Waking the Princess by Susan King Read Free Book Online Page A

needing an umbrella in here, bonny sir. Or a targe," he muttered, pointing to some round shields on the wall.
    Christina followed, wondering if the old house leaked.
    She saw a man nailing tartan carpet into place, which explained the thumping of a hammer she had heard. Down another hallway she saw a ladder, paint buckets, and brushes. She turned to wait for John, while MacGregor barreled onward.
    "I should tell the laird that I'm a painter," John said. "He might let me paint some of the walls here with a brush and bucket. I'm that desperate for the work."
    "Don't jest, John. You should not climb a ladder."
    "No joke, dear. I've had few commissions since my injury."
    MacGregor stopped before double oak doors. "Bonny sir. And sir." He bowed.
    "Tapadh leat, mac Griogair," Christina said, thanking him.
    He smiled quickly. "Tha Gaidhlig mhath agad."
    "What did he say?" John asked.
    "He said I have good Gaelic," Christina replied. "Our mother was born in the Highlands," she explained to the butler. "She taught her children the Gaelic."
    "I forgot most of what I learned," John added. "But my sister taught in a Gaelic school in Fife a few years ago."
    "Helping Highland families?" MacGregor smiled. "Good, good."
    He turned to knock on the door. A masculine reply sounded, and the butler opened the door to peer into the gap, his caution puzzling. Then he opened the door and waited for Christina to enter first.
    Christina caught a glimpse of a sitting room, but she had no time to notice anything else. A blur of motion and sound whirled toward her, and a man's hand lashed out in front of her face. She heard the hard smack as he caught something. His fist brushed the tip of her nose, knocking her eyeglasses askew.
    Gasping, she stumbled back against the doorjamb. A sun-bronzed hand clutched a teacup in long fingers. Broad shoulders in a black wool coat filled her view. Stunned, she looked up.
    Aedan MacBride peered down at her from over his shoulder. "Why, Mrs. Blackburn," he murmured.
    "Well done, sir!" John crowed. "Excellent catch!"
    "It comes of practice. Madam, I do apologize." Aedan MacBride held a teacup, caught within an inch of her nose. Christina could not imagine why.
    "Tcha," MacGregor said as he drew the door closed behind them. "You are needing that umbrella."
    "Och, puir lass!" an elderly lady in black, seated on a sofa, called out. "Do come in and sit doon. Miss Thistle!" She snapped as something small and brown—a cat?—scurried under a draped table. Two young women, both blond, exclaimed, and one bent down to look under a linen-covered table.
    Bewildered, Christina glanced at Aedan MacBride, who stood calmly beside her. "Welcome," he said. "Please excuse the rather unusual reception. I am... Sir Aedan MacBride."
    Of course, she realized. No one here knew that they had met the night before. "Sir Aedan," she said, holding out her hand, "I am Mrs. Christina Blackburn."
    He took her fingers, his touch light but firm, his smile appealingly mischievous. In daylight, he was still astonishingly handsome, his eyes keen blue, his thick hair a deep brown, nearly black. His suit of black wool was neat but spattered slightly with mud, as were his boots.
    "Sir Edgar Neaves sent me," she said, continuing her introduction. "And this is my brother, John Blackburn."
    "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, madam. Sir, it's very good to meet you." He gave John a firm handshake.
    The laird took her elbow, his touch firm and warm through the cloth of her sleeve. Christina looked into his stunning blue eyes, and her heart pattered at a ridiculous pace.
    His powerful maleness was distracting. She remembered the feel of his arms around her, the brush of his lips over hers in the darkness. Blushing, she allowed the laird of Dundrennan to draw her into the room.
    * * *
    With Christina Blackburn on his arm, Aedan faced a room swirling with chaos. Amy lifted her lavender skirts and stepped back as Miss Thistle scrambled behind a drapery. Lady