Читать книгу Stealing Midnight - Tracy MacNish - Страница 12

Chester, England

Padraig stood in the magistrate’s office and tried very hard to listen to the words that were being spoken to him, but he felt as if he were trapped in a nightmare. The men seemed far away, their voices muffled, the meaning obscure. The room was paneled with dark wood, and the walls pressed in on him, suffocating, smothering.

Like a grave.

The words were getting through, however, and Padraig’s blood had turned to ice, his skin hot and sweaty.

An outbreak of morbid croup, the man was saying, more than sixty passengers and crew struck, and Aidan amongst them.

Padraig could barely hear the man. Recrimination had his mind spinning.

“In truth, my lord, ’twas such great respect for your brother’s station that prevented him being thrown overboard, along with the others who sickened,” the magistrate said in a low tone that was obviously meant to be soothing. But Padraig wanted to grab him by the throat and rip out his words before he could speak any more.

The magistrate swallowed heavily before continuing, obviously reluctant to deliver such dire news. “Your brother’s remains were handled with the greatest consideration, I assure you, and were kept in his stateroom until the ship docked, at which time he was afforded a space in our city’s crypt. We dispatched a notice to your family, but were forced to inter him immediately. Fear of contagion, I’m sure you understand.”

Padraig understood nothing, except that the man before him who stank of garlic and body odor was telling him that his twin, his brother, his best friend in the entire world, had perished.

Padraig’s hands curled into fists, and though he wanted to battle for his brother’s life, there was no one to fight. His heart insisted that Aidan was not dead. He hung onto that thought, the only one that made sense in a world that had suddenly turned to quicksand.

“It can’t be true,” Padraig whispered, more to himself than to the others in the room. “I would have felt it.”

“My lord, I am so sorry,” Mira said softly, standing at his side. She laid a tiny hand on the sleeve of his coat, and Padraig had to restrain himself from swatting her away.

“Leave me,” Padraig said harshly. He turned away from them so they could not see the mask of horror that he knew must contort his face.

“A deartháir, a leathchúpla, a anam,” he whispered aloud, like an entreaty, a prayer. My brother, my twin, my soul.

There was no life Padraig could envision that did not have Aidan in it. No laughter, no joy, no future.

The magistrate cleared his throat awkwardly. “The letter was sent by messenger just yesterday, my lord. If it arrives on schedule, His and Her Grace ought to receive the missive by Monday.”

And Padraig’s grief spread through his body like a malignant cancer, eating him alive, slowly killing him. He could see his parents’ faces as clearly as if they stood in front of him, and Padraig knew that this was their worst nightmare. It was Padraig’s, too.

Questions arose in his mind like smoke from fire: did he suffer? Did he call out for his family? Did he die alone and afraid?

As if reading Padraig’s mind, the magistrate reached into his vest and pulled out a letter. “He wrote this before…”

Padraig whirled around. The man held out a rolled sheet of paper. With shaking hands, Padraig took it.

Mira wept softly as she stood there beside him, dabbing at her eyes with a lacey handkerchief. Why should the young woman’s tears be so enraging? She was Aidan’s betrothed, after all, and was entitled to her own grief.

Padraig reached deep for a semblance of manners. He bowed, keeping his gaze averted. “Excuse me. I need to be alone.”

Gripping the paper that bore Aidan’s last words, he left the office and went outside. The frigid air bit at his face, but he took no note. He wandered a bit, not quite knowing what to do. The parchment was crinkled and dry, and a few days before it had been beneath Aidan’s hand. Padraig wanted to read it, but he was afraid. If he read it, Aidan’s death would be real.

All around him the city of Chester bustled with afternoon activity. The world seemed normal enough, the streets were ringing with the rattle of carriages and the clopping of horses’ hooves on cobblestones. Shopkeepers conducted business, women bought assorted sundries, children played around the legs of their mothers, and somewhere in the distance a dog barked.

Padraig glanced up and down, north to south, east to west. The normalcy of the sunlight seemed an insult. Aidan was dead. The sun should not shine, the birds should not sing, the sky should not be such a beautiful, clear blue. Padraig wanted darkness and rain, whipping winds and pounding, howling storms.

His driver called to him, and Padraig saw that he held the door to the carriage open in invitation for him to take refuge, take comfort.

But there was no such thing in a world without Aidan.

There on the sidewalk, Padraig unfurled the paper. The handwriting was unmistakably Aidan’s, and looked like it had been written with a trembling hand. Huge blotches of ink told tale of long pauses.

Tears splintered Padraig’s vision as he read.

Father, Mother, Brother,

It pains me to write this letter, but I fear I am at the end. So many have died already, and I must consider that might be my fate. I want to live, and I’m fighting, but I write this for fear of not saying a few final words to each of you.

This illness has been short and difficult, and as I am weak, so too will this letter be.

Da, I am ever grateful for the father you have been. My respect for you is only exceeded by my love. Forgive me, but I’ll ask one more thing of you. At my wake, raise a glass of whiskey and remember the good times. There were so many. I will miss you, Da.

Mum, I’m sorry for your tears. A mother shouldn’t have to bury her son, and I’m sorry for it. Always know that I tried to be a good son, to make you happy and proud. You were a wonderful mother, the best in the world. I wish I could kiss you good-bye. I love you, always.

Padraig paused and wiped his face, scrubbing his hand over his streaming eyes. Every word was a dagger stabbing him all over, leaving a million tiny wounds. He forced himself to read the rest, the part intended for him.

The first word made him suck in his breath, as if a heavy blow had just landed against his back. Dorchadas. Gaelic for darkness. Aidan was the light, Lóchrann. Their father, Rogan, had called them by those names when they were boys, two twins, one with hair as black as night, the other golden, kissed by sunlight.

And it now seemed prescient, for Padraig felt as if a great light had truly gone out.

Dorchadas, I do not know what to say to you, brother. What are words between us, when you and I share our own language? Do you feel this, Pad? Do you feel my suffering now? Will feel me go? I hope not. I hope you are spared that, at least.

Padraig wanted to scream in frustration, because he hadn’t felt it, and he knew he should have.

If there’s one blessing for me in all this, it’s that I won’t have to live without you. You’re going to carry the burden of it, and I’m sorry.

There is no I, nor you. Only us. Death cannot take that.

Live your life well. Live it for us both.

My love to you all,

Aidan

Padraig clutched the letter to his chest, and not caring who saw, dropped to his knees in the street, rocking back and forth, sobbing for his brother.

Mira Kimball stood just inside the magistrate’s office, watching Padraig through the window. She sighed heavily and dashed away a tear. She touched her ring, a large sapphire surrounded by diamonds, given to her the day Aidan proposed.

Her father glanced down to her, clucked his tongue, and shook his head. “I am sorry, dove.”

“Yes,” Mira said on another sigh. She shrugged and looked back out the window. Padraig, grief-stricken, keened in the street without a thought to his dignity. As dramatic a scene as it was, Mira did wish he would display a modicum of control.

“My dress,” she whimpered, unable to conceal the disappointment that she would never get to wear it. It had been made to her specifications, a sparkling, lacy confection that had been sure to be all the on dit.

“You’ll find a new beau, and we’ll design an even prettier gown. Do not fret, my darling girl.”

“’Twill be an eternity,” she whined. “I’ll have to mourn the appropriate time.”

“Right, right,” Andrew murmured. He looked over his daughter’s shoulder to Padraig. “He really ought to take his grief indoors, wouldn’t you say? ’Tis frightfully undignified of him to carry on so.”

Aidan’s visage swam in Mira’s memory, dark blue eyes, burnished gold hair, his face sensual and painfully handsome. She’d wanted him because he was a good match, true, and also because he had a half chance at being the heir to the dukedom. She’d also wanted him because all the other girls that she knew wanted him, too. It had been so delicious, being the first to snag one of the Mullen twins, and call him her own.

But all those selfish reasons aside, she’d enjoyed his company. Aidan had been quick-witted, generous, and his kisses had been scandalously exciting.

“Oh, Papa, he really did die too young.”

“He did, he did. Sad. Now let’s see if we can’t put a smile on your face, darling. What say you to a new bonnet?”

Mira dabbed away the last of her tears and smiled up to her father. He truly was the very best man in the entire world, and Mira knew that no matter what husband she chose, no one would ever be half the man her father was to her. “Yes, that sounds good.”

“Come, my dove.” Andrew took her hand, settled it in the crook of his elbow, and gave her a series of comforting pats. “You’ve had a wretched day.”

“I have,” she agreed, pursing her lips in a pout. Mira looked up to her father’s loving eyes. Inclining her head toward the window and Padraig, she perked up marginally. “’Tis sad, indeed, but also somewhat fortuitous. My betrothed is lost to me, but perhaps his brother and I will seek mutual comfort.” She lowered her voice as she leaned in, whispering to her father what she knew everyone would be thinking, “At least now we know for certain who is the heir.”

The Earl smiled indulgently down on his daughter. He very gently tweaked her nose, and Mira caught the scent of pipe smoke lingering on his glove. “You are a precocious child,” he said with a laugh.

“Precocious?” Mira lightly shrugged her shoulders and cast her gaze outdoors once again. Padraig hadn’t moved, and even from a distance, she could see his shoulder shaking as he wept.

Mira gave a moment’s thought to how she would handle the situation and turn it to her advantage. Her mourning Aidan’s loss would give her something in common with Padraig, a bond to tie them together.

And what would all the other girls think, if she’d managed to catch the other twin after her betrothed died? Mira couldn’t resist thinking of their jealousy, and she smiled. “I am tenacious, Papa.”

Aidan woke again, and to his dismay, his reality hadn’t changed. He still lay nude by a fire, the pelts over him smelling faintly of tanning, peat, and incense.

He moved his hand to his side; the woman was not there.

Opening his eyes, he looked around, seeing that he was in a tiny, round structure made of stone and thatch. Blankets covered the windows, and diffused sunlight filtered its way through the fibers, casting the humble room in shadows. The fire threw off some light, and Aidan noticed that a stack of provisions was neatly set along one curved wall.

He pushed himself to his elbows, weak but determined to find out where he was and what had happened to him. From his elbows he managed to roll to the side, and get up to a seated position.

The fire warmed his naked back as the furs slid from him. And before he could make it to his feet, the door opened and a woman walked in.

She gasped and dropped the kindling she held in her arms. She spoke to him again, a whisper of that strange, fluid tongue. She wore odd garments, a clingy underdress that had wide sleeves belling over her hands, covered with a sleeveless mantle that she had belted around her slim waist. He saw the hilt of a dagger peeking from her wide leather belt, and he had the inkling that the woman knew how to use it.

“Who are you?” Aidan tried to ask, but his voice wouldn’t work. What came out was a thin croak of a sound.

The woman rushed inside, hefted a jug, poured him a cup of water, and pressed it into his hand. Aidan drank greedily, water running down his chin as he gulped it in big swallows.

She knelt before him. Her gaze was bold as she looked at him, devoid of coy flirtation or feminine wiles. “I knew you would wake,” she said, her voice accented with the lilting melody of the Welsh language.

Aidan lowered his cup, his eyes fixed on her. She was unearthly beautiful, like a medieval Druid from the distant past. Her face was ancient Briton, her chin a tiny point, her eyes wide, heavily fringed with black lashes, and as gray as a storm cloud. She had prominent cheekbones, high and touched with the faintest blush, over milk-white skin. Her mouth, small and expressive, possessed a slight, secretive curve.

And her hair. Aidan had never seen hair quite so black, and streaked with a mark of pure white that ran through the long, wavy spill of it, like lightning slicing across a midnight sky.

“Who are you?” he asked again, and this time his voice did not fail him.

“Olwyn Gawain,” she answered. “And you?”

So he was a stranger to her, Aidan realized, or at least she would claim him as such.

And because he felt as if he’d been stripped, literally and figuratively, of everything he knew, he did not give her his real name.

“Lóchrann,” he told her, thinking of his brother. Did Padraig have any idea what had become of him? Aidan could only wonder what series of events had landed him in this woman’s care. “Have you been caring for me?”

Her eyes dipped down to his bare chest before darting away. He followed her gaze and saw he had a wound, a straight, deep slice over his breastbone.

Looking back up to her, Aidan noticed her blush had deepened. “Who cut me?” he asked.

Olwyn glanced to the fire, and rose to tend to it. “You need to stay warm,” she said as she added a square of peat to the blaze. “Are you hungry?”

“Aye, very,” Aidan answered, and he was, ravenously so.

He spied a tray with a cup, dropper, and medicines. It also bore tea, honey, and a cup of water. So she’d been caring for him like a babe. Bemused, he touched the cut on his chest. It was coated in a thick medicinal salve.

Olwyn put together a plate of dense speckled bread and poured a puddle of amber honey beside it. She handed it to him, instructing, “Dip the bread in the honey. For strength.”

He met her eyes, and this time she blushed and looked away. Aidan was suddenly aware of his nudity.

“I’ll make you fresh tea,” she murmured, moving to the fire.

He started for a second as he felt the soft, silky fur drape over his shoulders and back. Looking up to the beautiful stranger, he saw that she had her gaze averted as she covered his skin.

“You need to stay warm,” she whispered in explanation. “You’ve been very ill.”

The gesture was wifely, her words were caring. And Aidan felt a shameful punch of guilt and lust combined. He tried to ignore it. Turning his attention to the food, he ate everything she’d given him.

She watched, her face reflecting relief and satisfaction, wariness and fear.

His hunger momentarily sated and his curiosity stirred afresh, he asked, “Where am I, and how did I get here?”

Olwyn didn’t answer him for a long while, as if she did not know the answer, or chose to not reveal it.

Once again, Aidan had the feeling that he’d traveled through time. There was nothing familiar, save the earth beneath him, fire burning in the hearth, water in his cup, and food on his plate. And like a touchstone, the timeless attraction to a beautiful woman.

“Tell me,” he pressed, hoping she would understand how completely unsettling it was to not know what had happened and how he’d gotten there. “I can only recall dying.”

Olwyn stopped her tea preparations and sighed. She did not turn to face him, however, and Aidan began to wonder what she was hiding.

“I fear the truth would upset you,” Olwyn finally said. “You do not have your strength back.”

Aidan felt his temper begin to build. “I’ve a right to know what’s become of me, aye? You’ll tell me the truth. Now.”

He watched her stiffen, as if he’d slapped her with his words.

Olwyn swung around, her gray eyes piercing even in the dimness of the tiny stone hut. She smiled, a witchy curve of mouth that turned her into a Druid priestess about to cut his heart straight from his chest. “That’s a fancy notion, of your having rights, as you sit here naked, defenseless, and weak as a lamb. Settle back, stranger. I’ll make you tea, I’ll feed you, and when you’re well I’ll set you free, but in the meantime, I’ll not take orders from you.”