“I know the poem.The Enchanted Briar.Legends and history inspired him.”
“He took thin tales and fleshed them out. But do not waste your time on fancies, Mrs. Blackburn.”
He stood, and seeing her wide stare, regretted his curt tone. But he felt impatient over his interrupted roadwork—and he could not afford to soften his heart toward her. She was too damned intriguing, and he had to remind himself of that.
“I will meet you and your brother in the foyer in half an hour, madam.” With a quick nod, he left the room.
*
A dark netdraped over her neatly tipped black hat lessened the sun’s glare as Christina followed Aedan’s long-legged stride down the front steps. John made his way more slowly behind them. In the drive, Tam Durie waited beside a two-wheeled carriage harnessed to a huge bay with white feathered feet.
“Yer gig is ready, Sir Aedan,” Tam said after greeting them. “Andrew Mor came doon frae the hoose to say ye wanted it, though we had Pog saddled for ye. D’ye want me to drive?”
“Thank you, Tam. I’ll drive the gig, and Pog can follow on a lead. Unless, Mr. Blackburn, you would like to ride the mare.” He indicated the gray horse walking up the drive in the care of a young groom, a slight blond lad in a shabby kilt and jacket.
“I’d be happy to ride her,” John said, grinning.
Tam tipped his hat and departed. While John vaulted into the saddle, Christina accepted Aedan’s assistance into the high seat of the gig. “I promise you that I drive more sedately than Tam,” he commented, taking the reins.
“I found his driving rather refreshing,” she answered.
“Somehow that does not surprise me.”
Seated beside AedanMacBride in a two-wheeled gig drawn by a huge feather-footed bay, Christina gripped an iron railing as they bounced along. Behind the gig, John rode a sleek gray mare as they moved along an earthen lane that climbed one slope and then another at a sedate pace.
“You needn’t creep along for my benefit, Sir Aedan,” she said.
“I was considering the horse, Mrs. Blackburn. Pog is used to me riding her, though your brother handles her well. She’s a bit temperamental, but affectionate when she knows her rider.”
“Pog?” she asked, curious.
“Poigeanach.” He glanced at her. “You know some Gaelic, Mrs. Blackburn, do you not?” His eyes twinkled and a smile played around his lips.
Poigeanach?“Fond of kissing,” Christina answered.
Aedan grinned. “Tam Davies named her. Ever since she was a colt, he has kissed her good night on her nose. He helped deliver her, and she is more his horse than mine. She cries without that good-night kiss.”
Christina laughed, seated so close to him that each bounce brought her shoulder against his. Even through jacket, skirt, petticoats, she was keenly aware of his arm brushing hers, and the length of his thigh pressing her skirts.
The track was a clean ribbon over the moor. “The route is in good repair,” she said. “So many Highland roads are rutted and rough, or have alarming curves and steep slopes.”
“It is an old drover’s track that we resurfaced. I’ve overseen the roads and byways in the western regions for a few years, as many of the old roads need some work. There are some very steep gradients in the Highland hills, so it can be a challenge when building a new roadway.”
As they passed a house and farmland nestled at the foot of a high, bleak hill, Aedan gestured. “That’s the home farm, which produces what we need at Dundrennan House. Parian MacDonald is our factor who tends the farm and also sees to the welfare of our tenants. His brother Hector is the foreman on the road crew. We have fewer tenants than in earlier days, but we have always tried to find work for any tenant who wants it.”
“Did you have many homes cleared out in this glen to make room for sheep grazing and for hunting lodges, as happened all across the Highlands?”
“Not here. Neither my grandfather nor my father would tolerate it, although some Dundrennan lands were sold off before their time. People left homes they had held for generations, or were evicted by new landowners. Many Dundrennan men joined Highland regiments to earn income for their families, and a good number were lost to war. Some of their widows and families are still here. But the numbers in our glen are diminishing.”
Christina sighed. “The sweeping away of the old ways.”
“Scotland has seen war and strife in every generation, but the last century brought change on a far greater scale. We are not at war presently, yet the enemy is at our gates.”
“What enemy?” she asked.
“Poverty and greed. Ignorance and prejudice. Even tourism—people are eager to see romantic Highland settings, yet they sometimes disrespect Scottish traditions. It seems like invasion at times.”
“I agree there are changes, but there are groups working to preserve Gaelic culture before it vanishes,” Christina said. “I work with one or two groups at times. And your father helped to revive Scottish heritage in his works, like Scott and Burns and others did.”
