“I have not troubled Uncle Walter with this as yet. He is ill, as you know.”
“Indeed, a pity. Tomorrow, if the weather improves, you will take me to the site. If I instruct the workers to dig further, there may be something more to discover.”
“I have proceeded slowly, thinking caution the wisest course.”
“True, in some things. But let me decide what is best now. You should return to Edinburgh soon. I told Lord Neaves thatyou would call on him at the museum. My father is anxious to learn more about the progress. If your father or your uncle could accompany you, all the better. He will listen to them.”
“Uncle Walter cannot make the trip, and Papa has been in Italy for months, painting and traveling,” she said, bristling again. Lord George Neaves, Edgar’s father and the museum’s high director, was a friend of both her father and her uncle. She was closer to her uncle than to her father, though John was in frequent contact and had heard from him just a few weeks earlier. “Is my word not good enough for Lord Neaves?”
“Dear Christina,” Edgar said. “Calm down. He will see you. But just now I am anxious not only about the ancient site, but about something else. An answer you promised me.”
“So soon?” she asked, while he smiled, smug and confident, waiting for good news. “You only arrived, and I am chilled through. I need to rest.”
“Of course. We will talk after that.”
“We will find time. As for going back to Edinburgh, I wish to stay here a little longer to continue my work.”
She wanted to stay forever, she thought.I love you fiercely.The words echoed. As for Edgar, he was fond of her in his way, as affectionate as he could be for anyone, she suspected. But now she knew, truly knew, what love could be.
She watched the rain as the coach followed the old, uneven road toward Dundrennan House. Aedan’s declaration had stunned her, spun her about. She had thought he was done with her. Had he only meant love in the moment—or did he want more now, as she did? Perhaps there was a way for them to be together after all. Hope, innocent and optimistic, rose again.
“Why do you want to stay here?” Edgar asked.
“I am translating an early document from some Dundrennan records. I am nearly finished. I do not want to leave it undone—my uncle needs to see it.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” He leaned back, pursing his lips. “Do the documents have any historical significance, to be worth our time?”
Our time? She sighed. “Most are family records. But some are intriguing.” She watched slanting, silvery rain.
“I see. Christina, you know I expect an answer,” he said.
“Hush, Edgar,” she said sharply. “I am very tired.”
Smooth thou, soft thou…she heard the words in the rhythm of the carriage wheels. They were the ancient, timeless words of a lover.
Smooth thou, soft thou, well I love thee under the plaid….
Fiercely. She shuddered, closed her eyes, craved.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Apity MissThistle is not here,” John said quietly to Aedan while they sat at a game of cards with Christina and Amy. “It would be such a diversion for her to meet Sir Edgar. Perhaps we shall invite her for tea tomorrow.”
“Excellent idea.” Aedan tossed down his next card. “Thistle has been languishing at Balmossie House, pining for another invitation. She would adore Sir Edgar.”
“She might particularly adore his hat,” John said.
Aedan grinned, imagining that scene with more relish than he should wisely show. Across from him, Christina smiled, though her mood had been very subdued ever since she had returned with Edgar and retired to her room until supper.
“Thistle might like to restyle Sir Edgar’s hair as well,” Amy said, giggling. Aedan chortled, turning to look at Edgar, who strolled around the drawing room arm in arm with Lady Balmossie.
“Stop behaving like bairns,” Christina said crossly.
“He’s an insufferable boor,” John said, low enough that only they could hear. “He’s spoken only of himself all evening. Lady Balmossie told him he was a blatherskite, and he did not even know she called him a braggart to his very face.” He laid down a card. “Seven of hearts! That tops your card, Amy.”
“I am allowed to lay mine down if I want to clear my hand,” Amy insisted primly, while John reached out to spin the roundpainted tray used to play the game, Pope Joan. “And I do.” She set down more cards.
“Minx.” John wiggled his eyebrows at her.
