Stealing Midnight

by Tracy MacNish

  She felt the taut tension of his body straining against hers, felt the hot thickness of his manhood, now rigid against her belly.

  Olwyn wanted to grip it, to explore every inch of his flesh, for it wanted her, responded to her. Her own sex was hot as well, wet with arousal.

  And the ground was spinning, spinning, or was it her head?

  He pulled back suddenly, and Olwyn tried to hold him from leaving her mouth, tried to pull him back down into the abyss of their stolen kiss.

  Aidan resisted her, peering down in the scented darkness. He pulled her against him. The whiskey was heavy on his breath as he whispered harshly against her ear, “I am sorry for this.”

  Olwyn knew she was weak, but she couldn’t find it in her to care that he came to her only in the night to take from her what he tried to resist wanting. She couldn’t care that he ignored her by daylight. And she acknowledged to herself that she was just needy and greedy enough to take whatever he gave her.

  She snuggled against his wide, warm chest and said, “I’m not.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Beauport

  Southampton, England

  A dog barked as it raced down a long, winding driveway to greet the riders who approached their property. Oaks lined the drive, long knotty branches forming a canopy that in spring and summer would shade the entirety in cool green light.

  Olwyn pulled her legs up as high as she could when she heard the barking, and when the dog came bounding into sight, she stifled a scream of pure terror.

  It was a huge English mastiff, only a few hands shy of being as tall as the horse Olwyn rode upon. Its head was enormous, powerful, with jaws that could tear a human in two.

  Aidan let out a sharp, high whistle, and the barking ceased instantly as the dog stopped in its tracks, dropped to a seated position, and with its eyes on Aidan, waited for his command.

  As the procession of mounted riders rode up the driveway, Aidan whistled again. The dog fell into step alongside the horses, trotting at the same pace, easily broad and tall and strong enough to be saddled and ridden.

  At the sight of its obedience, Olwyn relaxed marginally, but kept her hand on her dagger’s hilt.

  Dark clouds rolled in the distance, blowing closer. Olwyn looked up to the sky, and saw that they had arrived in good time. It would rain soon, the sort of fast, windy storms that blew in quickly from the coast. As if summoned by her thoughts, thunder rumbled like the faraway sound of a drum.

  The scent of the sea hung in the air, a briny reminder that a few miles away, the ocean rolled in against rocky shores. And anticipation brewed in Olwyn’s chest, for she’d heard tales from the trader about the magnificence of the sea, and had once even touched and smelled a seashell that the trader had brought.

  Olwyn could see woods far off in the distance, beckoning her with its untamed tangle of trees and bushes, a part of the land left to be wild and free.

  But not so of the manicured grounds they crossed. The slumbering fields did not even have a stray leaf or stick upon their well trimmed grass. Everywhere she looked there were signs of a gardener’s hand, and she knew that come spring, the property would be in full bloom, lavishly verdant.

  Olwyn suppressed a gasp as the mansion came into view. It stood massive against the horizon, a three-storied mammoth structure comprised of red bricks and white stately columns. The many mullioned windows glittered, and formal gardens slumbered around the property, their fountains tossing thin sparkling streams of water high in the air.

  Servants rushed from behind the manse to greet them, and stable hands readied to take the reins of the weary horses. Olwyn slid from the horse, sore and tired from four days of riding, and looked to Aidan, watching as he dismounted. He seemed limber and fit, so vital and handsome Olwyn could scarcely believe that not that long ago he’d lain naked on her father’s slab, prepared for dissection.

  Olwyn also kept a wary eye on the giant dog. It seemed docile enough, more interested in greeting its master than attacking her. Aidan grinned broadly at his dog, bent down and laid his cheek against the huge head, whispering in his ear as he petted him lovingly.

  And Olwyn felt a pang of jealousy. Jealous of a dog, she mocked herself. Pathetic.

  A slim petite woman opened the front doors and emerged. She had silver hair, and though of a certain age, her face held its beauty, her emerald eyes vibrant and shining as she came down the wide front step.

  “Aidan, thank the Lord. You are alive,” she called out, her voice ringing with happiness. She turned her attention to Padraig, smiling at him, her green eyes the mirror image of his. “And thanks to you, Padraig, for bringing your brother home safely.”

  “Grandmum!” Aidan’s voice boomed the word, and he grasped her in a huge hug, lifting her from the ground. “How are you? Are you well? And Grandda, where is he, and is he doing well?”

  Aidan’s grandmother laughed like a girl as her grandson swung her back down to her feet, and she pressed a hand to her immaculately coiffed hair. “We’re all doing fine. Patrick’s been handling the distillery, and loving the work. Only the dog has suffered your absence, howling at night for his master.”

  “I’ve missed him, too,” Aidan said with a grin, and he rubbed the dog between the ears.

  Padraig embraced his grandmother, kissed her fondly on the cheek, and as Padraig began seeing to the needs of his men, she turned her attention back to Aidan.

  Those green eyes missed nothing, it seemed. She appraised her grandson for the briefest moment before saying, “Your beloved is here, as well, Aidan. She and her father arrived late last night.”

  Aidan’s face barely had time to register any emotion before his grandmother turned to Olwyn. She put out her hand, a friendly gesture, and Olwyn noticed that though her manner was genial, her eyes reflected curiosity. “I am Camille.”

  “My lady,” Olwyn said, and she took the proffered hand and dipped into a low curtsey as she pressed a kiss to her glove. It smelled of lavender, the white silk as soft as a breath.

  Camille laughed and withdrew her hand. “I am not a queen, nor do I bear any titles. Please, rise and be at ease. Such formalities make me uncomfortable.” She glanced at her grandson, he of the gleaming dark gold hair and suddenly awkward demeanor. “Who is this delightful girl?”

  “This is Olwyn Gawain of Wales. She saved my life,” he answered softly, and for the first time that day, he met Olwyn’s eyes.

  Heat curled through her, for in that instant he had the look of Lóchrann, the man who had sought her out every night since he’d come to her in the tent. He came drunk, reeking of whiskey, drawn, it seemed, by a temptation he could not dull with scotch. He’d held her to his body, wordless, surrounded by incense smoke and a million unspoken truths. He would kiss her and then curl around her. Wrapped together, they slept.

  And Olwyn, like a needy fool, had reveled in the feel of his arms around her and his kisses, and had not asked questions.

  “Oh?” Camille murmured. Her emerald eyes appraised Olwyn with a look that went straight to the soul. “I shall have to hear all about that.”

  “Olwyn will be staying with us until spring comes. She’s headed to the Americas, and I’m going to see to it she gets there safely aboard one of my ships.”

  “Spring?” Olwyn turned up her eyes to Aidan’s, feeling trapped and tricked. Aidan had promised he’d help her leave England. He hadn’t said it wouldn’t be until spring. “Why so long?”

  “’Tis too dangerous. The North Atlantic in winter is thick with icebergs and ice storms, sickness strikes ships, and twenty foot swells batter them. I’ll send you in the spring, when you’ll be much safer.”

  His reply was reasonable enough, but there was something more, a truth he didn’t speak. Olwyn did not dare to think that Aidan was keeping her in England for any other reason. He was, after all, a wealthy English lord who was about to be wed.

  Olwyn was adrift, unsure of what to do. The prospect of spending months near Aidan and his
betrothed was an acid burning in her belly.

  She already had more feelings for Aidan than she ought. Such proximity to him would not help matters, for Olwyn could not look at him without wanting his arms around her, his mouth on hers, his breath in her lungs, and yes, she wanted his hands on her naked skin.

  Watching him plan his wedding with his bride-to-be would be torture.

  And yet, all of that did not even compare to the fear that her father would somehow find her. She shivered at the thought of Rhys’s anger, and cold dread turned in her stomach at the prospect of returning to the keep.

  Olwyn spoke to herself with reason. Rhys had no idea who Aidan was, she’d taken their only horse and wagon, and Rhys was far too focused on his obsession with anatomy to abandon the keep and go looking for Olwyn like the proverbial needle in a haystack.

  And yet, a chill had seeped into Olwyn’s blood. Staying until spring smacked of spitting into the eye of danger.

  “My lord, my darling.” The voice came from the open doors to the manse, and Olwyn knew before she even looked that it would be the woman who Aidan would take to wife.

  There stood Mira Kimball, her small, delicate form gowned in a pale pink morning dress that gleamed like the inside of the seashell Olwyn had once held. Her golden hair was dressed high atop her head, and little ringlets fell from it in artful disarray, resting on her shoulders.

  And if Olwyn had ever seen a more beautiful feminine face, she could not recall it. Mira had the cool beauty of the truly well-bred: fine, perfect skin, clear blue eyes, regal features. But when she smiled she looked anything but cool, for her smile radiated sweetness and sunlight.

  Like a princess, Aidan had said. A porcelain, fragile, tiny doll of a princess.

  Lifting the hem of her gown, Mira rushed down the stairs to greet Aidan, her face beaming with pleasure. “My darling, you are returned to me.”

  Aidan embraced her, and Olwyn noted with a small amount of satisfaction that it was a formal embrace, cheek to cheek, their bodies held at a distance.

  It was nothing like when Lóchrann held her, their mutual warmth mingling into heat, the smell of his skin surrounding her. When Lóchrann came to her in the night, it might be in secret, but at least it was primitive and real.

  Mira linked her arm through Aidan’s, ready to steer him toward the house, but her gaze snagged on Olwyn. Her crystal blue eyes crinkled at the edges. “Who is this?”

  “Olwyn Gawain, of Wales,” Aidan repeated for Mira’s benefit. He politely said to Olwyn, “This is my betrothed, Lady Mira Kimball.”

  “And how is it you’re traveling with Miss Gawain?” Mira asked.

  “’Tis a long story, but basic of it is that Olwyn saved my life.”

  Mira held her head to the side, considering this bit of information. She swept her attention over Padraig and his men, and then back to Olwyn. Her eyes roamed up and down over Olwyn’s appearance, raking her from head to heels.

  Olwyn held her breath, unsure what this young woman saw. Surely she was ragged in appearance, with snarled hair and wrinkled, dirty garments.

  A pang of envy assaulted Olwyn, but it was not for the expensive garments or jewelry that Mira had, but simply that Mira was seeing something that Olwyn hadn’t seen since she was a small girl too young to remember—her appearance.

  Mira’s face registered the faintest repulsion before she turned away. She tilted her head back so she could look up to Aidan, who seemed uncomfortable, his hands jammed in his pockets, his eyes on the darkening horizon. “You all must be famished, and ’tis going to storm. Let’s go indoors, where we can see to your comforts and you can tell us all about your adventure.”

  The group began to head inside at Mira’s suggestion, and as they walked, Olwyn heard Mira’s cultured voice remarking to Aidan, “Where did you say you found her? Wales?” Mira laughed lightly, the sound like the tinkling of a bell. “Or perhaps ’twas the eleventh century? Darling, she is positively medieval.”

  Olwyn didn’t hear Aidan’s response, for a cold fury filled her ears with a buzzing sound. Olwyn’s hand moved of its own volition to the hilt of her dagger.

  Medieval, was it? She longed to show this Mira just how true her words were, for she could have thrown her dagger and sliced a gleaming ringlet from Mira’s artful coiffure at twenty paces.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder, turned and saw it was Padraig who touched her. “Wait here a moment with me.” He glanced at her dagger, and raised a brow. “Before you do something you might regret, aye?”

  His face was so like Aidan’s, a rugged Celtic beauty that galvanized her attention. She sought to separate their differences from their similarities: emerald eyes and not sapphire, black hair and not dark gold. They were both handsome, rough, and tall, built with wide shoulders and muscular forms. How strange that Padraig’s presence did not have the same effect on Olwyn, that she did not feel that mysterious lust, that mindless pull of attraction and desire.

  He waited until the others had entered the manse.

  “Ignore Mira,” Padraig said simply. “She is insecure in her place in my brother’s life, and well she should be. I know he is finding his attention”—he cleared his throat and finished—“diverted.”

  Olwyn cared not one whit for the pampered princess’s tender feelings, but to be polite she said to Padraig, “If my presence bothers her, I am happy to leave now.”

  “You’re our guest, and she’s far too focused on securing her place here to give you too much trouble. Mira will comport herself, at least outwardly.”

  Olwyn wasn’t certain that she understood Padraig’s meaning. She strove to make herself clear.

  “I am out of place here,” Olwyn said bluntly. Padraig’s eyes were sympathetic for all their intensity, and so she was able to find it within her to say, “To find that my presence is unwelcome makes it worse. I want to leave. Please, my lord, allow me to go with my dignity intact.”

  Padraig hesitated, and then sighed. He let go of Olwyn’s arm and rubbed his hand over his face, a tired gesture. “I know my brother went to you every night as we traveled here.”

  Her face flushed. “Nothing happened.”

  “I know,” Padraig said slowly. “He’s my brother, my twin. I’d feel his shame if he’d dishonored the woman he’s to marry and ruined the woman who’d saved his life, all in one fell swoop.”

  “So what’s your point, then? I assume you have one, and if you want me to understand, I suggest you speak it clearly.”

  “My point?” Padraig laughed. “Aye, I’ll get right to it. If having you here causes my brother to not marry that woman, you’re a fool if you think I’d help you leave.”

  Olwyn glared up into Padraig’s green eyes with a building anger in her own. “What are you saying, my lord? That you want your brother to humiliate his betrothed, even if it costs me my virtue, because you don’t want him wed to her?”

  Padraig laughed again, this time deeply. “Aye. If it needs come to that.”

  “I’m not bait, my lord,” Olwyn bit out.

  “Maybe not.” Padraig shrugged affably, but the expression in his eyes was anything but. He studied her for a long moment, and Olwyn grew more and more uncomfortable beneath his regard.

  What did he see?

  Confirming her deepest insecurities, Padraig asked, “Why do you think he comes to you?”

  The question had insults buried within it, and Olwyn couldn’t help but take offense. “I have not cast a hex on him, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  Padraig seemed about to reply, but was interrupted by his grandmother.

  “Miss Gawain, won’t you come in? We’ve arranged for tea and a light repast. After days of travel, perhaps you’d also like to lie down,” Camille said. Her tone was gracious, her manner kind, as if she took no notice at all of Olwyn’s poverty.

  Olwyn turned away from Padraig and slowly mounted the steps to greet the small woman whose goodness was a palpable thing. Olwyn felt instantly drawn to Camille,
and knew why she felt it. She’d long been a motherless girl desperate for an older woman’s wisdom, and yes, perhaps a gentle touch.

  From the exterior, the manse had intimidated Olwyn with its size and grandeur. Inside, it completely disconcerted her with its opulence, a veritable assault on her senses. The marble floor bore an inlaid family crest, stunning in its detail. On either side of the foyer, dark mahogany tables held large floral arrangements of Tudor roses.

  The sweet scent of the blooms filled the air, perplexing Olwyn. How was it they had flowers in late winter?

  Prisms of light roamed around the room, drawing Olwyn’s gaze upward to a huge crystal chandelier. It sparkled in the light of the many windows, blazing with the fire of a thousand diamonds.

  No, she most certainly did not belong here, she thought. It was another world, one in which she had no place.

  She must look like an urchin in comparison to the surroundings, a ragamuffin beggar. It seemed she’d stepped into a painting, and was a dirty blemish against its perfection.

  “I’ll have a room prepared for you,” Camille said. “You must be exhausted.”

  “Thank you, but no need, my lady. I’m feeling fine,” Olwyn said. But in truth, she felt hollow, as if her spirit had abandoned her body, and she was only going through the motions of being present.

  Just off the foyer was a parlor, and in there Mira, seated on a silk settee, heard Olwyn’s comment.

  “Her stock is bred for hardship,” Mira said with what sounded like admiration. “Why, she could probably bear a child and be out mucking the stables the next hour. I’ve heard of the fortitude of common women, and I say, ’tis most impressive.”

  “My lady,” Aidan said from across the room. Olwyn could not see him, but she could hear the warning in his voice. “Stop.”

  “She saved your life, darling. I certainly mean no disrespect. Quite the opposite, actually.”