The Kiss at Midnight
Page 1
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Epilogue
The Kiss at Midnight
Sue-Ellen Welfonder
USA Today Bestselling Author
Copyright © 2018 by Sue-Ellen Welfonder
E-book Edition Copyright © 2018 by Sue-Ellen Welfonder
www.welfonder.com
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Blurb
Sometimes dreams do come true…
Highlander Greyson Merrick no longer sails the seas, his past behind him as he seeks a new life in Aberdeen. But tragedy casts a long shadow and starting over isn’t easy when haunted by guilt. Honor keeps him from pursuing romance – he only hopes to live quietly, alone, and in peace. He is content, and that’s enough. But he soon wants more when a late night stroll ends with a searing kiss – and a woman who disappears with his heart.
Ophelia Raines is little more than a servant in her aunt’s home and knows better than most that fairytales aren’t real. She isn’t a fair maiden in an ivy-grown tower and she stopped believing in princes long ago – when she foolishly gave her heart, and innocence, to a frog. But when a midnight jaunt lands her in the arms of a dashing stranger, she wonders if happy-ever-afters do exist? Better yet, the magic of falling in love.
Dedication
With love for Pumpkin.
A Personal Note to Readers
Please note this is a work of fiction and not meant to reflect cold, hard reality. The following pages contain elements of fantasy such as myth and legend, magic, ghosts, etc. A suspension of belief is therefore required. As this is a romance novel, there is lovemaking, though not graphic. As a romance novel written by me, it does not contain the F-word or other profanity. It does include men in kilts, a nod to Vikings (because I love them), and a few northeasten Scottish locations that are special to me. Some place names have been changed, while other locations are depicted in a way that might seem unlikely. (meaning enchanted) That’s deliberate. Above all, this story is about people who walk their own paths. The real world won’t be found in this book’s pages, only a reflection of how I wish the world could be. I hope you’ll enjoy spending time there.
Wishing you Highland magic,
Sue-Ellen Welfonder
(aka Allie Mackay)
Quote
“When a lass lights a fire in your soul – grab her.” ~ Greyson Merrick, erstwhile sea captain, one-time believer in dreams, champion of lost causes.
Prologue
Gannet House
Not far from the bustling streets of Aberdeen, stands a most unusual house best known for its ties to Arbuckle Priddy, the eccentric artist who lived and worked there in the early 17th century. The house delighted him for it was tall, narrow, and offered a fine view of the harbor, access to the foreshore and a footpath along Tullie Burn, a swift-running stream. Equally pleasing, the property boasted a sheltered garden in the back.
Ever shunning crowds, the artist was excited to take up residence in the house, appreciating its out-of-the-way location in the ancient fishing community known as Tullie.
Impressive by any standards, Gannet House had four floors and a spacious attic, the latter designed with many slanting windows cut into the steep roof, this feature creating the artist’s workplace. The name came from the large seabirds that so often soared past the windows or plunge-dived into the sea for their dinner. White with black-tipped wings and golden heads, gannets provided entertainment and, it was said, often graced Priddy’s paintings.
Nearly every room of Gannet House had a fireplace, so assuring coziness and warmth against the harshest lashings from the cold North Sea winds.
Thick stone walls staved off the worst Scottish winters, this feature contributing to another benefit for the reclusive artist: shielding him from outside noise such as when the fishing fleet left and returned. Or hawkers roamed Tullie with rattling-wheeled carts, calling out their fresh-caught wares.
These advantages haven’t changed over the centuries.
Unfortunately, other things have…
Gannet House fell on hard times.
That happened because although Arbuckle Priddy was granted tenancy at the Gannet House by its builder, a wealthy Aberdeen doctor, the artist’s luck spiraled downward with each successive year he spent – and painted – in his beloved home.
As so often, the ill fortune was seeded by greed…
Arbuckle’s great talent was noticed by more than his benefactor. Another deep-pocketed Aberdonian, a merchant trader, contracted him to paint the beamed ceilings in his own mansion, and, as well, the ceilings of his sprawling country estate. Buoyed by his good fortune, the eager-to-please artist did the work, but the trader found fault in the beautiful and flawlessly painted ceilings, so refusing to pay Arbuckle for his craft.
Not leaving it at that, the devious man spread rumors about the artist, ruining his chances to secure other employment.
The trader even claimed that his own son painted the beamed ceilings in his two mansions, and that he’d not even engaged Arbuckle, who he derided as a fraud.
Arbuckle’s days as a celebrated painter of ceilings ended.
And so it came that his landscape paintings also stopped selling. His knack for creating stunning portraits served naught, as well. Commissions for his work dwindled, emptying his pockets and crushing his soul.
Arbuckle’s benefactor, the builder and owner of Gannet House, took pity on the artist. This good man gave his tenant free life-rent at the house, but there was little else he could do.
The Aberdonian merchant trader was mightier, his false words too damaging.
Arbuckle Priddy was ruined.
Heartbroken, he built a bonfire in the little garden behind Gannet House and burned his paintings, preferring to see them go up in flames than molder and turn to dust.
He did remain in his cherished home, though he rarely set foot off the property.
For sure, he didn’t allow visitors.
Over time, he grew even more reclusive.
Some whispered he went mad.
Either way, he eventually left this world as all men do, supposedly slipping away while standing at a window, gazing out at the sea. Of course, no one can say for sure. What is known is that not too long after his passing strange lights and noises were seen inside Gannet House. Naturally, these oddities happened in the dead of night, at times when the house was empty.
And that left one conclusion. Gannet House was not only an unlucky place to live…
It was also
haunted.
Indeed, the house’s reputation became so fierce that folk feared to stroll past after sundown. Some wouldn’t near the place by day.
Time rolled on and so did the rumors. The tales became more outrageous with each passing century. Viking raiding parties were said to run through nearby Tullie Gorge, along the banks of the Tullie Burn, and then disappear through the house’s front wall. Witnesses claimed these spectral Norsemen reappeared as they burst out of the rear wall, only to vanish in the garden. Arbuckle’s dog, an old hound he called Jericho, was said to guard the door, the ghostly beast’s eyes glowing red and his snarls scary enough to turn aside any would-be trespasser.
But not all Gannet House ghosts were frightening. The light melody of a harp was heard now and again, the music accompanied by the sweet voice of an invisible woman.
There were also sightings of the artist himself. Most often, he was glimpsed at his workroom windows as he stared out at the cold, iron-gray waves of the North Sea. Other claims had him storming up and down the house’s many stairs, although…
As no one neared the house, how could anyone know?
Arbuckle Priddy might have been amused.
Shunned and ruined in life, he gained notoriety as a ghost.
But then came an unexpected revelation a hundred years after his passing and the artist was redeemed…
It happened during the renovations to his malefactor’s Aberdeen home. Restoration workers spotted a tiny painted buckle hidden in the design of one of the thistles that graced a painted ceiling beam in the home’s great hall.
The distinctive design was, of course, Arbuckle Priddy’s signature.
And so, in the blink of an eye, the world loved him again.
What a shame, he was then gone.
More tragic still, folk continued to fear his beloved, oh-so-haunted home.
Leastways that was so until the grand year of 1811 when a bold adventurer who feared nothing took it upon himself to purchase Gannet House for the impossible-to-turn-down asking price of a mere ten pounds.
This man was Greyson Merrick and he wanted the house not just for its picturesque location and spacious, if in need of repair rooms, but for the irony of its history.
You see, the adventurer had seen some rough times himself. And as no stranger to ill luck, he believed the house deserved a second chance. His late father was also an artist, and – like Arbuckle – had left this world penniless and unhappy.
Now some might say Fate led Merrick to Gannet House. But the truth is, his own sound mind, good heart, and two feet took him there. As a former sea captain, Greyson Merrick has seen much, and he doesn’t fear ghosts. Above all, he’s learned that hard work and looking ahead can right almost any wrong. He also has a heart for lost causes and enjoys taking the path less trodden.
In other words, he is determined to make his own destiny.
And he does, at Gannet House.
How fitting that, once settled there, a lady of similar temperament will join him, the two of them giving the house – and themselves – the happiest ever after.
Chapter 1
Samhain Eve St. Nicholas Kirkyard Aberdeen, Scotland, 1812
Greyson Merrick didn’t know what caused him to pause outside the ancient churchyard’s gate, but he did.
He’d learned long ago to trust his instincts.
The back of his neck prickled as he’d passed the ever-growing throng of Hallowe’en revelers. Such crowds were unavoidable. For the Celtic people of old, this night marked the arrival of winter – and the ancient New Year.
He didn’t expect to see any witches or warlocks flying about on broomsticks, but he also knew that many folk in the city would be celebrating the ‘Cult of the Dead.’ Small fires had been lit here and there in the streets in honor of the ancestral spirits. And more than a few men carried torches. Most just drank and danced, probably not even remembering that not too long ago, darker, more serious acts transpired on Samhain Eve. Offerings and sacrifices made to the Otherworld, even attempts to pass through the so-called veil between the realms. Living in Gannet House, he knew better than to doubt the existence of ghosts.
He’d seen and heard too much to question the possibility.
What were they, after all, beyond souls without a body? They’d once walked this earth as he did now. As long as they left him in peace, they could do as they wished. In his home or elsewhere, it was all the same to him.
So the chills on his nape surprised him. His pulse had also quickened, and his heart now beat faster. These were signs that had spared him unpleasantness more than once in his sometimes interesting and too often hazardous existence.
He was grateful for he enjoyed life, having no desire to yet depart from this world.
As an adventurer, he also couldn’t resist a challenge.
So he ignored the Samhain revelers milling about the street and peered into St. Nicholas’s grounds. Moonlight streamed across the park-like expanse and cold sea mist curled through the autumn-bare trees, adding to the eeriness of tilted tombstones, moss-grown burial vaults, and the odd mortsafe, the name given to the low, ironwork ‘cages’ that surrounded some graves and were meant to keep grave robbers at bay.
Stepping closer to the gate, he narrowed his eyes as he searched the silvered lawn and paths, the deep shadows filling the spaces between tombs. His brow furrowed as chills spilled down his back, along his arms. Something was in there.
And not just old stone, tombs, and cold, brittle bones. But nothing stirred, living or otherwise.
The emptiness wasn’t puzzling. St. Mary’s Chapel at the Kirk of St. Nicholas had a sinister past, the chapel having been used as a holding room for witches during the Great Scottish Witch Hunt in the late 1500s. Unfortunate souls spent their last hours there, waiting to be tortured and burned. Scots are superstitious and so the good folk of Aberdeen tended to avoid the kirk and its burial ground at night – especially this late on Samhain Eve.
The revelers on the street were content to parade about, while others gathered outside the pubs, surely finding more entertainment there than in a kirkyard.
Or so Greyson thought until…
He spotted something behind the crumbling corner of one of the burial yard’s oldest monuments. Better said, he saw a flash of silvery-blue, gone as quickly as he’d recognized the spark of light as a darting movement.
Greyson frowned, his gaze on the monument. The moon shone on its engravings of fierce-looking, trumpet-blasting angels, skulls, skeletons, and other morbid images he didn’t care to ponder. He did watch for the flash, and was rewarded when it reappeared, albeit briefly.
His frown deepening, he unlatched the gate, winced at its creak, and then stepped onto the graveled path.
The kirkyard was known to be haunted, not that he’d ever encountered one of its many ghosts.
There was always a first time.
And the odd glint of silver-blue stood out among the shadows. So he made a swift decision and left the path, choosing to approach the monument over the damp, noise-softening grass rather than allow his footsteps to crunch along the walkway.
If the spirit meant to flit about in stealth, so would he.
Though he preferred to stroll purposely rather than ‘flit’ anywhere. He wasn’t a particularly vain man, but he did have his dignity. And so he kept on, taking care to make no sound and with his attention fixed on the monument.
That changed when he became aware of a soft rustling that was anything but otherworldly. Indeed, it was a sound he knew well – the telltale swish of a woman’s skirts.
A flesh-and-blood female, and no wraith.
His deduction proved correct when, in that moment, the woman’s shapely, cloak-covered bottom peeked out from behind the edge of the mausoleum’s wall.
Greyson stared, his eyes rounding as her hips bobbed in the air, stirring the mist.
Good God!
What was she doing? Bent forward and bouncing her delectable bottom here, in the middle
of tombs and gravestones? Sure he didn’t know, he blinked, wondering if she was an apparition? A solid-looking specter, but not of this earth. He knew from working on and sleeping in Gannet House these past months, that there are strange things in the world.
Aberdeen, especially, was a city of ghosts.
Why shouldn’t he meet one here?
It was Samhain Eve, after all.
But then more of the ‘ghost’ came into view and he saw what she was about…
The lass was clearly trying to crouch behind the monument, keeping herself hidden from whatever in front of her had captured her interest.
Curious himself, he strode forward, swiftly circling the tomb to confront her.
“Ho, lass! This is no place for a young woman so late of an e’en.” He gave her a smile he hoped would take the sting from his words.
Deserted as it was, the kirkyard was dangerous after dark.
As was any burial ground.
“I am here precisely because it is late.” She straightened and brushed at her cloak, clearly of a different opinion. “You scared away the ghosts.”
“Ghosts?” Greyson blinked. “I didn’t see any.”
He didn’t know what else to say.
For sure he wasn’t going to tell her that he’d almost taken her for a spook.
Now that she stood before him, he saw that he’d mistaken the glint of the moon on her hair for the silvery-blue flash. Not spectral at all, she was quite real. Older than he’d first guessed, she appeared sure of herself. Perhaps even bold, definitely unafraid of the graves, mist wraiths, or the black and leafless branches creaking in the wind. She was also bonnie with her glossy raven hair, the color being the reason for such a distinctive gleam in the moonlight.