“A spell to sleep forever,” he murmured, watching her. “Like the old tale of the Sleeping Beauty. Briar Rose, some call it.”
“And yet it happened, so Sir Hugh wrote in his preface. Happened in your family.”
“So they say,” he murmured. “I have my doubts. Legends are often exaggerations.”
“I believe it was true.”
“You are a romantic.”
“And a historian, and yet I trust the source. Your father, and something in the documents, so my uncle said.”
“Did he,” MacBride murmured. “I have not read those papers.”
“She was lost to him, yet just within reach. It makes me weep just to think about it.” She half laughed to hide the feeling that spun through her even then.
“Why so?” he asked gently. “It is just a legend.”
“They had such a pure love, beyond anything most ever know. And they lost each other.” Tears pricked her eyes. “True love exists.”
“Do you genuinely think so?” He raised a skeptical brow as he gazed down at her. Those blue eyes and that long, lean, powerful form were distracting. Her heart thumped.
“I do think so,” she said, lifting her chin. “Love is essential, sir. It is the miracle that continues human life, not just generations, but—but the heart. The soul.”
“Perhaps.” The words were dry.
“Surely you have felt—or do you only—feel attraction, without emotion?” It was a bold statement, and she looked at him with near defiance. “Last night—” But she stopped, for the very thought roused wickedly sensual feelings. Not love. Attraction. She was guilty of it herself, and glanced away.
“Ah, I must apologize again. I sincerely regret any affront or harm to you.”
She shrugged. “It was—there were—unusual circumstances.”
“And it will not happen again.”
“Of course,” she said quickly, looking away.
“Since we are talking about this legend, Mrs. Blackburn,” he said. “And since my cousin brought it up earlier—as a rule, the lairds of Dundrennan do not risk love. Certainly we feel affection and, aye, attraction, for the fairer species. The line would have died out otherwise.” He smiled, yet his blue gaze went dark witha smoldering quality. “But we do not pine for what is called true love. We do not indulge.”
“Indulge! Sir, real love is extraordinary and irresistible. It is thunder and lightning. A hurricane,” she said, gesturing. “The blaze of the sun and the shine of the moon. A force of nature, powerful and inexplicable. It cannot be stopped or denied. It is not an indulgence, like…like chocolate!”
“For a bookish wee thing, you have a passionate soul. A bit of the poet in you, I think.” His eyes sparkled, almost teasing, but not malicious. Almost affectionate, for his dark-blue eyes softened. All the while, she felt her cheeks go fiery.
“I believe in love at first sight.”
“And no doubt, a whole rasher of other nonsense.” But his smile was soft.
Christina raised her chin. “I see you refuse to be convinced.”
“Are you trying to convince me, Mrs. Blackburn?”
“I would not bother. I know a brick wall when I see one.”
He laughed easily. “I will tread carefully the next time you are in a mood to exercise your brainpan, madam. I cannot keep up with such a passionate soul as yours.”
“Laugh, sir. But true love, and love at first sight, do happen. I wish—” She stopped.
“That you could find it?” he finished gently.
She shrugged. “Well, I think Mr. Stewart and Lady Strathlin have found it.” Her face felt heated with the intensity of her conviction and her desire, a yearning for the same.
