Her vanilla scent, the sway of night-colored silk, the hint of skin through delicate lace, brought back the memory of passionate stolen kisses. The girl in the painting was but pale cardboard compared to this vivid creature.
He reminded himself that Christina Blackburn was poised to destroy his road, his career, perhaps his hold on his home and estate. He must remain aloof. But that was proving a challenge.
In the dining room, crystal and silverware gleamed under candlelight flame, its light dancing over the muted colors of the unfinished mural.
“Oh dear,” she said. “It is lovely, but—is that a scene of the briar princess?”
Aedan leaned down. “I believe so. But do not fret, madam. No one will see the other painting.”
She glanced up. “Can you promise that?” she whispered.
“I alone will see it,” he said, and drew out a chair for her.
The pink heat of her cheeks stained down her throat and beneath the delicate lace of her bodice. His entire body seemed to clench as he went to his seat at the head of the table.
*
Tasting little ofthe dessert of raspberry tartlet and lemon ice or the excellent fare of lamb cutlets, roasted potatoes, and vegetables that had preceded it, Christina set down her spoon. She had no appetite, and her thoughts so distracting that she could scarcely pay attention to the dinner conversation around her.
Throughout the meal, she sat next to Aedan MacBride, who presided at one end, but she said little. After his murmuredreminder about the painting, she had felt too aware that he saw heren deshabilleeach time he saw that painting. She had been wild then, passionate, beautiful, happy, and terribly unwise. Now she was terribly embarrassed.
To his credit, he had been discreet about the painting, and all through dinner, had been solicitous toward her despite her near silence. She saw no lascivious glimmer in his eyes and no residue of his displeasure earlier that day. He was polite, considerate, even gentle. Touching her wine goblet to her lips, she glanced at him again.
The hefty high-backed Jacobean chair suited his solid presence. He wore Highland dress that evening, a pleated kilt of red tartan of the Dundrennan MacBrides, as well as a black coat and vest, and a white shirt. All evening she could not help but notice what a beautiful man he was, strong, taut, powerful, that strength somehow complimented by the red kilt and elegant coat. She felt drawn to the savage appeal of raw masculine beauty, enhanced by the rugged elegance of Highland dress. Once again, she felt an undeniable pull.
Feeling the heat of another blush, she tried to forget the kisses they had shared. Sipping wine, she smiled at the chattering company around her, nodded as if listening, and made an effort to quell some very unladylike thoughts.
“You are quiet this evening, Mrs. Blackburn.”
She nearly jumped, then met Aedan MacBride’s direct, steel-blue gaze in the candlelight. He toyed with his half-eaten dessert, she saw, his silver spoon resting in long, sun-browned fingers.
“I am a bit fatigued,” she admitted.
“No doubt, considering your adventurous day.”
She flashed him a sour look, but saw only an amused twinkle in his eyes. “It was a rather interesting day,” she allowed.
“Please do not feel you must stay if you would rather retire.”
She shook her head, though she longed to escape. Her head felt stuffed with cotton wool. Too much wine, too little sleep, too many thoughts.
“It is very good work,” John was saying in reply to someone. Seated opposite Christina, he turned to look at the mural. Beside him, Amy Stewart swiveled to look too.
Others murmured agreement, and Christina glanced at the painting again. In shadows and candlelight, she saw some painted areas and some sketched in. The scene was of a few figures on a whitewashed background, but she was sure that one of them reclined. Surely it was another reference to Dundrennan’s legend of an ancient princess.
“Sir Aedan, do you know the ground?” John asked.
“Ground?” Aedan looked puzzled.
“The support for the mural,” Christina murmured.
“Ah. I believe the wall was coated in plaster and whitewash. I remember that he insisted that it be dry thoroughly before he worked on it.”
“Good,” John said. “Wall murals done inbuon fresco—when paint is applied to damp plaster—do not do well in the damp British climate, unlike hot, dry Italy, where the fresco technique was highly developed. I know an artist who did a fresco mural at Windsor that was a disaster due to the climate. He had to alter it tofresco secco,painting on dry plaster.”
“Sensible, since our weather can be damp in any season,” Aedan said. “What chance is there of completing it within a few weeks, Mr. Blackburn, if I may ask?”
“I cannot guarantee it, sir. Is there a need to have it done so quickly?”
