Love by the Stroke of Midnight

by Raven McAllan

  He shrugged. “It fits.”

  Marcail opened and shut her mouth again. What could she say that wouldn’t sound arsy or provocative?

  Bonnie coughed. “Do you want the rest of us to leave?”

  “What?” Marcail blinked and looked at the interested and speculative expressions on her family’s faces. “Don’t be daft. He’s being provocative, and I am not going to rise to it.” She drained her cup. “I’m off to bed. See you in the morning.” Sadly, I guess that will include Paden. “Perhaps one of you can tell me exactly what’s going to happen over the next few days, whilst I’m here. You know, how many at your ceilidh, do I need to find a fancy dress or share my bathroom?” Shave my legs? That wasn’t much of a winter job when she wore thick tights or trousers. “Turf out of my bedroom and sleep on Bonnie’s sofa? Minor details like that.”

  Her mum tutted. “No, you just need to change your attitude,” she said sorrowfully, albeit with a hint of admonishment in her tone. “If you’re not happy, only you have the answer.”

  Marcail thought that over for all of two seconds as her temper flared. “Very true. I’ll be off first thing then.”

  She left a stunned silence behind her as she marched out of the room.

  Chapter Four

  By the time she’d climbed the stairs she was beginning to regret her strop, but of course by then it was too late to retract her words, or undo her actions. Why was she so upset? It was natural to be disappointed, but it was her parents’ home and they were entitled to do whatever they wanted there. Invite whom they pleased.

  But did they want him? Were they pleased?

  Her dad was unhappy about something, her mum unsure and Bonnie suspicious. There didn’t seem to be a lot of pleasure emanating from any one of them.

  No one had denied that it was important Marcail was there though. So why?

  She’d left years ago, content to know she could visit when she wanted to or felt the need for the serenity of the island. Perhaps that was one reason she wasn’t happy—her peace had been shattered. Never mind it was by a man who interested her. She could have done with a few tranquil days first.

  Marcail brushed her teeth, wished she’d had the forethought to bring her wine and some shortbread up with her, and acknowledged to herself that part of her attitude was that once more she felt like the changeling in the family.

  Not that anyone else had intimated they held that opinion, but somehow she thought they must do in some way.

  Senses, hearing things, knowing things that were to come or happened long ago, had never been part of her make-up. She’d never mentioned to anyone that she had tried to sense without any luck. For her, it was only the voice, and now the new voice. Scared she was lacking, she never asked anyone exactly what skills—if that was what they were called—they had. Or if they could be learned.

  “You should, and think on, mo ghaol, you listen to me now, don’t you? You learned how to accept that, how to do it and answer, so why not other things?”

  Ass. Didn’t he know he needed to let her have a sulk? And calling her his love… Marcail stopped cleaning her teeth, mid-brush.

  Mo ghaol.

  Cyril-Dragh, mo ghaol. Paden. Mo ghaol. That was who the bloody voice in her head reminded her off. Paden. Why oh why hadn’t she put it all together earlier?

  Oh-so-slow clapping echoed around the room. “You didn’t want to.”

  Marcail narrowed her eyes and scowled at her reflection in the mirror. It irked her to know that was true.

  Now I’m eyes wide shut.

  “Kinky.”

  She puzzled over that for a while until she remembered it was the name of a somewhat erotic thriller movie.

  I meant open. “And I’m not talking to you, stop being an eavesdropper.”

  “Couldn’t help it. Open is a better approach over this, but shut could be accommodated—up to a point.”

  That was enough. Where the hell had her parents put him? She needed to find out exactly who he was, and why he was there.

  Nothing in her head gave her the answer to that. She couldn’t go and ask Bonnie—she’d be more likely to tell her to ignore or reject any ideas that emanated from Paden or his ilk—and she was damn sure she wasn’t going to quiz her parents. Which meant, unless she tested and checked all seventeen or so bedrooms, she would have to curb her impatience and temper. Never an easy thing to do when you were, as she accepted she was, spoiling for a fight.

  “Or making love?”

  “Not a bloody chance,” she muttered, conscious of a long sigh both on her side and in her mind. The erotic dreams of the previous night were still at the forefront of her thoughts and her nipples hardened at the remembered sensations.

  “We could do it again?”

  What’s with the ‘we’ bit? Marcail changed into fleecy jammies with cartoon cats on them and fuzzy, funny slippers. The comfort of such familiar things should have soothed her. She pulled on an old sweatshirt over them and waited for a snarky comeback from Cyril.

  “Are you Paden?”

  There was no answer, snarky or otherwise—not even a soothing, noncommittal response. Thoroughly disgruntled, she wrapped herself in a blanket, pulled a shabby armchair near to the window, opened the shutters and stared out at the misty and frosty view.

  A weak moon shone from the east, and showed the gentle ripples on the loch. Nearby an owl hooted, to be answered by another farther away. Trees were ghostly in the semi-darkness, and shadows shifted and changed as the breeze ruffled leaves and bushes.

  It was the sort of night where if you did believe you would have all of those beliefs reinforced.

  Marcail focussed on the view without really seeing it. She had to sort her muddled mind out. Being at odds with her family hurt. If only she knew what had got everyone so worked up. She might not be able to solve it, but she could commiserate or at least be prepared.

  “You will very soon. It’s almost time.”

  Clear as mud.

  That wasn’t answered. Marcail went back to contemplating the view.

  An hour or so later, she threw a cushion at the wall and wondered where the nearest booze was. It was obvious she was too wound up to sleep. The TV had annoyed her, and her current reading matter, a particularly gruesome historical thriller, had to be read with copious amounts of wine for Dutch courage and biscuits to nibble on—just because.

  Neither of which she had to hand. A stale nut bar and tap water just wouldn’t hack it.

  Of course. Marcail almost hit her forehead with her palm and sniggered.

  How bloody dramatic. She needed to get a grip.

  However, why hadn’t she remembered? The pantry and the wine fridge. Both of which she could reach unobserved if she used the back stairs and trod carefully. Surely one bottle would be screw top and she could use the tumbler from her bathroom to drink out of.

  Sorted. All she had to do was get there.

  Easy. She hadn’t spent her teenage years going in and out of the house that way— undetected—for nothing. She had never been caught. Practice had taught her which stairs creaked and how to avoid them, or which part to stand on to negate the noise.

  There could always be a first time she got it wrong of course, but she didn’t intend it to be that night. It had been a fair few years since she’d had to use them in a stealthy way, but she hadn’t forgotten how. She hoped.

  Should she?

  Hell, dammit, why not.

  Marcail looked at her jammies, debated for a second, flung them onto a chair and pulled undies and trackie bottoms on along with her Uggs and the old disreputable fleecy sweatshirt that had been her brother’s at uni. The fact it said ‘Teachers Do It By Textbooks’ across her boobs was a bit unnerving, but no one was likely to see it, and it was warm. Very important after nine p.m., when she knew the heating went off. Her jammies were all well and good, and with them on she might, if she were spotted, get away with the ‘I needed a hot drink’ scenario. But then her parents knew what time she�
��d headed up, so clothes would also work. Plus she felt more in control fully dressed.

  She brought her meandering thoughts up short. It was irrelevant. She headed out of her bedroom and to the door that led to the backstairs, once called the servants stairs, or by Blair when they were younger, the should-be-secret stair.

  Whatever. At that moment they were her escape route and get-a-drink stairs.

  The same dim-watt light bulbs showed the way, the same faded wallpaper showed touches of fluorescent crayon from when Blair had tried to scare the girls with outlines of skeletons that glowed in the dark when he turned off the lights without any warning.

  Marcail chuckled to herself as she remembered the wool and cotton spider she and Bonnie had fixed so that when Blair went into his bathroom and tried to turn on the light—they’d removed the bulb so nothing happened—it brushed his hair. They’d managed to add some wisps that felt like a spider’s web and a knot of cotton to mimic a fly.

  He’d screamed and sworn vengeance until Marcail had pointed out they would just do something else as well, and it would escalate until they fell foul of their parents’ wrath. They’d agreed on a truce. However, the remnants of the drawings still remained. She traced one with her finger, just as the bulb above her head went out.

  Bugger. At least she couldn’t blame Blair, he was miles away, and it was only one bulb. She didn’t think he could have found a way to mess with them.

  “I could though, if I wanted to.”

  Typical. In cahoots with her brother? If it weren’t bad enough having one of them in her head, now she had them both. And they appeared to agree with each other. Unless her mum had put the wrong sort of mushrooms in the dinner and she was imagining it all.

  As she thought that, the other bulbs went out, one by one, until the only light came from her phone, which she’d had the forethought to pick up from her dresser and now turned on.

  Probably old age or lack of use. They were after all the old, now obsolete filament iridescent ones of about twenty watts that only illuminated a tiny area each.

  But that tiny area mattered.

  She didn’t like the almost total darkness, be it at home or not. Marcail muttered under her breath, thankful she was almost at the bottom of the stairs. She opened the door that led into the tiny hall from which the pantry and wine stores were accessed.

  And screamed as a large hand clamped on her shoulder.

  “Hush now, it’s only me.”

  Thank God the voice was familiar, even if unwanted.

  Marcail slammed the door behind her and whirled to face Paden.

  “What the hell are you doing here? How dare you scare the living daylights out of me like that? Turning the lights off, grabbing me…argh, how bloody juvenile.”

  The lights came on as he held his hands up in supplication. “Not me, mo ghaol, I’d not do that.”

  “Well someone did, and you’re here, unannounced and uninvited.”

  “You sent for me.”

  “I did not,” she retorted furiously. “How could I? Why would I? You’re irritating me. An irritant, not an aide to whatever.”

  He just smiled. “I came and met you, though, didn’t I?”

  The lights blinked as if in agreement.

  She had to give him that. “But why? How?”

  “Love, you’ll get it eventually.” He stroked her cheek and lifted some hair to tuck it behind her ear. “Like liquid fire,” he said conversationally. “From your heritage. I heard you, I came. If you let yourself accept it, it will always be thus. Morven decreed it all those years ago.”

  What an archaic way of saying it. Marcail shook her head to clear it. He’d misunderstood her.

  “It will.”

  “If you say so. I’m just trying to get my head around it all.” Plus after each occurrence she was more open to believing something was up… Just what, she had no idea.

  He nodded. “I understand. It’s taken you this time to accept things are more than they seem. That you are more than you realise.”

  “That annoys me.”

  “And I annoy you?” Paden replied with a grin.

  “You said it, mate.” Why didn’t he back off? “Why can’t I just have my normal happy birthday, then go back to my normal happy life?” It was a plea from the heart. “You could be a part of it if you wanted. As a standard everyday run-of-the-mill friend.” Okay, as more, but she wasn’t telling him that.

  “I’m never run-of-the-mill.” He sounded offended, but then he winked. “Define normal.”

  Marcail clenched her fists and counted to ten. Never before had she had such a strong urge to thump someone. Not even her brother, and he had the ability to send her annoyance tolerance plummeting below zero. “Not you, poking your nose in, anyway.”

  “It enjoys poking.” He flicked her nose with his pinkie. “Not as cute as yours though. What are you doing here?”

  His question irked her. “Why?” What did it matter? It was her house. Well, her parents’ house, but as she was coming to understand, her home, her safe place. “What’s it to you?”

  “I…” He hesitated. “Sod it, Marcail, why are you so, so negative at times and unwilling, or scared, to believe what you ought?” he exploded and hit his hand on the wall. “Shit, that hurts, why did no one tell me?”

  She jumped. Where was the softly spoken, seemingly laid-back persona he’d presented before? Tell him what?

  “That hitting the wall is bloody sore.” He answered her unspoken question.

  Marcail realised that didn’t seem quite so weird anymore.

  “Go into the kitchen and put your hand under the cold tap,” she said in a practical manner. “I’m scared in case I can’t do what’s asked of me. I can’t sense. Don’t you think I’ve tried? I have over and over and nothing.” She bit back a sob.” Not a Scooby, I’m different from the rest and it hurts.”

  “You can and you will when you believe, on my oath.”

  “And pigs might fly.”

  “They could do if you wanted.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Marcail, you will be fine, I promise you.”

  She’d been so deep in thought or whatever she’d forgotten Paden, who still nursed his hand. Was he her voice or was it coincidence he and her voice sounded similar?

  “If you say so. Oh bugger it all, I’m having wine and chocolate. Want some?”

  Well, that popped out, didn’t it?

  “A strange combination, but why not.” He gestured towards the sink. “Do I turn the tap on?”

  “Wh…argh, clever clogs.” She glanced at his amused expression. “Up to you.”

  He laughed. “At least you don’t look so angry now. I do seem to rub you up the wrong way, don’t I? Have you ever wondered why?”

  Marcail shook her head. “I have better things to think about.”

  He winced theatrically. “Ouch. Wounded, you cruel woman.”

  She couldn’t help sniggering at his over-the-top response. “Go and put your hand under water. I’ll hunt out some wine.” Then she intended to find out what all his cryptic comments were about.

  Which meant, ten minutes later, she dragged the two old chairs that lived in the kitchen closer to the Aga and waved Paden to one of them. “Have a seat. I’ve gone for red wine, that suit you? And dark chocolate.” She threw him a towel, which he caught one-handed as he turned the tap off with the other.

  “Thanks, love. How’s it looking?” Paden held his hand up for her to inspect. “Seems okay to me.”

  Marcail leaned closer to see. He used endearments so casually. What did he mean by them? Should she ask?

  “Only if you truly want to know the answer and act on it.”

  Maybe later.

  Paden moved so his hand curved around her neck and dipped his head so their lips were almost touching.

  “So, mo ghaol, do I? Shall we give in, just for a second, and see what all this reaction between us is all about?”

  The fact he was happy to
leave the decision to her should have pleased Marcail. Perversely, it didn’t. Why couldn’t he do the Rhett Butler thing and sweep her off her feet?

  “No coercion, persuasion or auto suggestion, mo ghaol. It has to be mutual.”

  Couldn’t he tell it was? And why was that voice saying all this?

  Paden’s breath feathered over her ear and put her internal voice out of her mind.

  “You need to tell me,” he said, in a deeper voice than normal. “Show me. Pretend I can’t read your mind.”

  “You can’t, no one can.”

  Why did one comment immediately make her refute what she was coming to believe?

  “Sheer perversity?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Then tell me.”

  It went against everything she knew. She’d been told ad nauseam that men preferred to do the running and make the decisions, but… Sod it. Marcail took a deep breath and tugged on his ears. Paden moved his head so their lips were once more almost touching.

  She moved forwards until…

  The kiss sent her heart rate sky high and her libido soaring. How the hell could something so simple get her so aroused? She didn’t have time to think about it, not while Paden’s tongue meshed with hers. She wriggled so their bodies were touching in more places. He groaned.

  “Woman, you’ll be killing me.” His gravelly tone made her body tighten and sent tingling shivers down her spine.

  Hold on. How could he speak?

  “I’m in your mind.”

  Okay then. She might as well start to accept that she could hear him, that maybe she did have some of those attributes her family had. But why only now? She’d ask about that later.

  Killing him? Did he mean the little death? Did men have that as well? Marcail tilted her head to stare at him.

  “You’re killing me,” she replied. Was that throaty voice really hers? “In a good way.” She put her hands around his neck and made sure their lips locked once more.

  Paden deepened the kiss and slipped his hands around Marcail to caress her breasts. Even through her clothes his touch affected her more than she would have thought—if coherent thought were possible. Her already throbbing breasts felt heavy, her nipples hard and aching, and her inner self, ready, waiting, wanting more.