“He was rather an unreliable sort,” Edgar muttered. Lean and brown, his face chiseled perfection, he was an attractive, capable, respected man just ten years her senior. Christina had never felt particularly drawn to him, nor could she relax in his presence. Despite a longstanding family connection, she often felt wary around Edgar Neaves. He had an edge that radiated criticism and superiority, although he was reliable and could be agreeable. Had he shown his better qualities more often than his sharpness, she might have warmed to him as her parents had hoped.
Now a museum director, Sir Edgar had once overseen the art gallery that had exhibited and promoted the artwork and fed the success of her late father, a renowned portrait painter. So Edgar knew firsthand of the humiliating scandal the Blackburns had endured following the death of Christina’s husband, Stephen Blackburn. Widowed, snubbed, retreating to the safety of family, she had appreciated Edgar as a family friend. But she sensed something beneath his cool intellectual veneer, something dark and hidden that never quite emerged. Lately, Neaves had made no secret of his fondness for her. Realizing that, Christina had grown cool and distant.
Then he hinted at marriage, though she considered him a friend. She deflected and gave no answer. She did not love Edgar, certainly not in the romantic, profound way she longed to feel someday. Now she was sure she might never have that. Even in her brief marriage, which had been passionate, intense, joyful and then challenging, she had not found her cherished dream of true love.
Eight years ago, she was only nineteen when she impulsively eloped with her adored second cousin, Stephen Blackburn. Playing with bursts of fiery passion both artistic and romantic, she had ultimately been burned. If she ever married Sir Edgar—perish the thought—the relationship would be intellectual, polite, perhaps content, but she would never feel desired, comfortable, understood, or even safe. Edgar was too cold. Yet he was a brilliant scholar who had encouraged her academic interests. Though she lacked the artistic talent that ran through her family like wildfire, her brain was a hungry scholar, fascinated by early history. Edgar often pointed out that women were not the intellectual equals of men, yet he encouraged her “scholarly dabblings,” as he called them, and now even asked her opinions as an antiquarian, acknowledging that she had some expertise in ancient Scottish history. That she laid at the feetof her uncle, Reverend Carriston, though her uncle credited her curiosity and appetite for knowledge and inquiry.
“My dear.” Now Edgar smiled at her, cool and appreciative. “Do not be concerned about the painting. No one would recognize you as the model for Stephen’s princess. You are several years older and have grown thin, not as… lush as then.” He tipped his head. “Still attractive, however.”
“Good God, Neaves,” John burst out. “Show a little tact. She was nineteen then, and scarcely twenty-eight now. She’s hardly a thin old hag!”
“I never said she was,” Edgar protested.
“Near enough! Christina is a beauty, and we all see it. So do you. Many have offered to paint her portrait, but since Father’s death, and Stephen’s too, she refuses to model for anyone ever again. And it is completely understandable.”
“John, please,” she said quietly.
“You know it is true, Chrissy. You are still a beauty. And a great scholar. Edgar knows it too.” At John’s reply, Edgar huffed.
Silent, Christina put a hand into a side pocket to feel her spectacles, tucked in a little tapestried bag. Ducking her head, she slid them on. She wore eyeglasses most of the time now, and it was true she had grown thin and pale in the last few years. For all her brother’s kind defense, Edgar was right. She was a dull little widow, bookish and prim.
Far better than the rebellious, wild girl she had been once.
“I meant no harm,” Edgar said. “You Blackburns all have that quick artistic temper. Even your sister shares it, though she has a more sensible academic bent.”
“For an art scholar, you do not have much respect for the artistic nature,” John said, frowning. Christina saw the pink stain of anger in his cheeks. Her brother had an angelic face, haloed in glossy brown curls and a calm demeanor to match,and rarely showed his so-called artistic temper. But Edgar had always irritated him, and sometimes John showed it.
“Christina, you do not have to go to Dundrennan,” John said rather firmly.
“She will go if she cares about the museum’s interest—and Reverend Carriston’s work on the subject,” Edgar said. “We cannot risk missing some important feature that exists in this site. What of your uncle’s research concerning King Arthur in Scotland?” He looked at Christina.
“Uncle Walter’s work is very important, and not recognized as such,” she admitted. Edgar had hit a tender spot in her heart and her scholar’s nature with that reminder.
“And he was a great admirer of Hugh MacBride’s writings about the Dundrennan legend. Think, my dear,” Edgar urged. “An archaeological discovery in those hills could vindicate your uncle from his academic failures. And he has so little time left to him, sadly.”
Christina caught her breath. Walter Carriston’s theories of King Arthur’s role in early Scottish history and the possibility of Arthurian links to Pictish tribes had been dismissed and even ridiculed by some scholars. Tradition placed the Arthurian tales in Britain rather than Scotland. A find of Pictish origin in the Strathclyde hills, where Walter was certain some Arthurian battles had occurred, could indeed vindicate her uncle’s work.
She straightened her shoulders. “You make a good point about Uncle Walter,” she said. “Very well. I will look at the site, stay at an inn, and return to Edinburgh quickly.”
“That will be difficult. Sir Aedan MacBride has invited our representative to stay at Dundrennan, sparing the museum hotel expenses. We will tender the cost of your transportation, but you must stay at the house.”
“I will pay for the inn myself,” she said. “I will be traveling alone, a widow and a scholar, and I have no desire to stay for long. I do not want to stay at the house.”
“You need not worry about that painting,” Edgar added. “It is probably forgotten in some dusty corner or attic. And as I said, no one would recognize you now, plain as you are most of the time. John,” Edgar said, turning, “perhaps you could clear your schedule to escort your sister. You have so few obligations now.” He glanced at John’s leg and cane.
John bristled. “If you decide to go, Chrissy, I would be happy to travel with you. We could stay at the house one night, and depart. I would be there with you.”
She sighed. “Thank you.”
While Edgar wrote a note for his secretary to arrange their transportation, Christina waited, her heart slamming. Dundrennan! She twisted her hands anxiously, dreading the sight of Stephen’s painting again, with its unhappy memories. She would simply avoid it, wherever it was. Surely they would not display it prominently. Not that painting.
Still, anticipation and curiosity compelled her to go. The chance to uncover something ancient, touch it, learn something new, was a plum indeed. The chance to prove her uncle’s theories was the sweetest plum of all. Edgar knew her well in some ways.
“Sir Aedan thinks the site will yield nothing much, so he expects you to be there but a day or two,” Edgar said. “He may be right. Still, I want to know what you find. If it is at all intriguing, I will join you as soon as I can. If so, you will have to stay.”
She nodded, clasping her trembling hands as dread and excitement rose in her.
Chapter Two
