Stealing Midnight

by Tracy MacNish

  The thought caused insidious hopes to bloom deep inside Olwyn’s heart, hidden flowers that needed to be trampled beneath crushing reality.

  She glanced over to Aidan, and then to the floor. In her mind she laughed at herself for even daring for one second to imagine that Aidan would ever consider taking a common woman to wife.

  Aidan might be duke some day. He would need a wife who would understand what that meant, who would pass noble blood to their children. And even if he were not duke, he was still an aristocrat.

  She reminded herself, rather sternly, that she’d not stepped into a fairy tale. Men of Aidan’s stature might dally with common women, but they did not marry them.

  And then she thought of the mammoth brick mansion she’d begged to leave, and realized that it was all for the best. She could never feel at home in a place so rich.

  “Olwyn will be staying in the cottage until spring,” Aidan told his grandfather.

  Patrick grinned and glanced around at the small interior, his eyes resting briefly on the floor in front of the fireplace. “I hope you enjoy it here, Miss Gawain. ’Tis a very special place.”

  Olwyn regarded Patrick Mullen, curious, for she sensed there was much more meaning in his words. “Do you have memories of your own here, Mister Mullen?”

  “Aye,” Patrick replied slowly. He seemed to consider whether or not to say more, but finally chose to speak. “I married my Camille on a rocky stretch of beach about a mile down the way, and we spent our wedding night here.”

  “You did?” Aidan said, surprise heavy in his voice. “I never knew that. Why did you never tell me that?”

  “You never asked,” Patrick replied simply, and he met Olwyn’s eyes with a conspiratorial wink. “This cottage is older than all of us, aye? I’m sure it holds more memories than mine, though I treasure my own as nothing else.”

  Though Aidan looked stunned, a smiled played in the corners of his mouth. “Why is it I suspect there’s much you’ve never told me?”

  Patrick laughed easily, a sound similar to Aidan’s smooth chuckle. “How I managed to steal Camille away is a long, long tale, and best told late at night with plenty of whiskey. But the best of it is the life we’ve made, and the happiness we found. Aye. ’Tis the very best story.”

  “Late tonight, then, Grandda. I’ll bring a bottle.”

  Patrick grinned and readied himself to depart. “The rain stopped, and I promised Camille we’d go into town later today. ’Tis good to see you, lad, and I couldn’t be happier that you’re safe and well.” Patrick bowed to Olwyn and gave Aidan another fast, hard hug. “See you tonight.”

  After Patrick left, Aidan stood in the open doorway. He leaned out and gave a series of three high-pitched whistles that trilled like a falcon’s scream. He turned back to Olwyn, leaned on the doorframe, and regarded her with a strange expression. Fresh air blew into the cottage, scented with the salt tang of the sea and rain-soaked earth.

  “You see things in people,” he said. “All these years, I never knew that this cottage meant something to my grandparents. I just took it over, made it my own.”

  Olwyn didn’t answer him, for a lump had formed in her throat. He stood in the doorway. This was good-bye.

  “I’ll stay away, Olwyn. Nothing good can come of me being around you. You’ve the right of it. If we’re to let this…infatuation…between us die, we need to keep apart.”

  “Hwyl am rwan,” she whispered. Good-bye for now, she told him in her own tongue. She couldn’t bring herself to say forever.

  She studied him intently, taking in every detail, committing it to memory. The broad shape of his body, the lean, chiseled features of his face, the sensual slash of his lips, the dark sapphire of his eyes. She remembered the feel of his skin, the thick softness of his hair, the weight of his body on top of hers, warm and hard and inviting.

  “I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve caused,” she said softly.

  “You did nothing wrong. All the faults are mine.”

  “I wish you well,” she added. “I wish you the very, very best.”

  He gave her one final deep, penetrative stare before turning to leave. As he stepped from the cottage Chase came bounding through the woods and into the meadow, summoned, no doubt, by Aidan’s series of whistles. He came to attention, eyes on his master.

  Aidan gestured to Olwyn in the cottage. “Watch,” he bade him sharply. “Guard.”

  Dark, brooding eyes turned to Olwyn and took in the sight of her in the cottage interior. Chase barked, a single, deep woof that rumbled the ground and made Olwyn’s entire body quake with fear. Aidan patted his giant head before turning once more to Olwyn.

  “He’ll keep you safe,” he said simply, before raising his hand to dismiss the dog. Chase lumbered off, ambling it seemed, though Olwyn suspected he was far more alert than his easy posture suggested.

  Aidan looked at her one final time. In his blue eyes she saw unvoiced apologies and unspoken longings, but she did not ask him to release them.

  He bowed to her, a deep, regal, formal sweep, as if he were a prince and she a princess. And with that, he left.

  Olwyn watched him ride away until she could no longer see him, and then she listened until the muffled thudding of his horses’ hooves faded. Finally there were no more sounds except the hushed rustle of wind through the evergreens and naked treetops, and the far off keening of a hawk.

  She turned and entered the cottage, closed the door behind her, and turned the lock. She put a log on the fire and sat before it, alone and lonely. Because there would be no denying them, Olwyn let the tears come.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Olwyn started as the knock came at the cottage door. Aidan had left more than a few hours ago. Had he come back? she wondered with a little frown. She put aside the stockings she’d been washing and rushed to the door before pausing awkwardly. The knock sounded again, and Olwyn opened it, afraid of how deeply she wanted to see him again.

  Two sweet-faced young women bobbed a quick curtsey before entering. One bore a basket filled with food, enough for three people it seemed, the mouthwatering scents filling the cottage as she set it on the table. The other had a bundle of blankets, linens, and a beautifully made dressing gown, all tightly rolled and stuffed in a large wooden bucket. The girl unpacked them and laid the nightdress on the bed.

  One of the girls had nut brown hair beneath her cap, coiled in a neat knot against her nape. Her blue eyes were bright and she smiled as she bobbed in another curtsey. “I’m Alice, miss, and this here’s Molly. We’ll be seeing to your needs while you’re staying on as a guest.”

  “The lady of the house said as you might want a bath after all the traveling you’ve been doing,” the one called Molly said, and Olwyn knew she spoke of Camille as the lady of the house. Molly’s face was round and her smile was friendly. “There’s a large tub around back, plenty big enough for you to sit in, and we’d be happy to attend you.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Olwyn quickly answered. “I can draw it myself later.”

  “You are a guest of the family,” Molly replied as if that were obvious. “Tending to your needs is our duty.”

  Alice smiled as she took up the pile of dirty clothes that Olwyn had been planning on washing and hanging by the fire to dry, and stuffed them into a sack. “I’ll return these tomorrow, miss. For now, perhaps you’d like to enjoy your meal while we heat the water for your bath?”

  Olwyn held her breath, unable to respond or react. She’d never in her entire life had someone wait on her, much less two people who were there for the sole purpose of seeing to her comfort. What little servants they’d once had were for the larger duties, not ones of pure luxury. Accepting their help made her feel strange, like an imposter or a thief. Finally she drew a breath in deep and said, “I am content to see to my own needs. I am used to doing so. But thank you.”

  “May I ask a question?” Molly asked politely.

  Olwyn noticed that the girls wore gowns of sturdy
gray muslin, with crisp, clean white aprons, and that their black shoes were shined and finely made, the articles far nicer than anything Olwyn possessed. She remembered the roses clustered in large fragrant arrangements in the grand foyer of the mansion, impossible flowers blooming in winter, and realized that she was completely out of her depth.

  “Of course,” Olwyn managed to say.

  “We have been given our assignment, and we’re happy to do it,” Molly said, and her eyes traveled over Olwyn. “You’ve never had a maid attend you?”

  “No,” Olwyn whispered, and she wished to be left alone, free of the humiliation of being looked at in such a way. She rubbed her hands down her coarse, dirty gown self-consciously.

  Alice drew near to Olwyn and touched her hair with a gentle hand. She did not seem repulsed or even afraid to touch her. “You are only in need of a little sprucing. Come miss, let us take care of you. It is our responsibility, but it will also be our pleasure.”

  Molly took Olwyn by the elbow and steered her to the table. “Go on, miss, and enjoy the food while it’s hot. Never you mind what’s new and strange, what with us being here.”

  Olwyn let her tug her gently to the chair, and gratefully sat. There seemed nothing more to do than to submit to their ministrations, for Camille had set them to a task, and it was not Olwyn’s place to countermand the lady of the house. It also occurred to Olwyn that she’d put the family to considerable trouble, as her staying in the cottage meant servants would be dispatched to tend to her several times a day. Not wanting to seem difficult more than she already had in requesting an alternate place to stay, Olwyn sat quietly as Alice set down a plate, napkin, and utensils.

  A generous portion of food was laid before her: roasted quail and savory stuffing, a fluffy biscuit and a generous portion of pudding, along with a tin of dried fruits and a fragrant heel of cheese.

  Olwyn ate as the girls pulled water from the well and heated it on the stove. Together they wrestled the tub from behind the cottage and carried it inside, setting it before the fireplace. Soon the air was filled with the steam of scented waters being poured into the tub, and when Olwyn had finished eating, she sat and waited until they’d finished their task. Alice built the fire up high so Olwyn would not be chilled, and only when they’d gotten everything just so did they motion for Olwyn to come.

  Standing before the water that Olwyn had not had to heat and lug and pour for herself was another brand new experience, but more so was when the girls began to unbuckle her belt. She blushed as they unlaced her and took off her clothes. She’d never been nude in front of anyone, but she endured their ministrations and let them assist her into the bath as if she were a highborn lady.

  The water was soothing after so much travel, and Olwyn sent a mental thanks to Camille for seeing to such a luxury. It eased the muscles that ached from days on horseback, and relaxed her more than she could have imagined. The fire warmed her, touching her naked skin.

  “Lean forward, miss, and I’ll wet your hair.”

  Olwyn felt the water rushing over her entire body, not too warm and not too cool, a completely new sensation for a woman accustomed to dipping her head in a pail of tepid water. The girls lathered her hair and rinsed it clean, rubbed it with scented oils and piled it on her head before taking up flannels and scrubbing her clean. They rinsed the oil from her hair and Olwyn stood, the water sluicing from her in rivulets, her skin rosy from the bath and the fire’s heat.

  They wrapped her in thick towels and Olwyn sat on the chair and let them comb out her long hair. They were gentle, Alice and Molly, and patient as they untangled the snarls. Soon her hair lay in smooth waves that hung down past the arms of the chair. They patted it and combed it again, the blazing fire helping her hair to dry, and they took their time as if they had not another care in the world.

  It was a sensation unlike any other Olwyn had ever felt, to be so pampered and tended to. The brush of the comb against her scalp, and the feeling of their hands on her hair sent waves of relaxation through her, easing away every tension.

  The dressing gown they’d brought was soft and white and beautiful, and feeling completely relaxed, Olwyn lifted her arms and let them drop the lovely garment over her. Olwyn had never worn something so exceptional—lace trimming the wrist and hem, the sewing of its seams so fine they were almost invisible, and a row of tiny, pearlescent buttons that ran from the neckline to the naval.

  It felt good to be clean, to have her hair smell fresh, and to wear a crisp dressing gown. It was a simple luxury for which Olwyn was extremely grateful.

  The girls cleaned up the messes that had been made with brisk efficiency, and soon the cottage was restored to normal. They left the dried fruit and the cheese, pulled fresh water and filled her pitcher, turned down the bed, and placed the hair comb on the washstand.

  Molly bobbed into a quick curtsey. “Do you have any other requests before we go, miss?”

  “You’ve both done so much for me, I dare not ask anything else,” Olwyn answered. “Thank you, both of you, for being kind to me. It is not something familiar to me, and I’m grateful for it.”

  Molly held Olwyn’s bundled clothes in her arms, and her round face was bright with exertion, little wisps of her pale hair sticking out from the water’s steam. She laughed, a free and easy sound. “You’re a delight, miss. Think nothing of it. We’ll see you in the morning.”

  Both girls’ arms were laden with their burdens, and Olwyn did not want to keep them from finishing their tasks. “Good night.”

  They left, and Olwyn stood in the center of the cottage feeling quite at a loss. She had bathed with water she hadn’t heated or drawn, her hunger had been sated by delicious food she hadn’t prepared, and she was wearing a gown she hadn’t sewn.

  In the distance she heard the deep woof of the giant dog, and felt a strange sense of protection. The animal looked after her, was Aidan’s dog, and she somehow trusted that. Everything was different and new, and yet, felt good. Safe and good.

  Later that night, Olwyn set aside her book and snuffed the candles. She lit her incense and sank into the bed, surrounded by the familiar smoke and the unfamiliar luxury, the scent of Aidan on her pillow and the taste of his whiskey in her mouth. Though she knew it was futile, she wished fervently that he would come to her, hold her, and make the night truly perfect.

  Long after dinner had been enjoyed, brandy had been consumed, the tale of Aidan’s journey back to the living had been recounted several times, and the household had retired for the evening, Aidan Mullen stood in the open doorway of his balcony and let the frigid air wash over him.

  Sleeping would be impossible.

  He looked up to the moon, watching the thin, wispy clouds drift across it like silvery apparitions.

  A brandy sat on a tabletop nearby, untouched. Aidan craved a splash of whiskey, but knew that the peaty, smooth, earthy taste of it would unleash other desires.

  No good could come from staring across the property, his thoughts consumed with a witchy woman who slept in his favorite place.

  He knew what he needed to do.

  Turning away from the stark, solitary beauty of the moon as it presided high and fat over the tangle of woods in the distance, Aidan reentered his sleeping chamber and closed the French doors. He removed his jacket, cravat, and waistcoat, and tossed them over the back of a chair. He unfastened the top buttons of his shirt before grabbing a bottle of whiskey from his armoire, along with two water glasses.

  And then he abandoned his rooms, prowling through the darkened corridors of the stately manse that he’d made his home.

  He stopped outside of Mira’s room and knocked on the closed door. The hour was late, but he saw a thin sliver of light reflected on the hardwood floor. He waited a few moments, then knocked again.

  Finally he heard her voice on the other side. “Who calls?”

  “Your betrothed, my lady.”

  He heard her soft gasp, and it made him smile. Mira Kimball could benefit from
the occasional breach in etiquette, he thought.

  “I will see you in the morning, my lord. At breakfast, if you wish.”

  “Mira, let me in.”

  “My lord, are you ailing? What cause brings you here, this late? I am set for bed, and my maid has long been dismissed.”

  “Mira,” he said again, this time striving to maintain what little patience he had left. “Open the door.”

  A long pause was followed by another protest. “Please, my lord. ’Tis a most inappropriate request.”

  “I’ve a matter to discuss that won’t wait. Open it, Mira, or I’ll open it myself.”

  He heard her sigh in resignation before she unlocked the door and opened it. Aidan brushed past her before she had a chance to change her mind.

  The room smelled of Mira’s rose-scented powders and lotions. A fire burned merrily in the hearth, and her bed had been turned down. Candles lit the space, making it warm and inviting, and he saw that she had a reading lamp on a table by a chaise. A fluffy blanket was spread out there, alongside several leather-bound journals that looked quite old. On a piece of paper, Mira had made notes in her even, precise handwriting.

  “Working?” he asked. He saw a few lines she’d written: The ring is a Kimball heirloom—what has become of it?

  Mira rushed to tidy up her mess, and she tucked her notes into a journal, stacked them and set them aside. She lowered the wick to her reading lamp. “Family journals,” she answered softly, her eyes lowered. “You know my passion for revering history, especially as it pertains to the Kimballs.”

  “Aye, and I admire that,” Aidan said. “’Tis one of the things about you that I most respect.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Mira seemed uncomfortable. She moved to stand behind the chaise, putting it between them. “What did you want to discuss that could not wait until a more opportune time?”

  Aidan looked at his betrothed. She wore a flouncy, pleated, embroidered nightdress, complete with silky bows and ruffles of lace, topped with a festooned wrapper. With her flaxen hair combed out into silky waves, and her fragile, porcelain beauty, she looked every inch the virginal, wellborn young girl that she was.