The Kiss at Midnight

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  It couldn’t be helped.

  Blood would tell, and his was on fire.

  Chapter 7

  Ophelia paused outside the drawing room door and allowed herself a long, strength-bringing breath. Above all, she hoped the household staff had been right about a splendidly kilted man with dark good looks having been ushered into her uncle’s hallowed sanctum.

  The Highlander could only be him.

  Mr. Greyson Merrick.

  The devilishly dashing blackguard with his crooked smile and dark, wind-ruffled hair. What a shame he was also a teller of tales. Such a scoundrel shouldn’t make her heart pound.

  She, of all women, should know better. Yet she would love to kiss him again. Plunge headlong into the hopelessly romantic abyss, all caution cast to the wind. How could she feel otherwise when she couldn’t forget the smolder in his eyes, the knee-weakening way he’d looked at her? How thrilling it’d been to have him crush her against him, his strong arms so tight around her.

  She’d nearly melted when he’d cupped her chin on the beach at Stony Bay.

  She could feel his touch even now, as if he’d branded her, leaving her with the memory. She struggled against the sensation, felt a surge of sympathy for every woman who’d ever lost her heart to a rogue. The price was too high, the women always the losers.

  Greyson Merrick was worse than most such scoundrels.

  What kind of man called his vitals, his wiggle?

  Sure, he’d caught his own mistake, changing his story on the beach, blaming a squirrel-in-his-sporran.

  That ruined it for her and now she’d wash him from her thoughts by telling him so.

  If the truth then came out and her uncle punished her, so be it.

  She would suffer any consequences. So she put back her shoulders, lifted her chin, and burst into the room, not caring when the door swung a bit too hard on the white-washed wall.

  “Uncle Irwin, Aunt Sarah.” She almost skidded to a halt, way too breathless.

  Turning to their visitor, she felt as if a great iron-shod fist punched her.

  She’d been right – it was him.

  The master of all kisses – a title she was sure he deserved – stood in the center of the room. He was even more roguishly dashing than she remembered. Or perhaps it was the chamber’s soft lamplight that gave him an advantage?

  Either way, seeing him before her made her heart race. Tall, dark, and handsome as every fairytale prince, he was also kilted. And that, to her oh-so-Scottish heart, made him even more magnificent. He’d donned full Highland regalia, his blue-and-green kilt all the more splendid by the snowy whiteness of his shirt and his black jacket. His cloak was equally black and that he hadn’t removed it indicated he wouldn’t be staying long.

  The heated recognition in his eyes, and what that smolder did to her,

  Or it should.

  Too bad she felt a pinch of annoyance.

  And so she put back her shoulders, inhaled deeply, and greeted him as was fitting…

  “How lovely to see you,” she said, smiling. “Mr. Wiggle, I believe?”

  Her aunt gasped. “Ophelia-”

  The handsome fiend’s laughter cut her off. “Nae worries, Mrs. Russell,” he assured her aunt before turning back to Ophelia. “Miss Raines, your wit delights me, but you err. You also ken my name. But if you’ve forgotten, I am Greyson Merrick and though your charm indeed captivated me when we met, you mistook my words.”

  “I did no such thing.” Ophelia frowned, not about to say why she knew she was right. “You said wiggle.”

  “So I did.” He smiled, not denying it. “I shall say it again now. Wiggle.”

  Ophelia and the Russells stared at him as he repeated the word, this time a bit louder. Odder still, he reached for his sporran and gave it a light shake.

  “Oh, no!” Ophelia threw a glance at Aunt Sarah. “Stop him! He’s about to-”

  “Introduce you to Wiggle,” he cut in even as the sporran’s clasping gave way and a small red squirrel leapt free to bolt about the room. “He’s my pet squirrel and ever at my side.”

  “Leaping haggis!” Her uncle’s eyes bugged.

  “Catch him!” Aunt Sarah hitched her skirts, already running after the speeding beastie. “He’ll ruin my curtains, the upholstery!”

  “O-o-oh…” Ophelia clasped both hands to her face, laughter bubbling up inside her. Her heart split wide, such delight filling her, she feared she’d burst.

  Greyson Merrick hadn’t lied.

  There was a Wiggle.

  “He is so dear.” Ophelia clapped both hands to her face, smiling as she watched the squirrel sail up and over chairs, leap from table to mantel, to window ledge and then bolt from one side of the room to the other. “He’s so fast-”

  “He has a mind of his own, but he’ll do nae harm.” Greyson Merrick glanced at her, then hooked two fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply.

  The squirrel streaked back to him, landing on his chest before disappearing into the depths of the sporran. He popped up again as quickly, thrusting out a red-furred arm to snatch the nut Greyson offered him.

  “He’s well-trained, as you can see,” he said, smiling as Wiggle again vanished into his carrier. “He’ll be quiet now. He’s no’ fond of places he doesn’t know.”

  “I love him,” Ophelia blurted before she could catch herself.

  “I knew he’d not settle for a dog or cat.” Uncle Irwin shook his head, a rare twinkle in his eye.

  “He is a wild animal.” Her aunt brushed at her skirts. “Whoever keeps a squirrel as a pet?”

  Greyson Merrick shrugged, one hand resting on his sporran. “Perhaps the same kind of fool who’d purchase a falling-down-around-itself house that belonged to a penniless, long ago artist, and that is now said to be riddled with ghosts?”

  “Your house is haunted?” Ophelia looked at him, wondering that she could even breathe so close to him. He was incredible. So tall and good-looking, his air of assurance filling the room. As if he, and no one else, stood in authority here.

  Better yet, he loved animals – had the most darling red squirrel for a pet - and he had ghosts.

  “Have you seen any?” She had to know. “Spirits, I mean.”

  “Now, see here, lassie.” Uncle Irwin took a step toward her, his levity gone. “They’ll be nae talk of bogles in this house.”

  “Aye, well, sir.” Greyson slid a look at her uncle. “As a Highlander, I cannae deny suchlike.” When he turned back to Ophelia, he smiled. “There are odd footsteps on the stairs and bumps in the night. Now and then I might, or might not, catch glimpses of old Jericho, the first owner’s dog. I’m also aware of the pad of his feet, hear him howl sometimes.

  “Others claim a band of marauding Vikings run through the basement, though I’ve ne’er seen or heard them.” He paused, his eyes lighting as he slid a ‘secret’ glance at her uncle. “My manservant, Smithers, swears he’s seen them. He’ll tell you a more bloodthirsty lot of Norsemen ne’er haunted these shores.”

  Ophelia smiled, knowing this, at least, was said to amuse her.

  Uncle Irwin huffed, and tugged at his sleeve. “Northmen, too, should be forgotten. Heathen bastards visited enough trouble on Scotland. History damns them, all know.”

  Her aunt ignored him. “Mr. Merrick owns Gannet House in Tullie village,” she told Ophelia. “It was the home of Arbuckle Priddy, the famous 17th century artist. If you weren’t aware, Mr. Merrick is a famous adventurer, a former sea captain, originally from the far north. And, as you can see…

  “He is also a poet.” She pinned him with a look, daring him to argue. “Is that not so?”

  “I am honored you believe so, lady.” He inclined his head, but not so deeply that his smile couldn’t be seen. “Oral tradition is greatly revered in the Highlands.”

  “So men say,” Aunt Sarah allowed, her own smile returning. “But you are not here to discuss the grandeur of your home glen, are you?”

  “Nae, I am not,” he ret
urned, his own good humor dimming.

  Ophelia’s heart thumped. Could it be he’d come to claim her, to present himself as a suitor?

  Now that she knew the source of his thrustings on Samhain Eve, she would find such a possibility most agreeable.

  He was a splendid kisser.

  He clearly loved animals. That carried tremendous weight with her. He didn’t scoff at the supernatural. He also seemed to have an acceptance, if not a fondness for ghosts. He’d taken the trouble to come here, despite their less than pleasant meeting at Stony Bay. That could only mean he cared.

  He knew she wasn’t an innocent. She’d told him the secrets of her past, the foolish choice she’d made, the heartache she carried because of it. If he thought poorly of her, surely he wouldn’t have come.

  Still…

  She caught his gaze, hoped her voice wouldn’t hitch. “What is your business here?”

  To her surprise, he frowned. When he glanced again at her aunt and uncle, his scowl deepened.

  “I wanted to secure your happiness.” He paced before the fire, looking like a caged and angry beast. Stopping at the hearth, he braced a hand against the mantel. “Nae lass should be tethered to a man she cannae love. For sure, no’ to someone unable to appreciate her spirit. I saw it as my duty to make certain that doesnae happen.”

  “Then I must thank you.” Ophelia blinked, hope rising inside her. “I had no wish for such a union.”

  “Very well.” Her aunt rubbed her hands together. “You needn’t worry, my dear. We shall no longer consider your uncle’s friend, the widowed landowner who’d expressed an interest in you. Of course…” She slid a glance at Greyson. “You will still need to wed. I do have a more suitable groom in mind.”

  Ophelia’s budding excitement evaporated. “Not one of Mr. Dudding’s sons?”

  “Mr. Dudding?” Greyson stepped between her and her aunt and uncle. “The name sounds English.”

  “And so it should,” Aunt Sarah said, unperturbed. “The family is English. Mr. Dudding is an associate of Mr. Russell’s. Both men are employed by the same Aberdonian shipping company. It has always been understood that if Mr. Russell and I were unable to see a successful match arranged for Ophelia, she is to marry one of Mr. Dudding’s sons. All of them are-”

  “Sassunachs.” Greyson shook his head. “We agreed the lass would marry a Highlander.”

  “We?” Aunt Sarah lifted a brow. “I believe those were your words.”

  “They were, but you consented.”

  “You are mistaken.” She smiled. “I told you clearly that I could not seek such a paragon as you suggested, a tartan-clad, hill-roaming Highlander. I’ve already decided on a husband for my niece. She will be most happy, that I can promise you.”

  “I would meet this man first,” Greyson said, his voice dark, almost a snarl. “Nae, I demand it.”

  “Oh, that is quite impossible.” Aunt Sarah remained firm. “Nor would you be able to dissuade him. He is most eager to have her.”

  “He is, eh?” Greyson’s voice darkened even more, a definite snarl now.

  Aunt Sarah nodded. “Beyond all doubt. I am certain the wedding will be soon, possibly within days.”

  Ophelia stared at them. “That isn’t possible.”

  “Of course, it is.” The older woman made light of her argument, her gaze on Greyson. “A special license can be procured, a carriage ride to any anvil priest. Gretna Green might be too far, but there are other smithies closer by. Her groom will think of something.”

  “She can also be whisked off into the night, claimed in the old way.” Greyson stepped closer to Ophelia’s aunt and uncle, towering over them. “You’ll ken what I mean, both of you. Or has the great granite city of Aberdeen, with its niceties, made you forget how our ancestors settled such matters?”

  “We’ve forgotten nothing, Mr. Merrick.” Aunt Sarah looked up at him, a small smile playing across her face. “It seems you have.”

  “No’ this.” He scooped Ophelia into his arms and strode with her from the room, the Russells hurrying after them.

  “Behold how a Highlander solves problems,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Dinnae think to stop me or I’ll recall even more of my forebears’ rough ways.”

  The older couple caught up to them. “You are behaving madly,” Aunt Sarah argued, snatching at Greyson’s cloak. “There will be consequences.”

  “That I know.” Greyson didn’t break stride. He did lean down to drop a swift kiss on Ophelia’s brow. Then they were at the door and he stopped to face her family. “The first will be you sending letters to these Duddings and the deep-pursed widower. You will state that a suitable husband has been found for your niece. The task will be the last required of you. From this moment on, she’s under my care.”

  “What do you mean?” Ophelia squirmed in his arms, twisting round to peer up at him. “You’re kidnapping me.”

  “That, too,” he agreed, looking more fierce than ever. “Though I’d rather say we’re embarking on a grand adventure.”

  “Should I fear you?” Ophelia wasn’t the least afraid. Far from it, she smiled, her heart thumping.

  “Only if you think I’d hand you over to a withered old goat or an Englishman called Dudding.”

  “But you won’t.” Ophelia slid her arms around his neck. “You want me for yourself. I knew that at Stony Bay, perhaps even earlier, on Samhain Eve.”

  “Is that so?” He kept on, striding down the street. “We shall discuss that at Gannet House.”

  “Are you not going to put me down?”

  “What?” He glanced at her, one brow arcing. “And risk you running off again?”

  “I won’t.” Ophelia leaned into him, holding tight. “Not this time.”

  “Even so…” He slid a surprised look at Aunt Sarah as she nipped around them to stand in the middle of Flourmill Lane. “I may just carry you all the way to Tullie.”

  Aunt Sarah laughed. “I always said Highlanders were thickheaded.” She glanced at Ophelia. “I might pity you, my dear, if he is always so difficult.”

  “Pity?” Greyson shifted her in his arms. “I would’ve thought you’d be screaming by now, calling for help.”

  “Why ever should I do that?” Aunt Sarah smiled as she retreated from the road. “It was you who didn’t listen back in my parlor,” she said, beaming at them. “I did listen – just as I have listened to Ophelia ever since Samhain Eve. I told you I heard you, but you misunderstood, didn’t you?”

  “So I did, by all the hounds!” Greyson grinned. “You weren’t listening with your ears, were you?”

  “No, I wasn’t.” Aunt Sarah rested her hands on her hips, her eyes glistening. “I heard you with my heart.”

  “Then all is well, my lady, for I am now acting on mine.”

  The assurance given, he nodded once and then continued down the road, Ophelia held secure in his arms. And if the truth were known, she’d never felt safer – or happier. She also knew that her aunt wasn’t a reckless woman. And that her uncle wouldn’t stand for a true kidnapping. They had given their blessing, and they would have good reason to do so.

  Ophelia didn’t know how that had happened, but she did sense they approved the match.

  And so did she, though she’d feel even happier if Greyson Merrick truly wanted her. Stubborn as he seemed, he might not easily admit his feelings.

  But then he stopped beneath a just-lit street lantern and lowered his head to kiss her. Not a brow-kiss this time, but a proper kiss. Hard, deep, and bone-jellying. And when at last he broke away, Ophelia didn’t have any doubts.

  All that remained was for him to make good his promise and marry her. She’d take care of the rest. For even if he’d just played an ancient Highland warrior or knight in shining armor, sparing her from years at the side of an aged husband or – dear heavens - a lifetime as a Dudding, she sensed the truth.

  Greyson Merrick was the one in need of rescuing.

  And she was the woman to save him.<
br />
  She’d begin that night.

  Epilogue

  Several months later, Gannet House High in Arbuckle Priddy’s fourth floor garret…

  He’d never tire of gazing at her.

  Especially as now, here in the special place they’d claimed as their own, and at the gloaming hour. She’d left the small but comfortable bed they’d dragged up to Priddy’s old workplace and gone to stand before the row of tall, slanting windows that gave such a breathtaking view of the sea and, in the distance, the masts of the many ships in Aberdeen harbor.

  Greyson pushed up on an elbow, aware as always that, to him, nothing fired his blood more than the woman before him.

  His bride, and his love, though he had yet to confess as much to her. A great fondness, his overwhelming delight in her, and the powerful passion she stirred in him…

  All that, he told (or showed) her daily.

  But he held back the unbarring of his heart, not wanting to make their end more hurtful for her if she chose to leave him by the end of a year and a day.

  That time he’d insisted on giving her, just as his handfasting ancestors had done. It scarce mattered that Smithers had wed them, using his right as an erstwhile holy man aboard the Silver Thistle, and other ships before her. If the limitations of a slender purse proved too hard on her and she wished a better life…

  He’d let her go.

  But oh how her loss would gut him.

  Yet this was now and so he simply looked across the room’s wide open space, grateful to appreciate how the late afternoon’s light limned her in soft shades of violet. Clothed as she was in only her chemise, he could relish the lushness of her curves. He also felt a tightening in his loins when he admired the sheen of her unbound hair.

  Only moments ago, she’d sat astride him, riding him like a wild-hearted Valkyrie, her glossy raven hair swinging over her bare shoulders and luscious breasts.

  The air was still scented with the musk of their loving. Even so, he wanted her again.