“Then you must share something of yourself.”
“We shall see,” she murmured with a half smile, and heard his chuckle as he pulled a book out to look at it, surely to escape the moment, as she had done.
Standing close to him, she felt keenly aware that they were alone in the snug alcove formed by bookshelves. The flexible bellof her skirts brushed his legs, enveloped him, as if he breached her perimeter and she allowed it.
Propriety said she should step back, but she felt at ease with him, and found his animal grace, the silent power he exuded, attractive and exhilarating. Last night, the unusual situation had thrown them together rather intimately. He had helped her when she was hurt—and later, when he had ventured a kiss, she had allowed it—to be honest with herself, she had wanted it. No man had touched her since Stephen, before his brief illness. Sir Edgar had tried to kiss her once, but it was quick, dry, and forgettable. She doubted he was capable of the passion Aedan MacBride had stirred in her in a quick, blazing kiss that he had apologized for, and without need, for she had wanted it too. Craved it of him.
Her knees went weak as she remembered it. She grabbed the edge of a shelf.
“Mrs. Blackburn?”
Summoning herself, she smiled. “You were going to show me my uncle’s books.”
“Of course.” He beckoned, and she followed. Dear Lord, she thought, she might follow him anywhere, which was just madness. He stopped in a dim, cozy alcove, a bastion of tall shelves around a red leather chair and small table.
“This was my father’s favorite reading corner, where he kept the books he especially treasured. Reverend Carriston’s volumes are in pride of place, just here.”
As he opened the brass mesh doors of one of the cases, she gasped in delight to see the familiar spines of her uncle’s multivolume work on Celtic history. She moved closer, and his arm brushed hers. Inhaling the scent of spicy soap, she heard the quiet rhythm of his breathing beside her, and for a moment, she could hardly focus on the books.
“All the volumes ofCeltic Scotland,” she said, touching the dark-blue leather spines stamped in gold. “It is like seeing old friends.”
“I suppose it must be. If you need them for reference when you assess the old stones on the hill, please feel free to use them, as well as anything we have here.”
“It is an excellent collection of histories,” she said, scanning the spines adjacent to her uncle’s books. “Hume, Chambers, Carlyle—I am familiar with those too. Uncle Walter would be honored to know his books are shelved with these as favorites.”
MacBride took out the first of her uncle’s books and flipped it open to show her a signed page. She traced her fingers over her uncle’s signature, and her finger brushed MacBride’s thumb. A soft internal spark went through her. She withdrew her hand.
“‘To Sir Hugh, fellow admirer of the ancient Celts, from his friend, Rev. Walter Carriston,’” she read.
“Your uncle was a good friend to my father. Please tell him how much we appreciate it, when you see him next.”
“I will, thank you. He is growing older, and I know it will mean much to him.” She scanned some of the nearby volumes. “He translated some medieval documents for Sir Hugh. They came out of the MacBride family papers. Are they here?”
He shelved the book. “The Dundrennan Folio? It is locked away, but you may use it if you wish. I will fetch it if you need it.” He glanced down at her.
“Of course.”
“Sir Hugh kept his own books here, I see,” she said, reaching up to touch the spines on another shelf. “The queen’s own Highland bard.”
“You know his poetry?”
“Aye, wonderful epics, full of romance and adventure.”
“He would have liked you very much, Mrs. Blackburn,” he said with a low chuckle. “Do you have a favorite?”
“More than one!Children of the MistandThe Warriorare exciting adventures, andThe Wandererhas a mythical sort of power. ButThe Enchanted Briaris my favorite, I think.” Finding it, she touched the book’s red leather spine. “I have read it several times.”
“Because of the painting?”
She blushed. “Because it is a superb study of how tragedy shapes character, and how a good man can be driven to desperate measures by love and grief.”
“Spoken like a scholar. Now tell me why Christina Blackburn likes it.” He leaned a shoulder against a bookcase, expectant.
“Truly? Because each time I read it, I weep,” she confessed.
“Oh, aye, he would have loved you,” he murmured. “He wanted his poetry to stir the heart, rend it, heal it again, so he once said. It is a beautiful tragedy, I must admit.”
“I loved it. A Druid prince meets the daughter of a king, and it is love at first sight. But her father wants her to marry a rival. When she refuses, he imprisons her in a tower. Soon the prince climbs secretly to her bower, and wants her rescue her, take her away. But she dares not disobey her father.” She shook her head. “It is heartbreaking when she gives birth to their son with just her old nurse in the tower. That news infuriates her father, and he summons another Druid to cast a spell over her, imprisoning her forever.” She sighed.
