Stealing Midnight. Tracy MacNishЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Aidan grinned at her dare, warming to Olwyn’s game of honest talk. There were not many people with whom Aidan spoke so truthfully. Even Padraig had become distant of late, perplexed and annoyed with his engagement to Mira Kimball.

      “I am nearly thirty years old, about time for a man to marry, aye? Time to find a suitable wife, settle down, have children. I met Mira, and she is…” Aidan shrugged and finished lamely, “suitable.”

      “That’s it? No passion, no love?” Olwyn’s brow raised again, formed the sharp, witchy peak that was becoming familiar to him. “That’s pathetic.”

      “There are other things to look for in a mate. She is kind and sweet and gentle. She loves her own family the way I love mine, with pride and boundless affection, and she does not ask me…” Aidan stopped.

      “Doesn’t ask you what?”

      “Doesn’t ask me for anything,” he finished, and reviled himself for not living up to the demand for complete honesty.

      But he was so tired of the question of who would be the duke, and yes, he was tired of not knowing the answer himself.

      He did not know who was firstborn, he or Padraig. He did not know which of them was their father’s true heir.

      And yes, he admitted to himself, he resented his parents for keeping it secret from them.

      “Is she beautiful?”

      “She is pretty,” Aidan said, and picturing Mira, continued, “As fair as a princess, with golden hair and blue eyes. She is delicate, feminine, and reminds me of a tiny doll that could break with the slightest misuse.”

      “Oh.” Olwyn dropped her gaze to her lap again.

      “You don’t like that answer?”

      “Is it true?”

      “Aye.”

      “Then how can I find fault with it?”

      Aidan touched Olwyn’s hands, tightly clasped on her lap. Had he offended her feminine pride? His uncle Matteo had told him long ago that when speaking to a woman, a man must treat her as if she were the only woman in the room, the only woman in the world. Feeling clumsy, he asked, “You wanted honesty, aye?”

      The fire burned low and filled the small, damp room with its fragrant smoke. Icy rain pelted the thatch and stone, and cold wind seeped though every crack. It should have been an uncomfortable and unpleasant way to spend a night, but strangely, it wasn’t.

      He heard Olwyn sigh, long and deep. She lifted her head and raised her hands up, displaying them for Aidan’s inspection.

      “These hands know real toil. They slaughter chickens, they scrub floors, they haul water, they wash clothing, and they hoe fields. I am more work mule than pretty doll, and I cannot fathom a man fearing he might break me. I am far too hardy, I suppose, to be likened to a princess.” Olwyn smiled, a sad curve of her lips that trembled as if she held back great emotion. She opened her mouth to speak several times before she could manage to get the words out. “That’s not to say that I wouldn’t fancy such a thing.”

      Aidan tried to picture Mira doing anything more taxing than reading a book, and he had to suppress a laugh. “Well, I have to say, Olwyn, that if given the choice of whose hands I’d have wanted to place my life in, I’m glad I fell into yours.”

      “I am a fool,” she whispered. “I have run away from my home, and I have nowhere to go.”

      “I’ll help you. You’ve saved my life, and so I’m in debt to you, aye?”

      “You owe me nothing. I did it for my own conscience.”

      “Well, that may be, but I’m not a man to neglect my obligations. I’ll do whatever I must to see to it that you’re compensated and well taken care of.” And mentally he jeered at himself. Isn’t that what he always did? The right thing.

      Olwyn sighed again. She glanced from the fire to the draft blowing past the oiled tarp over the window, to the dark corner where she’d huddled to keep herself from him. Her voice was small and low as she said, “’Tis a night for spirits, no?”

      Before he could say anything, she rose from the nest of blankets and rummaged through the provisions. She returned with a bottle and a cup made of thick earthenware. “As long as we’re being honest, I consort with this spirit far more often than you’d think. It warms me on cold, damp nights such as this. We’ll have to share the cup. I only have one.”

      He watched as she uncorked the bottle and poured a healthy draught. The smell rose to fill his sinuses, the woody, malted scent of Scotch whiskey. Olwyn handed it to him, and he gave it a swirl, a sniff, and a full sip.

      “Ahhh,” Aidan said, deep in his throat. It was good; balanced, sweet with cherrywood and oak, a touch of peat deep in the finish. “I could kiss you for this.”

      Olwyn blushed a little, betraying her uneasiness, and reached to take the cup from him. “Not necessary.”

      She, too, sipped long and deep, and Aidan smiled. He couldn’t ever recall seeing a woman drink hard liquor with such easy delight, as if it were watered wine or sugared tea.

      “Where did you get this?” Aidan asked. He had a passion for whiskey, and had been making his own for more than ten years. This particular batch was smooth and even, well blended and well aged. “’Tis quite good.”

      She cast a narrow look at him. “You’re making judgments against me, aren’t you? Too poor for firewood or fashionable gowns, but in possession of fine whiskey.”

      “Were you me, wouldn’t you be curious?”

      She pursed her lips as if annoyed. “I didn’t steal it.”

      “Did you hear an accusation in my question?”

      “I make good trades with a man who comes to our keep,” Olwyn relented without answering his question, a sign of stubbornness and reason combined. It made Aidan smile, reminded him of himself and his brother.

      “The man is a traveling trader, and has a large wagon filled with textiles, peat, iron pots, bags of spices, medicines, and the like. Whatever makes for a good trade. And yes, of course, he always has a few bottles of whiskey. He usually comes once each season, and I am ready for him with cheese, baked goods, and chickens.”

      Olwyn’s mouth curved up on one side, and he saw she was regretful. “He is a nice man. I will miss him.”

      “You’ll never go home again?”

      She met his eyes over the rim of the cup as she sipped. She handed him the whiskey and then raised a brow. “Not if I can help it. But if my father finds me, I imagine I’ll be beaten and dragged back.”

      “I told you I would protect you.”

      “He’s my father. You’d have no right to interfere.”

      “I’d make it my concern,” Aidan said flatly. “If things were troublesome enough that you’d run away in winter, carting a half-dead man along with you, I don’t guess you’re making much ado about nothing, aye?”

      She shrugged and glanced at the whiskey in his hand. Aidan obliged her, taking his sip and handing it back.

      “Will you tell me why you ran away?”

      Olwyn drank again before she set the cup down to their side. She fiddled with the fur wrap that covered her,