Chapter Twenty-Two
Black-faced sheep withdingy fleece wandered the slopes munching grass, while overhead, gray clouds rolled, driven by a strong cool wind. Christina stood high on Cairn Drishan and caught at her hat brim, ribbons flying, skirts floating outward.
She wanted to just toss away her bonnet and let the winds tousle her hair, whip her skirts. Craving that freedom, she realized what she truly desired was the freedom to tell Aedan honestly what she felt for him, how much Dundrennan meant to her now—and what she thought of him now. He had apparently used her, even knowing—surely he knew!—that she was falling hopelessly, helplessly in love with him, and he with no intention, ancient curse or none, of feeling seriously toward her.So much for that. Tell him what you think and go back to Edinburgh—and forget him.
Try to forget him. She came to Dundrennan to investigate a discovery, and instead discovered love. But once again she had failed to judge it wisely. Soon she could return to her dull, safe life. Edgar would take over the excavation on the hill, and she would leave Aedan and her dreams. Then perhaps she would consider Edgar more carefully. He was safe. She did not love him, could not.
It struck her then that Aedan MacBride dared not risk love—and she should not risk it either. In a way, they were the same in that.
The clouds grew darker, laden with rain, and the wind felt damp. To the west, a distant loch shone like a silver mirror. Christina breathed deeply of the primeval beauty all around her. She did not want to leave this place. Not truly. It meant too much to her now.
Southward, she saw the work crew, small figures along a raw strip of road. The red steam engine glinted in the gray like blood. Nearby, a man approached on horseback. Tall, dark, kilted, his plaid blowing out in the wind. Aedan, she realized with a shock.
Clearly he had just returned from Edinburgh. Her heart quickened, and for a moment she hoped he would approach the hill where she stood. Her heart went rebellious in that, for she did not want to see him—and yet she very much did. But he turned the horse and disappeared from sight past an outthrust of the hill.
She turned away to head toward the site of the old exposed walls, and glanced down over the moorland. From there, she saw Pog grazing in the small yard beside Effie MacDonald’s house. A red-haired woman in a tartan shawl came out of the house, followed by Aedan. Christina recognized Dora, Hector’s daughter. The two walked together across the yard. Then Dora stopped and threw her arms around Aedan’s neck. He returned the embrace, and they resumed walking, arms looped, heads close together.
Christina whirled away, feeling the hurt of it, a sense of betrayal even though she had no promise from him. Of course he knew Dora well. He had been engaged to her cousin Elspeth. Mrs. Gunn had mentioned that Aedan had taken Dora to Edinburgh for some unknown reason. Seeing them, she felt isolated.
Perhaps he was just a cad after all, and she had been foolish to let herself dream again. This time the wound went deeper, forshe had given her heart away in full. She walked away, digging the tip of the walking stick into the earth with a vengeance.
Angus Gowan and his sons were already on the site, shovels in hand. She waved and settled down on a boulder, taking out her memorandum book and pencil from a skirt pocket. Reviewing her notes and measurements, she made a sketch.
When Angus came over to greet her, she discussed the impending weather with him pleasantly, smiling. But she felt hollow inside.
*
The rain wasa mile or more off but coming closer, ribboning down from a dark-gray sky. Pulling up the collar of his jacket against the cool, brisk wind, he resumed his climb of Cairn Drishan. Spotting the Gowans digging in a cluster at a corner of the ancient foundation, Aedan raised a hand in greeting. Then he saw Christina seated on a rock, intent on writing in the little notebook she often carried. Deep in concentration, she did not see his approach.
She wore the dark-gray plaid gown again, with a trim gray jacket that matched the leaden sky and the old fieldstones. Her skirt hem fluttered in the breeze, showing petticoats and sturdy boots. He knew the supple, beautiful body beneath that outfit intimately now, and he wanted to surprise her, sweep her up into his arms, spin her around tell her he had missed her these three days.
Tell her, too, that he loved her and had decided there must be a way, there had to be a way around or through the cursed curse that stood between them.
He could not act on that impulse. Not yet. But now he understood why his parents and some of his ancestors had taken the risk, defying the legend and its consequences. Love overtooktradition and superstition. Love had overtaken him, too, and damn the risk.
There had to be a solution. And it had to come about through love, not fear. Fear would never resolve this. But did he have the courage to take the chance, after years of stories, warnings, and caution, and evidence that seemed to prove caution was necessary?
He strode forward. “Mrs. Blackburn,” he said heartily.
She barely glanced up. “Oh. You’re back.”
He did not expect coolness. “Aye, just returned today and I came up here hoping to find you. I’ve been in Edinburgh for a few days,” he added when she did not look up.
“So I heard.” She turned a page in the notebook. “I hope it was a pleasant trip.”
“It was.” Frowning, he narrowed his eyes. She seemed upset about something. Despite her cool tone, hot pink suffused her cheeks.
He was an idiot. How could he forget that the last time he had seen her, he had taken her roughly against a wall, and had left shortly afterward, so caught up by the surprise and the passion and the need that he had neglected to tell her that he was off to the city the next day. And had neglected to confess that he loved her and would not desert her.
True, she had encouraged him to leave, had accepted no apology. He had thought that a few days apart would give them time to think, let ardor cool, let love take hold.
Clearly she had cooled. She had a right to be angry with him.
“Well then,” he said awkwardly. “Well. How are things here?”
“Progressing,” she said, scribbling in her notebook.
He looked around. Angus Gowan stood near the underground chamber, which was covered in a tarpaulin weighted with stones. He and his sons watched the laird and the antiquarian with unabashed Highland curiosity.
