A carved frieze ran above the slender stone arches and columns, cut with words that were broken up, and difficult to decipher in the darkness. She went closer, tipping her head back to examine it.
“‘She sleeps,’” she read aloud, softly. “‘Nor dreams, but… dwells…perfect rest…”’
“‘She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells, a perfect form in perfect rest,’” Aedan’s murmur shivered like warm silk. She whirled.
He leaned against a column, arms folded. He was elegant and lonely somehow, like a sculpture isolated forever in moonlight.
“You came,” she said.
He inclined his head. “I want to make sure the wolves and wildcats keep away.”
“How kind.” She looked up at the words carved in the frieze. “Is that a line from Tennyson?”
“It is. When Lord Tennyson heard that Father wanted to restore the Remembrance, he suggested those lines from a poem he was working on. A sleeping-beauty tale.”
“Lord Tennyson knew about this place?”
“He did. He was a friend of Sir Hugh.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he stayed by the entrance. “Some think this place should be a pilgrimage spot for our legendary princess, and because Father was a bit of a legend himself. The Glasgow City Commissioners and the directors of the National Museum—including your Sir Edgar—have asked me to open this to the public. It has great cultural value, they think.”
She knew Sir Edgar valued something about Dundrennan. Perhaps this was it. “But you do not want to share it?”
“And see it overrun with tourists hauling travel rugs and looking for picnic spots? I mean to keep it private.”
“Then I am privileged to be here with the laird himself.” She smiled a little.
“Indeed, for the laird should be asleep at this hour,” he drawled. “In the morning, he must dig earth and move stone, and beware of fetching little antiquaries.”
Laughing softly at that, Christina went toward the pale granite plinth. It stood breast high, plain and weather pocked, lacking a recumbent sculpted figure that it might have carried once. The broken remnant of a stone pillow lay at one end. She smoothed her fingers over the stone, feeling the grit of age and exposure.
“Is the princess here?” she asked quietly.
“Actually, no one knows where she lies. It’s an empty memorial.”
Spying words carved around the plinth, she bent. “‘What thou see’st when thou dost wake… for thy true-love take.’ Shakespeare, fromA Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“Exactly.” In the darkness, his voice was rich as cream.
Feeling a touch on her shoulder, a comforting caress, she straightened and turned.
But Aedan was not there, as she thought. He still stood at the entrance several feet away. Startled, she gasped and stepped back. Overhead, clouds shifted, and cool moonlight bathed plinth and pillow again.
In that fleeting instant, a form shimmered on the stone—the delicate figure of a girl in a long gown, lying still and lovely onthe stone. She was a translucent moonlit glow, for the hard curve of the pillow showed through her shoulders. Then she vanished.
Christina blinked. The stone was flat and empty.
With a soft cry, she whirled and ran toward the entrance, toward Aedan and safety, nearly colliding with him. He took her by the shoulders.
“What is it? I was only joking about the wildcat. What’s wrong?” he added, the amusement leaving his voice. His grip tightened.
She shook her head. “Nothing! May we go now, please?”
“You’re trembling. Cold? Give me your hands.” He chafed warmth into her bare fingers. The direct, heated contact was both comfort and distraction.
Holding her hands in his, he frowned. “What frightened you? This place is eerie. I should not have let you come out here at night.”
“You did not let me. I came. And I am not faint of heart. But I saw—” She shook her head, tried to laugh. “I imagined a girl was lying there. A trick of the moonlight, but it startled me.”
“Do you want to sit down?”
