely you both understand.'' She lifted her chin and faced Sir Edgar and the other man in the office, her brother, John Blackburn.
``My dear,'' Edgar said, rising from behind his enormous mahogany desk. He was tall and handsome in a cool, perfect way, his elegance suited to the richly furnished room. ``Traveling to Dundrennan House to investigate the ancient walls found on that hillside would take only a few days of your time. You must go. This a plum, Christina.''
``You think this is a plum, Edgar,'' she answered quietly. ``You've long wanted to acquire Dundrennan's collection for the museum. If you go, you could make another offer to--Sir Aedan, is it?''
``Yes. Sir Aedan MacBride, the new laird and the late Sir Hugh MacBride's son. The great Highland bard left no poet in his heir, believe me. Sir Aedan is a blunt-spoken engineer who works on roadways like a common laborer. He seems uninterested in the historical importance of his estate.'' Edgar curled his lip in disdain.
``Perhaps, but since you know him, it would be more appropriate for you to go than for me,'' Christina said.
``Since I am not free to travel there just yet, I prefer that you take my place. The old wall that Sir Aedan discovered on his land, while blasting through rock for a highway, could very well be ancient. You could even publish a little paper about it. I will speak to Mr. Smith at Blackwood's Magazine on your behalf.''
``You know that Blackwood's has already published four articles by my sister,'' John said curtly.
``She's a well respected antiquarian in her own right, Sir Edgar, without your influence.''
``Perhaps. But she needn't be concerned about this journey. It could prove worth her time.''
``It is not the journey. I do not know how you can expect me to go... there.'' Christina paced in front of the window, her moss-green skirt and layered petticoats rustling softly.
``My dear, charming as usual, though somewhat irrational.'' Edgar smiled indulgently. ``Please do this for me. I have promised to deliver a series of lectures at the British Museum, so I cannot go to Dundrennan for several weeks yet. You have the expertise to determine if this discovery is worth my time and the museum's interest. This stone wall could even prove to be Pictish in origin. You have a good understanding of that culture--Reverend Carriston trained you well.''
Christina sighed, thinking of her elderly uncle, who now lingered in ill health. The Reverend Walter Carriston was an authority on the ancient history of Scotland and had taught his niece much of what she knew about history, literature, and scholarly technique. ``I'm honored by your faith in me, Edgar. But surely someone else can do this.''
Although she remained calm and cool, her heart thumped in protest. She could not bear to go to Dundrennan, of all places.
``Your uncle will be disappointed if you refuse--'' Edgar's handsome brow crinkled, then smoothed.
``Ah. Is it the painting?''
Christina felt her cheeks flame, a lamentable barometer of her thoughts. She had inherited her mother's auburn hair and the translucent skin that went with it. Glancing at her brother, she saw John watching her with perceptive concern. ``Yes. The MacBrides of Dundrennan own the painting.''
``I had nearly forgotten,'' Edgar murmured. ``The famous Blackburn painters are too prolific, the lot of you. So Stephen's painting of you as the legendary Dundrennan princess is there? How very awkward.''
``Christina is right,'' John said, standing slowly, his cane compensating for the weakness in his left leg. ``Since the MacBrides now own the picture that caused such grief and scandal for her, she should not be expected to go to Dundrennan.''
Edgar came around the desk toward Christina. ``That was the one your husband completed just before his tragic death, isn't that so?''
Stiffening at the reminder, Christina nodded. ``Stephen sold the painting, though he had promised never to part with it.''
``He always was an unreliable fellow,'' Edgar murmured, watching her. Lean and dark, his long face chiseled perfection, his voice a mellow purr, he was an attractive man. Christina gazed up at him, yearning to feel comforted by his nearness. Yet she did not, and never had, although she told herself that Edgar needed only to learn to show his kinder side.
Sir Edgar Neaves was a respected museum director, a sophisticated, accomplished gentleman a decade older than she was. A friend of her father's, Edgar made no secret of his growing fondness for the daughter of one of Scotland's most renowned painters. He had maintained a friendship with the Blackburns, and with her, throughout the humiliating scandal that followed Stephen Blackburn's death six years earlier. Widowed and snubbed by society, Christina was grateful for Edgar's continued loyalty, and for his support of her academic efforts.
Weeks ago he had asked her to marry him, and she had not yet answered while she still considered the offer. She hesitated, knowing that she did not truly love Edgar, nor did she feel any spark of passion for him.
Yet she had played with the fires of passion before in a wild marriage to her second cousin, and she had been soundly burned. A relationship based on intellectual interests would be safe and might even bring contentment. Edgar was a brilliant scholar who encouraged Christina's academic interests, although he made clear his conviction that a woman could never be a man's intellectual equal.
Now Edgar smiled, his cool blue eyes appreciative. ``Dear Christina, no need to be concerned about that painting. No one would recognize you as the model for Stephen's princess. You are several years older now and thinner, not as... lush as you were then.'' He rested a hand on her shoulder. ``Yet still attractive.''
``Good Lord, Neaves,'' John burst out. ``A little tact would be welcome. The lass was but seventeen then, and scarce twenty-three now. Christina is just coming into her beauty. Several artists would love to paint her, but she refuses to sit for pictures--even for the artists in her own family.''
Slipping a hand into her side pocket, Christina felt the shape of her small spectacles tucked in a little tapestried bag. She generally wore them most of the day now, and it was true that she had grown thin and pale over the last few years. For all her brother's kind defense of her, she wondered if Edgar were right.
If she had become a dull little widow, bookish and prim, that was far better than the rebellious, wild girl she had been.
``No harm intended, sir. Some of you Blackburns have that fiery artistic temperament,'' Edgar remarked easily. ``Your sister shares it, too, though she has a more academic bent.''
John frowned and leaned on his cane, and Christina saw the pink stain of anger in his cheeks. Her brother, a striking young man with glossy brown curls and an angelic face, rarely showed any bad temper, but she knew he disliked Edgar.
``Christina, you do not have to go to Dundrennan,'' John said.
``She will go if she cares about Walter's work,'' Edgar said.
``Uncle Walter?'' Christina asked, turning.
Edgar nodded. ``Someone else might overlook important details in this site. What of your uncle's research concerning King Arthur in Scotland? He was enamored of Sir Hugh MacBride's writings about the legends of Dundrennan. Think, my dear,'' Edgar urged. ``An archaeological discovery in those hills could vindicate your uncle from his... ah, academic failures. And he has so little time left to him, sadly.''
Christina caught her breath. Walter Carriston's theories of King Arthur's role in sixth-century Scotland, along with Arthurian links to Pictish tribes, had been ridiculed by Carriston's peers. A find of Pictish origin in the Strathclyde hills would add strength of proof to her uncle's lifework.
She straightened her shoulders. ``You have a point about Uncle Walter,'' she conceded. ``I will look at the site. I can keep away from Dundrennan House itself.''
``Actually, Sir Aedan has invited our representative to stay there, sparing us hotel expenses, although we will tender the cost of your transportation. Do not worry about that painting, my dear,'' Edgar added. ``It is part of the past, and it is best forgotten.''
``Of course you're right,'' she agreed.
``Keep to your usual plain appearance, and no one will be the wiser. John,'' Edgar said, turning, ``your sister will require an escort. I know you are free to go with her, having so few obligations currently.'' Edgar glanced at John's leg and cane.
John bristled. ``I will gladly change my schedule for her.''
``Thank you, John,'' Christina said.
While Edgar wrote a note for his secretary to arrange their transportation, Christina waited, her heart slamming. Dundrennan! She twisted her hands anxiously, dreading the sight of Stephen's beautiful picture again, with its unhappy memories.
Still, she felt an inner excitement, too. Perhaps curiosity compelled the scholar in her. The chance to uncover something ancient, to see and touch it, to learn more about it, was a plum indeed. Edgar knew her well in that regard.
``Sir Aedan thinks the site will yield nothing much,'' Edgar said. ``I expect you to send word to me, of course. I will come as soon as I can arrange it.''
Christina nodded, then turned away. Dread and anticipation swept through her, and the power of it made her hands tremble.
Startled awake, Sir Aedan Arthur MacBride, baronet and laird of Dundrennan, bolted upright in his leather chair. Grasping at shifting reality, he soon recaptured it. The dream, which had seemed as real as life itself, faded swiftly.
That damned pai...
