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Authors: Susan King
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breach her outermost perimeter.
She should have stepped back for propriety. But he had helped her last night when she was hurt—and he had kissed her, and she had felt no shock or shame in it. She felt at ease with him, found his animal grace exhilarating. Having spent so much time in the company of books and her elderly uncle, then the museum, she rarely socialized with men her own age.
And Sir Edgar, for all his suave handsomeness and intellect, simply did not compare to this strong, earthy, genuine man. Edgar did not stir her heart or her blood, had never kissed her as Aedan had. She did not think Edgar capable of passion.
"These books might interest you," Aedan MacBride said. As she followed him, she heard John and the others enter the library, murmuring quietly.
Aedan opened the brass mesh doors of a tall bookcase. As she moved closer, Christina's arm brushed his. She inhaled the clean spicy soap he used, heard the quiet rhythm of his breathing. She could hardly concentrate on the books. Nor did she understand the man's effect on her.
"Oh, yes, histories," she said quickly, scanning the spines. "Hume, Chambers, Carlyle—I've read most of these. And up there is Uncle Walter's Celtic Scotland." She pointed above their heads. "Those, with the dark blue spines."
He fetched down the first volume and flipped it open. "'To Sir Hugh, friend and fellow admirer of the ancient Celts, from Rev. Walter Carriston.'"
Christina traced her fingers over her uncle's familiar signature. Her finger brushed Sir Aedan's thumb, and she felt a sparklike sensation. She withdrew her hand quickly.
"My uncle translated some medieval manuscript pages for Sir Hugh," she said. "Some old documents found in family papers."
He shelved the book. "Aye, the Dundrennan Folio. We keep it locked away, but you may see it if you wish. We can leave that for later." He glanced down at her.
"Of course."
"Here is Sir Hugh's study." He led her to the corner room, standing back for her to enter first. She gasped in awe to see the man's mahogany desk, his leather chair, the reference books on the shelves. A bowl of fresh wild roses sat on the desk.
"The queen's own Highland bard. You must miss him very much," she said softly.
"We do," he murmured. "So you know his poetry?"
"Oh, yes. Wonderful epics, full of romance and adventure."
"He would have been pleased to hear that. He valued the opinions of his readers. Which is your favorite?" He went to a bookcase that Christina saw held a full collection of his father's books. Opening its doors, he stood back.
"Oh, there are so many," she said. " Children of the Mist and The Warrior are such exciting adventures, and The Wanderer has a mythical, unforgettable power. But The Enchanted Briar is my favorite, I think." She touched the book's red leather spine.
"Why is that?"
"It is a superb study of how tragedy shapes character, how small mistakes can change the lives of many, and how a good man can be driven to desperate ends by love and grief."
"Spoken like a scholar. Now tell me why Christina Blackburn likes it." He leaned against the desk, waited.
"Because... each time I read it, I cry."
"Honestly spoken, and kind praise. My father would have appreciated that. He wanted his poetry to stir the heart, rend it, heal it again, he used to say. What made you cry, Mrs. Blackburn, if I may ask?"
She tilted her head, thinking. "It is a beautiful, tragic love story. The Druid prince meets the daughter of a king, and they fall in love at first sight. Their meeting is heroic and poignant. Then her father forces her to marry a rival, and when she refuses, he imprisons her in a tower. Her only joy is when the prince comes secretly to her bower, but she will not disobey her father and escape with him." She shook her head. "And her anguish is heartbreaking when she gives birth to their son alone in the tower, but for her old nurse. Even when she is released and defies her father at last, they cannot be together, for she
She should have stepped back for propriety. But he had helped her last night when she was hurt—and he had kissed her, and she had felt no shock or shame in it. She felt at ease with him, found his animal grace exhilarating. Having spent so much time in the company of books and her elderly uncle, then the museum, she rarely socialized with men her own age.
And Sir Edgar, for all his suave handsomeness and intellect, simply did not compare to this strong, earthy, genuine man. Edgar did not stir her heart or her blood, had never kissed her as Aedan had. She did not think Edgar capable of passion.
"These books might interest you," Aedan MacBride said. As she followed him, she heard John and the others enter the library, murmuring quietly.
Aedan opened the brass mesh doors of a tall bookcase. As she moved closer, Christina's arm brushed his. She inhaled the clean spicy soap he used, heard the quiet rhythm of his breathing. She could hardly concentrate on the books. Nor did she understand the man's effect on her.
"Oh, yes, histories," she said quickly, scanning the spines. "Hume, Chambers, Carlyle—I've read most of these. And up there is Uncle Walter's Celtic Scotland." She pointed above their heads. "Those, with the dark blue spines."
He fetched down the first volume and flipped it open. "'To Sir Hugh, friend and fellow admirer of the ancient Celts, from Rev. Walter Carriston.'"
Christina traced her fingers over her uncle's familiar signature. Her finger brushed Sir Aedan's thumb, and she felt a sparklike sensation. She withdrew her hand quickly.
"My uncle translated some medieval manuscript pages for Sir Hugh," she said. "Some old documents found in family papers."
He shelved the book. "Aye, the Dundrennan Folio. We keep it locked away, but you may see it if you wish. We can leave that for later." He glanced down at her.
"Of course."
"Here is Sir Hugh's study." He led her to the corner room, standing back for her to enter first. She gasped in awe to see the man's mahogany desk, his leather chair, the reference books on the shelves. A bowl of fresh wild roses sat on the desk.
"The queen's own Highland bard. You must miss him very much," she said softly.
"We do," he murmured. "So you know his poetry?"
"Oh, yes. Wonderful epics, full of romance and adventure."
"He would have been pleased to hear that. He valued the opinions of his readers. Which is your favorite?" He went to a bookcase that Christina saw held a full collection of his father's books. Opening its doors, he stood back.
"Oh, there are so many," she said. " Children of the Mist and The Warrior are such exciting adventures, and The Wanderer has a mythical, unforgettable power. But The Enchanted Briar is my favorite, I think." She touched the book's red leather spine.
"Why is that?"
"It is a superb study of how tragedy shapes character, how small mistakes can change the lives of many, and how a good man can be driven to desperate ends by love and grief."
"Spoken like a scholar. Now tell me why Christina Blackburn likes it." He leaned against the desk, waited.
"Because... each time I read it, I cry."
"Honestly spoken, and kind praise. My father would have appreciated that. He wanted his poetry to stir the heart, rend it, heal it again, he used to say. What made you cry, Mrs. Blackburn, if I may ask?"
She tilted her head, thinking. "It is a beautiful, tragic love story. The Druid prince meets the daughter of a king, and they fall in love at first sight. Their meeting is heroic and poignant. Then her father forces her to marry a rival, and when she refuses, he imprisons her in a tower. Her only joy is when the prince comes secretly to her bower, but she will not disobey her father and escape with him." She shook her head. "And her anguish is heartbreaking when she gives birth to their son alone in the tower, but for her old nurse. Even when she is released and defies her father at last, they cannot be together, for she
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