Waking the Princess (The Scottish Lairds Series, Book 2)

Waking the Princess

The Scottish Lairds Series

Book Two

by

Susan King

National Bestselling Author

WAKING THE PRINCESS

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Unsurpassed—Susan King is one of the best!

~Cathy Maxwell

Susan King makes a delicious leap to the 19th century... never has Scotland been more magical or more romantic!

~Mary Jo Putney

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ISBN: 978-1-61417-760-9

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2015 by Susan King All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Dedication

To my dear friend Joanne Zaslow with much love

Acknowledgements

I'm very grateful to my father, Mel Longhi, for information on civil engineering and methods of road construction, and for patiently explaining how to grade a road over a steep hill.

Also, thanks go to Meredith Bean McMath, Victorian costume expert extraordinaire, who found cool pictures of spectacular gowns and fetching little hats just when I needed them.

And to Mary Jo Putney for providing gracious sanctuary now and then, giving me a chance to write in peace... and kitty-sit too.

Prologue

Long ago...

She slept, her skin as pale as a river pearl, lips drained of warmth. Leaning down, he kissed her soft mouth and drew back. His heart broke to see her eyelids flutter without awareness, to see them close again.

Liadan. He whispered her name and touched the dark silk of her hair. Wife of Aedan mac Brudei. Hear me. Her breath seemed to quicken as he spoke.

How little it took to keep her alive. Breaths thin as ice on a spring pond, heartbeat faint but steady. Each day, the serving woman fed her mistress broth and water, which she swallowed even as she slept. Each evening, Aedan sat with her, the mother of his infant son, from twilight until dawn, his grief easing a little in the strange serenity of her presence.

Aedan rubbed weary fingers over his eyes, listening to the crackle of the fire in the low stone hearth. The hour was late, but sleep came hard. He took Liadan's hand and stroked his fingers thoughtfully over the pink scratches covering her forearms.

A wild rose briar had surrounded her that day of battle weeks earlier. He had carried her from that bed of thorns and blossoms, but she still slept. Yet her skin was healing, the gash on her forehead had sealed. If her body could renew and breath still flowed through her, life still existed—and so did hope.

She was gaunt now, a fragile shadow of the vibrant girl he had wed months ago, with his child great in her belly and the blush of it upon her cheek. Now he could count the bones in her hand, could set his thumb in the valley along her forearm.

He kissed her fingers, set her hand on the blanket again. Pushing his long dark hair back roughly, he closed his eyes in anguish.

Druid priests and healers had spoken spells over her, used every potion, salve, and charm to save her. Aedan himself, a warrior prince of the Dal Riata trained by Druids, had murmured incantations over her, tipping one infusion after another to her lips. In dark of moon, he had swept his hands above her in magical patterns. He had even recited Christian prayers in an effort to stir her soul to awakening.

Yet Liadan slept on.

Then he thought of the magic he and Liadan had created together—nights of sultry, tender love. He yearned for her touch, longed for her wild, bright spirit. Even now, exhausted and despairing, his body stirred at the memory.

Liadan was part of him, blood, heart, bone, and being. There was no greater torture than sitting helpless while she drifted away. Though he was a warrior and a Druid, a man of secrets and strengths, he could not save the woman he loved.

With a finger, he drew a spiral of protection on her brow and murmured again the charm to guide a lost soul back to its forsaken body.

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.

A frown passed over her brow like a ripple through water. Sensing her struggle to live, Aedan leaned forward.

He knew how to tap the life force in every being, like drawing water from a well. He would continue to draw upon her spirit—he would never give up. She would come back to him.

Liadan, hear my voice in the mist, he whispered. Come to me, my heart.

The others implored him to set Liadan under the stars and let her die peacefully. They said his grief bound her to the earth like an iron chain. Let her go, they told him. She will find you again in another world, and you will be together once more.

But he loved her now, here. She was a lark to his brooding hawk. Liadan would live, he vowed, if he had to reach into the Otherworld himself and pull her soul back with his own hands.

One method remained untried, though Druidic law forbade it. Yet any risk seemed small to him. The enduring magic of the written word, the tool of the Christian priests, was his final resort. A ribbon of words could burn power into a spell like a flame on a wick.

Because a priest had educated him, though had not converted his soul, Aedan could write spells in ink in his own language. Perhaps he could send a hook into eternity with written words, and call back Liadan's soul from its moorless wandering.

Rising, he went to a wooden chest to fetch a piece of parchment. Already used, it would do—the vellum sheet was filled with neatly inked words, but there was space yet in the margins.

Aedan mac Brudei took the pot of lampblack ink and the feathery quill stored with it and carried them back to Liadan's bedside.

Come again homeward, safe to me....

Chapter 1

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 castle crag, so little sunlight penetrated the room.

I cannot do this. Surely you both understand. She turned to face Sir Edgar and her brother, John Blackburn.

My dear, Edgar said, rising from behind his enormous mahogany desk. Tall and handsome, his cool elegance suited the richly furnished room. Investigating the ancient stone wall discovered at Dundrennan House would only need a few days of your time. You must go. This a plum, Christina.

"You think it is a plum, Edgar, she replied. You've always wanted to acquire Dundrennan's collection for the museum. You could go yourself, and make another offer to MacBride. Is it Sir Aedan, I believe, now?"

Yes, Sir Aedan is the new laird, as the son of the late Sir Hugh MacBride. The great Highland bard left no poet in his heir, believe me. Sir Aedan is rather dull, an engineer who works on roadways like a common laborer. He has no interest in history and no sense of the importance of what may be there.

It is a shame. But since you know him, it is more fitting for you to visit than me, Christina said.

"I am not free to travel just yet, and I would prefer that you go in my stead. The old wall that Sir Aedan discovered while blasting through rock for a highway could very well be ancient. You could publish a little paper about it. I will speak to Mr. Smith at Blackwood's Magazine on your behalf."

"Blackwood's has already published four articles by my sister, John spoke up, arms folded. She's a respected antiquarian in her own right without your assistance, Edgar."

Possibly. But she needn't be concerned about the trip. And someone should examine what has been found before they—blast again, he said, lip curling.

It is not the journey. You simply cannot expect me to go... there, Edgar. Christina turned away from the window, her moss-green skirt over layered petticoats rustling softly.

My dear, so charming, yet 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 can determine if this discovery is worth my time and the museum's interest. This stone wall may even be Pictish. You have a good understanding of the history. Reverend Carriston trained you well.

Christina nodded, 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 appreciate your faith in me, Edgar. But surely someone else can do this.

She spoke calmly, though her heart thumped hard. She could not go to Dundrennan, of all places.

Your uncle will be disappointed if you do not— Edgar frowned. Ah. Is it the painting?

Christina felt her cheeks go hot, always a lamentable barometer of her thoughts. She had her mother's auburn hair and the translucent skin that went with it. Glancing at her brother, she saw John nod to himself. Yes. The MacBrides of Dundrennan own the painting, she said.

Indeed, Edgar murmured. The Blackburn painters are too prolific, the lot of you. So Stephen's painting of you as the legendary Dundrennan princess is there? How awkward.

Exactly, John said, standing slowly, his cane compensating for the weakness in his left leg. Since the MacBrides now own the picture that caused Christina such grief and scandal, she cannot be expected to visit Dundrennan.

Edgar came around the desk. That was the painting your husband completed just before his tragic death.

Stiffening at the reminder, Christina nodded. Stephen sold the painting, though he had promised never to let it go.

He was always unreliable, Edgar muttered. Lean and dark, his face chiseled perfection, his voice mellow, he was singularly attractive—yet Christina never felt drawn to him or comforted in his presence. She felt wary despite the family friendship. If only Edgar would learn to show a kinder side.

Sir Edgar Neaves, a respected museum director just ten years older than Christina, had been a friend of her father, and lately made no secret of his intentions and proclaimed fondness for the daughter of one of Scotland's most renowned painters. Edgar had a longstanding friendship with the Blackburn family, and had witnessed the humiliating scandal that had followed Stephen Blackburn's death six years earlier. Suddenly widowed and snubbed by society, Christina valued Edgar's continued loyalty through those years, and had supported her academic efforts.

A few weeks ago he had proposed marriage. Somewhat surprised, Christina had not yet answered, considering—and hesitating. She did not love Edgar in a romantic sense, the way she wanted to love again someday. She felt gratitude toward him, but no spark of what she yearned to feel again.

Years before, in her impulsive and rather wild marriage to her second cousin of the same surname, she had played dangerously with fiery passion, and had been burned. If she married Sir Edgar, the relationship would be intellectual, polite, safe—perhaps even content once she gave up the secret dream of something more. Edgar was a brilliant scholar who encouraged Christina's academic interests. Though convinced that a woman could never be the intellectual equal of a man, he did support her dabblings, as he called them.

Now Edgar smiled at her, cool and appreciative. My dear, do not be concerned about the painting. No one would recognize you as the model for Stephen's princess. You are several years older now and have grown thin, not as... lush as you were then. He tipped his head. Yet you are still attractive.

Good God, Neaves, John burst out. Show a little tact. She was seventeen then, and is scarce twenty-three now. She's hardly a thin old hag.

I never said that, Edgar protested.

Near enough. Christina is a beauty. There are many who would love to paint her, but she refuses to model—even for the artists in her own family.

Slipping a hand into her side pocket, Christina felt for her small spectacles, tucked in a little tapestried bag. She slipped them on, ducking her head. She generally wore the eyeglasses most of the time now, and it was true that she had grown thin and pale. For all her brother's kind defense, she knew Edgar was right. She had become a dull little widow, bookish and prim.

That was far better than the rebellious, wild girl she had been once.

No harm intended. You artistic Blackburns all have that quick temper, Edgar said. Even your sister shares it, though she has a sensible academic bent.

John frowned and leaned on his cane, and Christina saw the pink stain of anger in his cheeks. Her brother, with his angelic face haloed in glossy brown curls and a calm demeanor to match, rarely showed bad temper. But he disliked Edgar.

Christina, you do not have to go to Dundrennan, John said firmly.

She will go if she cares about Reverend Carriston's work, Edgar said. Anyone else might overlook some important feature in this site. What of your uncle's research concerning King Arthur in Scotland? He looked at Christina.

Uncle Walter's work is very important, she admitted.

And he was a great admirer of Sir Hugh MacBride's writings about the Dundrennan legend. Think, my dear, Edgar urged. An archaeological discovery in those hills could vindicate your uncle from his... er, 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 and Arthurian links to Pictish tribes had been ridiculed by some scholars. Tradition placed the Arthurian tales in Britain rather than Scotland. A find of Pictish origin in the Strathclyde hills, where Walter had placed some Arthurian battles, might prove her uncle's lifework.

She straightened her shoulders. You have a point about Uncle Walter, she conceded. Very well. I will look at the site. But I will keep clear of Dundrennan House itself.

That will be difficult. Sir Aedan has invited our representative to stay there, sparing us hotel expenses. We will tender the cost of your transportation, but you must stay at the house. Do not worry about the painting, Edgar added. It is probably forgotten in some dusty corner.

You may be right, she admitted.

With your usual plainness, no one could ever be the wiser. John, Edgar said, turning, perhaps you could clear your schedule to escort your sister. You have so few obligations now. Edgar glanced at John's leg and cane.

John bristled. I would be happy to travel with 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 picture again, with its unhappy memories.

Still, she felt an inner excitement growing as her curiosity and eagerness as a scholar compelled her to go. The chance to uncover something ancient, to touch it, learn about it, was a plum indeed. Edgar knew her well in that regard.

Sir Aedan thinks the site will yield nothing much, so he expects this to take but a day or two, Edgar said. He may be right, but I want you to send word to me of what you find. If it seems intriguing, I will come out as soon as can be arranged.

Christina nodded. As dread and anticipation swept through her again, she clasped her trembling hands.

* * *

Startled awake, Sir Aedan Arthur MacBride, baronet and laird of Dundrennan, bolted upright in his leather chair. Grasping at shifting reality, he tried to recapture the dream that was fading swiftly.

That damned painting, he thought, glancing up at the thing where it hung above the fireplace, had worked its way into his mind while he dozed. Some silly fairytale of briar maidens and princes had filled his dreams. He shoved back a lock of thick dark hair and shook his head, trying to dispel a haunted feeling.

He had fallen asleep, having settled comfortably in the small business room off his bedroom to review the account ledgers. But the air was too close, the silence too deep, the numbers on the page soporific. Sleep had won over tallying.

Glancing at his pocket watch, he swore softly. Nearly time for tea. The ladies of Balmossie would fuss at him if he did not appear, as would their tempestuous companion, Miss Thistle.

Well, he thought, rising from his chair. Unpleasant matters must be addressed with the ladies, issues that Aedan had postponed long enough. The preparations for the royal visit in October, which he dreaded more than welcomed, had made his life sheer hell, and the time had come for grim truths.

He must inform his charming but impractical kinswomen that the estate's finances could not support their eagerness to ready his house for royalty. He wanted Dundrennan House restored to magnificence, but a strict budget was necessary.

Before his father's death nearly a year ago, Aedan had promised to complete Sir Hugh MacBride's plans for Dundrennan. The famous poet, once described by a newpaper as the Queen's own Highland bard, a name that had stuck, had earned an immortal reputation and a fortune writing epic poems proclaimed for power and artistry. They were a tad long and overblown for Aedan's taste, an opinion he kept to himself.

Over the years, Sir Hugh had devoted time, passion, and cash to restoring and modernizing the family seat at Dundrennan. Refurbishing the house was an expensive longterm project, and after his father's death, Aedan had discovered how much of Sir Hugh's fortune had been sunk into the property. Yet his father's will specified that the work at Dundrennan must be completed if Aedan was to keep the property.

Even with considerable funds drawn from his own accounts, Aedan found it difficult to repay the inherited debts. Honoring the tradesmen's fees incurred by his busy kinswomen proved an increasing challenge. The situation had to improve, or he stood to lose a great deal.

Aedan straightened his black brocade vest, snugged the dark brown silk neckcloth around his white collar, then slid into his black wool coat, settling the lapels. He brushed at a few mud stains on his clothing, certain that his Aunt Lillias—Lady Balmossie—and his second cousin, Amy Stewart, would fret over his appearance. Dust and spatters were a daily result of his occupation as a civil engineer and builder of highways and byways in Scotland, and he did not mind them so much.

He sighed, feeling displaced somehow—just the strange emotional residue from the dream. A keen longing spun in his gut, a yearning for something unfulfilled, like love.

Love. He huffed, low and bitter. For the lairds of Dundrennan, love was a waste of time—even dangerous, tradition said. He had fallen in love once, years ago, and it had ended in tragedy. Now that he was laird, the Dundrennan curse lay squarely upon his shoulders, continuing from the time of the first Aedan of Dundrennan to the current day.

True love had not done that ancient fellow any good, he mused—that was the one who had lost the princess in the briar, and had started the whole legend and curse.

And the current Aedan MacBride had no intention of testing it again. Love had gone poorly for him the first time. So be it.

A remnant of his dream returned suddenly: a woman's sleeping face, his hand upon her brow, a feeling of desperation. In the dream, he had been the ancient warrior from Dundrennan's legend, and he would have done anything to save his princess. Anything. And the girl had been—

Absurdly, the girl had been the young woman in the painting. And some flicker of desire still burned in him.

Nonsense. Too much on his mind and too little sleep, he told himself. He would have the gilt-framed painting moved elsewhere, and improve his work, concentration and rest.

Slamming shut the ledger with its frustrating numbers, he sighed. Nothing would improve those figures. He must put his foot down with the ladies of Balmossie.

He would suggest painting the walls rather than putting up expensive hand-painted Irish wallpapers. He would point out that the old Turkish rugs, though worn, lent more character than new plaid carpeting.

He had best tell them, too, that a museum representative would arrive on Thursday to stay at Dundrennan House for a day or two while examining the recent discovery on Cairn Drishan, a hill at the edge of Dundrennan's policies.

Two weeks ago, Aedan and his crew had been working on a portion of the parliamentary highway that was to go over the slope of Cairn Drishan. True, he did not want to cut through the ancient, untouched segment of his own land, but he understood the larger benefits of improving Scotland—an issue over which he and his father had often argued.

An explosion of black powder through the rock had revealed stones protruding from the hillside cut like decayed teeth. Aedan, with his foreman and assistant, quickly realized that the blast had uncovered part of a stone foundation. He hoped that the walls dated back no more than fifty years, some forgotten croft. But a deeper sense told him that the structure was much older.

If so, he could very well lose Dundrennan in its entirety, according to a provision in his father's will.

New or old, the discovery had to be examined by a representative of the national museum, according to the recent treasure trove law, before road construction could continue. Frustrated, delayed in his work for the Parliamentary Commission for the Department of Roads and Highways, Aedan had no choice but to comply.

Sifting through the jumble of papers on his desk, he found the letter from Sir Edgar Neaves of the National Museum. Neaves had a busy schedule, but would send a competent antiquarian named Mrs. Blackburn to look at the stones.

Good. Any old fuss-pot would do in Neaves's place, Aedan thought.

The man's covetous interest in the collections and objets d'art at Dundrennan House was annoying—even more, slightly disturbing. When and if Neaves himself arrived, Aedan would instruct his housekeeper to lock up the plate and hide the keys.

Scowling, he tossed the letter down and went to the door, but paused before the fireplace.

Centered over the mantel, the oil painting had an allure he sometimes could not resist. A young woman reclined among a scattering of wild pink roses, her classic features and graceful hands peaceful, her skin creamy, her hair a rippled dark auburn cascade. The translucent folds of her white chemise, touched with lavender and butter yellow highlights, showed the pink fullness of her breasts and the rich curves of her body. Detailed yet lush in its free brushwork, its colors as richly beautiful as the enticing subject, the painting seemed to glow.

The small brass plaque on the frame read The Enchanted Briar, Stephen Blackburn, 1852. Aedan nodded to himself. A sound investment. Any work by a member of the prolific, talented Blackburn family had growing value, and there were three Blackburns in Dundrennan's art collection. Aedan had purchased this particular one himself at an exhibit at the Royal Scottish Academy in Edinburgh. He recognized the remarkable quality and potential value of the painting, and he knew that the subject could be Dundrennan's own famous legend of the princess in the briar. A worthy purchase indeed.

Yet there was more. The image fascinated him, haunted him. He kept it in his private rooms, never admitting to anyone how much the painting—the model, the subject—drew him.

The girl's exquisite face and sensuous form had become familiar to him. She was part of his life somehow.

And now he was dreaming of her. He was too practical for such whimsy, and it bothered him. He was an engineer, not a poet or a dreamer of any kind. He was nothing like his father.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, staring at the painting, still drawn to it. Tranquil, sensual and disturbing, too—beneath the blowsy roses and luscious model, a mesh of thorns hidden under the flowers held a threatening element. And each time he looked at the painting, it seemed to seduce him.

She seduced him.

He rocked back on his boot heels. A force swept through him—a trace of longing on the shore of his soul. God, he wanted her, needed her. And she did not exist.

He stepped back. He would not indulge in fancies. His father had been brilliant but idealistic, running the finances to ruin. Pragmatism was sorely needed at Dundrennan, and Aedan was its sole source.

He would move the painting, consign it to some dark corner in this enormous folly of a house. Or perhaps he would sell it to pay off some of his father's debts.

But he could not do that. He loved the picture of the briar-caught maiden too much. He wanted her near him always.

Scowling, he turned on his heel and left the room.

Chapter 2

Gables and turrets rose above a ring of trees, a fairy-tale profile in honey stone. Looking out of the coach, Christina felt oddly as if she entered an enchanted realm formed from the gossamer of dreams, where life was filled with wonder.

Fairy tales did not exist, she reminded herself, and the open carriage was traveling too fast to be a dream coach. Its breathless pace barely allowed a decent view of the hills and moorland or Dundrennan House, which rose above trees in the distance. And the daylight was already fading.

A brisk ride in an open carriage had left Christina breathless and unkempt. Strands of auburn hair slipped loose from its thick knot, her cheeks felt wind-stung, her gray skirt was rumpled, and her steel-rimmed eyeglasses kept sliding down her nose. She pushed them up again and looked around.

As the vehicle careened around another steep curve, Christina gripped the inner door loop and leaned with the sway.

Through the twilight she glimpsed heather-bright hills and sweeping moors. Clamping a gloved hand to her black bonnet, its satin ribbons fluttering, she glanced at her brother.

John sat beside her, his left leg stretched out for comfort. He too held fast to his hat brim, but he smiled and seemed relaxed, clearly enjoying the reckless speed of the ride.

Then, jutting above a ring of trees, she saw towers, turrets, and balustraded roofs. As the carriage passed through open iron gates, Christina saw the house clearly at last.

All golden stone, blue slate roofs, and sleepy windows, the house blended medieval and later styles behind a facade of honey sandstone. The foundations were swathed in rosebushes scattered with pink blossoms, and more flowers filled a garden visible behind the house. A dense greenwood surrounded both gardens and house, and the arch of a church was visible in the distance.

Looking at the rose hedges and trees around the lovely old house, Christina thought of a protective briar around a fairy-tale castle, impossible to penetrate without magic.

Sitting forward, she felt her heart quicken in anticipation.

* * *

Oh, my, they're here, the housekeeper said, as Aedan encountered her in an upstairs hallway. Mary Gunn drew aside the lace curtain of the window overlooking the entrance and peered out. The lady looks a bonny wee lass, and the gentleman is braw and fine!

Bonny wee lass? Aedan asked. "Neaves is sending an antiquarian from the