Mists of Midnight

by Pillow Michelle M.

  Dougal nodded. His eyes became moist, but he did not cry. Placing his fist before his lips, he waited silently.

  “Something happened in the forest. I had an accident.” Imogen frowned at the words before rushing on. “Which is ridiculous since I have never fallen from a horse in my life.”

  Dougal smiled ruefully. Imogen suppressed a chuckle.

  “So something must have frightened my horse,” she continued. “I hit my head and that is why I can see you. Reverend Stillwell told me that sometimes a traumatic accident could make people see the dead. It is how he came about his power and obviously how I came about mine.”

  “He told you that?” asked Dougal in disbelief. It did not sound like the vicar.

  “Yes.” Imogen leaned forward, placing her hands on her knees. Dougal’s gaze traveled down her throat to her cleavage. Imogen colored, sitting back up. Dougal gave her an unabashed smile and lightly curled his hand in a helpless gesture. “So, when I fell, I must have triggered a part of my mind that allows me to see you. I am meant to help you.”

  “How will you help?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. I thought that mayhap I could get you and your daughter to the same place at the same time,” she answered. “It would be a place to start.”

  “I mean, how will you help, if you don’t remember what happened at the forest? If you don’t know what frightened… your horse? It could be the answer you are searching for. Shouldn’t you go and find out?” insisted Dougal. His eyes held a passion and desperation she didn’t understand. “Are you still scared of going?”

  “No,” she lied.

  He saw it on her face. Leaning back, he gave her a challenging smile.

  “Would you like me to take you?” he offered.

  “No, I can do it.” When he arched a brow in doubt, she hurriedly added, “I will do it—today.”

  Dougal nodded. Rising from his chair, he walked over to her. Unable to resist, he touched her cheek. He again sighed in relief as it rested on her skin and didn’t pass through. He felt her warmth and softness beneath his palm and began to tenderly caress it. In a whisper, he said, “I still think that I should go with you.”

  “No, I should go alone. It might not work if I get distracted,” she replied. Her pulse began to race at his probing gaze. Her calm façade crumbled before his look. Shivering, she said, “It might not work anyway. It really doesn’t seem all that important. I merely fell from my horse. Who is to say aught else happened? I might not remember a thing.”

  “You will,” he said with confidence. With the tips of his fingers, he urged her to stand. She did, following his commands without question or thought. Her gaze moved to his lips. Her head fell to the side. Dougal knew the look on her face. She was not immune to him. She felt more than she let on. The realization gave him hope.

  “Dougal, I don’t think.” Her words were silenced by his kiss. His warm lips captured hers. Her body remembered all too well what her mind had tried to force it to forget. Taking his breath into her own, she muttered, “We cannot—”

  “We already have,” he persisted with a devilish chuckle. “As you said, it was pleasant.”

  Imogen moaned, her arms moving up his shoulders. That wasn’t entirely true. Being with him was more than pleasant. And the weeks apart had only heightened her longing to be with him. She had missed his touch, dreamed about it until she awoke sweating in the night hours. Besides, they had come together once. What harm would there be in doing so again? It was not as if it would change anything. And she might as well take one last memory with her.

  “Yes,” she sighed, moving her lips more fervently to encourage his. “Pleasure. We might as well take some pleasure. It is not as if we can do aught at this moment anyway. And it will mean nothing.”

  “Absolutely nothing,” he agreed, deepening the assault of his mouth. Her mouth spoke, but her body proclaimed the words a lie. The energy between them was more than a meaningless affair of the flesh. He felt it and he knew that she felt it too.

  “And it is not as if we don’t understand each other,” she insisted.

  “Oh, we understand perfectly. This is just pleasure—pure, hot pleasure,” he growled. His hands wrapped around her, his fingers sliding to her laces to untie them. He was determined to make her feel.

  “And—”

  “Shh,” hushed Dougal. His fingers continued to work on her bodice.

  “The door,” she gasped. His lips trailed over her neck to the pulse that beat wildly for him.

  “Locked.” Dougal waved his hand, latching it, though he knew no one would interrupt them.

  “Where?” she asked. Her eyes tried to focus past him to find a place to lie down with him. Her hands worked their way into his jacket, pulling the heavy material from his shoulders. Dougal chuckled throatily, not answering.

  His fingers successfully loosened her bodice. The material fell forward exposing her chest. Instantly, his lips moved to taste her in his bittersweet torment. His tongue lapped the sensitive flesh of her breast, focusing its attention on her ripened nipples. Imogen moaned, oblivious to all but his touch.

  Moving his hands from her, he urgently tried to help her in her task of undressing him. His hands went straight to his breeches. His mouth once again claimed hers as he turned her around by the force of his kiss. Freeing his member from the thick material, his legs hit the settee. He slowly sat down before her as he stopped to eagerly kiss her exposed chest and stomach.

  Then, as he fell fully onto the seat, he reached his fingers to dig beneath her heavy skirts. She gasped as his head fell near her waist. He pressed kisses to the thick material, sending chills over her body in the form of worshipping caresses. She ran her fingers eagerly through his hair, threading precariously into the silken strands. Her flesh drank in his heat. She had waited so long to feel him again.

  Dougal growled. He tugged her petticoats off of her. As the material pooled on the floor, he ran his hands over her thighs. She swayed, growing weak with desire. She moaned and gasped. He found her center heat, moist and ready for him. Growling in primal agony, he touched her, parting her to test her depths. She bucked against his hand.

  “Come,” he ordered with a masculine groan.

  Pulling her forward, Dougal grabbed her about the waist. And after artfully arranging the thick material of her skirts, he lowered her to him. She moaned at the sweltering feel of his hard length, waiting like the conquering sword. Her knees pressed into the padding of the settee, spreading as he impaled her.

  Roughly, he thrust. She arched in delight as he filled her. His lips found the peaks of her breasts as they swayed enticingly before his face. She ran her fingers through his hair, over the fine linen shirt covering his shoulders.

  “Ride me,” he growled against her skin. Instinctively, Imogen obeyed. She pushed herself up only to come back down on him. A rush of pleasure was awarded to her as she tried again. “Ride me hard.”

  Pushed by the fervor in his words and the reckless longing of her body, Imogen submitted. Grasping at the back of the settee for support, she slammed her hips against his with an angry force. All that she must face built within her, driving her forward with a mad, fervent passion. She was going to lose him. This was their moment—their one last moment together and she would take all of it.

  His hands could not feel enough of her as they helped to guide her hips. The sweetness of roses surrounded him. He died within the folds of her arms, lived within the heat of her center. She was life to his unyielding death.

  Their bodies moved in harmony until they met with heated release. Their moans joined in a song of absolution and trembling liberation. She fell weakly against him, his body still joined with hers. The hotness of his breath hit her neck as she pressed her forehead against his shoulder. She didn’t ever want to let go.

  In the aftermath of pleasure came the pain. She could not say to him all that she desired. Her heart bubbled over with love, with tenderness. And as her mind deflected the sweet
ness of her emotions with logic, she didn’t allow herself to cry.

  Regaining his sense, Dougal felt her thin body tremble beneath his fingers. Angling his head, he tried to study her face. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Hurt me?” she echoed. Slowly, she shook her head. His tender concern brushed over her, more painful that any physical torment. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”

  “Then?” Dougal pulled her back. He saw the sadness in her eyes. It tore at his chest. He cursed himself for his weakness. He knew he should never have made love to her. “Are you regret—”

  “Do not say it,” she tried to smile and failed. Pushing up, she turned to right her gown. “Never even think it.”

  Dougal watched her back before righting his own clothes with a wave of his hand. She did not see the power in him to do so. When she turned back around, he was sitting calmly on the settee, fully dressed. Only his eyes gave away the tormented drowning of his heart.

  “You should go to the forest,” he said, lacking the ability to say aught else. What he wanted to talk of, she would not want to hear.

  “Yes, the forest,” she said, taking a deep breath.

  “Imogen, you must remember what happened,” he insisted. Dougal stood, reaching to touch her face. “It could be important.”

  “I know,” she answered a little too harshly. “I’m going.”

  When he would speak, she held up her hand to stop him. Patting his chest lightly as she passed, she left him without a backward glance. The aftereffect of their shared passion still raged in her veins. Her legs trembled weakly, begging her to return to his arms, to forget what she must do, to beg him to choose her, to stay with her. But that was something she would never do. Margaret needed him. And he needed Margaret. It was the only way to keep them safe.

  * * * *

  Imogen stared gloomily at the path ahead of her. She tried to get the courage to go to the forest, but kept hesitating every time she made it within view of the tree line. Glancing up from her feet, she didn’t see the vicar until he was well upon her.

  “Reverend Stillwell,” gasped Imogen in surprise. The elderly vicar stepped into her path.

  “Miss Imogen,” he acknowledged. “You look lost.”

  “Just my soul,” she muttered.

  “Miss?”

  “Nothing.” Imogen tried in vain to smile at the vicar. “What are you doing here? Have you come for a visit?”

  “I came to see Mr. Weston,” said the vicar.

  “You mean the Marquis of Rothfield?”

  “Yes, yes. Quite right,” murmured the man with a humorless chuckle.

  “He’s inside. The library I believe. If the servants give you trouble at the front door, inform them I told you to attend me there.” Imogen glanced off into the distance, growing sick to her stomach at the very sight of trees. The closer she walked to them, the stranger she felt. This was the perfect excuse to not face whatever it was in the forest. “Mayhap, I should take you.”

  The vicar nodded, seeing her agony as she looked at the tree line.

  “There is something I should discuss with you, being as we are the same,” said Imogen. She turned to make the trek back to the house. Inside, her mind screamed at her for being a coward.

  “The same?” he asked, curious.

  “Yes, being as we both met with accidents and can now see ghosts,” she explained.

  “Ah, yes,” murmured the vicar thoughtfully. “What is it you need to discuss?”

  “I need your help.” She wrinkled her nose as they neared the house. Looking at the sky and then the garden, she motioned her hand to the latter. With a sad smile, she inquired, “Do you mind?”

  “No, not at all,” said the vicar.

  Imogen changed course for the garden paths. Bluntly, she stated, “I am meant to join Dougal with his daughter. I can see them both. And the knight on the horse I told you of is protecting Margaret.”

  Imogen quickly explained to the man what the knight had told her of his brother, before adding, “So tonight I want you to bring Dougal here to the garden. I will get his daughter. Together we will make them see each other.”

  “But they have never seen each other before and surely they have crossed paths.”

  “It is possible,” admitted Imogen. “But we must try. It is a place to start.”

  “All right,” agreed the reverend. They quickly decided the best route to go about their mission. When the last detail was in place, the vicar declared that they should tell Dougal at once. Imogen agreed, casting a guilty glance over her shoulder to the waiting forest.

  What harm is there in putting it off another hour or so? she told herself.

  As they made their way up the front steps, the reverend stated, “You say little about what is between you and the Marquis, yet when you say his name your face becomes saddened.”

  “You are too perceptive,” muttered Imogen.

  “A hazard of the profession, I’m afraid,” he stated. “Do you love him?”

  “I cannot love him,” she denied wearily. “He would never be free to leave here if I held him back. If he doesn’t leave, he and Margaret will be killed. I lose him either way. Only one of the ways I can live with, albeit barely.”

  “Not necessarily,” said the vicar.

  “I will not risk it. If it was my life and soul I risked then I would fight. But I cannot do harm to theirs. I cannot hold on to him.” Imogen bit back a sob. She thought of the rough tenderness of Dougal’s touch. She would never know another like him—dead or alive.

  “You would sacrifice your love for his soul?” questioned the vicar in quiet thought.

  “Yes,” she replied without thinking. Then sniffing, she swiped a hand across her nose. “I do not want to speak on it. If I think, I will lose my nerve. Promise me you will say nothing to him. He believes that we are only friends. I told him I don’t love him.”

  “Did you convince him?” inquired the vicar, hoping that the Marquis could see through her bad façade of calm as easily as he could.

  “Yes,” answered Imogen with certainty. “When it is time, he will be ready to go. And we must let him. It is why you must be the one to get him to the garden. I will not allow myself to rethink my decision. If I am alone with him, I might not be able to complete my task.”

  “Yes, Miss Imogen. I will do as you ask.”

  * * * *

  “You didn’t go to the forest?” the Marquis demanded more than questioned. He turned his frustrated glare on the vicar. “How could you keep her from going? She must remember.”

  “I’m right here,” said Imogen. “I will go later—tomorrow. Right now, we have to find a way to reunite you with your daughter. I’ve told the good vicar here what has happened…”

  Dougal raised a brow, glancing mischievously at the settee. Imogen colored. The vicar looked on in wonderment.

  “…and he has agreed to help us,” finished Imogen with a tight jaw. When Dougal didn’t immediately lose his smile, she added, “You are interested in seeing your daughter, are you not, my lord? Or should I tell her to not to expect you?”

  Dougal stiffened. “Yes, Miss Imogen. I am most interested in seeing my daughter again.”

  “Then it is settled,” declared Imogen. She hid her eyes under the veil of her lashes. “At dusk, just as soon as the mist rises, I will go look for Sir Josiah and Margaret. You and the vicar will await my word.”

  Dougal nodded once, refusing to look at her. She swallowed, seeing him from the corner of her eye. The vicar put forth his instructions, knowing the couple didn’t really listen. Imogen and Dougal nodded dutifully just the same.

  The plan was agreed between them. The vicar took his leave, wanting to review his books for a clue as how to make father and daughter known to the other. Dougal refused to look at Imogen, the sting of her words like a slap across his face. Of course, he wanted to see his daughter. Margaret was his reason for being.

  Imogen quietly ducked out of the library, retreating to her room to cry a
lone in her misery.

  Chapter Twelve

  Imogen tugged her stole around her shoulders. She watched the mist from the front door, wishing that it were already morning and her task was complete. She had not seen Jane. No doubt her sister spent the day attending her friends in the country. Imogen thought it better if Jane did not seek her out. She did not know where she would even begin to explain her actions.

  “Imogen.” Dougal said, coming up next to her. He glanced over his shoulder at the cloaked vicar. The man held a book of prayers to his chest. Leaning over, he whispered into Imogen’s ear, “Let me come with you.”

  “No,” she said. “I might not be able to find her if you are with me.”

  At her immovable look, he nodded. “Take care. If you see the demon knight, run back here.”

  “I will.” She managed a small, downhearted smile, turning back to glance at the vicar. In a louder voice, she said, “The sun has been set for awhile. I will go and see whom I can find. Wait here on the steps. I will send for you somehow.”

  “Yes, child,” the vicar murmured with a grave nod. He looked about the outside with a shiver running over his skin. He did not like her going out on her own either, not now that they knew of the evil that was out there looking for souls to feed upon.

  Imogen took a step, listening to the front door closing softly behind her. Suddenly, she paused. Dougal watched her back curiously. He was about to speak, when she continued on her way.

  Imogen walked down the familiar path, hating the taking of each step. As her agitation mounted, her steps became faster until she strode into the gardens. Looking around, she abruptly stopped.

  “Josiah?” she called out softly. With wavering steps, she walked deeper into the mist. Her feet passed by the buds of summer flowers. Lightly, she touched a shrub, tracing the pointed lines of its top as she moved by. “Margaret?”

  She received no answer. The fog coated the pathway like the unsettling of dirt. Imogen shivered despite the warm night. She hugged the stole to her chest.