Waking The Princess
Susan King

Excerpt

Strathclyde, Scotland

The pool of candlelight revealed stone steps curving around a slim central pillar. Christina Blackburn drew up her skirts with one hand, balanced the brass dish in the other, and decended. The housekeeper had assured her, upon Christina's arrival at Dundrennan House, that she was free to take the old steps down to the library if she preferred to work late at night during her stay.

The narrow, wedge-shaped steps fanned steeply downward, and she moved carefully in the darkness. Since her room was on the third level, she guessed that the library must be on the second or even the first level, but she saw no door as yet. Moments later, she heard a squeak, and felt, over her foot, the breezy passage of a mouse.

Gasping, she jerked, and her thin sole skidded on smooth, worn stone. She reached out for the wall, losing her grip on the candle dish, and recovered her footing, but the brass dish clattered away, extinguishing. Blackness engulfed her.

Muttering under her breath, she turned to inch back up the steps. Hampered by her skirts, the darkness, and the steep, oddly shaped steps, she missed her footing again and fell hard to one knee. Gathering her skirts, she stepped upward, but tilted and then tumbled helplessly into the inky pit behind her.

Half sliding down the steps, bumping and turning, her shoulder and head knocked painfully against the wall, and her hip struck the edge of a step. Somehow she managed to slow her descent, and soon collapsed in a breathless heap on a stone platform which felt blessedly large and squarish in shape.

Groaning, she sat up a little, then winced, for her back and shoulder ached, and her head spun wickedly. She leaned against the wall and touched her head with a shaking hand.

A latch clicked, a light bloomed golden, and a man emerged from a doorway. Exclaiming softly, he crouched and reached for her. Strong, gentle hands took her shoulders.

"My dear girl," he murmured. "Are you hurt?"

Woozy, uncertain, she wondered if she had been knocked cold and now dreamed, for she looked into the face of a warrior angel, strong and dark and powerful. She felt his arms harden around her, and saw the halo around him.

Various small pains told her that she was awake, and a further glance proved that he was only a man after all. Lamplight haloed him, glossed his black hair, poured gold over his shoulders. His arm tightened around her, and she leaned gratefully into his strength for a moment.

Sapphire eyes, straight jet brows, and a thick wave of raven black hair made her catch her breath. He was handsome enough to startle, with the strong, beautiful bones of a pure Celt, a touch of thunder in his snapping eyes and frowning brow.

"Are you hurt?" he asked again.

"I'm fine. I fell." She winced again, and tried to sit up.

"Stay still," he ordered. "What the devil were you doing in this old stairwell? Don't move. Take a breath."

"I'm fine." She shifted awkwardly, feeling a sharp pain in her shoulder, and began to sit up. "I should go back to my room--oh," she said, as her head swam. "Oh, my. Perhaps I should sit here a little longer." She leaned against the warm, powerful curve of his arm.

"Just rest for a moment," he said. "Stay still."

Without a doubt, Aedan MacBride thought, she was the girl in the painting. He had wondered, from the moment he had seen her, upon her arrival, if she was the one. How odd that the national museum, in sending an antiquarian to examine the ancient find on his property, should unwittingly send the model for a rather delicious, and somewhat scandalous, painting in his possession.

Indeed, her face was identical, though she seemed smaller and more fragile in person. Fascinated, Aedan studied her. If she had not modeled for that image, then she had a sensual, beautiful twin.

Behind spectacles framed in blue steel, her eyes were wide and beautiful. He had long wondered at their color: silky hazel, ringed in black lashes. Her overall appearance was demure and modest, not at all like the tantalizing, earthy goddess of the picture. But her graceful features, her lush lips, the long curve of her throat all matched the painting.

She sighed, shifted her head to lean back against his upper arm. A pulse beat under the creamy skin of her throat. Her lovely face, her swanlike neck, and her auburn hair spilling from its pins, she was the living image of the painting.

A little imagination brought to mind the exquisite details of breasts tipped pink beneath translucent fabric, the gentle swell of a bared hip, the long, smooth length of a thigh.

More than simple lust blazed through him in that instant. He felt a desperate, burning need to hold her, to save her, to love her. Leaning forward, for one wild moment he nearly kissed her.

Then he jerked back, saving himself from acting a damned fool. The urge still rushed through him, fervent and hot. Never had he felt such a shivering heat, like a deep force pulling at him. He actually trembled in its aftermath.

He cleared his throat. "Miss Blackburn," he said.

Her eyes opened. "It's Mrs. Blackburn. Christina Blackburn. How do you know me?"

Christina. Somehow that crystalline, graceful sound suited her perfectly. "I know everyone else in my house, but not you. Therefore, you must be the lady sent by the museum. Welcome to Dundrennan, Mrs. Blackburn," he drawled. "I am Sir Aedan MacBride, laird of Dundrennan."

She blinked slowly. "Sir Aedan...oh!" She tried to sit up.

"Relax." He grasped her shoulder to keep her still. "I do not think you are quite ready for stair climbing."

"Perhaps not." She squinted up at him, narrowing her eyes in the lamplight that spilled from the open doorway behind him.

Her little spectacles were missing, he realized. Seeing the delicate steel frames within easy reach, he plucked them up and handed them to her.

She perched them crookedly on her nose, and looked at him again. "Thank you. Forgive me, Sir Aedan. I wanted to go to the library this way--Mrs. Gunn said it would be all right--but I fell. I do apologize."

"Not at all. Had I known, I would have ordered the sconces lit in the stairwell. Generally only I use this stair. Can you stand, Mrs. Blackburn?" He rose, keeping hold of her arm.

She began to lift to her feet, then faltered, wincing.

"You're in no condition to go up or down, my lass," he murmured, and bent to scoop her up into his arms. She felt slender and fit beneath layers of clothing, and he picked her up effortlessly.

"Really, sir, I'm fine," she protested.

He shifted her against his chest, and she circled an arm around his shoulders. "That was a nasty fall, Mrs. Blackburn. Come inside. I want to be sure you're uninjured before you go wandering anywhere else tonight."

Mortified, Christina rode silently in his arms as he carried her over the threshold into a small, lamplit room. Her head ached, as did her shoulder and hip, and she was grateful for the reassuring strength of his arms.

His face was close to hers, his scent a pleasant mix of spice, wine, shirt starch, and subtle, earthy masculinity. Dressed in a white collarless shirt and a dark vest and trousers, the hardness of his torso pressed against her softer curves. She could feel the heat of her own blush, unseen in the dimness.

The room was similar in shape and function to her own little sitting room, although it contained one armchair and a desk. An oil lamp on the desk surface revealed an untidy pile of papers and open books. The fireplace housed a cozy peat fire. Sir Aedan MacBride set her in the leather armchair, her back to the hearth.

"Really, I am fine. I must go, sir." She rose, and pain sliced through her hip and shoulder. Sir Aedan guided her down with a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Not so fine as she claims," he said, kneeling beside the chair. "Tell me where it hurts, Mrs. Blackburn." His earnest concern, his nearness, thrilled her unaccountably. He was a stranger to her, and yet he seemed familiar somehow, his manner relaxed, confident, and engaging, all at once.

"I really must go--"

"Sit." He detained her with a gentle hand.

"But this is...your private sitting room." Through a second door, she saw a bedroom with a canopied bed, its covers folded back, pillows plumped. A dark dressing robe lay on the bed. "This is very improper," she protested.

"It's more improper to send you away limping," he said. "No one need know about this but us, madam." His voice was low, his glance penetrating.

She subsided in the chair, and he dropped to his haunches to look up at her. Firelight flowed over him, and his eyes were dark blue and sparkling.

"Mrs. Blackburn, please tell me where you are hurt."

She relented, shrugged. "My...left shoulder."

His hand slid up her arm, his fingers tracing over her shoulder, pressing lightly. Something elemental tumbled inside of her, and all she could do, when he asked what she felt, was nod dumbly or shake her head in silence. Withdrawing along her arm, he took her hand to move her fingers one by one.

A wonderful feeling surged through her, and her hurts lessened wherever he touched her. She dared not look at him, feeling her cheeks heat like fire, but she watched the grace of his hands upon her.

"Nothing seems broken. Where else does it hurt, madam?"

"My...head," she whispered. "And my..." She could hardly tell him that her hip and bottom felt bruised, though her ankle also felt strained. "My...ankle."

"I have a sister and female cousins. I've tended to twisted ankles before, without scandal, I assure you." He smiled.

She extended one foot, and he pushed her skirts above her ankle. Sliding his fingers over her foot, he flexed it gently. Shivers cascaded all through her.

"Those slippers," he murmured, "are not suited to a medieval staircase."

"So I learned," she answered, setting her foot down.

"Your head hurts, too?" he asked. She nodded, and he leaned toward her to spread his fingers in a cap over her head, probing. She nearly groaned with the sweet pleasure of it. When his arm brushed over her blouse, her breasts tingled, tightened.

"Oh," she breathed.

"Does something else hurt?" He glanced at her.

"Oh, no," she murmured.

"There is a bump on your head, but all seems well, though I am no doctor. No doubt you'll feel some bruising for a few days." He rested his hand on her shoulder.

Even the simplest of his touches stirred a craving in her, a ready rush of desire. She had not felt like that in a long time.

The warmth of his fingertips, the rhythm of his breath upon her cheek as he bent toward her, the clean, male smell of him--all of it seemed to tap a wellspring of need in her. Sucking in a breath, she leaned away. Feeling no threat from him, she knew the wariness came from her lonely, aching, foolish heart.

She moved as if to stand. "I must go now. Thank you, sir."

"Stay. I do not want you climbing those stairs just yet." Willingly, she sank into the chair again, glad for an excuse to remain, to feel his delightful, relaxing touch again.

"You'll need to rest tomorrow, and use soothing packs on those aches, I think," he said.

"I cannot rest tomorrow. I came here to work, and I must go to the hillside in the morning to look at the excavation site for the museum. Truly, I'm fine, Sir Aedan." She stood slowly, and he rose beside her.

"Stubborn lass." He frowned. "You might have broken your neck on the stairs in the dark, in those cumbersome skirts and little slippers. What was so important that you took the stairs alone, and at this hour?"

"I could not sleep. I have a habit of studying and writing late at night, and I wanted to look up some local history and geography before I went out to the hill tomorrow. I'm sorry to have troubled you, sir. Thank you-- very much." She stepped past him, wincing and stiff, feeling a little embarrassed, and a strong sense of surprising regret. After tonight, she would be merely his guest from the museum, and he would be the properly distant host. They could never again touch so freely.

Turning toward the door, she stopped, and gasped.

The painting hung over the fireplace. She had not noticed it until now. Heart pounding, she walked toward the hearth and gazed up at her own image.

She had forgotten what a masterpiece it was, exquisitely rendered, a passion of luminous color and sensuous shape, poignant and powerful. Lamplight and shadows heightened its astonishing dark grace.

"Dear God," she whispered.

He stood behind her. "You haven't changed."

Her heart pounded. So he knew that she had posed for it-- he had already plumbed the secret that she had tried to hide for seven years. Slowly, she turned to stare at up at him.