Stealing Midnight

by Tracy MacNish

  And so it seemed only polite to greet him in return. “Good morning,” Olwyn said. “You are a big dog, aren’t you?”

  The dog took two steps toward her and dropped the stick at her feet. He wagged his tail and appeared rather expectant, as if he urged her to do something. She looked at the stick, thicker than her arm and slimy and wet with drool, and then back to Chase. “Is that for me?”

  Chase barked, once, but it was not an angry sound.

  And so Olwyn, unsure of what else to do, picked up the stick and offered a nervous smile to the huge animal. “Thank you.”

  Chase seemed satisfied, for he lumbered around the perimeter of the meadow, sniffed a tree, urinated on it, and then left, crashing through the woods without a look back at Olwyn.

  Somewhat bemused, Olwyn took the stick with her as she went back inside, leaned it against the wall near the door, and realized that she’d just communicated with a dog easier than she did with most humans.

  By dinnertime Aidan’s parents, Rogan and Emeline, had arrived at the manse, and the staff readied rooms to accommodate them and their servants. No sooner had Aidan finished telling his parents what had become of him on his voyage did they hear Chase barking, alerting them that others were arriving.

  Rogan’s sister, Kieran, and her husband, Matteo, approached as their retinue of carriages rumbled up the drive. They came with their three grown children following them, and all the trunks and maids and manservants that came with such a large group. The entire family gathered to welcome Aidan home, and much to Aidan’s dismay, the story of his bout with death had to be told and retold a few more times.

  It was, he decided, a story that needed to be permanently buried.

  “Where is this amazing Miss Gawain?” Portia de Gama asked. She was the youngest of Matteo and Kieran’s children, a stunning beauty with her mother’s fine features and her father’s sensuality. She wore her glossy dark hair coiled high on her head, and her clear blue eyes were thickly lashed. Every time Aidan looked at her he saw trouble, for Portia had the flash of the devil in her eyes.

  “She is staying in the cottage,” Aidan answered. “Miss Gawain found herself uncomfortable staying amongst strangers, I think.”

  “You should see her,” Mira said, with laughter in her voice. “She is very unusual.”

  “How so?” Portia asked, and her face took on an expression of annoyance. She did not like Mira Kimball, and she made no pretense of hiding it.

  “She wears a dagger in her belt,” Mira answered with a fair bit of arch glee. “And that is not the oddest thing about her.”

  “My lady,” Aidan snarled. He saw Lord Falconbergh look at him sharply, clearly not approving of the tone Aidan took with his daughter. Aidan ignored him. “That is more than enough.”

  “I should think that a woman who single-handedly saves a man’s life would be unusual, to say the least,” Kieran interjected, and she rose from her seat to join Matteo by the fire. Aidan saw Matteo touch Kieran’s hand with his, and Kieran nodded in response. They did not even need to speak, Aidan realized, to communicate.

  And meanwhile, his betrothed sat near the window, completely unaware that he was ready to drag her from the room and teach her better manners.

  “I want to meet her,” Emeline announced.

  “I think we all do, Auntie,” Sophia de Gama agreed. She was the middle child, the very feminine version of her father, with melting brown eyes, and dark wavy hair. Sophia held a glass of red wine in her long, elegant fingers, and her lips were the same shade of burgundy. Aidan looked at his female cousins with a mixture of protectiveness and awe, for they were two of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.

  The third being a Druid with eyes the color of a storm cloud, and hair that was like a midnight sky streaked with lightning. He remembered the feel of her beneath him, the slim, lithe strength of her body, and the smoky, exotic smell of her hair and skin.

  Not a moment had gone by since he’d left the cottage that he hadn’t longed to go to her, to lie with her in his arms, and feel completely at home. To slumber deeply, the untroubled rest of a man at peace.

  That, he realized, was the curse he would have to endure the rest of his life: never feeling totally at ease. It was as if a piece of him was missing, a part he hadn’t known existed until for the briefest, best time in his life, Olwyn had filled it.

  “Miss Gawain asked to be left alone, and we will all respect that,” Aidan stated bluntly. He sent Mira a warning glance, and added, “She is a unique woman, ’tis true, and she deserves far better than to have her clothing poked fun of as if she were a schoolgirl at lessons, yet that is the reception she received upon arrival. If Miss Gawain wants privacy, ’tis a small wonder, and the least we can offer her.”

  Lord Falconbergh snorted and rose from his seat to look out the window. Mira narrowed her eyes and stared hard at the floor, clearly angered over Aidan’s comment.

  Good, Aidan thought. Let them both see that he would not tolerate such spiteful, slyly malicious remarks.

  Rogan met Aidan’s eyes briefly, and in his father’s gaze he saw questions and concern. Anger and love were a tangle in his gut, and Aidan made a promise to himself that he would have it out with his father, once and for all. The time for secrets had come to an end.

  Aidan went to the liquor stand to pour himself another brandy. As he picked it up, he looked regretfully at the whiskey bottle. In it was scotch he’d distilled himself, a smooth, peaty single malt. He knew it would taste of Olwyn.

  He poured the brandy and tried to put her out of his mind. No good could come of his obsession.

  A hand came down on Aidan’s shoulder, and he cast a glance to his side and grinned. His cousin, Roman, the oldest of his Aunt Kieran’s offspring, leaned over and spoke softly for no one else’s ears.

  “Prey to the cliché, cousin?”

  “Aye,” Aidan admitted softly. Roman de Gama was like his father in more than just appearance—he read a person well, and was no man’s fool. Aidan wasn’t sure which cliché Roman spoke of, that of marriage bonds being more a binding than a blessing, or that of falling in love with the person who saved one’s life. But either way, Aidan knew both applied. “I am sunk.”

  “We will have to talk later,” Roman said softly, and his hand tightened on Aidan’s shoulder in solidarity. Roman’s white teeth flashed in a rakish grin. “We’ll get you out of it, somehow. If I have to seduce your bride, cousin, I will bear up under the stress and get the task done.”

  “You may have to stand in queue,” Aidan answered, and he inclined his head to where Mira sat. Padraig had taken a seat on the bench beside her and appeared to be engaging a lively conversation, for Mira’s face was now bright and gay.

  “When it comes to me and women, there’s never a line,” Roman quipped, and he laughed as he sauntered away.

  Aidan shook his head and grinned. Roman’s words were far too accurate to be called boasting, for his lean good looks and smooth charm had divested many a young woman of her sense of morality.

  Camille came to Aidan’s side, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “’Twas right of you to speak for Miss Gawain,” she murmured softly.

  Aidan sighed and shrugged. He hated that his grandmother saw noble motive in his words, when truly, beneath it all, Aidan felt the exact opposite of gallant. Inside he was a writhing mass of unquenched, unstoppable, unfathomable desire for a woman who was not his betrothed.

  All he wanted was to go back in time to when he’d lain in a stone hut with that strange, witchy woman, unsure of even the year or the day, but so completely at peace with her that it did not matter. It had been just the two of them, Lóchrann and Olwyn. Simple, unrefined, and more authentic than anything else Aidan had ever felt.

  But that was not his reality. In reality he’d promised to stay away from her. And so he would.

  Still, there were things he could do for her, without having to burden her with his desire. She deserved far better than stolen embrace
s.

  “Grandmum, I have a favor to ask of you,” Aidan said quietly, for Camille’s ears alone. He leaned down and whispered his request. “Will you see to Olwyn? She seemed to feel comfortable with you, and I worry that she will be lonely day after day.”

  Camille smiled and nodded her head. “Of course. And you are kind to think of her needs. I’ll see to it she feels welcomed.”

  Aidan gave his thanks and cast a glance to the corner, where Padraig was seated with Mira, the two of them laughing over something. “Do you think it strange that Pad talks to her so? He is not very fond of Mira.”

  “Perhaps as your wedding day draws closer, he’s growing accustomed to the idea of her being a part of the family.” Camille gestured to Kieran and Matteo’s offspring, gathered by the fire with their parents, and Rogan and Emeline. They chatted amongst themselves as they drank wine and exchanged stories, hands gesturing, faces animated, their language peppered with Italian words and easy laughter.

  “See how they are together, friends now that they are grown?” Camille pointed out softly. “That is the bond our family brings, so tightly knit and aware of the need for such closeness. We are a tough brood to penetrate, Aidan, ’tis difficult to become one of us. Be mindful that Mira very likely feels on the outskirts. I think ’tis very wise of Padraig to see to her this evening.”

  “Aye. But he sits closer than is proper,” Aidan answered.

  “You’re not jealous of your brother’s attention, are you?”

  “No,” Aidan said flatly, and he wasn’t. It bothered him that he could see Mira so close to another man, her bright hair in contrast to Padraig’s black, her tiny body dwarfed by Padraig’s size and strength, and not care. He should be jealous, protective. But he felt none of that.

  Instead, watching as his brother grinned like a wicked Irish bastard and laughed as though he truly enjoyed Mira’s company, Aidan only wondered what Padraig was up to.

  Camille reached up and cupped his cheek. “You look tired. Are you not sleeping again, love?”

  Aidan turned his attention back to his grandmother. “Not so well since I’ve been home, but I’m sure I’ll settle in.”

  “Have you tried warmed milk? It really does work.”

  A grin tugged at his lips as he looked down into the caring face of his beloved grandmother. Warmed milk. He nearly laughed.

  What he needed was to curl up against Olwyn in smoky, scented darkness, but he didn’t think that those around him would see that as an appropriate aid to a good night’s rest.

  He gave Camille a quick squeeze. “Aye, Grandmum. I’ll be sure to try that.”

  Early in the morning, Olwyn woke to the sound of scratching at the cottage door. She peeked out the window and saw that Chase had returned. Opening the door a crack, she saw he had a bone in his mouth this time, and he dropped it on the doorstep when he saw her.

  “More presents, Chase?” Olwyn asked him with a smile. “You’re spoiling me.”

  The dog wagged his tail and watched her expectantly. She reached down and lifted the slimy bone, and Chase’s tail picked up speed. Olwyn smiled, and then unable to contain herself, laughed. “You’re a good dog,” she told Chase.

  Growing bold, she reached out to touch his head, rubbing between his ears as Aidan had done. His fur was sleek and hard, much like a horse’s coat: shiny, dense, and thick. Chase held still, his only movement the wagging of his tail, and when Olwyn pulled her hand back, he trotted off into the meadow once more.

  She leaned the bone against the wall beside the stick he’d brought her the day before, and wondered if this would become a daily thing. Looking at the scars on her arm, she could only wonder if her father had trained his dogs to hate her somehow, for they’d attacked her without provocation.

  Before she had a chance to really think about why her father would have done something so cruel, she heard the approach of horses on the trail and knew that Molly and Alice were coming.

  Olwyn rushed back inside and quickly made up the bed so they would not think her lazy, and hurried to put away the book she’d been reading the night before. She rinsed her whiskey glass and turned it over to dry on a towel, and then ran the comb through her hair.

  When she opened the door to let the girls in, Olwyn was shocked to see that Camille had accompanied them. She remembered that Patrick had said they’d spent their wedding night in the cottage, and Olwyn blushed at the thought.

  “My lady,” she said, and dipped down into a deep curtsey. “Welcome.”

  “Good morning, Miss Gawain,” Camille said as she entered. Her bright green eyes swept over the interior, and she added softly, “Ah, and here ’tis, as perfect as my memory. Are you comfortable here?”

  “I love it, my lady. Thank you for making these arrangements.”

  Camille turned to Olwyn, and her lips curved in a smile. “I’m glad to hear it, and now I have a favor to ask of you in return.”

  “Of course. Whatever you need.”

  “Come with me into town, my dear. I have an errand to see to, and would be grateful for the company.”

  A slight, troubled frown touched Olwyn’s brow as she envisioned what would likely happen—the stares, the whispers. Would the people of Southampton think her a witch?

  Camille saw her hesitation and overrode her worries. “’Twould please me to have you as my guest. Please, Miss Gawain, let me show you our town and treat you to a fine meal.”

  Olwyn let out a little sigh. She couldn’t deny Camille anything. “I would be honored.”

  Alice and Molly fixed Olwyn’s hair, brushing it into long, silky waves before pulling it back from her face. They secured it with a ribbon and left it to hang to her waist before setting to the task of helping her to dress, her gown now cleaned and brushed and pressed. Though it was shabby, Olwyn was grateful that it was neat and tidy so at least she would not embarrass Camille too much. As she buckled her belt and slid her dagger into place, she saw Camille looking at her weapon with an expression of amused tolerance.

  “Wearing it has become a habit,” Olwyn explained, her cheeks flushing. “Does it offend you, my lady?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Camille replied easily. “There was a time when I wore a dagger myself.”

  A well-bred lady born to privilege who’d felt the need to arm herself? Curiosity and surprise made for a pleasant departure from Olwyn’s insecurity about her dress and appearance. “Oh? Will you tell me about it?”

  Camille smiled and opened the door. As they stepped out into the chilly morning air, she said, “Yes, I think I will.”

  The ride into Southampton wasn’t too long, and as they rode Camille told Olwyn of when she was a young girl, living at Beauport with her family. She told a story of abuse and manipulation, of degradation, beatings, and a man who overstepped his boundaries in the most heinous way. And by the time they’d arrived in town, Olwyn understood a small portion of why Camille had chosen to arm herself with a dagger hidden beneath her skirts.

  Olwyn felt a kinship with Camille, for they were both women who spent their youth longing for a mother’s kind touch, and they both knew more than their share about being born to a parent who would go to great lengths to control them.

  Snippets of her life in her father’s keep flashed in Olwyn’s mind, and she was more and more certain in the time she spent away from Rhys that he had used his words against her.

  Olwyn could only wonder how much of what Rhys had told her was true.

  The town of Southampton bustled, even first thing in the morning, the cobbled streets alive with vendors selling textiles and fabrics, meats and fish. Sailors, fresh in from the morning tides, wandered the streets, easily identifiable by their thick sweaters and rolling gaits. Alehouses were open, and as they went by Olwyn saw that a few men were already at the bar, leaning over full mugs of ale and plates of eggs.

  The air reeked of food and fire smoke, horse dung and tanned skins. When their carriage came to a stop, Olwyn alighted, full of excitement. The
noise of the calling vendors clashed with horses’ hooves and wagon wheels ringing on the cobblestones. Whitewashed buildings lined the street, the windows lined with empty window boxes that would spill bright flowers come spring. Women moved briskly up and down the streets, most with children in tow, going about their business in a way that suggested they’d heard the cries of the vendors too many times to take notice.

  The town was at least ten times larger and more crowded than Penarlâg, and Olwyn was struck by the fact that no one seemed to take notice of her. Relief washed over Olwyn, for there in Southampton she was not an object of ridicule; no garlic bulbs pelted her, no insults were hurled at her. She walked down the street beside Camille, and was able to enjoy the sights in peace.

  They dined in an inn’s front room, and Olwyn felt like a lady as the staff brought them tea and scones, fruit and honey, tasty pastries and coddled eggs. As they ate, Camille told her stories of when Aidan and Padraig had been babies, and what a delight they’d been.

  And when they’d finished eating, Camille dabbed her lips with her napkin and said, “And now, my dear, I have another favor to ask of you.”

  “My lady?”

  “We are having a dinner tonight to properly welcome Aidan home, and I was hoping that you could join us. The entire family wants to meet the woman who saved Aidan’s life, and it would please us all greatly if you would let us honor you this night.”

  Olwyn opened her mouth to demur, but could not form the words. For all she could think of was Aidan, and her heart raced and her palms sweated.

  Lóchrann.

  She wanted to see him again, to be close enough to smell his skin and breathe his essence. She wanted his regard on her, those dark blue eyes to travel over her, to feel the vibration of his desire in the air.

  He would be with Mira, she knew. He would be reserved and stiffly proper with Olwyn, would be polite and dignified. She knew he’d be wearing elegant clothes, as would everyone else, and he would smell of soap and cologne and not her exotic incense and his whiskey.