His hands slid into her hair, cradled her head, and pulled her face up to his. Olwyn expected his kiss, but instead she felt his mouth against her ear, his breath hot, his words incendiary.
“You deserve better than to be held in secret,” he whispered to her.
“I don’t care.” And she didn’t. If this was all of him she’d ever have, Olwyn would take it and be grateful.
His body was so hard and yet so inviting, all wide planes and warm bulges, his strength like a shelter. She wanted to slide against him like a cat, slithering over his skin with her own until she no longer knew where she ended and he began.
“Don’t do that. Don’t move like that.” His voice was a harsh, whispered command in the dark.
“I can’t help it.”
“Hold still, acushla. I’ll just hold you, as you asked.”
“Lóchrann,” Olwyn sighed the name he’d called himself when it had been just the two of them, alone in a stone hut. Her body fit against him the way honey melts on a heated spoon, fluid, her flesh against his. She ran her fingers across his back, over his shoulder, down his arm, delighting in the soft skin over taut muscle. “You are so warm.”
“Be still, please,” he said on a breath. “Don’t wiggle like that.”
“This is like a dream I had long ago,” Olwyn confessed. “Of a man who would hold me just like this. Only you are far more real than anything I could have imagined.”
Aidan held her from him a bit, and said distinctly, “If you wish to leave this room a maiden, you had better lie still.”
That snapped Olwyn from her reverie. She stopped moving.
“That’s better,” he said softly. “Just let me hold you, and nothing more need come of it.”
But inside the privacy of her own heart and mind, Olwyn couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to lie beneath Aidan Mullen and let nature take its course.
Arousal heated her between her legs, a damp, hot awareness.
Aidan stroked her hair, his fingers weaving in and out of the long tresses, and it sent tingles through her legs, reaching her toes. He skimmed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, a caress that felt authentic in its caring, even though she knew he loved another woman.
“Your skin is so soft, so fine,” he said quietly, and Olwyn thought how the darkness amplified his deep voice, reminding her of whiskey, smooth, complex, full of subtleties.
Olwyn wondered if he’d ever held Mira Kimball that way, with such tenderness. She didn’t ask, however, wouldn’t do anything that might break the spell of his affection, no matter how temporary it might be.
She knew she played a dangerous game, asking him to hold her in secret. But her heart, her silly, romantic, vulnerable heart knew nothing of restraint, cared nothing for risk.
Aidan Mullen was here, now, all masculine flesh and gentle touches, his body a temple of her worship.
The room they shared was quiet, nothing breaking the silence but the crackling of the fire. It made for a magical feeling, as if they were set apart from the rest of the world, suspended in their own cocoon of fire-warmed comfort, in a place all their own.
Olwyn mentally laughed at herself. Such dreamy, unrealistic thoughts for a woman who called herself practical.
But it seemed he, too, was caught in a similar spirit, for he put his lips to her forehead and pressed them there, an extended kiss that felt like a benediction and a beseeching for forgiveness combined.
“I am sorry I took your truth and held myself from you,” he whispered against her flesh. He laughed a little, a rueful sound. “I usually regard myself as a man of high principle.”
His tone spoke volumes, for he held a woman who was not his betrothed. His actions spoke volumes, too, for he did not let her go.
“Don’t worry, my lord. It is over, and I am no longer angry.”
“My brother is my twin,” he continued, as if she had not spoken. “We are very alike, but also very different. ’Tis why I told you I was Lóchrann. ’Twas not a lie; my father calls me that. It means light in Irish, and my brother is Dorchadas, which is dark, he being black of hair, and me being fair like our mother.”
“Your father is an English duke. How is it that he speaks the Irish?”
“He’s half Irish from my grandfather, who is common, a former sea merchant. My father is duke because of primogeniture, the only male heir left in the family. But he was not born to such power, his aristocratic blood comes through his mother, my grandmother, Camille, who was born a Bradburn.”
Aidan hesitated before continuing. “You see, my brother and I were born minutes apart, and my parents decided to keep secret who was firstborn, who is my father’s heir. And so, all my life, I have lived with that hanging over my head. Never knowing who I am, what my life will be, and if I will have to assume the mantle of my father’s responsibilities.”
“They must have their reasons,” Olwyn said, her eyes closed, her forehead still against his mouth. His breath was warm and humid, his lips soft, his arms strong. She could have stayed like that for eternity and not felt a moment had been wasted.
“They wanted us raised fairly, with equality. They said they felt no difference in preference or love for either of us, and they wanted us to be treated equally by our peers, so that we could both grow up as individuals not defined by a title and rank. My father was raised simply, with honor, loyalty, and love. He wanted nothing more than that for us, lest we slip into decadence.
“So we were raised with a work ethic and pride in our heritage, common and aristocratic alike. We learned the language of our ancestors, and also learned our father’s business and what it means to be an English lord.”
“This troubles you? I should think you would be grateful to have been raised with such wisdom.”
“In a way. And I love my da, aye? I love him completely. He is as wise, strong, bighearted, and hard minded as any man I know. But I am nearly thirty years old,” Aidan said, and his voice, still quiet, was sheathed with an anger so old it had become resentment. “A man full grown, and deserving to know my life path. Perhaps ’twas wise when we were children, but we are men.”
Olwyn thought a long while at what Aidan had told her, looking at it from both sides as best she could, parent and child. He’d resumed stroking her hair, long sweeps of his hand that were as gentle a touch as had ever been bestowed upon her.
“Do you long for it, Lóchrann? Do you want to be duke someday?”
“No,” he replied without hesitation. “I do not. There is not a day that goes by that I pray it isn’t me who was firstborn.”
“What do you want?”
He laughed against her skin, the warmth of it sending shivers of delight through her. “You’re the very first person to ever ask me that, Olwyn.”
“I suppose they don’t ask because if it’s to be you, you have no choice in the matter.”
“Aye,” Aidan said slowly, his tone giving way to dismay.
“But still, you are only human. You can’t help but have your own hopes and dreams, no matter what realities of fate may or may not befall you.”
“You know, Olwyn, you are a rare woman to think of it that way.” His arms tightened around her. “Most other women would place far more value in a dukedom than in hopes and dreams.”
Olwyn shrugged off his praise. “I have lived an entire life with nothing to sustain me but possibility, and without it, I would have surely perished.” She paused, thinking of what she’d just said, and offered a correction. “Well, not my body, but my soul. It certainly would have died. So, to say there is anything more worthwhile than what we aspire to is to minimize the power of imagination, and I don’t think there is a single more redemptive thing that a human can do but to hope and dream.”
Olwyn tilted her head up, trying to see him in the dim light. “You’ve already died, Lóchrann, in body but not spirit. So ask yourself, who will you be now that you are reborn?”
She could make out his shadowy features. Everything abou
t his face spoke of sensuality, a hidden promise in his mouth, thoughts unspoken in his eyes. The urge to bury her fingers in the rich wealth of dark gold hair possessed her, but she controlled it.
“That’s been decided,” he said finally, and he sounded distant, regretful. “You should sleep, Olwyn. We have a long day ahead of us.”
“I do not long for sunrise,” she whispered. “Here in the dark, I am happy.”
“But it will come,” Aidan warned her, and the meaning in his words were clear. Dawn would come, and with it, reality.
In reality, Olwyn had no place in his arms.
When morning slanted the faintest glimmers of light through the windows, Aidan rose and unwillingly left the tangled, warm nest of the bed and dressed to meet the day.
He glanced behind him where Olwyn slept, her black hair strewn across the pillow and her face, long tangles of waves across pearly, ivory skin. She had one long slim arm slung over the pillow he’d just vacated, and he noticed that her dressing gown was clumsily sewn, the seam that fell over her wrist crooked, the stitches looped and uneven. A handmade garment by a woman who must have taught herself to sew.
It tugged at his heart for a reason he couldn’t quite name.
She stirred in her sleep, and her long slim fingers stroked the empty pillow as if seeking his skin as she rolled to her side.
Her hair slid from her face, revealing its perfection in the pinkish light of dawn. Her brows formed two slashes over her closed eyes, her lashes dark and long against her high cheekbones. Aidan stared at her mouth, his eyes tracing the shape of her lips.
Olwyn Gawain might have the look of a witch when she opened her eyes and stared at a man with an expression so forthright it went straight on through. Those gray eyes were piercing, unusual, searing for all their cool, striking beauty.
But in repose she appeared defenseless and small, her face nearly feline in its shape, wide across the eyes, small and pointed at the chin.
She is beautiful, he thought, inside and out.
Holding her as he had in the night had amounted to one of the most meaningful exchanges he’d ever had with another human.
That was all it was, Aidan counseled himself. He’d never spoken to anyone the way he’d spoken to Olwyn.
Aidan made a resolution then and there: he would try to speak as honestly to Mira. Perhaps he could find a similar connection there. Yes, he decided. It was his own fault for never having looked deeper.
Olwyn sighed in her sleep, a hushed, intimate noise that went right to his groin.
And Aidan struggled to remember Mira’s prettiness, her fine features, her elegant bearing. Most of all he struggled to reconcile himself to his future marriage.
He did, after all, owe it to Mira to make good on a mistake that he’d forever regret. Flashes returned to him of twined limbs, murmured protests, drunken cajoling, and ultimately, the loss of Mira’s virginity.
Aidan was not the sort of man who would ruin a young lady and send her merrily on her way. He’d taken her innocence, and for that, he would pay full price.
Mira came from a good family, understood the English aristocracy, its pressures and commitments, its unspoken rules and nonsensical whims. She would make a fine duchess, if it came to pass that Aidan was Rogan’s heir. She was, as Aidan had told Olwyn, suitable.
And hadn’t he held Mira’s small body to his and found a surprising amount of passion in her kisses?
Aidan rubbed his hand over his face, turning away from the mysterious Druid who lay sleeping in the bed. Certainly marriage would bring many temptations, he told himself. He would have to learn how to subjugate his baser desires and impulses, to turn away from the temptation of a beautiful woman who was not his wife.
Such was life. He couldn’t expect not to be attracted to other women. But neither could he indulge every inclination he felt to surrender to that attraction.
He knew, deep in the secret places of his heart, that if he could resist Olwyn Gawain, he could resist any woman. She pulled at his heart and his soul like no one else.
And he’d slept peaceful as a babe beside her. How many nights had he roamed his halls, unable to do what others found so simple, to just lie down and sleep? But curled beside her, his body fitted to hers, he’d found the dark serenity of slumber.
Behind him he heard the rustling of sheets. He turned and saw she’d awoken, and was sitting up in the bed, her hair in swirling disarray around her.
“Good morning,” she said shyly, as a blush touched her cheeks the way the dawn lit the sky. She clutched the covers, held them up so they covered her body. The gesture annoyed him, at odds with the woman who’d wriggled against him in the dark.
It annoyed him equally that he longed for the incense-scented darkness, the feel of her against him, and secrets spoken in stolen moments.
“Is it time to go?” she asked.
“Aye. Get dressed and meet me downstairs in the common room for breakfast. We don’t have time to dally. My brother tells me that my betrothed is also journeying to Southampton, and I am eager to be reunited with her.” Aidan heard his own abruptness, and saw the hurt reflection of it in her face, and a wary betrayal replaced her sleepy contentment. “Dress warmly.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Hurry,” he commanded her, and he left the room.
When the group of travelers emerged outside, no wagon stood with the stamping horses, nor was her mare, Nixie hitched up and ready to go. The horses belonging to the Mullen brothers and their men were packed and ready, their saddlebags bursting with provisions, tents and pallets rolled and ready, lashed behind their saddles.
Aidan gave her a curt explanation when he saw her looking around for the faintest familiarity.
“Your mare is old, and your wagon older. They will only slow us down. I’ve made arrangements for them to be driven to Southampton. ’Twill be easier for everyone, including your poor mare.” He approached her and handed over her dagger and her pistol. His sapphire eyes were hard and guarded. “I had no right keeping them. They’re yours.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, and she knew then and there that whatever passed between them in the darkness did not exist in the light.
She slid her dagger back into her belt, and attempted to feel as she once had, self-sufficient and strong, before Aidan Mullen had been dragged to her door like a mouse caught by a roaming cat.
He regarded her for a moment, the seconds crawling by as he stood before her. “About last night. I am engaged to be married, and I was wrong to lie with you, no matter how chastely.”
“I should not have asked,” she whispered.
The look in his eyes changed, grew unfathomable. “’Tis up to me to maintain my own honor.”
Aidan turned and walked away from her, and after everyone was mounted, they set out into the cold, damp morning.
The day passed slowly, each moment crawling by as Olwyn rode behind one of Aidan’s men. The stranger was youngish, thickly built, square of head, and quiet. He seemed uncomfortable, stiff, and he did not speak a word to her.
Loneliness returned to mantle her with stifling gloom.
They rode through the countryside, passing tiny farms and the small outcroppings of villages, little clusters of civilization that dotted the rolling, frozen hills.
They stopped periodically to relieve their needs, share a small bite of sustenance and a nip of whiskey for warmth. And then, with Aidan avoiding even the most casual look her way, they rode again.
Olwyn tried, and failed, to not care.
She could not help but steal glimpses of him, tall and handsome in the saddle as he rode alongside his brother. He wore all black once again, making for a dashing, dangerous figure on horseback. Watching him furtively, an ache bloomed in her chest and would not dissipate.
Her Lóchrann of the darkness was not the same man who rode nearby. No, that was Aidan Mullen, the man who might be duke, and who would most certainly be married.
Nighttime h
ad fallen by the time they made their camp, erecting small tents around a fire as there was not a town nearby.
Olwyn didn’t stay by the fire with the men, but shut herself inside her tiny tent. She bundled warmly, lit her incense, and placed it beside her pallet. The tiny lump flared with flame briefly before she blew it out to let it smolder, and as the fragrant smoke filled her sinuses, she lay down to pass the night in isolation.
But the smoke no longer offered the comfort it once had. It now smelled of stolen embraces, and a man who would never love her.
She woke hours later with a start, scrabbling to reach for a weapon as a scream rose in her throat.
“’Tis me,” Aidan said gruffly, and she relaxed her guard.
He smelled of whiskey and fire smoke, horses and leather. He stood there, silent, hunched beneath the low slope of the tent wall. He radiated indecision in his posture—should he stay or go? And he swayed on his feet as if he’d drank more than he ought to.
“The hour nears dawn,” he slurred. “And I cannot sleep.”
Olwyn shifted and peered up at him, unable to see his face. And then, knowing that it would only hurt more later, Olwyn lifted the corner of her pallet in invitation. Apparently that decided it for him, for Aidan slid down beside her in the pile of covers and furs and took her in his arms.
“Lóchrann,” she whispered. He still wore his boots and cloak, but the latter hung open, revealing the expanse of chest that had become more than familiar. It had become home.
“You have cast a spell on me,” he breathed thickly. He sounded frustrated, a little angry, and very drunk. “What else explains how I cannot get you out of my mind?”
“Were I a witch, Lóchrann, you would not leave me in the daytime,” Olwyn answered him, and she reached up so she could slide her fingers into his thick, soft hair.
“I am a churl to take this from you.”
“You are. And I am fool to let you.”
His lips found hers in the darkness, and he kissed her with unveiled desire. His lips clung to hers, tasting of scotch and passion. Olwyn slid her hands from his hair to his face, cupping the perfection of it, her fingers traveling over the chiseled landscape of cheekbones, soft skin, and the bristle of his beard on his jaw.
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