She shook her head. “I am fine. But I am ready to go back to the house.”
“Bonny Mrs. Blackburn, strong and stubborn, despite her calamities.” He smiled. His warm, steady hands covered hers. She was not inclined to pull away from that comfort.
“I am not generally given to fancy,” she defended. But she was glad he stood close, strong and reassuring. The bell of her skirt enveloped his legs as she leaned toward him.
“I am sure of that, madam.” He bowed his head toward her, as if he might kiss her. Heart pounding, she felt trembly with anticipation. They were alone in the moonlight, with ghosts and mist and each other. Propriety seemed a dim and unnecessary concept, easily ignored. She stared at him, at his lips, noticingtheir whimsical upper curve, a hint of impishness in such a serious man.
“I think I saw her,” she said then. “The princess.”
“Some do, or think they do. Rarely, but there have been tales over the years.”
“If she is not buried here, why would she haunt this place?”
“Who knows? Tell me what you saw.”
“She looked peaceful. So delicate and beautiful, lying there.”
He nodded. “Others have said the same. But you could not have known that.”
She shook her head. “I knew nothing of it.”
“May I ask—is the Sight in your family line?”
“Not that I am aware. Perhaps my Highland granny. But it was just the moonlight in this romantic, picturesque spot. And I am not about to swoon over it.”
“Pity. Then I could catch you.”
Her heart bounded at his intimate tone. “Perhaps you could catch your wee ghost.”
“I would, but I have never gone inside.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“The lairds of Dundrennan never set foot inside the Remembrance. My brother and I were not allowed here as boys. I am brave enough to stand here, but I have never gone inside.”
“I think you are brave enough for anything,” she said.
“Not this.” He glanced through the arches toward the grass and the plinth. “They say that if a laird of Dundrennan sets foot in the Remembrance, he risks falling in love.”
She tipped her head, wondering. “Is that so bad?”
“It could be disastrous.”
“Amy only said you dislike it, but did not say why.”
“We keep it to ourselves, but I will tell you.” He dropped her hands, took a breath, turning to face the grassy moonlit area. “The Remembrance was built in the twelfth century. One of thelairds of Dundrennan commissioned it as a memorial to his lost wife.”
“For the princess?”
“Another lost Dundrennan bride.”
She waited. His closeness in the dark, even without his touch on her hands, made her knees fairly wobble. She reached out for balance, took his forearm, fine wool and hard muscle under her fingertips. He rotated his arm to catch her hand in his palm. Reminded of a Celtic knot, she glanced up at the decorative knotted carving overhead.
“They say,” he went on, “that any laird of Dundrennan takes a risk if he marries for love. It is dangerous. We marry for companionship and progeny.”
“That seems so cold. How could love be dangerous?”
“Not to the laird, but to his love. Whenever a laird of our line defies the curse and makes a match for love, the wife suffers. She takes ill, and often dies.”
