Stealing Midnight. Tracy MacNishЧитать онлайн книгу.
Also by Tracy MacNish
VEILED PASSIONS
VEILED DESIRES
VEILED PROMISES
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
STEALING MIDNIGHT
TRACY MACNISH
For my mother, Trish,
for endless help,
bottomless belief,
boundless enthusiasm,
and unconditional love.
Thanks, Mom.
Acknowledgments
The author’s sincerest thanks and best wishes to my editor, Audrey LaFehr, for artistic freedom and enthusiasm, and to my agent, Mary Sue Seymour, who can always be counted on for gracious support.
Most of all, to my best friend, Katrina Campbell, for pulling me out of the deep, dark pit and helping me find my way—without you I don’t know what I would have done. Every girl should have a friend like you.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chester, England, 1806
The night air fell damp and misty around the graveyard, and a filmy, chilled fog crept across mounded graves and silent crypts.
The night watchman took his bribe and left. Twenty minutes, he warned. No longer.
They would need every second, and so moved quickly—dirty fingers feeling around a freshly sealed tomb, seeking a crevice in which to insert a pry bar. The rusty metal bar groaned between the stone walls and iron door as chunks of crumbling lead came raining down from the broken seals. The lock gave way with a metallic crunch.
The men pulled hard, and beneath their efforts the door gave way. It slid open slowly, releasing a waft of stagnant, fetid air redolent of fresh rot and putrid remains.
A rasp of flint, a spark of light. A tiny, flickering flame revealed two male bodies, one a few days dead, bloated, stiff, and gray, the other lain on a slab of stone only that morning, unearthly pale and still.
The snatchers stripped the bodies before they bagged them in burlap sacks, grunting with their efforts, oblivious to the stench. Well into the stages of decomposition, the older corpse would only bring half the price, but at three months their regular salary, was still well worth the risks. The fresh one, however, would pay double, and was the one for who they’d come.
The specimen was grand: a young male aged approximately thirty years, his body well-muscled and devoid of wounds.
A muffled bell tolled twice in warning. The snatchers tossed the bagged bodies over their shoulders and put out their light. Disappearing into the darkness, they hurried down the rolling hills to where their cart sat hidden in a dark grove of pine trees.
With rags bound to their horses’ feet to muffle their sound, they drove their macabre bounty across the countryside, leaving the walled city of Chester behind them as they made their way to the River Dee.
Amidst whistles and tugs they urged the horses to pull the wagon onto the small barge, and once aboard, they set about securing the wheels with thick ropes. With a small splash and the lapping of water against a battered hull, they rowed west across the river and crossed the boundary into Wales.
Once on the other side, they drove the wagon on a narrow trail that led through the valley of two craggy mountains. Small dots of yellow lights could be seen in the distance: the village of Penarlâg.
They kept going, past dark, misty sheep fields and lichen-coated stone walls. Just on the northern outskirts of the sleeping village rose the crumbling estate owned by Rhys Gawain.
Carrying the bodies around back, the snatchers dumped them at the doorstep. One reached for the dangling cord and rang the bell. They waited a long while before ringing again. For the bounty the corpses would bring, they would wait all night.
The door finally opened, revealing a sleep-tousled young woman. In the yellow light of the tallow lanterns, her gray eyes were translucent, her black hair an ebony cloud streaked with lightning. The villagers had long ago named her a witch, attributing her odd appearance to a pact made with Satan himself.
Olwyn Gawain raised a brow as she looked down on the heap, a fiercely mocking look that had the men taking a step back. “Two?”
“Aye,” one of the snatchers confirmed, kicking at one of the corpses with his booted toe. “The big ’un is fresh. Just put in this marnin’.”
“I’ll fetch your pay.” She left for only a moment, returning with a small leather sack. Handing it over, she said, “Come back in a fortnight if you can find a female.”
As the snatchers departed, they heard a noise that sounded like a laughing sob, fading like mist into the foggy, cold night. They looked at each other in the darkness, and without a word, hurried away.
The rotting dead was not nearly so frightening as a living witch.
Olwyn belted her wrapper tighter around her waist, the damp chill of the wee hours making her wish for a peat fire and hot spiced tea. But with the two bodies lying on the back step, she had no time for such luxuries. Rushing through the crumbling stone corridors and up the enclosed spiral stairs to the master’s chambers, Olwyn mentally prepared herself for what would come. She rapped soundly on her father’s oaken door.
And then, with her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps, she forced herself to calm, waiting with trepidation to discover which incarnation of her father would greet her.
A few moments passed before Rhys opened his door. Olwyn immediately noted he wore a relatively clean nightshirt, buttoned to his chin. His black, hawkish eyes shone clear and sharp beneath his bushy, dark brows. Relief swept through her apprehension.
She didn’t apologize for waking him; he would have been furious if she hadn’t. “We have