Stealing Midnight

by Tracy MacNish

  Well, he amended, not so virginal. And wasn’t that why he was marrying her? He had no one to blame but himself.

  Aidan tried to find her appealing, made an effort to be aroused by her delicate prettiness, her fineness. And he forced himself to not think about smoky scented darkness, and a woman who muddled his mind until he no longer knew who he was.

  “There is no time like the present,” Aidan said lamely. He held up his whiskey. “Care for a dram?”

  “Of spirits?” Mira spoke so incredulously that it could have been that Aidan had just asked her to drink horse piss. “What has gotten into you?”

  “Have a drink with me, Mira. Come, let’s sit by the fire. ’Tis been months since I’ve seen you, and I was hoping to find a private moment alone with my betrothed.” Aidan strode across the floor and hunkered down onto the thick rug in front of the fireplace. He set the two glasses down and poured them each a nip.

  “You want me to sit on the floor?”

  “Why not?”

  Mira put the tip of her tongue between her teeth before heaving a sigh. “Very well.” She sat before him as if at a picnic. “But I shall not imbibe. Honestly, my lord, I don’t know what you must think of me that I would drink liquor with a man in my rooms at night, unchaperoned and underdressed.”

  “But I am not ‘a man.’ I will be your husband. Do you not want to spend some time with me before you take that vow? I mean, the real me, Mira. Not Aidan Mullen, but me, the man.”

  “The real you?” She let out a little exasperated breath. “Who have been, then, if not the ‘real you?’”

  “Isn’t there a secret person inside you? Don’t you have thoughts and feelings you feel you can never express to anyone?”

  “Not really,” Mira replied, but Aidan thought he saw something there, the glimmer of what he was looking for.

  “What do you want from life? If you could choose anything, what would it be?”

  “I want what every woman wants: a husband who will treat me well, and a few children when the Lord sees fit.”

  “What of titles. Are you hoping to be duchess one day?”

  They had never spoken of Aidan’s future, and he watched her, saw her weighing her words with care. He’d hoped for raw honesty, but it seemed he would get a cautiously worded response.

  “I will be content as your wife, regardless, though I will not be upset if it came to pass that the dukedom was yours,” she said, her voice as sweet as the rose-scented powder she wore.

  “Do you marry the man, or do you marry the status? What if I were a farmer or a fisherman? Would you still want me, Mira?”

  “That’s a silly question, my lord. Were you either, I would never have made your acquaintance. And why are you using my given name as such? I would be far more comfortable if you used the proper form of address.”

  “Is that the way it’ll always be, even after we’re wed? My lord, my lady, Master and Mistress?” he asked, and deep in his heart he knew he wanted something different. Something more meaningful.

  “’Tis how things are done.”

  “Call me Aidan,” he urged her, but his thoughts whispered, no, call me Lóchrann, and say it in the darkness. Something for just the two of us.

  But he didn’t want that from Mira.

  “Pardon?” Mira glanced down at the whiskey. “Is this what’s going on? Are you drunk, my lord?”

  “Far from it,” Aidan muttered. Inside he answered her truthfully. Yes, drunk. Drunk on lust for a strange woman who smelled of incense, and whose mouth was a wonderland of discovery and passion. Aidan picked up the glass and pressed it gently to Mira’s lips, those rosebud lips that were not Olwyn’s. “Taste it. I made it myself.”

  Mira wrinkled her nose. “It smells medicinal.”

  “It is. Drink it, ’tis good for you,” he said, trying to smile.

  Mira tilted the glass back and took the tiniest sip. It had barely touched her tongue before she recoiled, gasping. “It burns.”

  “Aye, good.” Aidan leaned forward and inhaled her scent, roses and powder and freshly laundered clothes. “Kiss me, Mira. Let me taste the whiskey on your tongue.”

  “You are absolutely scandalous,” Mira declared. She cast a glance at the closed door. “Someone could come to my rooms, and they would form the worst opinions of me.”

  “No one will come.” He leaned in closer, felt her breath quicken. “Kiss me the way you did that night.”

  Mira laughed shakily. “I don’t want a repeat of the same mistake.”

  “Nothing more will come of it,” he promised. “Just kiss me. I need you to kiss me like you did that night.”

  “You need it?”

  “Aye,” he answered slowly, and it was the most honest he’d ever been with Mira. He needed to find some passion with the woman who would be his wife. “I do.”

  Mira rolled her eyes heavenward before she placed a tiny hand on his chest. She held it there, as if keeping him at bay, before she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

  Her kiss was hesitant, timid, the kiss of a child. It reminded Aidan of his youthful pursuit of pretty girls and stolen moments with the gardener’s daughter behind the solarium, when every touch was new, and every sensation was a messy mix of fear and thrills.

  Aidan deepened the kiss, moved his mouth over hers, lips opening, tongues touching, and he felt like the worst sort of scoundrel, for he kissed a woman while wanting another.

  The little hand on his chest began pushing him back, insistent. He remembered the way Mira had kissed him the night he’d taken her virtue, full of unskilled desire and plenty of enthusiasm. Where was the girl who’d practically attacked him when they’d slipped into a private room for a few kisses?

  Mira pulled away, breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed and her eyes snapping with anger. “I said I didn’t want a repeat of that night. Why do you press me?”

  “The night things went too far, you were different.”

  “No. I was as I always am. ’Twas you who was drunk, and who would not listen to my pleas for you to stop.”

  “Aye, I’d drank too much, but I was not so drunk, Mira. I remember more than you might realize, and your pleas were mingled with touches and sighs and passionate kisses.”

  Mira blushed to the tips of her ears. “I wasn’t like that.”

  “You were.”

  “I am a lady.”

  “You are a woman.”

  Mira got to her feet and glared down on Aidan as if he’d called her a whore. She looked like an angry little girl, all ruffles and lace, pouting lips and rosy cheeks. “I’ve had enough, my lord. I think ’tis time you left.”

  Aidan got to his feet and took his whiskey in hand. The night had not gone as he’d hoped. He met Mira’s eyes, the color of a clear blue sky, and said simply, “I’m sorry.”

  He’d been saying that often of late, and always to women, he thought.

  “Will you join me for breakfast?” Mira asked, her demeanor once again formal and dignified. Her head was slightly to the side, her face a mask of cool patrician composure. Gone was the upset young girl who’d just ordered him from her room.

  How did she dissemble so quickly? he wondered. His life stretched out before him then, and he saw he was destined to forever spend his days with a woman whose heart and mind were a secret from him.

  “As you wish,” he answered. Aidan bowed slightly before he turned and left. He heard her close the door behind him then, the metallic rasp of the lock being turned. It was the sound of his future, being barred from his own wife by her sense of propriety.

  Aidan tucked the whiskey bottle under his arm and headed down to the lower level, in search of drunken solitude. He felt the fool, looking for truth and whiskey-flavored kisses from a woman of high birth, a woman who’d spent her entire life until that moment being schooled on what not to say and how not to behave.

  Aidan made his way to the library, his favorite room in the manse. It had floor-to-ceiling bookcases, two-storied wi
th an upper loft that housed a reading nook. The walls were paneled in dark walnut, and the floors were thick with wool rugs. It had been designed for quiet thought, and Aidan couldn’t think of anything he needed more.

  As he entered, he saw his grandfather seated in one of the leather chairs by the fire, a book on his lap and a whiskey by his side. And Aidan amended his former notion—what he most needed was sound advice.

  “Grandda, am I disturbing you?”

  Patrick raised his head from the book and eyed his grandson with a slow, careful perusal, from his face to his posture to the bottle tucked in the crook of his arm. “The hour is still fairly early, lad, but you’ve the look of a man beset with late thoughts.”

  Aidan lowered himself into the chair opposite Patrick and stretched out his legs in front of the fire. “Late thoughts,” he said with a little laugh. “Aye, they’re that. And dark, too.”

  “What’s troubling you, lad?”

  Aidan sighed heavily, poured his whiskey, and settled back into the comfort of the deep chair. Here, with his grandfather, he could set down his burden. Patrick was a dependable source of strong, solid wisdom, and Aidan relied on him, respected him, and loved him deeply.

  “I’m in trouble, Grandda,” he said simply. “I’m not in love with Mira, and in truth, I don’t think I even like her very much.”

  “Oh, aye?” Patrick responded in his typical way, patient, listening. He let Aidan take his time, sip his whiskey, and gather his thoughts.

  “I went to visit with her tonight, alone in her rooms. I thought maybe I could look for something more, find a deeper bond or connection between us. I never thought I’d have with her what you’ve got with Grandmum, or what my da has with my mum, but I’d hoped we could find a spark.”

  “And you didn’t find what you went looking for.”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  Patrick sipped his own whiskey and regarded his grandson over the rim of the glass. “There’s no vows spoken, yet, lad.”

  “’Tis complicated.”

  “What’s the trouble? Are you afraid of breaking her heart, or your word?”

  Aidan sipped deeply, felt the familiar burn make its way down to his belly. He’d not told anyone why he was marrying Mira, letting them think as they wished. Aidan did not answer to anyone, nor would he dishonor Mira further, by revealing what had happened.

  Still, he knew Patrick was a man of honor, and also a man who’d made his share of mistakes. There would be no judgment between them, but plenty of understanding and discretion.

  “August twelfth of last year I attended the annual lawn party that the Gilberts throw. You know the one, where they roast an entire pig and everyone is supposed to wear a pair of pig’s ears?” Aidan rolled his eyes and Patrick laughed. Such were the bizarre ideas some people thought festive.

  “Mira was there, of course, and we had a nice time together, laughing and generally enjoying the day. By the time we’d changed for the ball that evening, I admit, I was rather smitten with her. So we went off to the ball together, with her father, and things were quite fine until her father took sick. Something about pork not agreeing with his constitution. He went upstairs and found a guest bed.”

  Patrick seemed to know where the story was headed, because he grunted his understanding, and then sighed, long and deep.

  “Aye,” Aidan said slowly. “The night wore on, the champagne flowed freely. We found a private place, ostensibly to talk, but things progressed beyond that. Well beyond that. In what amounts to a moment of incredibly bad judgment, I became obligated to marry Lady Mira Kimball or else be a cad.”

  “You were raised to do the right thing,” Patrick said simply. “Of course you proposed marriage.”

  Aidan shrugged and downed the rest of his whiskey in a big gulp, barely tasting it. “You know, Grandda, ’tis my own fault, and I take all the blame for that night. She was innocent, and I was”—he met his grandfather’s eyes and let out a mirthless laugh before saying—“not so very innocent.”

  “I know how ’tis, lad. I was young once, and a sailor, aye?”

  “Right.” Aidan poured himself another generous draught, and offered Patrick the same. Patrick declined with a wave of his hand, and Aidan continued talking. “As I said, ’tis all my fault. But I must say, I think she had it in mind. Maybe not for things to go that far, but she’d had her eyes on Padraig and me, and the moment I showed any interest, she pounced. You may have noticed that the pickings at court are slim, and Mira is accustomed to wealth and prestige. I don’t think she’s looking to be a baron’s wife, nor the wife of a man twice her age.”

  “You don’t think her interest in you is genuine, then?”

  “She’s got a half shot at being duchess, aye?”

  Aidan spoke those words deliberately, watching Patrick’s every detail, hoping that his grandfather would make some sort of gesture or expression that might offer Aidan a clue as to who was the firstborn son.

  “And a half shot at not,” Patrick answered genially, without so much as a flicker of recognition. “You’re a fine man, Aidan, with a big heart and a face as handsome as Cú Chulainn. You’ve too much to offer to be thinking a woman’s after only the possibility of a title.”

  Leaning forward in his chair, Aidan dangled his whiskey glass between his knees and met Patrick’s eyes full-on. He dared to ask what he’d spent a lifetime wanting to know. “Do you know, Grandda? Do you know who was born first, and who will be duke?”

  “Your parents decided to keep that to themselves, lad. I’m not a man to undermine such a decision, whether I knew or not. ’Tis not my place to interfere.”

  “I hate it,” Aidan whispered, his frustration seething in his blood. He wished suddenly that his father were there, so he could face him full-on, man-to-man, and demand the truth.

  “I know you do, lad, but no matter what, it makes no difference. Be you marquis or earl or duke, you are Aidan Patrick Mullen, and none of those titles begins to define you.”

  Aidan knew Patrick was right, and he understood that that was precisely how his grandfather had raised his son, Rogan. With honor and dignity that did not come from a title, but from the blood, the heart.

  Rogan wanted his sons to find the same strength within themselves, where lordly titles were meaningless.

  “I envy you, Grandda.” Aidan drank deeply again, feeling the loose warmth of the whiskey wending its way through his blood. “You’re free of all of it. You’ve never been a slave to man or king or country.”

  “No man, no king, no country, ’tis true. But I am slave to a woman. My Camille is my queen, lad, and I’m merely her vassal. She commands my heart and soul since the day I met her.”

  Patrick’s declaration was not sappy romanticism, but spoken as plain fact. It inspired in Aidan such a pang of envy that it became an ache in his chest. He would never feel that way about Mira. Such love could not be manufactured by want, it was just a gift, and Aidan’s mistake with Mira would condemn him to never receive it.

  “What will I do?” he wondered aloud. “I am bound by honor to make right what I’ve done, but I tell you now, I do not wish to take that woman to wife.”

  A long silence fell between them, and Aidan stared into the fire, watching as the feasting flames consumed what was once living. A log broke and fell into two, shooting a shower of molten sparks up the draft.

  After a time Patrick spoke, his words weighed and chosen with the care of a man who knew the full meaning of them. “I’ve seen marriages made for love, my own included, and I’ve seen them made for every other reason under the sun. Barring none, the ones made for love have been better.”

  “What are you suggesting, Grandda?”

  “You’re a grown man, lad, and as I’ve said, you’ve a good heart. You’ll do the right thing.”

  “How will I? I don’t even know what that is any more.”

  They fell to silence once more, and Aidan had finished his drink before Patrick answered, his deep voice low and
thickly Irish. “Well, lad, maybe that’s true right now. But I do think that your dallying with the spéirbhean you’ve ensconced in the cottage isn’t helping the issue, is it?”

  Spéirbhean, he’d called her. It tugged a grin from his lips as nothing else could have at that moment. “Aye, Grandda. She is a beautiful dream of a woman. And aye, she does complicate matters.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The ring of woods surrounding the small cottage came alive with the first touches of dawn. Deer moved through the bare underbrush, squirrels raced, and birds darted from limb to limb. Olwyn emerged from the privy, and though it was cold, the crisp morning air invigorated her, and the beauty of the place inspired joy unlike anything she’d ever felt. She laughed at nothing in particular, just purely happy, her sound adding to the peace of the ancient place.

  The laugh froze in her throat as she saw the dog moving through the trees. His tan fur gleamed sleek against his giant, muscular body, his jowls and markings around his eyes black.

  He stepped out of the woods and into the meadow, his dark eyes on her, carrying a huge stick in his mouth. His tail was down, not wagging, his ears laid back against his head.

  “Go away, Chase,” Olwyn whispered.

  She glanced to the cottage door; it was at least fifty paces away.

  The dog moved toward her, his massive jowls spread out over the stick in a macabre smile.

  It trotted nearer still, and Olwyn couldn’t move. The dog could easily overcome her if she ran. She remembered Aidan’s promise that the dog would not hurt her.

  Chase slowed and stood before her, and Olwyn met his eyes. She relaxed marginally, for his eyes were mellow, and nothing like the white-rimmed manic eyes of her father’s dogs. Indeed, she thought, Aidan’s dog rather reminded her of a horse, for all his size, he had a gentle presence.

  Chase cocked his head to the side, and let out a little woof from behind his big stick, as if saying hello.