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shaking hand.
    A latch clicked, a light bloomed golden, and a man emerged from a doorway just above her. Exclaiming softly, he came down, crouching toward her, his hands strong and gentle on her shoulders.
    "My dear girl," he murmured. "Are you hurt?"

Chapter 3

    Woozy, uncertain, Christina wondered if she had been knocked cold and now was dreaming—for a warrior angel had his arms around her.
    But the various small aches and pains attested that she was awake. Another glance showed that he was just a man—but handsome enough to startle, with a touch of thunder in his snapping blue eyes. His straight, black brows drew together in a frown beneath a thick wave of raven black hair.
    "Are you hurt?" he asked again.
    "I'm fine." She winced 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 pain in her shoulder. "I'll just go back to my room—oh," she said, as she moved and her head swam. "Oh, my. Perhaps I'll sit here for a moment." She leaned against the warm, hard curve of his arm.
    "Take all the time you need," he said.
    * * *
    Without a doubt, Aedan thought, this was the girl in the painting. The resemblance was identical, though she seemed smaller and more fragile than he would have expected. Fascinated, he tilted his head. If she had not modeled for that image, then she had a sensual, beautiful twin.
    Behind steel-framed spectacles, her eyes were wide and beautiful, hazel ringed in black lashes. She seemed demure and modest, not the tantalizing, earthy goddess of the picture. But her graceful features, her lush lips, the long curve of her neck, all matched the girl in the painting.
    She leaned her head against his upper arm—and her lovely face, her swanlike neck, her auburn hair spilling from its pins, all of it was the living image of the painting.
    And he tried not to remember the exquisite breasts, the gentle swell of hips and abdomen, the long, smooth thighs, all veiled in the painting, covered now by plain clothing.
    For an instant, he felt a burning need—more than lust, much more—he wanted to hold her, save her, love her. Though it made no sense, he felt it. Leaning forward, he felt her breath caress his face. He very nearly kissed her.
    She gasped, and he leaned back, prevented from acting a damned fool. The urge was still fervent, a deep force pulling at him. He cleared his throat.
    "May I presume that you are the lady sent by the museum?"
    "I am Mrs. Blackburn. Christina Blackburn."
    "Welcome to Dundrennan, Mrs. Blackburn. I am the laird of Dundrennan."
    "Oh! Sir Aedan MacBride?" She tried to sit up.
    "Relax." He grasped her shoulder to keep her still. "You are not quite ready to climb the stairs."
    "Please forgive me, Sir Aedan. I only meant to go to the library by these stairs. Mrs. Gunn said it would be all right—but there was a mouse—I tripped, and then fell. I do apologize."
    "Not at all. Had I known, I would have ordered the sconces lit in the stairwell for you. Generally only I use these stairs. Can you stand now, Mrs. Blackburn?" He rose, helping her to her feet, a hand on her arm. She faltered, wincing.
    "You're in no condition to go up or down, my lass," he murmured, and quickly scooped her up into his arms. She felt slender beneath layered clothing, and he held her effortlessly.
    "Really, sir, I'm fine," she protested.
    He shifted her 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 in his arms as he carried her over the threshold into a cozy room in lamplight. Her head ached, so did her shoulder and hip, and though she felt a bit foolish, she was grateful for the easy strength of his arms.
    His face was close to hers, his scent a pleasant mix of spice, wine, shirt starch, and subtle, earthy masculinity.