“Neither am I,” Greyson admitted. “It cannae be helped.”
“You should marry,” she said, pouring him a cup of steaming tea. “It isn’t natural for a man to be alone.”
“I would rather see you happy again.” Greyson ignored her quip – and the way her words made his pulse jump.
As if she’d peered into his heart, knew the dragons he’d been battling of late.
“I am content.” Kirsty returned to her side of the table, took her seat. “It was a blessing to know such a great love as Patrick and I shared. I do not need another.”
This time Greyson frowned, guilt as always lancing him. “I miss him, too,” he said, his old friend’s face flashing before him. Kirsty should not have to live without him.
Praise the gods, she seemed to manage.
Despite widowhood and the hardship of life in a tiny coastal fishing hamlet, she’d retained the freshness and beauty of her youth. She did carry a bit more weight these days, but the curves became her. The kitchen’s fire glow and oil lamps shone on her chestnut hair, showing the color hadn’t faded, and her eyes were still clear and bright, the lovely green of summer grass.
“So where is Wiggle?” she asked again, reminding him that he was indeed not himself. “You always bring him. He is well, I trust?”
“Och, he is fine.” Greyson took a sip of tea, smiling when he returned the cup to the table. His little friend always lifted his heart – something he was grateful for. “You ken some of the local bairns drop in to see him now and again? They missed their last visit because several of them were abed with the ague. They’re at the house now, Smithers and Wiggle hosting them.”
“It is good of you to let them come.” Kirsty smiled. “Wiggle surely loves the attention.”
“He does.”
“You enjoy their visits, too.” Kirsty looked at him from over her teacup. “Do you not want children of your own?”
“Someday, aye, but no’ for a good while.”
“Don’t wait too long.” She set down her cup, began spreading jam on a scone. “Life should be seized as it unfolds. There isn’t a road backward. We can’t reclaim what’s lost, or what we might not embrace fast enough.” She paused to take a bite of her scone. “Can it be such a matter is troubling you?”
“Nae.” Greyson almost choked. “My only problem at the moment is the ache in my shoulders from tearing so many of Priddy’s panels off my walls.” Not the entire truth, but also not a lie. “I am too busy to worry about anything else.”
That was a lie.
“I am glad to hear it.” Kirsty’s eyes said she didn’t believe him. “I’ll also tell you, you needn’t bring me such help every month.” She reached to push a small pouch of coins back across the table. “This house was Patrick’s mother’s. It is now mine. No one can take it from me. I earn well mending nets for the herring fleet. I do other sewing work. It is enough. My wants are not many.”
They should be.
Greyson kept the words to himself. He did not want to offend her. He also glanced around the low-beamed room, half expecting to see a tiny, black-garbed crone with red plaid shoe laces peering at him from a corner. Of course, he saw nothing but the whitewashed walls, an old wooden cupboard, its shelves neatly lined with cups, saucers, plates, and an assortment of various-sized bowls, jars, and jugs. A few lobster pots Kirsty had transformed into oil lamps, and – his heart squeezed – Patrick’s old Harris Tweed jacket that still claimed pride of place on its hook by the door.
“Keep the coins for me,” he said, sliding the pouch back to her. “I will no’ miss them either.”
He would, but she didn’t need to know that.
“We will always argue about this.” She didn’t touch the money. But she also left the pouch where he’d pushed it. “You are welcome here always – with or without a bag of coins.”
“That I know.” He did, and he loved her for it.
He also stood, not wanting to overstay his visit, whatever she said. His presence could only remind her of Patrick and he suspected she often cried when he left. His eyes watered, too, each time he stepped from the cottage onto the sea-fronted road. He supposed it would remain that way for both of them. Losing someone dear was bitter, an ache you carried forever.
“You are even more welcome when you bring Wiggle,” she said, accompanying him to the door. “I hope he will come along next time.”
“He will.” He gave her a smile, set his hands on her shoulders. “It might embarrass the wee laddie if I share his secrets, but he is right fond of you.”
As he’d hoped, Kirsty beamed. “I won’t say a word.”
“Then all is well, dear lady.” He tightened his grip on her shoulders and then made a quick exit, glad to find the sun shining, a brisk sea wind frothing the waves.
His spirits rose as he strode down Stony Bay’s main thoroughfare, a curving road hemmed on one side by the village’s row of connected fishermen’s cottages, each one low, whitewashed, and slate-roofed, with peat smoke curling from almost every chimney. The road also led past the local church, ancient and granite-built, a shop, and a small inn, its pub popular with the herring fishers and lobstermen. Greyson glanced at the tiny harbor now, then the broad beach that hugged the road. The tide was out, the whole of the North Sea stretching away to the horizon, the sun glinting on its rolling expanse.
His breath caught at the beauty, but he quickened his pace and returned his gaze to the road before memories painted the image of his first ship out there – the one ghost he did not care to see, given the chance.
He’d trained himself not to look for the Silver Thistle at Aberdeen’s bustling harbor, but here…
Stony Bay was different.
As a boon to besotted Patrick, his first ship, christened Margaret for his mother, had always called in at the hamlet first, allowing Patrick to race home to his Kirsty.
None of the crewmen had minded. Far from it, they’d made jests and cheered loudly, happy to watch their friend almost fall over his own running feet as he’d hurried to his door.
Greyson frowned, his mood darkening as he strode even faster.
He was almost at the end of Stony Bay when he allowed himself one last glance at the beach, the sea beyond. A woman walked there now. No, she wasn’t walking…
As he watched, she bent and took a stick from the sand, seeming to laugh as she threw the stick and then ran to retrieve it, repeating her actions as she moved along beside the surf. His heart pounded, his breath catching as everything about her slammed into him – the glint of her raven hair, the curve of her hips, the way she moved.
The flash of the sun off the water made it hard to see her face, but he was sure he knew her.
Indeed, there could be no doubt.
She was Miss Raines.
His Samhain beauty.
And even as recognition set his soul on fire, he ran onto the sand and raced down the beach, calling after her as she hitched up her skirts and bolted away from him.
“Leave me be!” Ophelia whirled to face him, the regrettably unrestrained rogue from Samhain Eve. Her knees shook, her heart thundered, and the stitch in her side warned that she couldn’t outrun him. Shamed that was so, she fought against bending double and, instead, set her hands against her hips and glared at him. “I want nothing to do with you. Stay away from me. I will scream if you come one step closer.”
To her surprise, he stopped running and returned her stare, his handsome face dark with the same annoyance beating through her. He wasn’t wearing his sporran – much to her relief.
But he was clearly after her.
Even more alarming, he knew her name.
Not wanting to show fear, she lifted her chin. “How do you know who I am? What are you doing here, chasing me down the beach?”
“Miss Raines… lass…” He raised his hands, palms outward. “I made enquiries after Samhain, seeking to find you. I learned your name from an old friend. Leastways your family name.”
Oph
elia wasn’t about to tell him more. “Did you follow me to Stony Bay?”
“Nae.” He sighed. “On my mother’s sainted soul, I mean you nae harm. I had business here, with Widow Muir if you know her. I was on my way home, walking along the road, when I saw you.”
Ophelia pushed back her hair, her pulse racing. “I know Kirsty Muir,” she said, still not ready to credit his mention of the widow as proof of his character.
Stony Bay was so tiny a sneeze at one end could be heard at the other.
The widow’s name would be known by all.
Tossing it to her like a bone to a dog proved nothing.
“She will tell you I am nae fiend.” The rogue – she thought of him as Mr. Wiggle – took a few steps toward her, his hands still raised. “Go ask her now. I will wait here until you return. We will speak then. Indeed, we must.”
“Why?”
He came closer, his agitation clearly growing. “Because…” He made a sound that could have been a curse beneath his breath. “I wish to clear up a few things between us.”
“No need.” Ophelia leapt backward, almost tripping over a seaweed-covered rock exposed by the tide. “Nothing binds us except to forget we chanced to visit St. Nicholas Kirkyard on All Hallows’ Eve. I have already put it behind me.”
“I cannae.” He came closer, his gaze locked on hers. “I suspect you feel the same.”
“I do not.” Ophelia glanced about, seeing no one. Nothing stirred except windblown sand, the fishing boats that bobbed at their moorings. Nearby, seabirds pecked at a mound of glistening seaweed. “I put you from my mind before I scrambled over the kirkyard wall.” She hardly heard her words for the hammering of blood in her ears. “I am not happy to see you now.”
Yet…
He did sound sincere.
Not that she trusted him.
Worse, he was even more attractive by daylight. His dark hair and eyes, and the small, curled scar on his cheek, gave him the look of a romantic pirate of old. The image enhanced by the sparkling sea behind him, the cold salt wind tearing at his cloak.
Why hadn’t she thought of a smuggler or wrecker? The heinous sort of blackguards who used false light to lure unsuspecting ships onto rocks, then plundered the spoils while ‘silencing’ any survivors.
Such an image should have popped into her mind.
Annoyed that it hadn’t, she pressed a hand to her breast and tried to imagine him as a toad. A short, fat, and odious man, his nose bulbous, and with bloodshot eyes, his spindly legs at stark contrast to his great and jiggly belly. But, of course, she failed miserably. Greyson Merrick – she knew his name – was anything but an ogre.
He was the most dashing man she’d ever seen.
There was just something about him that drew her. He’d even followed her into her dreams, stirred long-cold hopes and wishes she did not want to kindle.
She’d enjoyed his kiss, losing herself to its magic.
And that only angered her.
“You are a beast.” She took another few backward steps, afraid he’d pounce if she flat-out ran. “A rogue who took advantage of my need to avoid discovery. I should not have been out. Encountering you was my punishment, the cost of my daring.”
“Och, nae, sweetness.” He shook his head. “A kiss at midnight, on such a special night, can ne’er be seen as that. A blessing, it was. A gift from the gods.”
“The gods were damning me.” She was sure. “Or maybe they were laughing? Looking for amusement on a night all know belongs to them and not mortal fools.”
“I am the fool if I let you go without making amends.” He took another slow step forward, the sea wind ruffling his hair. “I would clear my name. I have my honor, lady.”
“I am not a lady – nor would I wish to be.”
“All ladies should be treated honorably, regardless of station.”
Do not listen to him. He is a scoundrel.
Ophelia heard the warning in her gut, but his words slid through her. His deep voice, so soft and musical, the rolled r’s marking him as a true Highlander. And they weren’t a folk to lie. Save a few rotten-to-the-core souls amongst them, one of which she’d had the ill fortune of trusting. The memory steeled her spine, undoing the magic of his voice.
“You stole that midnight kiss,” she said, bristling. “I only needed you to shield me.”
“Will you believe that was my intent?”
“To steal a kiss?” She smiled. “Yes, I believe you.”
His dark gaze pinned her. “You know what I meant. You begged me to hide you. I did so.”
“You ravished me.”
“Aye, well.” He smiled, a dimple flashing in his cheek. “I suppose I did – for all of a heartbeat. I’ll no’ deny I was overcome.” He shrugged, his smile deepening. “You are a desirable woman. You bewitched me. I couldn’t resist. I kissed you before I even realized what was happening. And then-”
“We both know what happened.” Ophelia shivered, remembering her shock and disappointment. For a crazy-mad moment that night, she’d felt bound to him. Safe, secure, and entirely swept away, as if she’d waited all her life for that one breathtaking and magical kiss.
He’d ruined it.
A thought came to her – one that pricked her somewhere deep inside and in ways she shouldn’t acknowledge. But Kirsty Muir was a beautiful woman, and alone.
Ophelia clasped her hands before her. “What were you doing at Kirsty’s cottage? I hadn’t heard she has a gentleman friend.”
“You think I am her lover?” To her annoyance, he looked amused. But then a shadow crossed his face and all levity vanished. “I am her friend, aye. Her husband and I grew up together. He might have been my brother. I look in on Kirsty now and again, making certain she has all she needs.”
“Oh.” Ophelia felt terrible. For some reason, she didn’t doubt him. But she’d remain wary. How a man treated the wife of a friend varied greatly from how he might behave when manly urges ‘overcame him’ as he’d said.
“Kirsty is a good soul.” It was all she could think to say. “Everyone in Stony Bay looks out for her.”
“So they do.” He glanced briefly at the sea, then back to her. “And you, lass? What brought you here?”
“Mussels.” Ophelia almost didn’t tell him. But it wouldn’t hurt for him to know she wasn’t alone. “Cook swears Stony Bay mussels are the best in all Scotland, so whenever she comes here to purchase some, I join her. The carriage drops me at the head of the beach. They will be returning soon.”
She looked over her shoulder, toward the road and the row of low, thick-walled cottages that all faced the sea. “I expect them any moment.”
“Nae worry, lass.” He looked amused again, a disturbingly appealing smile tugging one corner of his mouth. “I will no’ be falling on you here on the sand.”
“It is true.” She felt heat inch up her throat. “We are here for the mussels.”
“Is that why you were tossing a stick about?” Somehow he was right before her. Worse, he cupped her chin and lifted her face when she would have glanced aside. “Does stick-throwing improve the quality of mussels?”
“You are making fun of me.”
“Nae.” He shook his head. “You delight me. I am teasing you. Again” – he released her chin – “you enchanted me. I have ne’er seen a lass cavort along the water’s edge as you did.”
“I wasn’t cavorting.” Ophelia stood straighter, wished her skin didn’t tingle from his touch. In truth, she tingled everywhere, an unstoppable excitement gathering inside her.
“I was playing with a dog,” she blurted, forgetting caution. “There is one here. He is lonely and so I visit him whenever I accompany Cook to Stony Bay.”
“I did no’ see a dog.”
“You wouldn’t have.” She squared her shoulders, aware she was now in deep.
She didn’t care.
“The dog is a ghost,” she said, holding his gaze. “A mere trace against the air, but I see him. He runs after th
e stick when I throw it. The attention might be all the happiness he knows.”
“I see.” Something flickered in his eyes … understanding? Sympathy?
Ophelia wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t smiling so she figured he thought she was crazed.
“You do not believe me.” She looked past him to where the stick could still be seen on the sand. The little dog was gone, perhaps frightened away by his arrival. “You didn’t at St. Nicholas, about the Samhain lovers, and you don’t again. You think I am addled.”
He smiled again. “No’ at all, sweetness. If you possess so much whimsy-”
“Ghosts are real.” She drew her cloak tighter against the wind. “They are not whimsies.”
“You misunderstood,” he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips, kissing her fingertips. “I am hopeful that, with your kind heart, you will accept my apologies for Wiggle.”
“Stop now!” Ophelia snatched her hand from his grasp. “There is no excuse for that. I know why it happened and it proved that, charming as you are, and handsome, you remain a rogue who cannot contain his baser urges.”
He laughed. “Wiggle is my pet squirrel. I carry him in my sporran. It was his scrambling that you felt – no’ what you think.”
“Your pet squirrel?” Ophelia blinked. “Squirrels are wild. People do not keep them as pets.”
“True enough,” he agreed. “But I have one all the same. I found Wiggle when he was smaller than my hand. He’d fallen from his nest and was orphaned.”
“I do not believe you.”
“Ask Kirsty Muir.” He glanced back toward her cottage. “She will tell you.”
“I will.” She would do no such thing. She knew a tall tale when she heard one. “If you hadn’t said you keep him in your sporran, I might consider such a story. But who would do that? Walk about with a squirrel in a sporran.”
She glanced to where his sporran would have been – had he been wearing one. “You are squirrel-and-sporranless now.”
“So I am,” he said, his smile fading. “He stayed at my home today. Local children are visiting him there. He is quite popular with the wee ones.”
The Kiss at Midnight Page 6