Gwendolyn pressed a hand to her chest and struggled to catch her breath, wondering if she was losing her mind. Men and monsters had plagued her sleep throughout the interminable night. In one hazy dream after another, she had stretched out her arms to invite the Dragon into them, never quite knowing or caring if he meant to kiss her or eat her. She might have believed their midnight encounter only a dream if she hadn’t sworn she could still taste him every time she flicked her tongue across her lips.
“There’s no such thing as a dragon,” she muttered beneath her breath. “And there’s no such thing as a bogie, either.”
Despite that bold declaration, she pulled a folded parasol from the trunk before approaching the bed.
She slipped to her knees, the parasol vibrating wildly in her trembling hand. She had regained just enough of her sanity to wonder if the intruder might not be some monstrous rat.
Fearing the thing would charge her if she lifted a corner of the sheet, she swept the parasol beneath the bed, gingerly poking as she went. An inhuman growl drifted to her ears, raising the gooseflesh on her arms.
Gwendolyn slowly rose and backed away from the bed. Whatever the thing was (and she was no longer sure she wanted to know), she was trapped in the tower with it. Her shriek had failed to rouse any hint of a rescue. She briefly considered jumping on the bed and screaming at the top of her lungs, but she was afraid her voice might whip the creature into some sort of bloodthirsty frenzy.
She looked frantically around the tower. Her previous searches for an escape route had yielded nothing but a grated window she had no hope of reaching. But that was before M’lord Dragon had so kindly provided her with a table. And a chair to put atop it.
Gwendolyn did exactly that. Moments later, both she and the chair were perched precariously on the table. If she could loosen the grate from her position on the table she might be able to climb up on the chair and squeeze through the circular window.
At first she feared the rusty iron would prove immovable. But several determined pokes with the parasol turned the ancient mortar into dust. Twitching back a sneeze, she gave it one last violent stab.
She grabbed for the teetering grate, but it slipped from her fingers, landing somewhere outside the window with a clanking loud enough to wake the dead. Or the undead, she thought, shooting the bed a nervous glance.
She stood on tiptoe and peered down through the window, relieved to discover that her only way out wasn’t a direct plunge into the churning sea. In fact, the view provided her with more cause for hope than she had expected—not three feet beneath the window was a narrow walkway ringed by a stone parapet.
Her heart began to race. If she could reach the walkway, it might be possible to scramble down one of the shattered stairwells to the ground. And if she could reach the ground, she could make a run for the village, escaping M’lord Dragon’s clutches forever.
She hesitated, tempted to steal one last yearning look at the gifts he had given her. She was determined to take nothing of him with her but the nightdress she wore and the memory of a kiss so sweet she might spend the rest of her life wondering if she had only dreamed it.
She studied the window. She’d wiggled her way out of tighter spots in her day. As a child, she’d once hidden in the hollow trunk of an elder until night fell while Ross and his cronies combed the woods, intent upon making her the donkey in their boisterous game of Pin-the-Tail.
Leaving the parasol on the table, she clambered up on the chair. She stretched both arms through the window and grasped the roughened stone of the outer wall, hauling herself up until her toes just barely grazed the highest rung of the ladder-back chair. The rising sun shimmered against the distant swells, offering her a breathtaking view. The sea was calm this morning, the breakers whispering tender words to one another instead of roaring. The briny tang of the sea poured over her, washing away the seductive aroma of sandalwood and spice.
Her confidence buoyed, Gwendolyn began to wiggle in earnest. She had just started to shimmy her hips through the hole when she heard it.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
She froze. In her eagerness to be free of M’lord Dragon, she’d nearly forgotten about the beast beneath the bed. But it seemed he hadn’t forgotten about her.
She could almost see herself from his point of view—a juicy morsel with its feet flailing helplessly in midair as it dangled half in and half out of the window. She sucked in a deep breath and shoved with her arms in a frantic effort to dislodge her hips. They refused to budge. Not only could she not move forward—she couldn’t move backward, either.
The ominous thump-thump of the thing’s padded feet crossing the floor ceased. Gwendolyn stopped wiggling and held her breath, hearing a foreboding rattle as it leapt from floor to table, from table to chair. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth, waiting for the most enormous rat in all of Scotland to sink its razor-sharp little teeth into her ankle.
Something brushed her dangling toes—a plush warmth, as soft as lamb’s down. Her eyes flew open as another sound reached her ears, a sound as soothing and unmistakable as the murmur of the sea—a deep-throated purring.
She was so intent upon its rumbling music that she wasn’t aware the tower door had been thrown open until a droll voice said, “It’s just as I’ve always said, Tupper. This chamber surely has the most exquisite view in all the castle.”
Chapter Nine
THE LAST THING THE DRAGON expected to see when he flung open the tower door was Miss Wilder’s generous, but shapely, derriere flawlessly framed by the ring of the window.
He had finally sunk into a dreamless sleep near dawn, only to be awakened by a woman’s muffled shriek. He had rolled over and dragged the bolster over his head, assuming it was only an echo from one of the many nightmares that had plagued him since he’d come to this place. But then a raucous clanging had driven him bolt upright on his makeshift pallet.
Fearing his captive had met some dire fate of her own making, he’d quickly pulled on his shirt and breeches and raced up the stairs, meeting an equally frazzled Tupper on the second landing. He’d been so intent upon reaching her that he hadn’t given a thought to shielding his face.
It appeared Miss Wilder had indeed met a fate of her own making, but it was not nearly as dire as he’d feared. At least not for him and Tupper.
Her legs emerged from the ruffled hem of her nightdress, dangling above the makeshift ladder she’d fashioned from table and chair and providing them both with a rather shocking glimpse of creamy female calves. The Dragon looked back to find Tupper’s guileless brown eyes as round as cinnamon biscuits.
Resisting the urge to clap his hands over them, he took his friend’s elbow and steered him from the chamber. “Why don’t you go around to the walkway and see what you can do from that end.”
Tupper struggled to peer over his shoulder. “ This end looks to be much more intriguing. Wouldn’t it be better if I—”
“—did exactly as I requested? “ the Dragon finished for him, giving him a none too polite shove toward the stairwell.
Although he jutted out his bottom lip like a sulky child, Tupper obeyed. The Dragon turned back to the chamber. Even more remarkable than Miss Wilder’s dilemma was the sight of Toby balancing himself on the top rung of the chair just so he could butt his big, woolly head against the soles of her feet. The Dragon cocked his head, listening in disbelief. The cantankerous beast was actually purring!
The cat gave a disdainful twitch of its whiskers, then yielded before him as he approached the table.
Gwendolyn simply hung there, her stillness a sign that she knew he was there.
“I do believe you forgot your parasol, Miss Wilder,” he called out, running one finger down the frilly umbrella. “I’m afraid you’ll find it far more difficult to float to the ground without it.”
“I was hoping to dash myself to death against the rocks,” she replied, her voice muffled but audible. “Then I wouldn’t be forced to endure any more of
your stinging witticisms.”
The Dragon’s lips curved in a reluctant smile. “Shall I attempt to pull you back in? “
“No, thank you. I was headed the other way.” “So I gathered.”
He removed the chair and deftly vaulted up on the table. Her pale feet scissored at the air, vainly seeking purchase. He wrapped his hands around her ankles to still them.
“There now, Miss Wilder. Don’t be afraid. It’s all right. I’ve got you now.”
Gwendolyn feared that, for that very reason, nothing would ever be all right again. The Dragon’s voice was a more comforting rumble than the cat’s purring, but it was a lie. The warm palms curled around her bare ankles promised security, but delivered only danger. Her mortification swelled as she remembered with a flush of horror that she’d neglected to don any drawers before slipping into the nightdress. If those strong, lean fingers of his should stray…
“Tupper is coming around the other way,” he informed her. “He’ll have to go all the way down to the ground and climb back up over some broken stones, so it may take him several minutes to reach you. Perhaps if I got a good grip on your legs… ?” His hands inched toward her calves.
“No!” Gwendolyn shouted, squirming violently. “I’d prefer to wait until Mr. Tuppingham arrives, if you please.”
“While you’re waiting, would you care to explain how you came to find yourself in your current… um… predicament? “
She sighed. “When I woke up, there was some sort of animal sitting on my feet.”
“That could have only been Toby here. The rascal must have slipped into the room last night while your door was ajar.”
Gwendolyn did not want to think about the Dragon’s nocturnal visit and that tantalizing mingling of their breaths that shouldn’t have been a kiss, but was.
“Do you have a fear of cats?” he asked her.
“On the contrary, I’m actually quite fond of them.” She was not about to confess that she’d mistaken the cat for a goblin. “I thought he was… a rat.”
The Dragon laughed. “If I woke up to find a rat that weighed nearly two stone sitting on my feet, I’d leap out the nearest window, too.” Gwendolyn’s breathing took on a ragged edge as he began to absently trace a pattern against her skin with the very tip of his finger. “I think I should try to pull you back through myself. Tupper doesn’t seem to be making any progress.”
“No, I think I hear him coming now,” she called out cheerfully, although what she actually heard was the distant sound of stones crashing and a smattering of curses.
Naturally he ignored her wishes and wrapped his arms firmly around her thighs. It took only one sharp tug from those muscular arms to bring her sliding into his embrace.
Gwendolyn found herself enfolded from behind in a vise of velvet and steel. His arms were wrapped around her waist, his hips pressed to the softness of her backside. The trailing tails of his hem warned her that he’d neglected to fasten his shirt. If she turned, her cheek would be pressed against his chest, skin to skin.
But he would never allow that. It took her a dazed moment to realize that he was as much a prisoner as she was.
“Now I seem to be the one in the predicament,” he said dryly.
“What’s wrong, M’lord Dragon? “ she asked. “Haven’t you any blindfolds in your pocket?”
“I’m afraid I took them out to make room for my manacles and cat-o’-nine-tails.”
“Perhaps you can persuade Mr. Tuppingham to loan you his cravat again.”
“I just might do that if the bumbling oaf ever arrives….”
They both heard him then, still distant enough to make most of his oaths mercifully inaudible.
Taking advantage of their situation, the cat jumped up on the table and began to wend his way through the maze of their ankles.
“I do believe Toby has taken a fancy to you,” the Dragon remarked. “ I’ve never heard the grumpy old monster purr before.”
As the cat butted his head forcefully against Gwendolyn’s leg she said, “Given his girth, I’m surprised I didn’t mistake him for a mastiff.”
The Dragon unfolded one of his arms from her waist, only to trail the knuckles of his free hand along the curve of her collarbone. She felt a shiver of dark anticipation.
“I’m gratified to learn that it was Toby who frightened you,” he murmured in her ear. “I feared it was me you sought to escape.”
“Could you blame me if I had? “
“No,” he said lightly, “but I would have anyway.”
Gwendolyn had forgotten she was wearing the prim nightcap until he gave it a gentle tug. Her hair came spilling around her shoulders in a silken cascade. As he buried his face in it, Gwendolyn closed her eyes against a rush of longing.
“If you’ll let me down, sir, I’ll promise not to peek at your face,” she whispered. “If it’s some sort of battle scar or tragic birthmark you seek to hide from my eyes, I shall respect your desire for privacy. And I can assure you that I’m a woman of my word.”
“You almost make me wish I were a man of mine,” he muttered, tenderly raking away a handful of hair to expose her nape.
Gwendolyn might have been able to bear it if he’d simply touched her with his fingers. But it was his lips he laid against that vulnerable swath of skin. They lingered there, moist and warm, caressing her with melting sweetness. Gwendolyn would never have dreamed that being devoured by a dragon could be so unbearably delicious. It tempted her to offer up every morsel of her flesh for his pleasure.
As his mouth drifted away from her nape to graze the column of her throat, her eyes fluttered shut and her head fell back in unspoken surrender.
Cupping her jaw in his hand with an irresistible combination of tenderness and strength, the Dragon tilted her face just enough to allow him to touch his mouth to hers.
Gwendolyn might yet be a virgin, but she no longer possessed a maiden’s mouth. The Dragon claimed it for his own, breaching the softness of her lips with a swirling tongue of flame. It licked to life a thousand kindred flickers along every inch of her flesh. Her breasts tingled and swelled. He tightened his arm around her waist, molding his hips to her backside.
Even if he had dared to turn her in his arms, she didn’t think she could have opened her eyes. Her lids seemed weighted by an enchantment more powerful than any spell or curse. It wasn’t so much the magic of his kiss that bewitched her, but the mundane—the rough, tender texture of him; the sweet, salty flavor of him. When her tongue flicked out to taste him in turn, he groaned deep in his throat and drew her even closer.
“I say, old fellow, am I too late to rescue the damsel? “ Tupper’s jovial voice came from the window, breaking over them like a dash of cold water.
“No,” the Dragon said grimly, as he reached up and jerked off the cravat hanging loose around Tupper’s neck. “You’re just in time.”
After Tupper had finished repairing the window grate in Gwendolyn’s chamber, he emerged from the castle’s shadows to find the Dragon pacing the courtyard where they had first found her. Despite the morning sunlight streaming over the crumbling walls, his friend’s countenance was as black as midnight. Smoke streamed from his finely hewn nostrils as he took a long drag on the cheroot tucked in the corner of his mouth.
Tupper gave the tip of his mustache a nervous tug. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your little tryst. I pray you’ll forgive my lack of discretion.”
The Dragon snatched the cheroot out of his mouth. “Your lack of discretion? It’s not your lack of discretion that troubles me—it’s mine. What must she think of me? Every time I find myself alone with her, I fall upon her like the beast she thinks I am. Have I been so long without a woman in my bed that I have to prey upon the first innocent who has the misfortune to cross my path? “ He flung the cheroot away and resumed his pacing. “Is it any wonder I’m not fit company for civilized folk?”
Tupper fell into step beside him. “That’s not precisely true, you know. My great-aunt Taffy
is quite fond of you. She says you put her in mind of this magnificent, high-strung stallion her father owned when she was a girl.” Tupper shook his head, sighing sadly. “Of course, they eventually had to shoot the poor fellow in the head after he took three fingers off one of the grooms.”
The Dragon paused in his pacing to give him a withering look. “Thank you for sharing that. I feel so much better now.”
He covered the remainder of the courtyard in three long strides, forcing Tupper to scamper to keep up with him. “You really shouldn’t berate yourself so,” Tupper tried to console him. “It wasn’t as if you had tossed her nightdress over her head and were having your way with her on the table. You simply stole an innocent kiss. What harm can there be in that?”
The Dragon couldn’t very well explain to his friend that the kiss had been anything but innocent and that he feared the harm had been done to him, not her. That shy flick of Gwendolyn’s tongue against his own had stirred his blood more deeply than any bold embrace of a London bawd ever had. He had thought to give her a taste of dragon’s breath, but it had been he who’d ended up burning for her.
He came to a halt in front of the statue that still reigned over the ruins of the courtyard. Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love, seemed woefully out of place in this courtyard where no love had dwelled for nearly fifteen years. If her head hadn’t been blown off by one of Cumberland’s cannonballs, he mused, he might very well have heard a mocking ripple of her laughter on the wind.
“I must be away from this place,” he said softly, running a hand along the bared curve of the goddess’s shoulder. “Before I lose my own head.”
“We did give the villagers a fortnight to come up with the gold,” Tupper reminded him.
“I know we did,” the Dragon said, turning his back on Aphrodite’s ravaged beauty. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t hasten them along, does it? Light some smoke pots in their fields. Flash some torches in the castle windows. Play the bloody bagpipes until their ears bleed. I want them at each other’s throats until they’re begging to bring me the bastard who’s been hoarding that gold all these years.”
The Bride & the Beast Page 8
