For a moment, she sensed that longing, as if MacBride were like a lost boy standing out in the cold, peering inside at a cozy family scene. His frown masked something poignant, she was sure of it, and she understood. She felt distanced and yet drawn too.
“Mrs. Blackburn, I would be happy to show you the library collection,” Aedan said then. “The rain is enough of a downpour to prevent our examination of dry stones and roads,” he drawled. Dougal Stewart laughed.
Smiling, Lady Strathlin took her husband’s arm. “Come with me, Dougal. I want to introduce you to Mrs. Blackburn’s brother. He’s an artist! And I have been thinking about having portraits made,” she said as they left the library together.
Aedan turned to Christina. “What interests you most here, madam? History, art, literature, antique manuscripts? We have those and more here.”
You interest me most,she thought suddenly, meeting his gaze, so blue and guarded. He was polite, patient, and seemed amused. Yet she sensed something deeper hidden within. She wanted to know what it was, though she had no right to desire it, she thought.
“All of it interests me. I’ve read your father’s poetry, so it is wonderful to see his collection. Sometimes my uncle and Sir Hugh corresponded to discuss matters of history.”
“My father spoke highly of him. Come this way.”
She strolled with him around the library while he pointed out sections devoted to different subjects. As they walked along, pausing to look at a section of books, she smiled as she touched some of the spines.
“Scott, Shakespeare, Milton, Dante, Tennyson, Burns, Hogg, Carlyle, Chambers… they are all here! Books can be like old friends.”
“Sometimes. My dominie made me read them, though I was not a willing scholar. I built bridges and towers with books more often than I read them.”
“My brothers were like that. My sister and I were more devoted readers.”
“Then you will be in heaven here. My father organized his books in categories. This bay, for example, holds classic literature and poetry. That one there houses folklore and mythology, and another bay has a range of sciences. There are many volumes up on the gallery level, too. You may want to call a groom, or myself when I am at home, to fetch books from the higher shelves.”
“I’m not afraid to climb ladders or walk the gallery.”
“Not nervous about heights, then?”
“Not particularly.”
“Good.” She heard a grudging approval in his voice. “You will need that to climb Cairn Drishan. It’s moderately high and can be a rough walk.”
“I am eager to see it. May we go soon?”
“When the weather improves. It could be tomorrow or longer, depending on the rain and the level of mud on the hill. I wonder how long you planned to stay?”
“Sir Edgar thought a day or two would do. He is an efficient soul, and having to lose up a day or two to rain and mud would rather throw him, I think.”
“But you and your brother are willing to stay longer?”
“As long as we need to—if you will have us,” she said.
“Of course.” He kept her gaze for a long moment, and she felt herself blush. She turned to pull a volume from the shelf.“How marvelous to grow up here, even if you did use books for building blocks.”
“I did. But I am not a complete boor.” His mouth twitched in a smile. “We were raised on bards and poets instead of Mother Goose. We recited Sir Walter Scott and Robert Burns in our cradles, and sang ballads about Border thieves before we could walk. And we learned some of Father’s poems by heart.”
She heard his teasing tone, but sensed truth. “Do you write poetry too, Sir Aedan?”
“Not a whit. I lack an artist’s soul. Our dominie despaired of me in the schoolroom when it came to writing prose and poetry. My father once said I was made of numbers, earth, and steel. He meant it as a compliment. I did not take it that way at the time. But now I see his point.”
“Numbers, earth, and steel.” She studied him. “I see it. I also see—a bit of the poet.”
“Not a whit of it.” A flicker of amusement went through his eyes, his lips.
“Would a man of numbers appreciate a painting as deeply as you do?”
“He might. He does.” Tilting his head, he regarded her. “I must beg your pardon, Mrs. Blackburn. For more than one thing, I vow,” he added in a murmur. “But I do not usually go on about myself. I apologize.”
“You did not go on! And I enjoyed learning about you—about your thoughts.”
