Stealing Midnight. Tracy MacNishЧитать онлайн книгу.
hoped so. Both his mother and his grandmother were formidable women, complex and dynamic. It would be good for Aidan to find that Mira possessed qualities beyond the normal simpering flirtations of the spoiled and wealthy daughters of the peerage.
Mira opened the doors and they entered. The grand, richly appointed room smelled strongly of varnished wood and fresh paint, a smaller version of a very fine museum. The walls were lined with glass-fronted cabinets; the floor space filled with tables that had been built so that glass lay in the top, showcasing shallow recessed cases. The marble floors shone without a speck of dust, and the tall windows were draped with gold velvet hangings.
“What do you keep in here?” he asked.
Mira cast her eyes to her folded hands, and her sweet voice drifted through the cavernous room and off the high, coffered ceiling. “When I was a girl, I used to love to play in our attics. You see, they span nearly the entire manse, and are filled with hundreds of years worth of my family’s belongings. About two years ago, it occurred to me that a hobby was what I needed. Something to do that was more useful than painting tiny boxes and such. And so, my lord, I have been cataloging and displaying the Kimball artifacts that tell the story of our history.”
Padraig moved to one of the glass cabinets. Behind it was a battle-scarred medieval shield, its flaky paint displaying the Kimball coat of arms. It had a brass plaque beneath it, engraved with a small paragraph about Lord Randolff Kimball, the first Duke of Somerset, whose valiant service to the king was greatly rewarded.
All around the room were various such treasures: ancient swords and tapestries, journals and Bibles, chain mail and armor, and an entire case filled with ancestral jewels and jewelry.
“You did all of this yourself?” Padraig asked, greatly impressed.
“Yes. Papa allowed me to hire contractors to build the cabinets and such, and of course, he has indulged me with many trips to various towns so I could gather information. In fact, ’tis part of the reason I journey to Chester on the morrow. I am in search of any information about a Marquis in our family line, who apparently was quite the hero. I have his journals and a riveting log he kept during the War of Spanish Succession. He kept a home in Chester, and I’ve been in correspondence with the current owners, who have agreed to allow me access to their attics.”
Mira brushed her fingertips lovingly over one of the highly polished tables. “There is much, much more for me to do. I have only begun to sort through the many treasures in our attics. But I am taking my time with it, and enjoying the process. ’Tis been quite absorbing and rewarding.”
“What you’re doing here is wonderful.”
Mira blushed and fluttered her lashes. “I’m merely expressing my familial pride. Someday I shall do this same thing for my future husband’s family, should he approve of it, of course.”
Padraig fought the grin that wanted to break across his face. Mira Kimball did not waste time on subtlety. But her veiled promises aside, he couldn’t help but wonder if he or his brother would ever find the rarest sort of a woman: one who spoke her mind and heart.
Mira turned her eyes up to his, and laid a hand on his arm. Her touch was light and fleeting, as if a tiny songbird had landed on his jacket. “My lord, may I show something remarkable?”
“Certainly.”
Mira led him to the center case and pointed down at a slip of paper that was pinned to a soft cushion of velvet. The letter had tattered edges and a rich velvety texture that made the scrolling words bleed into the parchment. Though it had been carefully smoothed out, it still bore the lines that told tale of once being crumpled down the center, as if by an angry fist.
An odd weight settled in Padraig’s gut, though he knew not why.
Mira, oblivious to his reaction, said, “Look, my lord. Here is a letter summoning my great-uncle, Bret Kimball, to your family’s property in Southampton, then called Beauport. ’Tis dated 1742, and appears to be written by the hand of your great-grandmother, Amelia Bradburn, the Duchess of Eton.” Mira turned her lovely face toward him, obviously quite proud of her discovery. “Isn’t it wondrous? It seems our families have known each other for more than sixty years.”
Padraig leaned forward and inspected the letter with more interest. “Her handwriting looks like my grandmother Camille’s.”
“Yes, well, that may be. There is more, however, my lord.” Mira’s eyes were shining, and her enthusiasm was evident. She fairly vibrated with it. “I have found journals from my great-uncle, as well. Bret Kimball was a man who understood history, I think, for he left several diaries that are filled with his writings. I’ve yet to read them, but the discovery spurred me to send a request to your mother, asking if I might tour the attics of the home in Southampton. Who knows what other links I might find between our families?”
“You did?” The girl was certainly tenacious. The property in Southampton was where Aidan had made his home, far away from London and court, where he could pursue his own interests. Mira could have waited a matter of weeks for Aidan to return, and asked him if she could join him there.
“I just couldn’t wait. Aidan is always so busy with his animals and his ships and his whiskey nonsense.” Mira wrinkled her nose prettily. “Your mother was just lovely about it. Not only did Her Grace send permission for me to spend as much time as I needed at Beauport, she sent a letter to the staff there, letting them know I am welcome anytime.”
Padraig smiled, thinking of the appropriateness of his mother’s formal address, Her Grace. Yes. If there was one thing Emeline Mullen had in spades, it was that.
Mira continued, burbling on, seeming nearly manic in her enthusiasm. “I am very passionate about my family’s venerable and prestigious history, and now to find such a link between the Kimballs and the Bradburns has just exceeded my wildest expectations.”
Mira drew in a deep breath, a sigh of pure happiness and excitement. “As soon as I am finished in Chester, I am going to travel to Southampton, to Beauport. I cannot wait to see what fantastic discoveries that will yield.”
And Padraig couldn’t help but notice that Mira hadn’t acted nearly so excited at the prospect of seeing Aidan again as she was to go digging in their attics.
Nor had she indicated that she thought of Beauport as more than a place to discover historical facts. When Mira and Aidan married, it would be her home.
Chapter Four
The sound of the night was broken by the creaking, rattling wagon and the wheezing of a horse that’d been pushed beyond its limits. Olwyn Gawain knew it was time to stop running, if only for a few hours.
She reined Nixie in to a stop in a small thicket, where hopefully, no one would be around to ambush her when she, too, stole a moment’s rest.
Fatigue was a crushing weight on her shoulders, and her back ached from sitting on the bare plank of wood that comprised the wagon’s seat. Her belly grumbled, unsatisfied by the few bits of bread she’d managed to swallow every time she stopped the wagon to climb into the back to coax water and honey down her charge’s throat.
But he looked better, she thought with satisfaction. As she unhitched her horse, tethered her, and strapped on the feed bag, Olwyn allowed herself to be proud of her accomplishment. She’d saved a man’s life, after all, and her own with it.
No more wasting her life away, desperate and alone. She was seizing the possibility of something more.
The wet from the grass seeped into her homemade boots and touched her feet with chilly fingers, making her shiver as she finished the last of her tasks. With Nixie tended to, Olwyn let the mantle of her weariness slide over her, no longer fighting it.
The wagon creaked as it took her weight, and Olwyn slid into the narrow space in the center, wiggling beneath the covers and furs to lie beside the man who slept there. She shifted the blankets so they covered them both, and as she did, she felt his skin.
It occurred to