“Your brother is right. You are perfect for this. It would not be the same experience at all. You would have John. And me. The first version of the princess is as a seductress. A siren.”
She gazed at him, remembering so many moments at once—her collapse on the stairs, his kindness, an exquisite kiss. And then later… She drew a breath. “And the later version of the princess? Who is she?” She tipped her head.
His thumb brushed circles on her arm, raising shivers. “The later princess is vividly beautiful, but she does not know it. Nordoes she realize that she is the heart of this narrative. There is no other who can play the ancient girl.”
She ducked her head to avoid his eyes, blue as the summer sky above.
“When I saw that painting in your room,” she began, “so much came back to me. A lot of broken promises, fits of temper, days and nights that he painted and did not eat, only drank. It is all in that painting when I look at it.”
“My dear,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”
“He liked to paint at night, and would drag me out of a sound sleep to pose if he did not have a detail right. He would tear my clothing off to get me out of it—so impatient. He said he would buy new things to replace the torn bits. But we could never afford it.”
“Did he… harm you?” Aedan asked in a low rumble.
“No,” she answered, shaking her head. “He was fierce about his work, selfish with it, but not cruel. He loved me in his way, but saw only what he wanted, what he and his art needed. So, when John asked me to pose again,” she went on, “all of that came flooding back.” She blinked back tears. “My wild, haunted artist. He could only be what he was.”
“You loved him, then.”
“I thought I did. I cared, I tried—but I learned I was wrong about love. And when he died…. he struggled so, just as he fought against every force in his life—genius, love, death.” She gasped and lowered her head.
“But you were always there for him. He was fortunate in that.” Aedan reached out and drew her close, wrapped his arms around her. She leaned her cheek on his chest, pressing against the sturdy wool of his jacket. He felt solid and strong, so reliable and earthy and attractive.
But a friend, his arms a kind support. Not the passion she still felt. They had agreed on that. She wanted so much more, but he did not want that. It hurt deeply, secretly.
“It was not love as much as pity and sympathy,” she said then. “I wanted to save him and foster his genius. I have lived with regret and shame ever since.”
“Christina,” he murmured. He tipped her head up. “Pose this time, and all will be well. You will help John. The mural will be something you both will be proud of. And I will be the prince. Aye?”
He brushed fingers over her hair, affectionate and quick, as if he was determined to remain friends, as suggested. His vivid blue eyes were intent, sparkling. “Remember you are perfectly safe in this, my lass.” He kissed her cheek, only that, yet her knees melted.
He stepped away, and with even that distance, her heart felt heavy, hollow. She wanted more than friendship. She wanted to be with him. Near him. But she did not want to pose for the princess again. Still, it would mean more time with him before she must return to her quiet existence in Edinburgh.
“I will consider it,” she said.
“I wish we could create a happy ending for the princess in the dining room mural.” He took Pog’s reins, prepared to leave.
“How? She died. It is part of her legend.”
“John could end his tableau at her wedding,” he said, and bounded up into the saddle to look down at her. “We all know what happened after that. Good day, Mrs. Blackburn.”
She lifted a hand to wave, aware that he wanted her to feel better. She loved him for trying. But there could be no happy ending for her, not if she loved this man. And she did.
*
Flowers were everywhere.Lavender stems filled a tall vase on the table beside her bed—to help her sleep, said her brother’s note—and at breakfast, marigolds and daisies glowed like sunshine on the breakfast tray. Heather bells tied with ribbon brightened the stone wall when she arrived on the hill that morning, and when she returned in the afternoon, blowsy pink roses floated in a glass bowl in the little sitting room in her bedchamber.
Now, at dinner, a chain of daisies surrounded her dinner plate and a posy of wild roses lay on the table beside it. She looked at her brother across the table.
“Stop,” she said, half laughing. “You will give me hay fever.”
“Not just me, Chrissy,” he said. “The laird is partly responsible. I was not sure where to get so many flowers out here. I would have collected wild roses from the briar, but Sir Aedan said they are too spare this time of year, and we should do more.”
“Sir,” she said, glancing at Aedan. He only chuckled and sipped some wine.
“Will you do it?” John asked eagerly.
She half laughed, glancing at Aedan again. He lifted his brows in silence. They were just three for dinner that night, as the ladies of Balmossie were home nursing colds.
