Stealing Midnight

by Tracy MacNish

  “So it came to be that as the stars fell deep into darkness, she lay with him in the smoky, scented air, their bodies curled together so that every move she made was his movement, and every breath she took was his breath.

  “And when he slept, it was a deep sleep. And when he woke, he was fully awake. She did this for him until he came fully alive, more than he ever felt possible.”

  Aidan paused as he watched her, his gaze traveling over her face as if he was committing to his memory her every detail. His voice grew sad as he said, “Life took them down separate paths, but it never changed the way they communicated. It remained that way forever, the two of them joined in a way that was more than physical, untouched by time or distance, so much so it became a voiceless song only they could hear.”

  Olwyn’s throat was constricted so tight it prevented breath, and she felt her blood pulsing in her veins, a thick, hot pounding that was life in its most primal form.

  She knew that in his own way, he was telling her that he loved her.

  Olwyn blinked a few times, hard, determined not to weep. This was the way she’d always known it would be. She had understood from the beginning that he was a man of the aristocracy. A man with obligations and an intended bride. A man not for her.

  The music faded and he let her go. His face was drawn tight, and his eyes shimmered as if he, too, fought tears. He lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to it, and then turned on his heel and left the ballroom without another word.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Morning dawned. The sky slowly turned from indigo to the palest lavender before turning into a pink-tinged blue that gave way to a beautiful, clear sky.

  Olwyn watched the sunrise at the cottage door, leaning against the frame as she cupped her hot tea, the warmth of the pottery permeating her hands. She wore a thick warm wrapper that Camille had insisted on purchasing for her, along with slippers and new stockings. Behind her sat a trunk full of new gowns, and the underpinnings needed to wear them.

  It was an embarrassment of riches, but Olwyn had been unable to refuse them, for she’d sensed the great joy that her acceptance of the gifts had given Camille, had seen it in the sparkle of the older woman’s green eyes and the beauty of her smile.

  Shortly after sunrise, Molly and Alice arrived, having learned that Olwyn was an early riser. So the hour had scarcely reached eight by the time they’d finished helping her dress.

  Alone once more, Olwyn faced an entire day to fill.

  She smoothed her hands over her new gown, a creation of dark purple that Camille had said turned her skin to cream. She felt the shape of her body beneath the fabric, and remembered Aidan’s hands on her, holding her as they danced.

  Olwyn took a deep, trembling breath, thinking of how he’d looked in her eyes as he told her their fairy tale. She’d seen in him such turmoil, such conflicted emotions.

  And she would never, ever be the same.

  She tried to take her mind off him by reading, but Shakespeare’s Romeo had Aidan’s face, and the words he spoke came from Aidan’s lips.

  No good could come of it, she counseled herself sternly. Aidan would marry Mira.

  Tossing the book aside, Olwyn made a snap decision to abandon the cottage and her thoughts. After readying herself, she pulled on her new warm cloak, and went outdoors into the brisk, clear morning. She spied the trail beside the run-in barn, and recalled that Aidan said it led to his distillery. Curious, she took to the path, and soon enough she heard the familiar noise of Chase bounding through the woods.

  She turned to see the dog coming toward her, this time with a wet sandy piece of driftwood in his mouth.

  “Hello, Chase,” she said with a smile as she accepted his latest gift. She no longer felt fear of the massive dog, for though he was the size of a horse, he had the gentleness of one, too. “I’m going for a walk. Will you come?”

  The dog settled in beside her, and grateful for the company, Olwyn followed the trail. Chase sniffed a few trees as if greeting old friends, urinating on them as he saw fit.

  The woods were peaceful, the chilly air redolent of pine and the salty tang of the sea, quiet but for the sound of crunching leaves beneath their feet and the occasional rustle of chipmunks in the underbrush.

  She noticed the tree line gradually thinned again, and spotted another meadow, this one larger than where the cottage was located. Two buildings inhabited the space, one tall and large, made of wood and stone, the other a low narrow wooden structure with long windows spanning all sides.

  Curious, she approached the tall one first, and peeking in the windows, she saw it was the distillery. She tested the door and found it unlocked.

  Pushing it open, she was assaulted by strong smells: grain and malt and yeasty fermentation. The air reeked of alcohol, so much so that she nearly felt dizzy from the scent.

  Chase had entered with her, and he sniffed with interest at the stairs that led up to a narrow loft that spanned one side of the structure.

  Several huge copper vats and tanks took up most of the floor space, and a squat cast-iron mill dominated a far corner. Sacks of grain were piled up in another corner, one of which had a hole, leaking barley onto the hewn floor. Oak and cherry casks dominated one entire wall, stacked all the way to the ceiling, each one neatly labeled and dated, some going back more than ten years.

  And she surrendered to the inevitable occupation of her thoughts. Aidan possessed her mind and heart, consuming her once more with longing for him.

  This was another of Lóchrann’s places, she thought. His domain. This was where he made the whiskey that tasted of darkness and kisses, heat and desire.

  With her knees weak and her head spinning from the fumes, she explored the place, touching the things Lóchrann had touched, being a part of the things he held dear.

  Aidan watched her from the shadows, high up in the loft. Behind him on his desk his record book was all but forgotten, his quill bleeding where he’d dropped it.

  She moved in and around the tanks, her slim fingers trailing over the gauges, knobs, and the proof safe as if she were caressing flesh.

  He took in her every detail, feasting on her appearance. She looked beautiful, her hair glossy and her skin luminous. He wanted her to look up again so he could see her eyes, those disquieting, piercing, fierce eyes of hers.

  Quick as a blink he saw Olwyn turn. Her arm lashed out, followed by the flashing blur of her dagger’s blade. It made a sibilant sound as it cut through the air, and he instinctively leaned forward. Before Aidan could see Olwyn’s quarry, he heard the high-pitched squeal of a scuttling rat, followed by the sick thud of the knife burying itself right behind its head.

  And then there was silence.

  He watched as Olwyn approached it, her body language hesitant. Laughter nearly escaped his control, for she looked frightened of the dead vermin.

  He admired the shot, too, for she’d hit the rat just behind its ears where it would sever the brain stem, a clean puncture that didn’t make for too much bloodshed.

  Olwyn used the piece of driftwood she carried to poke at the rat and hold it down. She heaved a big sigh, bracing herself, before she leaned forward to retrieve her dagger. And then he heard her gagging.

  “I’ll do it,” Aidan called down to her. “No need to add your breakfast to the mess you’ve made on my floor.”

  She gasped and whirled around. “I didn’t know you were here, my lord.”

  “And a good thing you didn’t. I see how you react when you’ve been startled.” He descended the stairs and came to stand over her kill before turning his gaze to her. “You did tell me you hated rats, aye?”

  “They are disgusting. Vile.” She shuddered with revulsion. “Aye, I despise them.”

  Cocking his head toward the impaled rat, he lifted a brow and grinned. “Well, with that in mind, I’ll try to stay on your good side.”

  He braced his boot against the body of the rat, its belly fat from feasting on grain, and pulled on the hilt. It was we
dged in tightly between muscle and bone, and came out with a nasty sucking sound.

  “You know, Olwyn,” he began nonchalantly as he took the dagger to where he kept clean rags and a bucket of water. “Most women just scream when they see a rat.”

  He wet a cloth and cleaned the blade before handing it back to her, hilt first. She took it without a word, opened her cloak, and slid it into her belt, which she wore wrapped around one of her new gowns. His grin broadened at the sight of the scarred, ragged leather cinching the fine purple velvet around her tiny waist. “Only one weapon?”

  She raised her brow into that witchy peak, reached behind her back and pulled out her pistol.

  “Ah, yes, of course,” he laughed. “I wouldn’t have expected less.”

  Olwyn’s tone was acerbic and the glitter in her crystal gray eyes was purely offended as she said, “Perhaps you prefer a woman who cares more for the fashionable drape of her gown over the foolishness of walking through woods alone, weaponless. I am not cultured, my lord, but neither am I a fool.”

  Aidan laughed as he looked her over admiringly. “I never said I preferred any such thing, and in truth, there’s not a thing about you I would change.”

  Her expression changed, turned uncertain. His words seemed to discomfit her, for she looked away from him, a blush rising on her cheeks. But a word was drawn from her lips, reluctant, a thin whisper. “Nothing?”

  Aidan’s gaze swept over her, from her new, fashionably elegant gown, cloak, and shoes, to her tattered belt and serviceable dagger. What he saw was a woman who was fierce and beautiful, practical and enigmatic. “No, Olwyn,” he told her softly, meaning the words with every bit of his heart. “Not a damned thing.”

  A smile broke across her face, a luminous combination of pink lips, glowing skin, shining teeth, and sparkling eyes. She took his breath away, she did. His spéirbhean.

  He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her, feel his mouth on hers, their essence mingling, tongues mating. He wanted to slide the hem of her gown upward, revealing her long, slender legs, and touch her in the center of her being until she cried his name. His blood became a race in his veins as he envisioned her nude, the riches of her body: ebony hair inlaid with argent, silken skin of alabaster blushed with a pale pink rose, and eyes the color of priceless clear crystals.

  She would burn for him, he knew. Olwyn’s sensuality was as earthy and real as nature itself.

  Because he couldn’t say any of that, he held her gaze and told her, “’Tis good to see you, Olwyn.”

  Olwyn took a step closer to him, as if drawn by his thoughts. She had her head tilted back so she could look into his face. With an expression of pure concern, she reached up and cupped his cheek, her hand cool and full of comfort, a healing touch. “Have you not been sleeping, Lóchrann?”

  “No, not too much,” he admitted. He tried to make light of it. “And to think I thought I’d slept enough to last a lifetime.”

  “Is this a trouble you’ve always had?”

  “Aye,” he answered a bit too abruptly. For it would do no good to tell her that when he’d lain with her, their bodies fitted together as if they were two pieces of a puzzle, he’d slept a restful, dreamless sleep.

  “Would you like some of my incense? It helps me, I think. You might find it works for you, as well.”

  He imagined the slim curl of exotic smoke slowly filling his sleeping chamber, and lying awake in his wide lonely bed, aching for her. “No, Olwyn. Thank you, but no.”

  She still had her hand on his face, and her fingertips brushed over his cheek. “It isn’t good for you to go too long without rest,” she gently admonished him. “You don’t want to take ill.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m used to it.” Even as he spoke, it occurred to him that his sickness aboard the ship and the resulting coma were probably a result of his extended sleeplessness, always pushing himself, never truly rested.

  Olwyn reached back to stroke his hair, her soft touch weakening his legs. Her striking gray eyes held his in thrall; he was unable to break free of her gaze, and didn’t desire to.

  “I didn’t much care for the ending of your fairy tale, Lóchrann,” she whispered. “It was a good story up until the last bit.”

  “Aye, you know, ’tis quite a coincidence you would mention that. I was awake a long time last night, and spent a good portion of it thinking about things.” He put his hand over hers. “Thinking about you, and how I feel about you.”

  “And how is that?” she asked, her expression turning wary, her voice the barest sigh.

  Staring into her eyes, he told Olwyn the simple, complicated, inexorable truth. “I love you.”

  Her eyes went wide on his admission, and she pulled her hand away as if she’d been burned. She turned and half-stumbled away before bracing herself on one of the mashing vats. “And now what?”

  He saw that her shoulders were heaving, as if she gasped for breath.

  He wanted to answer her question, but he didn’t quite know how.

  Indeed, how could he extricate himself from his predicament with Mira? And what was more, how could he spend the rest of his life without Olwyn by his side?

  “I don’t know what it means,” he admitted. “I only know how I feel. Let’s write a new ending to the fairy tale, Olwyn. Let’s figure it out together.”

  Olwyn clutched the rim of the copper vat. She had her eyes shut tight, drawing inward, trying to come to some semblance of reality.

  Love.

  Love?

  Men like Aidan Mullen didn’t love women like Olwyn, her mind insisted.

  But a man like Lóchrann might, her heart whispered.

  And then Olwyn spun around, facing him, uncertain, afraid. “You can’t love me.”

  “Oh? And how’s that?”

  “It isn’t possible.”

  “Well, then, you’re either a miracle worker or a witch, because, ’tis possible. ’Tis true.”

  “I am common, strange, and backward. I am not the right woman for you, and am in truth, hardly suited to be your mistress, let alone anything more significant. Fairy tales are fiction.” Her heart pounded, but she managed to add, “And no one would write a story about a woman like me.”

  He laughed, a smooth, deep chuckle that blended well with the scent of the whiskey. Olwyn, as upset as she was, couldn’t help but love the wild ease with which he laughed and smiled, an Adonis of a man with a devil’s grin and an intoxicating voice.

  Aidan moved closer to her, reached out, and twined his hand with hers. He gave her a little tug, and grinned. “You know, Olwyn, that’s a debate for another day. Here we are, alone and with time on our hands. What do you say we put aside our worries and enjoy the day?”

  Olwyn’s head reeled from his words, the fumes, and the rush of blood thrumming through her veins.

  “Just like that?” she asked. “You tell me something so deeply meaningful that my heart nearly explodes, and then just like that, you want to go casually on with the day?”

  He laughed again. “Aye. ’Tis exactly like that.”

  She was weak where he was concerned. Weak in her knees, weak in her heart. There was no denying him. “So what do you want to do, Lóchrann?”

  Aidan’s fingers were tight on hers, his grip an anchor, a lifeline.

  “Let’s go to the beach.”

  Memories of the trader’s stories wended through her mind, of rolling waves and rocky sand and shells that washed onto the beach like a million little miracles.

  “I have always wanted to see the ocean,” she said wistfully.

  “Let me show it to you. I want to be there when the sea captures your heart. I want to watch your beautiful eyes grow wide with the wonder of it.”

  For Olwyn, a woman who’d lived a life of solitude, loneliness, and silent misery, such generosity and kindness and genuine interest in her happiness came as a shock to her system. She felt as if she had been an empty glass, and Aidan Mullen had poured into her until she overflowed.
<
br />   “Lóchrann.” The word came out as a sob, and tears filled her eyes, splintering her vision. “You are like a dream, too fantastic to be believed, and yet you make me want to be a part of your life so much it terrifies me. So much so, that only last night I offered myself as your mistress. And now today, you say such things and make me even more confused. I cannot trust this dream, Lóchrann.” Her breath came in gasps and she laughed, a bit hysterical. “When will the dream turn to a nightmare? They all do, you know.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “We’re in it together, and to hell with what lurks in the shadows.”

  Aidan pulled her to him, wrapped his arms around her, and held her close. She clung to him, her mind a tangle of fearful hopes and desperate emotions so raw they burned.

  And he was the balm, the healing nostrum. Olwyn pressed her face into the warm folds of his shirt, breathing deeply his scent, clean linen and woods and pine, rather like the way the woods smelled after a cleansing rain.

  He kissed the top of her head, the chasteness of which was belied by the strength of his arms around her, and the vibration of his desire in the air. “Come now,” he murmured. “No tears.”

  Olwyn tilted her head back so she could look up at him. He had a faint smile playing around his lips, and concern in his sapphire eyes, as if he was unsure which way her emotions would swing. She managed to smile for him, and she said, “You’ve the right of it, Lóchrann. Take me to the ocean.”

  “Aye, I will. Give me just a few minutes here.”

  While Aidan shooed Chase out of the distillery, disposed of the dead rat by tossing it into the woods, and finished up with his ledgers, Olwyn took a peek inside the mews.

  The low building had large, plentiful windows that displayed the vast expanse of sky, but the birds wore leather hoods to prevent them from seeing what they could not have. They heard her, though, for the moment she’d entered they’d begun shifting their weight on their perches, swaying with anticipation that they might soon be riding on a wave of wind, tasting their temporary freedom and screaming with the sheer exhilaration of it.