“She protects herself with books and intellect and one task after another. And she has devoted herself to Uncle Walter and his work. He took her in after Stephen died, when our own father was cold to her. But Uncle Walter is unwell, and Christina wants to prove that his work was worthwhile.”
“A serious wee lass, your sister.”
“Serious, but not simple, I only asked her to do this because I care about her. I want to see her happy again. But she must come out of her bookish tower first.”
“I understand.”
In the distance, Christina climbed a low hill. He felt a deep tug within, as if his heart were a tightly closed bud straining to open, petal by petal. He knew where she was going.
“John,” he said, “do you believe true love exists?”
“I think so. But we may not always recognize it as such, and we may fear its power. But I am a sentimental sort who thinks love heals us all. No one deserves it more than my sister, in my mind. Why do you ask?”
Aedan shook his head. “Excuse me,” he said, turning. “I should head out for the day. If I run into your sister, I will try to convince her about the mural.”
“Run into her? You would have to run her down to convince her,” John drawled.
*
As Christina approachedCairn Drishan, she saw Aedan standing beside his horse, waiting. She stepped to one side attempting to pass by him. “Excuse me,” she said.
“Why, Mrs. Blackburn,” he said pleasantly. “How nice to meet you here.”
“How did you get here so quickly?” she snapped.
“Pog and I used my road. A fine wee road.” He tied Pog’s reins to a bush and turned. “You took the route over the moor. Longer, and well suited to contemplation.”
“Contemplation! If John sent you here to plead with me, you can follow that fine road of yours away from me.” She moved past, but he reached out to catch her arm.
“Christina—”
“I will not pose for John’s sake or yours. He can ask Amy. His mural will still be wonderful. It is his talent and vision, not the model, that will make it so.”
“Listen to me.” He held her arm, and she made no effort to pull away. She wanted to be left in peace, but wanted this rare contact with him, even if they were only friends.
“Do not lecture me about how it would please my brother, or whatever you two decided on. I do not want to appear heartless when I refuse.”
“Christina,” he said. “I know all about Stephen’s painting.”
She looked away. “You do not know. No one truly does.” She jerked free from him and began to climb the hill.
“Listen, you wee fool,” he said, stepping easily in front of her, taking her shoulder, turning her around to stand on the earthen path with him.
She tried to shrug him away. “I have work to do.”
“So do I. This is important. Christina, John told me about Stephen and the scandal of the painting. You are not at fault in any of that, and should not feel—”
“It does not matter what I did or did not do,” she snapped. “You and I are just acquaintances. Friends.” She glanced away. “The more you know, the less you will care to know me at all.”
“Do not be ridiculous.”
She glanced up at him, wary, watchful. He touched her shoulder, slid his fingers down to encircle her slender arm. “Christina, I knew there was a scandal. The artist’s death, the picture he painted of his wife, and so on. The painting never shocked me. It is beautiful. I am sorry for your tragedy, my dear. But none of it changes how I feel about you.”
She looked up at him. “How do you feel about me eloping with a cousin, then posing for that painting, a picture all would see of me—of my body?”
“Art. Passion. Youth. Whatever your reasons, lass,” he said, “the result is breathtaking. Not just the painting.” He rubbed his thumb on her arm. “The model. The woman. You’ve grown, you learned. Now you know what you want.”
“Then you understand why I do not want to pose for the princess again. Let it be.”
