The Kiss at Midnight

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  His words clutched at her heart, sending a hurtful cold through her. “I am sure.”

  “You do no’ like children, Miss Raines?”

  “I love them.” She told the truth, vaguely aware she was trembling. “I just do not like to speak of them, you see. I lost one when he was born too early.”

  She held his gaze, not really seeing him for the sting of sudden tears. She’d never spoken of her sorrow to anyone. Only her aunt and uncle knew. But the words had flown out of her, ripped from their deep, dark ‘safe place’ hidden in her soul.

  “I am sorry.” He stepped toward her again, reaching a hand to her. “I had no idea you’d been married.”

  “I wasn’t.” That truth she said as well. “I was betrayed.”

  In that moment, she spotted the Kettle House carriage rattling down the road, coming for her. Relief swept her and she hitched her skirts, ready to run from the beach, the danger that was Greyson Merrick.

  “It won’t happen again. I am no longer a fool.” She nodded once, then hurried away before he could speak.

  She needn’t have exerted herself.

  He didn’t follow.

  Chapter 6

  Two days later, Greyson paced the drawing room at Kettle House. Spotlessly clean, the austere room served as a private sanctum for Irwin Russell, his Samhain beauty’s uncle. The chamber reflected everything he’d heard about the man, offering little comforts. Bookshelves lined one wall, but the tomes displayed were either religious or appeared so dry Greyson doubted anyone ever reached for them. A cold draft leaked through the window seams, but the armchairs lacked knee blankets to ward off the chill.

  The air smelled of beeswax and cherry pipe smoke, the latter bringing a twitch to Greyson’s lips.

  At least Mr. Russell allowed himself one pleasure.

  Nae, that wasn’t quite true.

  There was a low-burning fire, though the peats were not stacked generously enough to properly warm the room. He also noted whisky and tumblers on a nearby table. Without doubt, he’d soon be offered a dram, and the gods knew he needed one.

  He was tempted to help himself now.

  But he could hear footsteps approaching and even if his visit might have Mr. and Mrs. Russell viewing him as a barbarian, he did have some civility.

  He’d wait.

  He’d been shown a great courtesy when his wish had been granted to speak with the couple in privacy, away from prying eyes and equally long ears.

  Kettle House was often crowded, the number of daily soup-takers said to sometimes reach such great numbers that extra tables were set up in the passage outside the kitchen. By fair weather, such additional seating was placed before the house and even, according to his sources, in the tiny back garden.

  If his visit did not go as planned, he did not want Miss Raines to suffer because some less than discreet soul overheard his discussion with her family.

  His adventures had taught him not to press his luck. So he drew a deep a breath, turned to the half-open door, and braced himself to do what he must…

  Stand firm for the lass, interfering in matters that didn’t concern him.

  Or did they?

  Was this why he’d felt so compelled to search for her? Was it mere duty, spurred by his guilt for having kissed her? On the thought, he did feel a pang of remorse. Regrettably, not because he’d ravished her. Deep in his heart of hearts, he wasn’t sorry for the kiss. Indeed, he wanted more of her, doubted he could ever have enough of her. And not just for her delectable curves and rose of summer scent, but for her spirit.

  Something told him that she could also make him laugh, given the chance.

  That, too, was a potent appeal.

  He could not even recall the last time he’d laughed. But that also wasn’t quite true. She’d delighted him on the beach at Stony Bay. Leastways she had until he’d learned the sad reason for her stick-throwing. The even greater sorrow of her personal loss, an outrage and tragedy that made him want to find whoever had hurt her and beat the man bloody.

  In the days of his ancestors, he’d have done more. Under other circumstances, he could now.

  Alas, he wasn’t here to claim her.

  He’d come to set her free.

  An endeavor he couldn’t believe he meant to attempt, having kept to his own business for so long. Yet here he stood and so he’d address her need, truthfully and unvarnished. If he didn’t, he’d not have a good night’s sleep ever again.

  Not that his slumber, or lack thereof, troubled him.

  There were times when honor mattered above all else.

  Nae, a man should always handle with honor. He’d simply forgotten his when he’d pulled her to him so fiercely, keeping her in his arms and kissing her deeply, even after the clutch of women had scurried away down the kirkyard path.

  Even then, he’d not let her go. How could he? He’d found himself smitten, there in the midst of cold and mossy tombs, chill night mist and ghost lovers that hadn’t been there.

  He had been there, and so had she. A combination that stole his wits. Indeed, if he could turn back time and relive their encounter, he’d do the same.

  But now, this night, he’d make amends.

  “Mr. Merrick…” The Russells entered the room, the wife greeting him as her husband came forward to grasp his hand, a waft of cherry pipe smoke swirling around him.

  “Welcome to Kettle House.” Mrs. Russell smiled. “Your visit is a surprise.”

  “More than that, it is!” Her husband pumped Greyson’s hand. “‘Tis a great honor. Your name is known, sir. I’m an admirer, was even in the crowd down in Edinburgh some years back when you accepted a challenge to run up and down Arthur’s Seat three times without pausing.

  “You won that day and I’ll never forget it,” he added, smiling. “Even I stayed out in the streets that night, celebrating until the wee hours.”

  “That was long ago.” Greyson returned the little man’s smile, embarrassed. “I cannae recall why I agreed to such madness – charging up and down a mountain. I was young.”

  His host chuckled. “I carried less years then, too.”

  Grayson looked at him. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but Irwin Russell didn’t appear at all stern. He did lack color, his clothes gray, his thin, carefully combed hair likewise. Next to his much taller and sturdier wife, he reminded Greyson of a sparrow.

  “What may I do for you?” Mrs. Russell brought them back to business. “As you surely know, our guests aren’t usually famous adventurers.”

  Before Greyson could respond, she lifted the whisky decanter and poured a generous measure. She offered him the tumbler, looking him up and down.

  “So resplendent,” she said after a moment. “You will have drawn eyes on Flourmill Lane. Few men come this way in full Highland dress. Will you be attending a Scottish gala later this evening? Is that the reason for such magnificence?”

  “He’s a hero.” Irwin Russell shot her a look.

  “Many would say the two of you are heroes.” Greyson meant it. “All Aberdeen speaks of your bottomless soup kettle. You can be very proud of your generosity.”

  “Aye, well…” Irwin glanced at the floor, nudged the braided runner with the tip of his shoe. “We do what we can.”

  “So are you attending a grand ball after you leave us?” Mrs. Russell was again peering at his kilt and jacket.

  “I am a Highlander, no more, no less.” Greyson felt his chest swell a bit all the same. The old blood stirring. “This is a business call and I have no other engagements. The matter I wish to address requires dignity.”

  “I see.” She poured no further drams, so suggesting that the whisky was indeed a nod to him.

  Her husband’s smile slipped. “If you’re here to ask about buying our house, the answer is no. By all respect to who you are, running Kettle House is tradition. We know some folk would love nothing more than gutting the place, turning it into a fancy hotel. Something fine that would attract the gentry, fill an i
nvestor’s coffers.”

  “We’ve had three offers this year.” Mrs. Russell sighed. “I imagine someday Flourmill Lane will no longer be recognizable, even the old provost’s mansion gone.”

  “I understand.” Greyson did.

  He’d seen such goings-on all across the land. It was a reason, among others, that he was so dedicated to preserving Gannet House. History was priceless. The past lived on in such places and if they were destroyed, the damage was irreparable.

  “Nae worries.” He took a long sip of whisky and then returned the glass to the table. “I am no’ here about your home or what you do here, much as you have my admiration. And I agree with your concerns.”

  They waited, the silence punctuated by the ticking of a mantel clock. The clatter of a draught horse and wagon passing the house. Greyson also heard the thudding of his heart – or so he imagined in the quiet. Gods, he felt anything but a hero.

  Regardless, he would speak. “The truth is a young woman charmed me. I believe she is your niece.”

  “Ophelia?” Mrs. Russell stared at him. “How is that possible? I do not recall her speaking of you.”

  “I am not surprised.” Greyson stood straighter. “We only just met. A chance encounter on Samhain Eve at the old Mither Kirk, St. Nicholas.”

  “She was there with you? I knew she’d been out.”

  “You didn’t tell me.” Her husband began pacing. “I made it clear to her that such nonsense must stop. It isn’t proper.” He paused by the hearth and shook his head, clearly agitated. “Any number of things could befall her. Brigands, snatched into the sort of house no good woman should know of, an accident-”

  “Nothing happened.” His wife waved him silent. To Greyson, she added, “You looked after her, didn’t you? A man like yourself, above the rougher sort that would be out on such a wild and wicked night.”

  “I am no’ above anyone, my lady.” Greyson knew that well. “Indeed, my behavior caused her to flee. In doing so, she tore her shawl.” He took the small piece of silver silk from inside his jacket, extending it on his palm for them to see. “She ran because I compromised her. We shared a kiss and she was seen.”

  “You kissed her?” Mr. Russell came back over to them. “Did she know who you are? If she did, I can see her throwing herself at you. She has fire in her blood, that one. She-”

  “Irwin!” His wife stomped on his toe.

  Greyson pretended not to see. “It wasn’t like that at all, sir. I take full responsibility. She’s a fetching lass, it was Samhain Eve, the moon was full, an enchanted night. But then a group of women came down the path, ladies she knew.”

  Greyson told them how she’d panicked, and what he’d done to hide her. He left nothing out except Wiggle’s contribution, and what she’d thought, not wanting to shock them.

  “Nothing else happened.” Greyson waited as a carriage rattled past the window. “I have been trying to find her ever since – to make amends.”

  Mrs. Russell went back to the table, again pouring him a dram. “We do worry about her.”

  “Humph.” Mr. Russell glanced at her. “Harm will come to her, I always said it. She causes a stir as easy as she breathes. She cannot sleep without making trouble.”

  “The kiss was my fault.” Greyson kept his voice level – but it wasn’t easy. “She did nothing wrong.”

  “Even so, something must be done.” Mrs. Russell handed him the whisky. “Speaking of which…” She began tapping her chin. “With all respect to your fame and with sympathy to the loss of your ship not so long ago – we did hear of it. If you were hoping to ask for her hand, we’d have to decline. We want the best for her. She should live quietly, settle into a placid life with a clerk or shoemaker. Or perhaps an older gentleman who falls asleep and snores before the sun sinks. We can’t subject her to the heartbreak of a husband who repeatedly disappears into the wild, perhaps never to be seen again.

  “You surely understand?” She actually smiled.

  “I do.”

  “That is good.” She wasn’t finished. “Her wellbeing matters to us. She needs stability. Adventurers risk their wealth along with their lives, isn’t that so?”

  “It is.” Greyson wouldn’t lie. But his chest tightened, annoyance spiking through him. His Highland blood heated at her bluntness.

  Words he knew were true, but they galled all the same.

  “I am no’ without means, lady.” He kept his gaze locked on hers as he knocked back the dram. “It is true that the loss of the Silver Thistle cost me much, but I sold my parents’ farm and sheep to address the ensuing debt. I have other income as well. I do no’ hunger and fires burn in my hearths.”

  She nodded. “So you are here to offer for Ophelia?”

  I would if I could. Greyson kept that to himself, not liking how his heart clenched that he was not here to claim her. He just wanted to spare her a dreadful life. Gannet House might be warm and he might not go to bed with an empty stomach, but that was about all he could say for himself.

  The lass deserved better.

  So he did the honorable thing. “I am no’ here to offer for her. I want your word that you will no’ subject her to a life shackled to a man who will stifle her spirit, douse the fire that burns inside her.”

  To his surprise, the older woman looked amused. “You do not agree a placid existence would suit her?”

  “Nae, I dinnae.” Greyson frowned. “That is nae life for her.”

  “Ah, well.” Mrs. Russell shrugged. “There are worse ends. Imagine her drudgery at your Gannet House. Word about town is that you only employ a manservant. How could she live comfortably under such an inhospitable roof?”

  “Be still, woman.” Mr. Russell gripped her arm. “Do you forget who our guest is?”

  “Oh, I know who he is.” She tugged free. “I also know his purpose.”

  “Your niece would love Gannet House.” Greyson ignored their bickering. “It’s haunted, for one thing,” he said, not caring that his words caused Mr. Russell’s mouth to tighten. “She’s keen on suchlike. And I suspect she’d also fancy the paintings old Arbuckle splashed across every wall. One room has the look of a medieval great hall in ruin and another depicts a fine hill-and-glen landscape. I often think I’ve been swept to my parents’ Highland home when I enter that chamber. There are others equally fanciful.

  “She might no’ find damask chairs and other frippery, but the house bursts with legend and heritage.” Greyson couldn’t believe he was saying all this, but the words kept rolling off his tongue.

  No, they escaped from his heart.

  His foolish heart, as the Russells had made clear.

  “You Highlanders are dreamers,” Mrs. Russell said then, shaking her head. “The slightest nudge and you each become a poet, like the romantic bards of old.”

  “I am no’ poet, my lady.”

  “Nor are you a suitable match for our niece – it must be said.”

  “You speak plain.” Greyson was angry now. “You are also making assumptions. Or you do no’ listen. I told you I am no’ here to ask for her hand.”

  “Oh, I heard you.” Her smile returned. “You wish us to spare her a suitable marriage.”

  “Nae.” Greyson shook his head. “She should indeed wed. I’d just have your assurance that you will keep her here at Kettle House until a worthy match can be made. She deserves someone good, honest, and of sufficient means, preferably a Highlander.”

  “The kind of man who believes in ghosts?”

  “Sarah!” Mr. Russell’s brows swooped low. “She needs to forget such foolery.”

  “She needs a husband who will no’ crush her spirit.” Greyson leaned toward them, not caring if they saw that he’d fisted his hands. “A man who’d love her fiercely and uproot mountains to protect her; someone comfortable enough in his own skin that he’d no’ try to cage her, refusing her to chase her dreams. A man who’d share them, hold her close every night, and weep with joy when she bears his children.

&nbs
p; “A man, my friends, who would…” He straightened. “Find her as beautiful in age as he does now, even more so for all the long years they will have shared.”

  “A poet, yes.” Mrs. Russell clasped her hands before her. “A man like you.”

  Greyson bit back a snarl. “Leave Aberdeen and head into the Highlands and you’ll find men like me on every hill, in every glen, and striding along each loch.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is.” Greyson straightened, his heart thundering with annoyance. “Find her a strapping, great-hearted Highlander and give me your word on it.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot.” The woman’s chin came up, her damned eyes twinkling again. “I’ve already chosen her husband.”

  Mr. Russell spluttered.

  Greyson’s heart sank. “She isn’t aware of this.”

  “She will know soon enough. I am already making arrangements.” She looked at him, her face as cool and calm as a spring afternoon. “I’m afraid you have wasted our time, Mr. Greyson. And your own.”

  “Indeed.” Greyson nodded, and then strode for the door. “I will no’ trouble you any longer.”

  He would return to Gannet House and hope to all the heavens that his foul temper didn’t frighten the ghosts. Or Smithers, though the old man was used to his moods, as was Wiggle, bless his wee soul.

  “I bid you good day,” he said to both, reaching to open the door wider, to take his leave.

  “Wait.” Mrs. Russell sailed up beside him, placing a hand on his arm. “I am not as callous as you believe. Allow me to fetch Ophelia. Once you have seen her in clear light, away from midnight mist and magic, you will recognize her true worth, understand why she needs the husband I seek for her.”

  “That isnae necessary.”

  Greyson didn’t say he’d already met her by day, at Stony Bay.

  Seeing her now would break him.

  But somehow, as if her aunt had worked her own magic, he caught a whiff of summer roses and heard the light footsteps he knew belonged to his Samhain angel.

  She’d soon reach the drawing room. And he already knew what would happen. His Highland courtesy would flee, the hot temper of his ancestors proving stronger than any niceties he usually tried to abide by in this modern age.