Waking the Princess Read Free

The famous poet, once described by a newpaper as the "Queen's own Highland bard," a name that had stuck, had earned an immortal reputation and a fortune writing epic poems proclaimed for power and artistry. They were a tad long and overblown for Aedan's taste, an opinion he kept to himself.
    Over the years, Sir Hugh had devoted time, passion, and cash to restoring and modernizing the family seat at Dundrennan. Refurbishing the house was an expensive longterm project, and after his father's death, Aedan had discovered how much of Sir Hugh's fortune had been sunk into the property. Yet his father's will specified that the work at Dundrennan must be completed if Aedan was to keep the property.
    Even with considerable funds drawn from his own accounts, Aedan found it difficult to repay the inherited debts. Honoring the tradesmen's fees incurred by his busy kinswomen proved an increasing challenge. The situation had to improve, or he stood to lose a great deal.
    Aedan straightened his black brocade vest, snugged the dark brown silk neckcloth around his white collar, then slid into his black wool coat, settling the lapels. He brushed at a few mud stains on his clothing, certain that his Aunt Lillias—Lady Balmossie—and his second cousin, Amy Stewart, would fret over his appearance. Dust and spatters were a daily result of his occupation as a civil engineer and builder of highways and byways in Scotland, and he did not mind them so much.
    He sighed, feeling displaced somehow—just the strange emotional residue from the dream. A keen longing spun in his gut, a yearning for something unfulfilled, like love.
    Love. He huffed, low and bitter. For the lairds of Dundrennan, love was a waste of time—even dangerous, tradition said. He had fallen in love once, years ago, and it had ended in tragedy. Now that he was laird, the Dundrennan curse lay squarely upon his shoulders, continuing from the time of the first Aedan of Dundrennan to the current day.
    True love had not done that ancient fellow any good, he mused—that was the one who had lost the princess in the briar, and had started the whole legend and curse.
    And the current Aedan MacBride had no intention of testing it again. Love had gone poorly for him the first time. So be it.
    A remnant of his dream returned suddenly: a woman's sleeping face, his hand upon her brow, a feeling of desperation. In the dream, he had been the ancient warrior from Dundrennan's legend, and he would have done anything to save his princess. Anything. And the girl had been—
    Absurdly, the girl had been the young woman in the painting. And some flicker of desire still burned in him.
    Nonsense. Too much on his mind and too little sleep, he told himself. He would have the gilt-framed painting moved elsewhere, and improve his work, concentration and rest.
    Slamming shut the ledger with its frustrating numbers, he sighed. Nothing would improve those figures. He must put his foot down with the ladies of Balmossie.
    He would suggest painting the walls rather than putting up expensive hand-painted Irish wallpapers. He would point out that the old Turkish rugs, though worn, lent more character than new plaid carpeting.
    He had best tell them, too, that a museum representative would arrive on Thursday to stay at Dundrennan House for a day or two while examining the recent discovery on Cairn Drishan, a hill at the edge of Dundrennan's policies.
    Two weeks ago, Aedan and his crew had been working on a portion of the parliamentary highway that was to go over the slope of Cairn Drishan. True, he did not want to cut through the ancient, untouched segment of his own land, but he understood the larger benefits of improving Scotland—an issue over which he and his father had often argued.
    An explosion of black powder through the rock had revealed stones protruding from the hillside cut like decayed teeth. Aedan, with his foreman and assistant, quickly realized that the blast had uncovered part of a stone foundation.