Waking the Princess (20 page)

Startled, she looked up, her heart leaping, as it always did when he was near. He stood tall over her, his back to the sun, his legs long, shoulders wide, stance masculine and assured.

Last night they had shared astonishing kisses, and for a moment she longed for that warmth between them again. But he frowned down at her, cool and impenetrable.

He did not look inclined to kiss her. He looked annoyed.

"Good day, sir," she said pleasantly. "You are right, of course. It is futile to clean the rock with my hatpin." She opened her reticule to take out a small implement.

"What is that?" He looked down.

"A toothbrush." She waved it.

"An odd time to be polishing your smile."

She displayed a sweet grin and began to scrub at the stone.

"For the love of God, woman! Scrubbing those rocks like a scullery maid will not improve their appearance or their value. It only prolongs the time being wasted here."

"There is no need for oaths," she retorted. Wielding the little brush diligently inside a crevice, she blew at the loosened dirt. A few marks were visible on the stone, and she picked up her pencil to sketch them in her notebook.

"Only a few weeks are left before this road must be finished. Mrs. Blackburn, are you listening?" He dropped to his haunches while she worked. "Why do this now?"

"My uncle discovered Pictish carvings of great antiquity while cleaning some stones in a field with an old toothbrush," she explained. "The science of archaeology has made great strides since Uncle Walter was a lad digging flints in his kailyard. Even fifty years ago, fossil bones were still thought to be the remains of dragons and monsters. Celtic knives were thought to belong to fairies."

"They don't?" he asked dryly.

She scowled at him. "We are learning much about the past from careful digging. Now we know the value of caution and cataloguing, and we can unravel early history more accurately. Time has its layers, just as the earth has its strata. Both will yield their secrets if treated with care and respect." She wiggled the toothbrush at him. "We must not dig willy-nilly on this site."

"You may not be an archaeologist, but you seem to know what you are about," he said. She heard grudging respect.

"I have assisted with other finds. I am primarily an amateur antiquarian. A scholar. My interests are Celtic history and literature. But cautious exploration is needed here, and I am prepared to do that. If there is something of merit, Sir Edgar will take over." She pursed her lips a little at that thought.

"You will find no Pictish carvings here, nor is there time to search for them."

"You
may not have time, sir, but I do. You are an impatient man, I think." She brushed at the stone, then blew.

"In this, aye. Not in all things."

"It is senseless to hurry when historical treasures may be unwittingly destroyed."

"So," he ground out, "this will take a long time."

"It is important to be careful, observant, and organized. You would not proceed impatiently with your road"

"We determine beforehand what we are digging into and laying down and how much time is required, give or take weather and other factors."

"Like Pictish walls?" She brushed a stone close to his booted toe. He shifted his foot.

"And stubborn little antiquarians."

She sat back on her heels to look up at him. "We have something in common, you and I. We both dig in the earth and take it apart. You build roads, I resurrect history. I shepherd the past, you the future. And neither of us knows exactly what we will find. Look what you discovered with your blasting powder."

"Aye," he said, watching her. "Look what I found."

She thought of his words last night, when he tested himself against love—and was invulnerable. Feeling the sting of that again, she lifted her chin. "Since you are so very busy, Sir Aedan, perhaps you should get back to the moor and to your great metal beast."

"Mrs. Blackburn, the commissioners are breathing down my neck. I had another letter from the queen's secretary, inquiring as to when this road will be ready for Her Majesty's wee jaunt from Glasgow. By the way, you have a letter from Sir Edgar in the same postal bag," he added. "He will want to know what you found and if it benefits him in any way. Of course I am impatient. We have no time for polishing stones."

"I am collecting information for Sir Edgar. I cannot just tell him that the stones are old and he should come see them. He will expect something specific."

"Tell him not to come here at all."

She regarded him through the shadow of her veil. "Are you this obtuse by nature, or is it a skill you hone with practice?"

"Have you always been stubborn and willful?"

"Yes," she said, and turned to blow dirt off the stone.

Muttering under his breath, Aedan strode away to go speak with Hector and Angus. Christina resumed her work, scrubbing furiously.

No one could ever guess that they shared delicious secrets, she thought. Wild kisses, tender embraces, coveted paintings, and hidden stairs could be conveniently forgotten in favor of snarling and snapping. But no matter what exchange they shared, she always felt hot sparks between them, like flint and fire compelled to ignite.

* * *

Christina chewed the end of her pen, deep in thought, then applied nib to paper and added to the reply she was composing to Edgar. Each word had to be carefully chosen, for Edgar had a sharp nose for the scent of an antiquity. He would come to Dundrennan quickly if he thought there was merit.

The clearing and digging is coming along well and may yield interesting results,
she wrote.
But it is too soon yet to declare it worth your valuable time and mental energy.
She had to have enough time to search for any sort of Arthurian connection. After the digging of the last two days, she was now certain the walls had once belonged to a Pictish house.

She was unsure how to end her note—she wanted to avoid encouraging Edgar's interest in Cairn Drishan and his interest in courting her. She re-read his letter to her.
I remain your faithful friend, my dearest Christina. I know you think of me with the same affection I tender to you.
He had signed it,
Your devoted Edgar.

"Oh, dear," she murmured. The tone of the letter was very like Edgar himself—assuming and haughty. Lately his arrogance had begun to irritate her. She realized that she had to gently disentangle herself from his affections.

Giving him permission to court her had been a mistake, she realized now, and she was glad she had not yet agreed to his marriage proposal.

After the thrill she felt in Aedan MacBride's arms, she realized she could not bear the thought of marrying Sir Edgar Neaves. No future existed with Aedan—she was no fool—but living as a bookish widow was preferable to a life with Edgar. She would forever compare Aedan's kisses, his strength and humor and depth, to Edgar's cold personality and dull kisses.

She must tell Edgar soon that she could not accept his proposal, and suggest that they remain colleagues and friends.

But she could not bring herself to write the words. The pen in her hand shook, its drop of ink spattering her hand and her white cuff.

Sighing, she looked with dismay at the black spots spreading across the fine cloth of her undersleeve, made of delicate white lacework in
broderie anglaise.
Her aunt Emmie had carefully made the pieces for her as a Christmas gift, and now carelessness had ruined one of the cuffs.

After folding her letter and setting the pen down, she left the library, intending to go upstairs to the black-and-white-tiled bathroom to scrub her sleeve with soap and cold water.

The housekeeper was in the foyer as Christina entered it. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Blackburn. Ye seem in a rush, mistress."

"I've spoiled my sleeve with ink." She held up her arm.

"Och, such pretty work, too! Let Effie MacDonald tend to it. She's the laundress, and it's her day to be here, in the washhoose. Go oot the side door by the kitchen, and go past the herb garden. Ye'll see a stone building. Having it oot there keeps the smell o' the bleachin' away frae the hoose," she explained, wrinkling her nose. "Show yer sleeve to Effie MacDonald, and she'll make it right. She's a guid woman, and she likes a wee chat." Mrs. Gunn smiled as Christina thanked her.

She found the washhouse easily enough, a small building in a far corner past the walled enclosure where herbs and flowers grew in profusion.

Opening the door to the washhouse, she was immediately assailed by heat and dampness and the scents of lye, bleach, and soap. The huge room, white and filled with light, held several large tables and a huge brick hearth where enormous copper urns boiled. The high ceiling was hung with racks draped in snowy linens. Two young women and a third older woman wore aprons, their faces flushed as they worked at various tasks.

The older woman came toward her, tall and gray-haired, wiping her hands on her apron. "May I help ye, mistress?"

"Yes. Are you Effie MacDonald?" Christina asked.

"Aye." The woman's eyes were deep brown and penetrating, her cheekbones pronounced, her dress dark and plain. But her earlobes gleamed with gold hoops—a gypsy's face, Christina thought.

Introducing herself and showing her sleeve, Christina explained her errand. Effie nodded and efficiently removed Christina's undersleeve, then scrutinized the spots.

"Gunnie was right to send ye here. If that ink sets, yer bonny lace would be ruined, aye." She took it to a large tub with brass spigots and flowed cold water over the spots. Then she reached overhead to a shelf filled with small bottles, taking down a bottle and a slender brush. "Some use chemists' potions for their laundry now, but I say old and cheap works best. This will take it oot," she said, uncapping a bottle.

"What's that?" Christina asked, watching as Effie clipped the brush into the liquid and smoothed it over the stained cloth.

"Horse piss," Effie said, "and lemon."

"Oh!" Christina said. Within a few moments, the delicate cloth whitened again before her eyes. Effie then rinsed it with soap and water and added a liquid from another bottle.

"Lavender water," she explained. "Did ye think I'd have ye smellin' o' horse piss?" She laughed and folded the piece inside a linen towel. "Now we'll dry it wi' the flat iron, and 'twill be guid as new. Dora," she called, "here's a wee bit o' lace for the iron!" Effie crossed the room, and Christina followed.

A pretty young girl turned, flat iron in her hand, and took the lace cuff from Effie. Christina watched while Dora carefully ironed the half sleeve inside the toweling. Her nimble fingers kept just out of the flat iron's hot range as she guided the heavy thing over the towel, steaming the dampness out of it.

Watching her, Christina realized with a small shock that the girl was blind, or nearly so. Glancing at Dora's face, she saw a strong resemblance to Effie.

The older woman poised her fists on her hips. "Mrs. Blackburn... Ah, ye'll be the laird's guest frae the mooseum, come to look at his great hill. He told me aboot ye, mistress."

"He did?" Christina asked, surprised.

"Och aye, when he came to tea last week—Sir Aedan comes to see me when he can, guid lad. I've known the laird since he was a bairnie in skirts," she confided, leaning forward. "Hector's my son. This is Hector's daughter, Dora MacDonald."

"Oh! Mr. MacDonald mentioned both of you. I did not know—"

"That I'm the laundress? Aye, and my mither and grandmither afore me. We've ay worked for the lairds o' Dundrennan. And Dora here, she makes bonny crocheted things, shawls and whatnot. Sells 'em, too, in Milngavie," she added proudly, while Dora smiled.

Dora handed Effie the newly cleaned and pressed sleeve, and Effie slipped it over Christina's hand and wrist, tying its ribbons snug under her sleeve, the cloth fresh smelling and warm against her skin.

"Thank you so very much, Effie," Christina said, relieved.

The woman smiled, her eyes shrewd. "So ye're the mistress o' that mountain, giving orders to the laird, I hear."

Christina laughed. "I doubt Sir Aedan would take orders from me or any woman."

Effie laughed with her, and nearby, Dora and the other maid chuckled as they worked. "Well, he wouldn't listen to anyone when he was engaged to my niece Elspeth, and he's still that stubborn," Effie said.

"You knew Sir Aedan's fiancée?" Christina asked.

"Och, aye. She was my niece, and Dora's cousin. She and the laird knew each other when they were babes in arms together, and they were always good friends. 'Twas natural for them to come to marrying. Pity she took ill," Effie said, shaking her head sadly. "But sometimes 'tisna meant for such blithe souls to live long in this world, and it may be he wasna meant to be content. The lairds o' Dundrennan dinna wed for love, y'see."

"So I've heard," Christina said.

"But I do hope it proves different for Sir Aedan. He's had too much loss, too many troubles, that lad, and so bonny and braw a man, such a guid heart, always caring about others, and caring so much for his home. I like to think there's a special love for him—-I feel that there is. Perhaps he'll be the one to break that wicked curse someday." She smiled at Christina, and a peculiar wisdom seemed to glow in her crinkled, keen eyes.