Stealing Midnight

by Tracy MacNish

  She knew her father’s ruthlessness. He was a man whose fall from grace had been so long ago that kindness was a long forgotten memory. Insanity and cruelty had conspired to make him nothing more than a shadow of a man, with bitter hate where his heart had once been. If Rhys Gawain saw Aidan as a threat, he would kill him from a distance.

  “Olwyn,” Aidan prompted her, “tell me.”

  Olwyn didn’t dare give voice to the fear that her father might be coming for her. That was something she would have to deal with on her own.

  Instead, she gave him another piece of her truth, the part that sprang from the deep well of her insecurity. The part from which Aidan could offer no protection, because he was the very root of the problem. “Perhaps I don’t trust the promise I taste in your kisses.”

  “Trust is earned,” he said mildly, and the attention in his eyes changed, grew warmer. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  “Oh, will I?” She laughed, an inappropriate thing to do, but still it bubbled out, a jittery twitter. He spoke of forever and having her in his life as if it were an accomplished fact, a thing already done.

  She remembered being in his home, feeling like an urchin, a beggar.

  There Aidan stood, tall and strong, sunlight gleaming in his tawny, streaked hair and on his smooth, golden skin. A dashing Adonis, a knight of the realm. A marquis or an earl, and maybe a duke. He was the hero of every nursery fable and fairy tale she’d ever read.

  Too good to be true, her mind jeered. Too good for you.

  Aidan took a few steps closer to her. She caught his scent, borne on the sea air: expensive linen, crisp and clean, mingled with his soap. She remembered when he’d smelled of her incense and his skin had been bare against hers, his breath a soft tickle through her hair, his heartbeat beneath her cheek. Lóchrann of the darkness.

  The memory made her tremble.

  “Don’t worry, Olwyn,” he bade her softly. Reaching out, he stroked back a long lock of black hair that the wind had tossed across her face. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. You’re with me now. Only good things are in your future.” He shrugged and his lips quirked up in the ghost of a smile. “’Tis not just material things I mean, though there’s enough of that. But I’m talking about good things between us. Meaningful things. The pieces of ourselves that we’ll share with each other and no one else.”

  Behind him, the ocean surged and heaved, rolled onto the shore and ebbed back again, an endless cycle.

  The beach they stood upon was owned by Aidan and his family. The very idea staggered Olwyn’s mind. And the woods behind her—they owned them, too. As they did the grand mansion, and the land that it stood upon. How much of England belonged to these people, and how did a poor girl like her fit in to such a picture?

  Aidan had said he couldn’t imagine his life without her in it.

  But Olwyn couldn’t envision herself in his life.

  And oh, God, he’d said he loved her.

  Somewhere along the way he’d turned the tables on her. He was no longer the man whose life she’d saved, for he seemed insistent on rescuing her in equal measure.

  It all became a muddied mess, for she could not reconcile Aidan of the manse with Lóchrann of the darkness. She understood all too well the dark, intuitive fear that snaked beneath her skin like a serpent, and most of all, she did not know what to do or where to hide.

  She thought of the kindness that Camille had shown her, the warmth of Ai dan’s family, the ease and welcoming grace they’d shown her.

  If Olwyn brought danger to their doorstep, she would never forgive herself.

  “I need to go.” The admission came of its own volition. And she did, despite the desolation that harrowed her as she thought of leaving and never seeing Aidan again. She needed to go far enough away that Rhys’s madness would not touch Aidan or his family.

  “Of course,” Aidan said, as if he were soothing a small child. “By God, you’ve grown even paler still. Are you unwell, Olwyn?”

  Concern touched his eyes, making her feel even worse. She’d never met a compassionate man before, and yet, here he stood, full of genuine caring and sympathetic worry for her.

  For her!

  “Olwyn, will you answer me?”

  “I’m fine,” she managed to say. “Truly.”

  “The first lie you’ve told me.” Aidan’s expression changed, took on the look of a wolf that had caught the scent of blood. “Why?”

  “Please, take me back to the cottage.”

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.” He didn’t bother with more questions. This came as a pure demand.

  And suddenly she knew that he could feel her too deeply, that he was connected to her in the way of the ocean to the shore.

  Before she could even attempt to think of a lie, Aidan’s patience ran out. He whistled for his horse, and within two fluid steps he swung up into the saddle and pulled Olwyn up onto his lap. They were in motion in an instant, racing across the beach, heading directly toward the place where Olwyn’s gaze had been drawn.

  His arm was a thick steel band around her, his chest a wall of muscle behind her, his thighs hard and firm beneath her bottom.

  And his voice was low and angry in her ear. “If you’ll not answer me, Olwyn, I’ll go and see for myself what’s lurking in the shadows. I’m not a man to hide from anything, aye? Accustom yourself to that.”

  Olwyn couldn’t help herself, and she laughed again. More peals of that edgy, nervous laughter. He overwhelmed her with his strength, and more than that, unnerved her with his bold ownership over her person. He was like the prince who’d slain the dragon, climbed the keep’s walls, and carried the girl off with no intentions of returning her.

  Olwyn was not a princess from a fairy tale. She was about as far from one as a woman could get.

  The prince had carried off the wrong girl in his strong arms. The thought made her laugh again, this time a sadder sound that accompanied a blooming ache in her chest.

  “Oh, it’s funny, is it?” he asked, peering down on her askance. “You infuriate me, and I amuse you. That’s perfect.”

  “Well, Lóchrann, what now? We’ll charge off into the forest on the back of your war steed, and what?” She shrugged, trying to ignore the fear that rippled beneath her skin. “Call me a coward, but when I sense danger I run from it.”

  His body relaxed a bit, the arm that held her became less imprisoning, and he slowed his stallion’s pace. “You sense danger in the wood?”

  “Aye,” she confirmed slowly, unsure of how much to say. She had no intentions of leading Aidan right into danger’s path. Far better for her to slip away and lead Rhys away from Aidan and his family.

  Aidan met her eyes again. “Fine, we’ll do it your way. We’ll go back.”

  He wheeled the stallion around and headed in the opposite direction, and Olwyn relaxed ever so slightly.

  “Thank you, my lord. I will feel much better once I’m back in the cottage.”

  Aidan grinned, and turned in an instant from prince charming to the devil himself. “Oh, well, Olwyn, you’re not a fool, aye? Surely you’ll think it ludicrous to stay alone in a cottage in the middle of the wood, like some lamb that’s been led to the slaughter? We can both agree ’tis best that you come back to the manse with me. This way, you’ll have nothing to fear, aye? And I’ll be certain you’re safe.”

  And as she opened her mouth to argue, he tightened his hold on her once more and kicked his leggy stallion to a breakneck pace, carrying her off to his lair, just like a wolf with a stolen lamb.

  Mira moved across the wide-planked attic floor, as silent as a ghost. Light filtered through windows that were set deep into gables, illuminating motes of disturbed, drifting dust.

  She was supposed to be napping, and she glanced at the timepiece she’d pilfered from her father. She had about an hour more to look around before she needed to slip back into her rooms to dress for dinner.

  It made for slow going, only being able to sneak
away for a few stolen moments at a time, never able to fully devote herself to the monumental task of shifting through generations worth of belongings.

  Mira creaked open a chest and riffled through musty, moldering baby clothes, fashioned after designs of a hundred years ago.

  “Not it, not it,” she muttered, and in her frustration, she closed the lid too loudly.

  Catching the tip of her tongue between her teeth, Mira placed her hands on her hips and cast a sweeping glance around the vast attic. It spanned the length and width of the mansion, and was filled nearly to the rafters with old furniture, trunks, toys, books, and the various detritus of an ancestral family home.

  It would take forever to open every carton, she despaired. She kicked at the one that had just disappointed her, and blew out her breath.

  “Where would you put such a thing?” she whispered to herself as she opened a new trunk.

  She thought of Bret Kimball’s journal, the passage she’d read so often, and poured over with such attention that she had it memorized.

  Today I gave it to her, and as I watched it slide onto her perfect finger, I realized she would finally be mine. It fit her, not just in size, but symbolically. A Kimball ring on a Bradburn hand. Soon she will take my name as well, Camille Kimball. ’Tis a fantasy come true, and my hope is that someday she will see things as I do. I just know I can make her forget that Irishman, if she’ll only give me a chance to show her who I really am inside.

  I laugh as I write this, for I hear my own earnestness and know it sounds as if I am a lovesick swain. Were anyone to read my words, they would hardly suspect that ’tis the vilest treachery that has brought me to this day. I can hardly believe it myself, can scarcely comprehend the man I have become.

  As true as that may be, today I asked that delightful creature to be my wife, and she agreed, however unenthusiastically. I placed the Kimball ring on her finger, and saw hundreds of years of my ancestry glittering with promise. I think she liked it well enough. She should. ’Tis a stunning diamond, the center stone as big as my thumbnail, surrounded by sixteen smaller stones, a ring for a queen. I will spend the rest of my days with her in atonement, as I did today when I brought her candy, flowers, and even the brandy she likes to drink in secret.

  Mira rummaged through another trunk and then sat back on her heels. The ring was not in Camille’s jewelry collection in her rooms, and Mira could only wonder what had become of it.

  Asking directly what Camille had done with it was out of the question; by doing so she would have to reveal the existence of Bret Kimball’s journals. No matter what, Mira would never do that. Her great-uncle had spoken of all sorts of dastardly deeds, and Mira would not see shame brought on her family’s name.

  But that ring with the diamond as large as a man’s thumbnail was a Kimball ring. Bret had said it had been in their family for hundreds of years. Camille Bradburn had had no right to keep it after her uncle died. No right at all. The injustice of it galled Mira to no end. Did Camille sell it? Give it away? Or had she packed it away and forgotten about it?

  Mira was certain of one thing: the ring couldn’t have possessed any sentimental value to Camille. Bret’s journals made it clear enough that she’d had no love for him. Indeed, it was clear to Mira that Camille had been in love with Patrick all along.

  So the fact that Camille hadn’t seen fit to return the Kimball ring to the Kimball family smacked of thievery of the lowest sort. She’d taken it under false pretenses, after all, accepting Bret’s marriage proposal when her heart belonged to another.

  Mira checked the time and sighed. Time to return to her rooms and get ready for the evening ahead.

  She rolled her eyes and groaned aloud at the prospect. She had a plan to see to it that Aidan’s roving eye was brought back in line, but didn’t look forward to its execution. After all, it was risky to try the same trick twice, and Mira didn’t like risk in general, much less when the stakes were so high.

  But Mira Kimball was not about to be made a laughingstock by getting thrown over for a common nobody. She could see the writing on the wall—he was more than halfway to jilting her.

  Mira would do what she had to do to keep her grip on Aidan.

  After they were married, he could stray as he pleased, discreetly of course, just as all gentlemen did. But by God, she would see to it that he spoke the vows and secured her a proper future.

  Mira Kimball was not going to settle for anything less.

  And after all, she consoled herself, it had worked once, beautifully. Like a charm, in fact. It would work again.

  Chapter Twenty

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Padraig demanded, his voice full of incredulity, his eyes hot with annoyance. “You can’t bring that witch here and ensconce her under Mira’s nose. Not after last night.”

  “I’ll do as I please.” Aidan brushed past Padraig and went to the drink cart. He poured himself a small splash of whiskey, and sipped without really tasting it.

  Aidan couldn’t think of much else other than Olwyn, and the look of angry betrayal in her eyes when he’d all but dragged her into the manse. She hated being in his home; that much was clear.

  Olwyn had stood with her narrow back to him, silent, her mood impossible to read.

  And Aidan had ached to pull her to the bed, to hold her, to curl up with her, and to find sleep.

  But he hadn’t. Instead he’d asked for her understanding, and when she refused to look at him or respond, he’d locked her doors so she couldn’t leave.

  As Padraig demanded answers, Aidan considered that his actions were less than gentlemanly. In fact, if he was forced to be honest, they were nothing short of brutish.

  He was so tired his eyes burned. Perhaps it was affecting his judgment.

  Behind him, Padraig snorted. “This is a fine time to get your head on straight. Had you had your wits about you last August when you’d insisted on asking for Mira’s hand, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “I can always count on you to mind my business for me, brother. Many thanks to you, aye?” Aidan said mildly. He swirled his whiskey and glanced to the door. “She didn’t feel safe in the woods. Should I have left her there, then?”

  “You could have easily posted a guard at the cottage, instead of bringing temptation literally to your door.”

  “I wanted her here, where I can see to her myself.”

  “You want to see to her, aye. See her in your bed, for all that.”

  “Mind your manners, Dorchadas. I’ll not have you questioning her virtue.”

  “My manners,” Padraig said mockingly. “My manners would prevent me from bringing another woman to my dinner table, and announcing casually in front of my betrothed that you’ll be keeping her as if you’d brought home a puppy.”

  “I didn’t say I was keeping her. I said I’d reconsidered the wisdom of her staying alone.”

  “Aye, and did you see the look on Mira’s face? Could you not have told her first, privately, and spared her the awkwardness of hearing about it in front of the whole family?”

  “I wanted to,” Aidan said, feeling his annoyance grow. He didn’t like explaining himself any more than he appreciated Padraig jumping to the wrong conclusion. “Mira was gone. She had told everyone she was napping, but she wasn’t in her rooms when I sent a girl to wake her. I asked everyone, and no one had seen her all afternoon. It wasn’t until she came to dinner that I saw Mira, and by then ’twas too late to give her the news privately.”

  Aidan narrowed his eyes and cast an appraising look at his twin, who he thought he knew so well. “You’re awfully worried for her feelings, brother.”

  Padraig tossed back his own drink and set his glass down with a thump. He glared at Aidan briefly, a look that clearly said he didn’t like his intentions questioned, either. Rising from his chair, he crossed the room and leaned against the window frame, staring outside into the darkness.

  Aidan went to the fireplace where it burned merrily, put his whisk
ey on the mantel, and watched the fire.

  They separated like two boxers to their respective corners, each not wanting to fight, but willing to if they deemed it necessary.

  “And you look like hell,” Padraig said from across the room. “Have you not been sleeping again?”

  “I’ll do.”

  “Aye, you’ll do. You’ll be back on your deathbed before long. Why don’t you go into town and get some sleeping tonics?”

  “I’ve tried them all,” Aidan muttered, adding, “None work, save one.”

  If he could call having Olwyn beside him a tonic.

  “So whatever works, use it,” Padraig snapped. “You’re as hollow-eyed as a corpse.”

  “Aye, brother, don’t worry.”

  “Well, obviously you lack the sense to see to yourself.”

  “I never saw you as a mother hen, Pad.”

  “And I never saw you as someone needing tending, but clearly I was wrong.”

  “Peck, peck, peck.”

  “Keep it up, and I’ll drag your tired arse outdoors, and peck at you until you bleed.”

  “My lord?”

  Aidan turned at the sound of Mira’s quiet voice. She stood in the doorway, a small, soft kitten of a woman gowned in pale powdery blue. She smiled at him, and raised a hand in invitation. “I apologize for my intrusion, but I would have a word with you.”

  “Of course.”

  Aidan followed her out into the foyer, ready to be treated to a sharp-tongued reprimand. Instead, she leaned into his chest, her head held all the way back so she could look up into his face. She smiled, and as her fingers skimmed the buttons of his waistcoat, said, “I would like very much to speak with you privately. I think there is much we have to discuss, and I would like to do so without listening ears.”

  “Aye, you’ve the right of it. I was going to come to see you this evening.”

  She brightened even further, obviously pleased. “You were?”

  “We need to talk about serious matters, my lady,” Aidan said gently. And if he could handle the matter properly, perhaps Mira could be spared any hurt or embarrassment.