Hands in his pockets, he stared. Tranquil, sensual, the painting had a darker thread, for beneath the blowsy roses, luscious model, and joyous bursts of color lay the subtle traces of a mesh of thorns. He felt unease, fascination, and a strange desire to know her.
A force swept through him then. A trace of longing on the shore of his soul or a remnant of the dream he had not yet shaken. He stepped back.
Scowling—it was an oil painting, for God’s sake—he left the room. His kinswomen, bless their wickedly impish souls, would be upset if he was late for tea again.
*
“I will notdo it.” Christina Blackburn folded her hands and looked out the window of the office in the National Museum belonging to Sir Edgar Neaves. The view encompassed a sloping Edinburgh street, crowded with shops and tenements. The room was filled with gray light in the shadow of the great castle crag. Even in the warmth of summer, the dimness held a chill. She shivered.
“Miss Blackburn, please consider it.” Sir Edgar rose from behind a huge walnut desk. A handsome man, his lean elegance suited the richly appointed room with its dark wooden bookcases and tables, leather chairs, and red patterned carpet. Nearby, her brother, John Blackburn, sat silent and thoughtful, watching, listening. He glanced at her, lifted a brow.
“Edgar, you know I cannot. Both of you know why.” She turned to face them, and John nodded his understanding.
“My dear,” Edgar said, “just spare a day or two to investigate the ancient stone wall discovered on Dundrennan’s property. This is a plum for the museum.”
“It is a plum foryou,Edgar,” she pointed out. “You want to acquire Dundrennan’s collection for the museum. A feather in your cap even more than a plum. Go there yourself and make an offer to MacBride for whatever he will give you from his father’s estate.”
“It is Sir Aedan now. Baron of Dundrennan, as the son of the late Sir Hugh MacBride, and true, he has the whole of a considerable estate. But unlike his father, the heir of the great Highland bard is no poet. A bit dull, in my opinion. An engineer who works on roads like a common laborer. He has little interest in history and scant sense of the importance of what may exist on his lands and in that house, which was once an ancient castle.”
“A shame. But since you know him, it is fitting that you visit him,” she said.
“I am not free to travel for a while. I want you to go in my stead. The old wall Sir Aedan discovered while blasting through rock for a roadway may indeed be ancient. You could examine it. Perhaps you could publish a little paper about it. I can speak to Mr. Smith atBlackwood’s Magazineon your behalf.”
“Blackwood’shas published four of my articles in the past three years.” She lifted her chin. “If I have a reason, I can speak to Mr. Smith myself.”
John sat upright. “My sister is a respected antiquarian in her own right without your assistance, Edgar. Remember that.”
“Well, she need not fret so much about making the trip. She tends to be housebound and could get out now and then.Someone must examine this discovery before they blast again in the area and demolish something of value!”
“It is not the journey, Edgar,” she said. “I can hardly go to Dundrennan House, of all places.” Christina turned back to the window, her skirt and layered petticoats rustling softly, moss-green wool sweeping over the oriental designs in the carpet.
“You are charming, if sometimes irrational.” Edgar smiled indulgently. “Do this for me, if for no other reason. Besides, I have already told him you are coming.”
“What! If he has the painting, he will recognize my name!”
“I wrote to him that a ‘Mrs. B’ would visit on behalf of the museum. Just to prepare him to meet a female expert. That might come as a surprise.”
“Not everyone would be shocked by a female antiquarian, Edgar,” she said. “Yet another reason for you to go instead of me.”
“I would, but I am heading to London to deliver a series of lectures at the British Museum, and simply cannot travel up to Dundrennan for a while. I can trust you to determine if this discovery is worth the museum’s interest. From the description Sir Aedan included in his letter—he wrote merely out of legal obligation, since the government must be informed if treasure trove is involved—the exposed wall could even be Pictish. You have a good grasp of that sort of thing. Reverend Carriston trained you well.”
Christina nodded at the mention of her elderly uncle. Walter Carriston was an authority on Scotland’s ancient history and Christina had learned a great deal from him about history, literature, scholarly methods, and more. The prospect of an ancient wall thrilled her. But she quailed at the thought of going to Dundrennan House.
“I appreciate your faith in me, Edgar. But surely someone else can do this.”
“I have committed to send you. But you resist. Ah! The painting!”
“The painting. The MacBrides of Dundrennan own it.” Her cheeks went hot; her tendency to blush easily was a lamentable barometer of her thoughts, thanks to her translucent complexion and auburn hair. And she felt mortified once again at the mention of the painting made in her youth.
“Indeed,” Edgar said. “I almost forgot. The painting of Christina as the legendary Dundrennan princess is there. How awkward.”
“Exactly.” John Blackburn stood, leaning on the cane that compensated for the weakness in his left leg. “That picture caused Christina a good deal of grief and scandal. She can hardly be expected to go to Dundrennan, where all there might see it—and see her.”
“True. It is a beautiful picture,” she said, “just—somewhat detailed.”
“That was the painting your husband completed before his tragic death, I think,” Edgar said as he came around the desk.
Christina stiffened at the reminder. “He promised he would never sell the painting, would keep it private. But he let it go without telling me. We needed the funds,” she added.
