Stealing Midnight

by Tracy MacNish

  Olwyn turned her attention to Camille, a blush staining her cheeks. In Camille’s eyes she saw compassion and understanding, and something else she could not quite name.

  “I do not belong here,” Olwyn whispered, and she hoped to find a kindred soul, or at the very least, an indulgent one. “Please, is there an inn where I could take a room? I have money of my own, and I would be indebted to you if you’d please have your carriage take me into town. I’d see to it myself, but your grandson made arrangements for my wagon and horse to be left behind.”

  “You’ll be fine here, I assure you. You are our welcomed guest.”

  This was Aidan’s home, Olwyn thought. He was born to this sort of wealth.

  He was meant to be with a woman like Mira.

  It underscored the plain truth: Aidan Mullen had no business lying in the dark with Olwyn, not for any reason. It occurred to her that perhaps his attraction to her was something vile, a dirty thrill for a handsome English lord, slumming with an ugly peasant when he had a lovely woman to make his wife.

  “No,” Olwyn breathed, desperation edging her voice. She couldn’t remain in the mansion, surrounded by such affluence it staggered her mind. She couldn’t sit at an elegant table and eat fancy foods, all the while wearing her ragged handmade garments that were not even designed after fashions of the current century.

  Most of all, she couldn’t bear another of Mira’s repulsed expressions, as if being in her presence offended her highborn sensibilities.

  It was worse than any of the people of her village calling her a witch. It was so far worse that Olwyn longed for Penarlâg. At least there, she was reviled for something she was not. Here in Beauport, she felt the sting of being precisely what they thought of her—common, ugly, unkempt, and poor.

  She tried to keep her manners intact, to keep the horror from her voice as she said, “I appreciate your offer, and I mean no rudeness, but I won’t stay here.”

  A light frown touched Camille’s brow. Finally she reached out and took Olwyn’s hand in her own, twining them with her slim, silk-covered fingers, a maternal gesture.

  “I know something about feeling out of place,” Camille said quietly enough so that no one else could hear, preserving what little dignity Olwyn had left. For that alone, Olwyn could have kissed her feet. “I’ll help you, Miss Gawain, but going to town is not the answer. ’Tis a seaport, and the inns are filled mostly with travelers and sailors. You wouldn’t be safe there, and my conscience wouldn’t permit me to leave you to your own defenses. Wait here a moment whilst I speak privately with my grandson. I’m certain we can find a place for you where you’ll feel more comfortable.”

  Olwyn nodded, unable to speak. Relief filled her throat with a lump of tears.

  She watched as Camille called Aidan to her, and they strolled down the hallway away from listening ears. Though she couldn’t make out what was being said, Olwyn could hear Camille’s voice, gentle and quiet, and Aidan’s deep whiskey-smooth tone answering her.

  Olwyn turned away so that she could not see Mira. She stood in the center of the foyer, her hands clasped together, struggling to remain calm.

  And there, far on a wall in what looked like a music room, she caught the silver glimmer of a mirror hanging above a fireplace.

  Olwyn was drawn to it as if by a magnet’s pull. She walked to it inexorably, uncertain of what she would see, afraid of how ugly she might actually be.

  Her father’s words screamed in her mind: No one will want you, ugly and marked as you are…a hideous, piebald beast of a woman.

  Curiosity and terror ran in tandem through her as she moved toward the looking glass. Her hand touched her face, roamed over the familiar planes of it. How many times had she tried to discern her appearance through her fingertips?

  Olwyn made it as far as the clavichord when she heard Camille’s voice behind her. Feeling as if she’d been caught trespassing, Olwyn sheepishly turned away from the mirror to the older woman. “My lady?”

  “Aidan will see to your comforts. I hope this new arrangement suits you, and if it does not, please let me know. You did, after all, save Aidan’s life. No request is too great or too small. Please know that.”

  “I thank you, my lady.”

  Aidan entered the room behind his grandmother, standing more than head and shoulders over her. He hesitated for a moment before meeting Olwyn’s eyes across the room.

  She knew hers flashed with anger and betrayal, for she felt the flare of those emotions the moment he looked at her.

  How dare he hold her so tenderly in his arms in the darkness, and pretend she was a stranger in the day?

  “I’m sorry you are uncomfortable here. If you will come with me, I’ll get you settled elsewhere.”

  Though his smooth, deep voice was mild, the look in his eyes was anything but. His was an inscrutable look, burning with internal mutiny. It occurred to Olwyn that Aidan Mullen might not be so happy to be home and reunited with his betrothed. But that was not her problem. She squelched her sympathies for the plight of the incredibly wealthy and handsome lord.

  “I’d prefer someone else take me, my lord.”

  “If you want to leave my home and have me make alternate arrangements for your hospitality, you’ll come with me.”

  He turned on his heel and left, leaving her no choice but to follow in his wake. Aidan hefted Olwyn’s knapsacks, recently deposited on the floor by a servant, and tossed them over his shoulder. As they walked through the foyer, Mira leapt to her feet and rushed to Aidan’s side. “I’ll come with you, my lord. ’Tis a beautiful day for a ride.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll see to her arrangements, and then I’ll be in the distillery and the mews.”

  “Must you put your precious hawks and whiskey above my importance? I have barely had a moment with you.”

  “You’ll have a lifetime of moments with me, aye? Right now I have to check on things.”

  “But what of Miss Gawain? Surely ’tis inappropriate for her to accompany you alone.” Mira clucked her tongue as if thinking, and then added, “Do commoners hold to propriety?”

  Olwyn reached her breaking point.

  She faced Mira Kimball head-on and interjected before Aidan could answer. “I do realize that your betrothed’s business is yours, but mine is not, so don’t mind it for me. For now, I’ll wait outdoors while you decide how long a tether he requires. Let me know if that process will take some time, for if so, I’ll be sure to find a stall to muck in order to properly pass the time.”

  Olwyn brushed past both of them and stepped outside. And then, standing on the landing of the grand entrance, she smiled to herself, feeling better than she had in days.

  It wasn’t long before Mira and Aidan emerged. Aidan’s slashing brows were drawn in a scowl as he proceeded down the steps.

  Mira’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but she did not spare Olwyn a glance. Instead she smiled, a radiant, sweet curve of lips and dazzling teeth. “I’m sure you are correct about everything, darling, and I have plenty of reading to keep me occupied. I will see you at dinner.”

  Aidan nodded curtly and kept going. He cut a dark, imposing figure, tall, broad, clothed in all black, contrasting the burnished gleam of his dark gold hair. His wide shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, and Olwyn warmed to the memory of his nude body, as exquisite as a sculpture.

  Mira spoke behind Olwyn as she followed Aidan, a hushed warning carried on the barest breath, spoken just as she passed through the mansion doors.

  “Watch yourself, peasant.”

  Penarlâg, Wales

  Rhys Gawain woke on his bedroom floor. He hadn’t quite made it to his bed. He also hadn’t quite made it to the chamber pot; vomit was splashed on its sides and formed a puddle that had trickled onto the hearth of the fireplace.

  Beside Rhys lay the empty bottle of rum he’d drunk the night before. He rolled to his side, his entire body aching, his belly sick, his tongue swollen and dry.

  He lifted the bottle, p
eered into it and saw not a drop remained. How had he let himself get so drunk?

  It was Drystan’s fault, he answered himself. Always coming back to the keep with fresh bottles of the swill, and Rhys, overcome with his anger and outrage at Olwyn’s treachery, would invariably drink until he no longer cared.

  The madness had to stop.

  Rhys staggered to his feet and managed to make his way to the nightstand, poured himself a cup of water with hands that shook, and greedily downed it. He dragged his sleeve across his face as he walked unsteadily from his room, padding in his bare feet across the stone floor.

  He’d find Drystan and tell him—no more.

  Coming down the steps, he noticed the filth and disarray, testimony to the fact that Olwyn hadn’t been there to clean up after the two men. Plates were on the tables, hardened food dried upon them, and cups littered every surface, liquid moldering in the bottoms. The rooms stank, fetid with spoiled food and stale air.

  Olwyn had made a habit of keeping the place swept and clean. She’d taken out the garbage, washed the dishes, cooked the meals, and tended the fires.

  He looked down at his dirty dressing gown, torn and splattered with food, drink, and vomit. His hair was greasy, his skin unwashed, and he had a sudden surge of anger, stronger than his hangover, more powerful than his nausea.

  If Olwyn were there, she would have seen to it that he’d bathed. She would have washed his gown and sewn up the holes.

  Unable to locate Drystan in the keep, Rhys went out to the barn, passing the frozen gardens that Olwyn had cultivated in the warm months, and the chicken coop that had kept them fed with eggs, meat, and goods that Olwyn traded.

  All Rhys saw was disloyalty.

  He hadn’t forgiven her for holding a gun to his face. And he would never, ever forgive her for her seditious heart.

  She was just like her mother, running at the first opportunity. Probably spreading her thighs for some man to pay her way, too.

  It made him sick to think he’d fathered such a girl.

  Rhys entered through the open door of the barn and heard an odd sound, metal on metal, and a man’s frustrated grunts. What was Drystan up to? he wondered.

  He crept around the corner, saw Drystan’s back was to him. Drystan was hunched over a worktable, so immersed in his task that he did not notice that Rhys advanced.

  And there in the dim, dusty light, Rhys saw the unmistakable glitter and gleam of gold and gems, riches beyond their imagining.

  Drystan was trying to pry a sapphire from its setting.

  “Liar,” Rhys screamed.

  Drystan jumped upright, one hand clutching a small, metal instrument, the other the gold disk. He glanced at the incriminating evidence and offered his only defense. “I didn’t steal it.”

  “Give it to me.”

  As Rhys took the jewel-encrusted medallion from Drystan, he saw one of the gems was missing, obviously pried free and sold for booze. And Rhys’s anger grew to epic proportions, for he’d fallen for Drystan’s explanation of his sudden coin and believed that he’d been winning at cards in the village.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “I found it,” Drystan answered weakly. He licked his lips, his eyes fixed on his treasure, for it would pay for years of drinking himself into oblivion. “Give it back. It’s mine. I found it.”

  “Where?” Rhys advanced on Drystan, ready to grab his throat and wring the information from him. How dare he have such a thing in his possession, and hide it? They could have bought a horse to replace the one Olwyn stole, and been well on their way to finding the treacherous little bitch.

  “The man, the one who woke. It fell from his sack, and I found it.”

  Rhys looked at the medallion with new interest. It was carved with a family crest, crusted with jewels.

  Suddenly he knew that he’d find his daughter. The medallion would be their guide, for the man who’d owned it was the man Olwyn had taken from his dungeon. Rhys felt an exhilaration like never before. Here was a new purpose set before him—find Olwyn, bring her home, and teach her what loyalty meant.

  Rhys inspected the medallion closer for clues as to its owner, turned it over, and saw it was engraved with script. Taking it to the window, he held it up to the meager light.

  Quod incepimus conficiemus.

  Long before life had let Rhys down, he’d been a scholar. He mentally translated the Latin, and as the full meaning dawned, the words sent a shiver down his spine, a premonition of things to come.

  Quod incepimus conficiemus.

  “What we have begun, we will finish.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Beauport

  Southampton, England

  Olwyn hesitated on the last step. Aidan was walking away from her, but she could not force her legs to move. She called after him, “Where is the dog?”

  “Patrolling the property borders, I assume. He has free reign,” he answered over his shoulder. He kept going. “Hurry, Olwyn. The storm comes.”

  “It is enormous,” she said, and heard the quaver in her own voice. She still could not move, glued to the safety of house behind her.

  Aidan heard it, too. He stopped and turned to face her. “His breed is bred for guarding, but they are not mean dogs for all their size. Mine is called Chase. He’s been with me since he was a pup, and he’s as far from vicious as a dog can be. Just by seeing you with me, he knows you are welcomed here. Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you.”

  “Dogs don’t like me.” Her hand drifted to her left arm, where the thin white scars were evidence to just how much they did not. Aidan raised a brow, his lips curled in amusement. Before he could say anything, Olwyn interjected, “And no, they do not sense I am a witch.”

  He laughed, and the easy sound of it pulled a smile from Olwyn. It made her feel good that he responded to her wit.

  “’Tis likely they sense your fear of them, and respond to that. But don’t fret about him, Olwyn. Chase is far too well trained to act on impulse, no matter what. I trained him myself, and can promise you that you’re safe with him. He’s not bitten anyone, ever, and I’d trust him with a child.”

  Thunder rolled through the storm clouds with an ominous warning, and Olwyn saw the staccato flash of lightning.

  “Hurry, Olwyn. If we’ll get you settled elsewhere, we must be going.”

  Olwyn braced herself with a deep breath, lifted her skirts, and rushed forward before she could change her mind. Aidan walked to the stables with long strides that had Olwyn running to keep up with him.

  And Olwyn put aside her annoyance with Aidan, unable to sustain the feelings in the face of her excitement to be alone with him, and to see where he was taking her.

  They reached the stables, and after they’d entered, Olwyn could only look around in wonder, for the horses at Beauport lived better than most humans. The wide-planked floors were immaculate, the stalls were clean, and everything spoke of order and attention to detail. Even the windows did not bear a speck of dust.

  And the horses; there were so many of them. Beauty after glossy well-bred beauty in the labyrinth of stalls. Some ducked out their heads in curiosity, and Olwyn saw a white horse put her head out to see them. It looked at Olwyn with big, dark, long-lashed eyes, and had a long mane of gleaming, pale hair.

  Thunder rumbled again, and the white horse snorted as if annoyed by the noise.

  “Its name?” Olwyn asked softly as she approached the magnificent animal, drawn to touch the soft patch of gleaming, velvety flaxen fur just beneath the ear. It had the ethereal look of an enchanted steed upon which a beautiful woman would ride through a watercolor dream.

  “Her name is Angel, and she’s very sweet. Do you want to ride her?”

  Olwyn stepped back, unable to keep from mentally picturing herself upon Angel’s back, an ugly, uncombed witch riding a horse stolen from a mystical dreamscape of castles and fairy-filled forests. “No. A more serviceable mount will do just fine.”

  Aidan seemed perplexed
, and instructed the stable lad to saddle Angel, and a mount for himself, as well. Olwyn looked at him, annoyed he’d ignored her request, and embarrassed, knowing he would soon see the incongruity of an ugly beast mounted upon a beautiful one.

  “Why not ride her for the pleasure of it?” he asked softly.

  And once more he was Lóchrann, his voice deep and whiskey-smooth, the sound of shadows and incense and heat. How did he manage to arouse her with a change of tone? she wondered. Her body responded to him in ways that were beyond her knowing and outside her control.

  Lóchrann of the darkness—he wanted her. She well recalled the heat and hardness of his arousal when he held her. And so it lessened her trepidation somewhat. She might not be pretty like a princess, but despite her appearance, his body knew hers, and he desired her.

  After the horses had been saddled and Olwyn’s belongings were secured, Olwyn accepted Aidan’s help and swung up and into the saddle. It was luxurious, with its soft, supple leather, made for a woman’s size and shape. She eased her knee around the pommel, and took the reins in her gloveless hands.

  Olwyn didn’t care how she looked anymore, was unable to muster the vanity. The horse was beautiful, just gloriously beautiful, and she rode her out into the gusty, salty air, absorbed for the moment with exactly that. The moment.

  Aidan watched Olwyn ride, her black hair caught free in the wind, her smoky plum gown draped over the horse’s flank like a medieval banner.

  She was earthy, natural, and sincere, a woman not bound by conventions or society or position. Olwyn was just herself, unaware of her beauty, oblivious to her allure. Her sensuality was like the woods they rode toward, untamed, uncultivated, and elemental.

  It drew Aidan to her, for he had never before met a beautiful woman who did not use her appearance to gain a man’s favor. Indeed, he was more accustomed to women like Mira, who knew the power a woman had over a man, and wielded it.

  A grin tugged at his lips as he recalled Olwyn’s cool retort to Mira, her glib words made into a challenge by the witchy peak of a raised brow over the silvery flint of her regard. The look on Mira’s face had been priceless, evidence that no one had ever dared speak to her so impertinently.