It was, he mused, ironic that Olwyn would want to board a ship there. He could easily send her anywhere she wanted to go aboard one of his vessels, and could see to her protection. So why, he asked himself, did he not tell her so?
Instead of thinking about that, he asked, “Where are you off to when you board your ship?”
“I’m headed to the Americas,” Olwyn told him.
“That’s a long way to go. Why so far, and what do you think will become of you there, alone in a new country with no man to protect you?”
“The trader who sold me these maps told me that there are fifty men to one woman there. I’m a hard worker, and can likely produce children, so this should make me more attractive as a potential mate,” she answered him, her tone rather defensive. She seemed to reflect on her words, and added, “It’s not a bad plan, really. I can read and write, so would make for a governess if I needed work, and should I find a man to marry me, he would probably be grateful that his children wouldn’t be ignorant. The trader assured me that since there are so few women, the men are far less concerned with a woman’s appearance, and that I shouldn’t have troubles finding a mate.”
Aidan nearly laughed at the absurdity of her final comment. “Was the trader blind, Olwyn?”
She turned to him, quizzical. She obviously missed his meaning, because she answered as if he were dimwitted. “No. How else could he find his way around, if not for his eyes, Lóchrann?”
Aidan just shook his head and kept driving south. He took her maps and looked them over. At the pace the single horse set, having to stop frequently to clear her hooves, warm her, and let her rest, a journey of several days could take weeks.
And she’d planned on going it alone, dragging a comatose man with her. The enormity of her foolishness stunned Aidan. Hadn’t the trader seen fit to warn her of the dangers, or was he, too, caught up in the romantic notion of a benevolent world that would welcome and shelter a runaway girl?
Clearly Olwyn thought that booking passage on a ship was enough protection for her, if she could have made it that far. Little did she know that she would have been fortunate to not be grabbed up by a man who would steal her money, rape her, and sell her into bondage.
“What were you thinking?” he asked her. “Running off by yourself with this sort of trip ahead of you. Don’t you know ’tis not safe for a woman to travel alone?”
“Or I could have withered away at home,” she said calmly. “I’ve a pistol, a rifle, and a dagger, and I’m good with them.”
He snorted. “That only gives you three shots, Olwyn.”
“I wouldn’t miss.”
“And if there was more than three men?”
“I’ve a dagger.”
“Right. Three shots and a single throw. I stand corrected. You had the right of it. I’m sure you’d have been as safe as a babe in its mother’s arms.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“What? Mock you? How could I, when clearly your plan was without a single flaw. I’m not so daft that I’d go poking fun at such brilliance.”
Olwyn glanced over to him, her brows drawn in a scowl, her lips pursed with annoyance.
Aidan winked at her and grinned, and she could not maintain her anger. She laughed then, a sound that fit the cold winter morning as nothing else, high, sweet, and clear, like a songbird heralding the promise of spring.
“Perhaps it wasn’t brilliant,” she conceded, the laughter still warming her voice, “but there was nothing else to be done. It was run and hope to live, or stay and wish for death.”
“As bad as all that, then?”
“Aye,” she said slowly. “It was.”
“Tell me about it, Olwyn.”
And so, as the wagon lurched and bumped along, she told him of her life as her father’s assistant and servant. Aidan listened without interruption, and when she finished he remained silent a long while.
He envisioned her life—a slave to a madman, forced to become a servant in her own home, and a pariah in her village. How long until her father’s man found a door unlocked and forced himself on her? How long until she sickened from one of the corpses? And none of those concerns touched on the basic human needs for love, for meaning, for hope. She was correct in one thing, he knew. Had she stayed, her life would have never improved.
“I could see myself many years on,” she said softly, interrupting his thoughts. “I’d be haggard from misery, deeply resentful of my lot in life, bitter and a bit mad after a life of isolation. I’d probably be razor thin from too much work and not enough food, and every time I ventured into the village to get food, people would run from me. Babies would cry. Children would laugh.”
Olwyn lifted her face to the sky, and he heard her inhale deeply as if she pulled freedom into her lungs. “I should rather die than live that life,” she said. “Call me fool if you must, but I see it another way. I would have been a fool to stay.”
“I admire you,” he said softly, and he meant it. How many times had he fantasized about his own freedom? Too many times to count, he thought, and he had a fortune at his disposal and a family who loved him at his back. And still, he let himself do everything he was supposed to do, was expected to do.
They fell silent in companionable agreement. Aidan noticed the way her shoulder bumped his arm as they rode, her body swaying in time to the motion of the wagon. Holding the reins in one hand, he reached around her and pulled her closer. She turned her face up, so close to him now that he could kiss her.
“I’m cold,” he lied. The truth was, she felt good against him.
Olwyn nodded, looked away. He obviously still made her uncomfortable, despite the night spent safely in his arms.
“You’ve yet to tell me about yourself, Lóchrann,” she whispered.
Aidan knew he owed her some truth. She’d revealed herself to him in so many ways, and he’d yet to tell her anything about who he really was, and that even the name she called him was not his true name.
Before he could form an answer he saw her turn her head, even as he heard what called her attention. Rhythmic hoofbeats, like distant thunder. Aidan listened closely. More than four, he thought, and they were coming up behind them, fast.
“You’ve got that rifle?” Aidan asked.
Olwyn reached beneath the seat, pulled it up, and checked its priming with a precision that would equal any soldier’s. “Ready.”
Aidan put his hand out. “And the dagger?”
Olwyn reached into her belt, pulled it out, and handed it to him hilt first. “It’s not balanced. Aim two feet higher than the target.”
“Fine. Give me the pistol, then.”
The drumming of the horses grew closer. Aidan ran a hand across his bristly chin and glanced around. The field rolled and stretched, dotted periodically with tall, thin, bare trees and low, scrubby clumps of bushes. With the tracks they were leaving in the mud, hiding was impossible.
They could only wait and see, prepared to hold their ground with a rifle, a pistol, and a single dagger. Aidan held to the hope that whoever rode along the unpopulated open fields had no mayhem in mind. There was nothing else to be done. Just like life itself, he mused, they could only prepare as best they could, wait, and hope.
Aidan corrected himself. There was one more thing to do—seize the moment. He turned to Olwyn, and beneath the furs that covered them, he felt her body, already tensed with fear, turn supple in expectation. Her body knew his, and like before, responded.
Without hesitation, he put his hand beneath the soft waves of her black hair, curved his fingers around the shape of her skull, and pulled her to him. Those gray eyes widened, but she did not fight his advances.
Aidan lowered his mouth to take hers and then faltered. He held back, unable to take what had not been given, unwilling to press her if she did not want the same thing.
Olwyn answered his unvoiced question. She leaned up and pressed her lips to his.
Olwyn shook as his lips moved against hers. She’d imag
ined what it would feel like to be kissed by him. She had not even come close.
He tasted of salt and honey, and something she could not name. She licked at his lips to taster deeper, and Lóchrann made a noise in his throat that sent a deep throb of warmth to her groin. A slippery dampness, shameful in its heat, had her pressing her thighs together.
He slanted his head and opened his lips, and as his tongue touched hers, she tasted him deeply. Everything was texture, soft lips and wet tongue, teeth as he nipped her bottom lip, his stubble an erotic brush on her skin that was purely male. Her body responded in ways she could not fathom, as if her flesh and blood and bones understood the kiss, and knew the secrets of what passed between men and women.
She was hot and liquid, and she would melt into a puddle beside him. Nothing else was remotely as real, not the riders coming up fast, not the crumbling keep she’d left behind, not the ship she hoped to find freedom aboard. Lóchrann’s mouth became a primitive shelter she could hide inside forever.
The hand that gripped the back of her head grew harder, more insistent. He pulled at her as if he wanted to climb inside her. That noise sounded again in his throat, urgent and deep, like pain and pleasure combined. And when he pulled her bottom lip into his mouth and lightly sucked it, she heard the same sound come from her throat, driven by a force she could not control.
The sound of the riders grew closer still, the galloping of the horses like the rapid racing of her heart.
And then he released her.
He leaned his forehead against hers for a moment, and whispered, “You taste as good as you smell.”
Olwyn did not respond, for she had no words for the feelings that rippled beneath her skin, all nervous desire and curious wonder.
Aidan turned his head toward the horizon. He waited, listening. And then he rapped out orders as if nothing had just passed between them. “Get down, Olwyn, and take some cover behind the wagon. Pull your hood down further over your face, and hold your rifle so they cannot see it. We don’t need to announce that we’re the least bit worried. We’ll just go casually about our business here, and hope they ride right on past.”
Olwyn did as she was told, balancing the rifle so it was hidden behind the bed of the wagon. She watched as Aidan hopped down and hid the dagger in his sleeve, the pistol inside his cloak. He bent over a wheel so it looked as if they were making a small repair, rather than trapped in an open field like two frightened rabbits.
The riders appeared high on the hill. Olwyn counted them, dread forming in her gut as she did. “Seven,” she said.
“Aye. We’ll do, Olwyn. Don’t worry.”
“About the kiss, Lóchrann. Thank you for it.”
“Thanks, is it? Well, I have to say that’s the first time I’ve been thanked for kissing a woman.” She saw his slow grin, and he lifted his eyes to hers for a brief moment. “I ought to thank you.”
She cleared her throat and shifted her weight. The rifle in her hands gave her an odd feeling of security, enough that she asked, “Was it good?”
His sapphire eyes grew far more serious. He licked his bottom lip as if the taste of her lingered. “Better than good.”
Her courage, scarce as it had just been, faded before the sensuality of his gaze. She still felt the throbbing slickness of her own arousal, and her face grew hot.
“Mind your hood,” he said. “They’re within spotting distance if they’ve an eyeglass.”
She dropped her face so that she stared at the ground, grateful for the hood that fell forward, obscuring her from view. Looking down at the rifle, half-sick with nervousness, she listened, hearing the drumming of hoofbeats growing closer and closer.
Chapter Ten
The riders slowed as they approached, calling out to the two people by the wagon with a “Ho, there!”
Lóchrann lifted his head and turned with a casual ease that Olwyn envied. Her hands sweated on the rifle.
The men approached at a canter, the ground vibrating. They were armed, every one of them, and were draped in thick cloaks to protect them against the wet. Olwyn noticed damp patches on their garments. So they’d been riding through the night’s weather, she thought with growing dismay. Highwaymen, no doubt, and she and Lóchrann pathetically outnumbered.
She widened her stance. If she had to use the rifle, she’d need her feet planted beneath her.
The horses were foaming and blowing steam, great white plumes of it coming from their flared nostrils. Olwyn took a peek at Lóchrann. He was leaning against the wagon’s wheel, his arms folded across his chest as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
And then she watched in utter amazement as Lóchrann let out a yell, and went running directly at the riders, calling out in Gaelic as he did. He made quite a sight, his dark gold hair riding the wind, the ratty old cloak he wore flying behind him.
One of the riders reined his horse in hard. The beast reared up, hooves clawing the air, before crashing down. The man threw himself from the saddle and ran to Lóchrann. They embraced hard, slapping each other and laughing.
The man clutching Lóchrann was the same height, similar in build and breadth, but his hair was black as a raven’s wing. He wept as he held tight to Lóchrann’s shoulders.
Olwyn heard him, then, his deep voice sounding just like Lóchrann’s in tone and accent. “My brother, you are alive.”
They pulled apart, and began talking in low voices. She saw Lóchrann turn slightly, gesturing to the wagon and Olwyn. His brother looked her over with interest, from her face to her clothes to the ancient mare and rickety wagon.
Olwyn lifted her chin and met his stare with her own. He wore expensive garments, she noticed, fine wools lined with fur, tall leather boots, and a hat that must have cost a hefty sum.
And she realized that Lóchrann had never actually told her anything about himself.
Lóchrann’s brother went to his steed, unbuckled saddlebags, and handed them to him. “I saw you left the crypt in your skin.”
“Aye, and thanks for thinking of it. I’m freezing,” Lóchrann replied. He opened the bags and withdrew a bundle of clothing and boots, and as he did, Olwyn noticed the leather was embossed with a family crest. “How did you find me?”
“You left a trail the sightless could follow.”
“Well, I wasn’t trying to stay missing, aye?”
Right there in the middle of the barren landscape, Lóchrann began to dress, shucking the shabby, oft-mended garments she’d given him, and pulling on the ones his brother had brought. Olwyn averted her eyes, a hot blush burning her cheeks.
His brother sounded serious, his voice dropping lower, and slowing as he said, “You frightened me but good, Aidan.”
Aidan? She listened intently, trying to get a gauge on this unexpected turn of events.
“Oh, aye? Well, good then, because frightening you is just what I had in mind when I played dead and let them bury me alive. ’Tis nothing so satisfying as when a solid plan succeeds.”
The other man laughed easily, and he sounded just like Lóchrann. Or was it Aidan? Olwyn began to feel like a fool, with all her talk of stolen moments of honesty. He’d not shared a single thing that she could think of. And she’d babbled on and on about herself, giving away pieces of her private heart that she’d never shared with anyone.
Olwyn glanced up, her gaze drawn inexorably back to this man who again felt like a stranger. A stranger who’d kissed her with passionate urgency.
The man before her had transformed into someone else. He had garbed himself in buckskin breeches and black boots laced to his knee, a linen shirt, black jacket, and a fur-lined black cloak. With a dark leather strap, he pulled his hair back into a club, making his face, as sensual as it was, appear leaner and more chiseled. He looked like a wildly handsome, disreputable lord, rich and dangerous, sensual and remote.
Olwyn didn’t think she’d ever felt more embarrassed of her dress and appearance. She curled her toes in her homemade boots. They were nothing more than
lashed leather and fur. The shoes of a peasant. Her hand went to her ragged hair. It hung in limp snarls and likely made her seem more a witch than ever before.
Deep within her came the pride that had sustained her when the villagers mocked her and cast aspersions on her family.
She knew it was dangerous to continue her journey on her own, but she’d told Lóchrann that he owed her nothing, and she’d meant it.
Olwyn hefted the rifle and slid it beneath the driver’s board before hopping up onto the bench. The old wagon creaked beneath her as she picked up Nixie’s reins.
She called out, her voice strong and sure in the clear, wintry air. “I see you’re safe now, Lóchrann, and returned to your people. Godspeed you home to your beloved and your family. If you’ll only return my weapons, I’ll bid you farewell.”
He strode over to her, his long legs eating up the space between them. Standing before her in his wealthy garb, he looked up at her as she sat high on the wagon’s seat, and his eyes lied to her, such as they appeared straightforward and honest.
“I owe you an explanation, and after that, an apology,” he said simply.
“I don’t even know your name,” Olwyn replied softly. And she let a little of her hurt show when she said, “You took a piece of me last night. I did not deserve to be treated with contempt, for I’ve been nothing but truthful with you.”
His sapphire eyes bore into hers, holding her rooted there. She was painfully aware of the men who looked on, watching them. He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off before he could utter a single word.
“My pistol and my knife,” she demanded tightly.
“Listen to me a moment.”
“To hear more lies, Lóchrann? Thanks to you, but no.”
“I am Aidan Patrick Mullen, the son to a powerful duke.”
Stealing Midnight Page 10