Stealing Midnight

by Tracy MacNish

  He folded her into his embrace. Olwyn melted against him, her arms sliding around his narrow waist. She held him close, so close that his breath became her breath, and the rising of his chest against her cheek became her only world.

  And just as quickly, Aidan let her go.

  He looked down on her, his face etched in light and shadow. She thought she saw sadness in his expression, and worse, disappointment.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Sorry for what? For running away? For putting yourself in danger? For not telling me what you’d had planned?” His voice became hard and cold once more. “Or is it because you lied to me and took vows of marriage that you had no intention to honor?”

  “For everything.”

  His lips flattened. She could feel the emotion pumping from him, words he didn’t say, anger he wouldn’t express.

  “Aye, well,” Aidan said finally. “Everything’s maybe a bit more than one word can smooth out.”

  He looked down on her, his hand tight around her arm as if he knew she only planned to run again. The silence that fell between them became unaccountably complex, fraught with things they didn’t speak of, and knotted with problems not easily solved.

  Olwyn could only speak the truth, as plain and simple as it was. “I never wanted to hurt you,” she whispered. “Never.”

  “You had your reasons, I assume.”

  “I did.”

  “And will you tell me?”

  She hesitated, and then spoke the truth again. “No.”

  “Well, then. You can save your apologies. I’ll have all of you, Olwyn, or none at all.” Aidan’s lips tightened as if he held back his thoughts at great cost. “Let’s get you indoors,” he said at last, steering her toward the door. “And into a bath, aye? Olwyn, pardon me for saying so, but you stink.”

  Aidan took Olwyn to the suite of rooms where he’d once locked her away. In short order he had the servants filling the bath, lighting the candles, and laying a fire.

  Olwyn stood in the center of the room, waiting. When the preparations were made, Aidan turned to her.

  “I’m sorry about your father.”

  Sadness filled her chest and throat again. She nodded her acceptance, unable to speak.

  Aidan opened the armoire and riffled through the garments that Camille had purchased for Olwyn. “When you leave again, make sure you take the cloak and the gowns. They were a gift, and they belong to you,” he said, pulling them out and laying them over a chair. “The maids will help you dress after your bath.”

  Olwyn said nothing again, unwilling to lie and too afraid to tell the truth.

  Aidan reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a thick, tapestry traveling bag. “You can keep this, as well, and I’ll have someone come and drop off a pouch of money. And you’ll take it, aye? No wife of mine will go traveling without a cent to her name.”

  Her heart was breaking. “You’re letting me go?” she managed to choke out.

  “Aye,” Aidan answered curtly. “Stay or go, ’tis up to you. I’m through with proving you can trust me, and I’m tired of trying to convince you to make a life with me.”

  He turned and went to the door, opened it, and looked back on her for a long moment. The dark gold slash of his brows were drawn in a frown, and his full lips were flat. A muscle in his lean cheek flexed again and again. “I’ll send word to the stable hands. A carriage will be brought around to take you wherever you want to go. You won’t need go into hiding or throw me off the trail, so you can go on ahead and have them take you to where you’re really going. I won’t come for you.”

  A soft sob escaped her throat, but she didn’t otherwise make a sound.

  It seemed to reach his heart, for his expression softened somewhat. “Why don’t you spend a few nights in an inn before you make any decisions. You could likely use the rest, and also the time to heal and mourn. You have plenty of time to decide what to do with yourself once you’re gone from here. No one’s chasing you any more. Not even me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  There would be no sleep for Aidan. Prowling through the corridors of his home, he wanted nothing more than to hit someone, and to have them hit him back. Something to cause pain and to receive it, as well.

  In the absence of someone to fight, he went to the parlor in search of his whiskey.

  The candles were lit, a fire burned, and Padraig was in front of the fireplace, his long legs stretched out before him. He had a glass of scotch in his hand, and the cloak he’d worn when he’d ridden out with Aidan was tossed over a chair.

  “Is it taken care of, then?” Aidan asked as he entered.

  “Aye. They’re seeing to the bodies, and I’ve got a few men busy searching out the traps he’d laid. When dawn comes, I’m sure we’ll find them all.”

  “Good.”

  “And the witch?”

  “Taking a bath before bed. Or maybe she’s leaving. I don’t know what she’ll do, and I’m through trying to figure it out.”

  “Are you past your infatuation with her, then?”

  Aidan shot Padraig a hard look. It wasn’t so much what Padraig said, as the tone he used when he spoke of Olwyn. “What’s your problem with Miss Gawain?”

  Padraig didn’t hesitate in his answer. “I don’t like the way you are when she’s around.”

  “How so?”

  Padraig didn’t answer, but knocked back the last of his whiskey and stared into the fire for a bit.

  Though the greedy flames burned bright and fast, it had only been recently lit and the room still held the chill of nighttime. Aidan sought out a glass, poured a healthy draught of his whiskey, and took the chair opposite his brother. He drank deeply. The amber fluid burned in his belly and warmed him.

  Olwyn would leave, Aidan knew. As much as that hurt him, he’d let her. He’d meant what he’d said. He was finished with trying to convince her of the life they could make together. If she didn’t want him, or didn’t think herself worthy of the things he could offer her, there was nothing more he could do.

  Aidan hoped she found happiness elsewhere. He loved her enough to want the very best for her, always. Even if he weren’t the man to give it to her.

  A burning started behind his eyes and spread to his chest.

  Yes, Aidan admitted to himself, he wanted to weep. But because his brother sat across from him, he held the emotion at bay.

  “She takes you from me,” Padraig said quietly, his green eyes still on the flames.

  Aidan glanced sharply to his brother. Rarely did Padraig say anything about the connection they felt for one another. It was an unspoken thing that existed between them, silent, continuous, and unbreakable. And more often than not, unmentioned.

  “No other woman’s ever done that,” Padraig continued, his words carefully spoken as if he’d given them great thought but was reluctant to reveal his truest feelings. “When she’s about, I don’t feel you. ’Tis like you’re just a brother, or maybe a friend, and nothing more.” Padraig turned his gaze toward Aidan and met his eyes. “I suppose that means you’re in love with her, aye?”

  “Aye,” Aidan answered slowly. “I am.”

  “But you say you’ll let her go?”

  “Aye.” The word came out as flat and hard as an anvil’s surface.

  Padraig’s eyes gleamed green and bright in the firelight, eyes just like Rogan’s and Camille’s. Bradburn eyes. They’d turned mocking in a way that suggested their moment of honesty had passed. That’s brilliant.”

  Aidan shrugged with an indifference he didn’t feel and knocked back a searing swallow of whiskey. “’Tis complicated.”

  “It seems simple as hell to me.” Padraig got up and crossed the room to pour himself another splash. “But what would I know? I’ve never been in love.”

  “You were,” Aidan contradicted softly. “You forget who you speak to, brother. I remember her.”

  Padraig didn’t argue; they both knew of whom he spoke.

&nbs
p; Before Aidan could say anything further on the subject, Rogan and Emeline entered the parlor, wearing their bedclothes and wrappers.

  “Your mother couldn’t go back to sleep until she was certain you were both sound and well,” Rogan said.

  “We are.” Aidan went to his mother and embraced her. “Go back to bed, Mum,” he said gently. He glanced at the mantel clock and saw it was the earliest hour of morning. “’Tis a horrid hour in which to greet the day.”

  “I might as well stay up,” Emeline said with a sigh. She laid her hand on Aidan’s cheek, a gentle touch that belied her toughness. “There’s something we were going to speak with you about, anyway. ’Tis best you’re both here.”

  Emeline took a seat on the sofa, and Rogan dropped down beside her. He ran a hand through his black hair and regarded his wife with a gimlet eye. “’Tis early enough for this sort of talk, anamchara.”

  “I think ’tis long overdue, actually.” Emeline faced her two sons and folded her hands in her lap. “The day you were born, I turned to your father and told him that I wanted you raised with fairness and equality. I couldn’t bear the thought of one of you being touted as the heir, while the other was considered lesser, for you are both equally precious to us. Your father’s solution was plain enough—we kept it secret between the two of us who was the firstborn.”

  A servant, obviously aware that much of the household had risen, brought in a tray bearing tea service. She set it down without a rattle, and Rogan thanked her and instructed her to close the doors on the way out.

  “To be honest, I’m glad we did as such,” Rogan said easily after the doors were firmly closed and the family had their privacy. “But I agree with your mum. The time for secrets is long past, and we’ve been remiss in keeping the truth from you both.”

  Aidan had had enough. He stood abruptly. “I don’t want to know.”

  Emeline’s surprise shone plainly on her face. “Oh? You’ve been the one most annoyed with us for not telling you.”

  “Not any more,” he said bluntly. He cast a glance to Padraig, who seemed indifferent to the knowledge now, as he always had been. “Do you care to hear this, brother?”

  “Not really,” Padraig answered. “I don’t care about titles and inheritances. If it comes to pass that I need to follow in Da’s footsteps, I will, and with pride. But I don’t need it for my happiness. I never did, and if the knowing will change my life now, I’d rather live without it.”

  Aidan felt a strong wave of love and admiration for his brother, who’d always understood that basic truth. It had taken Aidan years to figure it out, and without Olwyn, he doubted he ever would have learned what Padraig had already known.

  “Mum and Da,” Aidan began, aware he needed to explain his reasons when he’d pressed so hard for answers over the years. “I needed to make peace with who I was, and it took me a long while to figure out that the peace I was looking for wasn’t going to be found. I’d had to earn it, you see.”

  “And did you, son?” Rogan asked.

  “Aye. I’m not a man to be measured by my titles, I know that now. I’m not a twin to be compared to his brother, either. I’m just myself, Aidan Mullen, and for what it’s worth or what that means to anyone else, it’s enough for me.”

  Aidan’s gaze met his mother’s, and he saw in her sapphire eyes, so like his own, pride and love that ran deeper than the sea. “I’m sorry, Mum,” he told her softly, “for every last bit of trouble I’ve given you about this subject. You had the right of it all along.”

  Dawn was lighting the sky, casting pale pinkish shadows through the open drapes. Aidan saw that the morning sky was clear and bright, and he had a sudden need to see to a task that was long overdue.

  He strode across the room, kissed his mother on the cheek, and grabbed Padraig’s cloak. His brother regarded him curiously, and Aidan grinned at him and said, “A deartháir, a leathchúpla, a anam.” My brother, my twin, my soul. He clapped down a hand on his shoulder, and gripped him hard. “Never anything less, brother.”

  Padraig stood, hugged him, and slapped him on the back soundly before letting go. Aidan went to the door, opened it, and turned back to look at his family. They were his heart and soul, the people of his blood. His beautiful mother, with her compassionate nature and gentle wisdom; his darkly handsome father, who was the strongest man he’d ever known; and his brother, his childhood friend, his biggest rival, his most trusted confidant.

  “See you at dinner,” Aidan said simply. And it felt good to know they’d be there, even if Olwyn was not.

  He left the manse and jogged lightly to the stables, his breath a frosty cloud in the morning light. After ordering his favored stallion to be saddled, Aidan leaned against the doorpost and looked out over the rolling hills of Beauport. The air smelled strongly of the sea, the salty tang luring him to the ocean’s edge. The mansion stood high and proud in the distance, the early rays of sunlight glinting on the many windowpanes. He saw the beauty of the land, the majesty of the manor home.

  It would forever feel empty without Olwyn.

  He’d need to change rooms, for he’d see her before the fire, would feel her in his bed. He wouldn’t be able to spend time in the cottage, as she would haunt the very air there. The beach, the distillery, the mews, and the very woods themselves. She had turned them all into something different, made them more meaningful with her presence.

  Olwyn had also summarily rejected everything Aidan had ever offered her. He would need to remember that when the pain overwhelmed his heart.

  Aidan turned back to the stable hand as his horse was led to him. He took the reins and said, “Tell my manservant to pack my belongings. I’ll be moving to the London home for a bit.”

  He swung up into the saddle and urged the stallion out into the morning. The air was crisp and clear and fresh. It gave no hint that the night before had been one of handfasting rituals and lovemaking, rejection, violence, and murder.

  It was a new day.

  He would not beg the woman he loved to stay. If she wanted her freedom, he wouldn’t stand in her way of pursuing the life she truly desired. Too many people stagnated in their lives, going through motions meant to make others happy. Aidan knew, for he had once been one of them. He wouldn’t dream of asking someone else to sacrifice their happiness for his. If Olwyn wanted to go, Aidan loved her enough to step aside.

  He looked up to the sky where thin white clouds blew in from the sea. It was indeed a new day, he thought. A day of life, each one a gift not to be squandered. He’d died and been reborn. No more of his days would be wasted.

  Aidan rode to the mews.

  When he arrived, he dismissed the falconer and entered the low building. The birds swayed on their perches, setting their jesses to jingling as they moved from talon to talon, each hoping to be flown into the wide open sky. Their hooded heads turned and cocked, the great birds listening with the fierceness of blindfolded captives.

  Aidan went to Shaughraun, his favorite of all the raptors. He stroked him over his brown and white striped body, his finger trailing along his white belly and lower, over his thick legs ruffled with creamy feathers. He blew gently across the hawk’s hooded face and trilled a few familiar notes.

  Shaughraun trembled with urgency. The bird opened his beak and screamed, a wild, primitive sound that cried for freedom.

  Aidan slipped on his thick leather glove and nudged the bird onto his wrist. Shaughraun’s talons clamped down, biting into the thick scarred glove, and Aidan carried him outside.

  The fresh air filled Shaughraun with wanting, and he beat his wings and strained at the leash Aidan held so tightly. With deft motions, Aidan removed the bird’s jesses and hood and dropped them to the ground. Shaughraun’s sharp eyes took in the surroundings, and his head cocked upward to the sky.

  “Aye, Shaughraun,” Aidan whispered. “Today is your day, and your future now belongs to you. Go, fly, and be free.”

  With a quick motion, he removed the leash and tossed t
he bird into the air. Shaughraun opened his wings and took to the wind, spiraling upward and flying high until Aidan could no longer see him. A wild scream sounded in the distance, and Aidan grinned.

  “Farewell,” he said as he looked upward. He bent and picked up Shaughraun’s jesses, slipped them into his pocket, and then wiped his hand over his face. The tear that fell was bittersweet.

  As Aidan prepared to mount his stallion, he heard the crunching of footsteps coming from the path that ran from the distillery to the mews. Thinking it the falconer, Aidan called out, “No needs to bring back Shaughraun, Clive. I’ve set him free.”

  “It’s you I’m here for,” came a rough deep voice from around the corner.

  His accent was Welsh.

  Aidan pulled his pistol and moved to the safety of the mews. The man that came into view wore tattered clothes in desperate need of washing, smeared as they were with thick, brown streaks of horse dung. His long, lank hair hung in greasy waves, and his thick nose and watery eyes told the tale of a penchant for drunkenness.

  He had no weapon in his hands, and Aidan highly doubted he would have any skill at marksmanship in any event, given how the man’s hands trembled for want of the drink.

  The man reeked so badly that Aidan’s throat smarted.

  “Who are you?” Aidan demanded as he lowered his pistol.

  “Drystan,” he replied, as if it were an explanation. He glanced back to the distillery. “You’re a blender?”

  “Would you fancy a nip?”

  Drystan licked his lips. “Aye, if you’re pouring.”

  Aidan went to the door of the distillery, unlocked it, and entered after biding Drystan to wait outdoors, not wanting his stench to foul the brew. He found an opened bottle and poured a generous draught into a glass. Returning outside, he held it out of the odorous man’s reach, and said, “First, you’ll tell me a bit more of who you are, and what you want.”

  Drystan’s mouth was salivating such that he swallowed heavily a few times before he could speak. “I worked for Rhys Gawain, up until the wee hours of this morning.”