The Bride & the Beast

by Teresa Medeiros

  Her hands shaking, Gwendolyn tossed the sheet back over the mirror, convinced that it must be as enchanted as the man who had given it to her. Not only was she aching for the touch of a stranger, but she was in danger of becoming a stranger to herself as well.

  Later that night, Gwendolyn sat upright in the bed, unable to say what had awakened her. There was no need for her to search the shadows for the Dragon on this night. The light of a full moon streamed through the grate, bathing the deserted chamber in spectral brightness. She sniffed the air, but failed to detect so much as a lingering whiff of cheroot smoke.

  She cocked her head to listen, but all she could hear was the muffled roar of the sea. She rose and padded toward the window, drawn by its siren chant.

  The Dragon might have ordered the grate replaced, robbing her of any hope of freedom, but by climbing up on the table and standing on tiptoe, she could still gaze out over the spectacular vista of moonlight and water and drink the salty air into her parched lungs.

  Gwendolyn’s breath caught in her throat. A sailing ship was cutting through the whitecapped waves, heading straight for the castle. With its billowing sails glowing alabaster in the moonlight, it looked no more substantial than a ghost ship laden with the spirits of the dead.

  She blinked in wonder, half expecting the vessel to vanish before her eyes. “Drop anchor, lads!”

  The very mortal cry was followed by a mighty splash and the sight of a longboat being lowered into the water.

  “Hey!” Gwendolyn shouted, curling her fingers through the grate. “Help! I’m up here! Somebody please help me! I’m being held prisoner!”

  As she continued to shout, bouncing up and down on her toes in her desperation to be heard, the shadowy figures manning the longboat began rowing toward the caves carved into the cliffs below the castle, leaving a shimmering trail of silver in their wake. Gwendolyn craned her neck to watch the boat until it drew out of sight, then collapsed into a kneeling position on the table.

  She could shout herself silly, but it wouldn’t bring deliverance. Because they were his men. And that was his ship.

  The ship explained how he had claimed Castle Weyrcraig for his own without a soul in Ballybliss being any the wiser. It explained how he had managed to smuggle all of his decadent luxuries into the castle—the ornate bed, the feather-stuffed tick, the wax candles… perhaps even the mirror that reflected only what he wanted her to see. And it explained how he would make his escape once he’d milked the village of the last of its gold and its pride.

  Gwendolyn had once dreamed of just such a ship. A ship that would carry her far away from Ballybliss to a world where musty old libraries held vast troves of leather-bound treasures. A world where tapestry-draped drawing rooms rang with witty conversation and daring ideas. A world where a man might look at a woman in appreciation for more than just her heart-shaped face or the dainty size of her waist.

  And suddenly she knew whose world it was. It was his world. The Dragon’s world.

  Gwendolyn jumped down from the table and began to pace the chamber, blind to everything but her growing fury. He might not even bother to free her before he went. The villagers already believed her dead. What difference would it make to them if she was eaten by a dragon or moldered away in this lavishly appointed prison? He might just leave her here to rot in the gown of one of his discarded mistresses, while he returned to that elegant world of balls and drawing rooms—a world she would never know.

  Her hands shaking with reaction, Gwendolyn found the tinderbox and lit each of the candles in turn. She was angry with her faceless captor, but she was even more furious with herself for being fool enough to fall beneath his spell.

  She looked around the tower. Thanks to her host’s lavish generosity, there was no lack of objects with which she might bash him over the head the next time he swaggered through that panel door. But he seemed to be avoiding her company as studiously as he’d once sought it.

  Her gaze fell on her half-eaten supper. So M’lord Dragon thought he could woo her favor with generous gifts and pretty words scribbled on expensive stationery, did he? Well, perhaps it was time she taught him that Gwendolyn Wilder was made of sterner stuff than that.

  Tupper marched into the dungeon antechamber and lowered the tray to the table. The Dragon continued to make notations in the leather-bound ledger that lay open before him. His handwriting might be an impassioned scrawl, but his columns of figures were as neat and precise as those of any maiden aunt.

  “I told you I wasn’t hungry, Tup,” he said, flipping a page without looking up. “ But this drafty old mausoleum has got me chilled to the bone. My cloak seems to have gone missing. Have you seen it?”

  “Can’t imagine where it’s gotten off to,” Tupper replied, clearing his throat nervously before shoving the tray on top of the ledger. “But apparently, you’re not the only one who isn’t hungry.”

  The Dragon surveyed the tray’s untouched contents for a long moment before shifting his gaze to Tupper. “Is she ill? “

  Tupper shook his head. “She doesn’t appear to be. But this is the sixth meal she’s refused.”

  “Two days,” the Dragon muttered, shoving himself away from the table. “Two days with no food. What manner of game is she playing?”

  “A dangerous one, if you ask me,” Tupper offered. “I couldn’t help but notice how wan her color was this evening. And she stumbled once and would have fallen had I not caught her elbow.”

  The Dragon raked his hair from his brow with tense fingers. Lack of sleep was doing little to improve his mercurial temper. His first instinct was to grab the tray, go straight up to the tower, and force her to eat, even if he had to shove the food down her throat one bite at a time.

  Deciding that was his second instinct as well, he rose and reached for the tray.

  Tupper stayed him with a hand on his arm. “ The sun is just setting,” he warned. “It’s not full dark yet.”

  Swearing, the Dragon sank back into his chair. He had chosen his role and now, like any nocturnal predator, he would have to wait until dark fell to confront his quarry.

  “Where are you going?” he snapped, scowling at Tupper’s retreating back.

  “Off to terrorize the villagers, you know. I thought I’d skip the pipe playing tonight and make an early start of it.”

  “An early start and a late finish, I presume. You’ve been attacking your duties with commendable enthusiasm lately. I didn’t hear you come in until well after midnight last night.”

  “You know what they say,” Tupper said, beaming an angelic smile as he backed out the door. “ The devil’s work is never done.”

  “No,” the Dragon murmured, his eyes darkening with determination as he plucked a sugar biscuit from the tray and popped it into his mouth. “I don’t suppose it ever is.”

  Gwendolyn had been expecting the Dragon, but she still jumped when the panel door went crashing against the opposite wall, awakening her.

  She huddled against the headboard, her heart pounding in her throat. The moon had yet to sail over her window and she could discern little more than a shadowy figure looming out of the darkness. The rasp of his breathing warned her that if he had been a real dragon, fire would have come shooting out of his nostrils to singe the stray tendrils of hair that had escaped her nightcap.

  He strode over to rest something on the table, then turned to face her. Even in the dark, his regard was nearly as palpable as a touch. She couldn’t shake the sensation that his eyes could pierce the darkness— could plainly see the pulse fluttering in her throat, the uneven rise and fall of her breasts.

  Gwendolyn should have known he’d force her to be the one to break the tense silence. “Good evening, M’lord Dragon. To what do I owe the honor of this visit? “

  “Your own foolishness. Tupper tells me you haven’t eaten in two days.”

  She lifted her shoulder in an elegant shrug. “You needn’t trouble yourself, sir. As I’m sure you can see, it will take more tha
n a few missed meals for me to waste away.”

  He strode toward the bed. Gwendolyn had believed herself beyond cowering before him. She was wrong.

  She wasn’t sure what heinous act of villainy she expected him to commit, but it certainly wasn’t scooping her into his arms as if she weighed no more than Kitty and carrying her to the table. He sank into the chair, cradling her in his lap.

  “Open your mouth,” he commanded, his firm grip making squirming difficult, if not impossible.

  Gwendolyn’s first muddled thought was that perhaps he intended to kiss her even more thoroughly than he’d done before. It wasn’t his mouth that touched her lips, however, but the smooth, cold bowl of a spoon.

  “Open wide and try a taste, won’t you?” he murmured, a husky note of pleading in his voice.

  Gwendolyn couldn’t remember the last time she’d been urged to eat. She’d always been more likely to hear “Save that last biscuit for Kitty, won’t you? “ or to have Izzy rap her across the knuckles with a wooden spoon as she reached for another helping of oatmeal. The piquant aroma of cinnamon reminded her of how hungry she was. It broke her heart to resist him.

  “I’ll not do it,” she muttered between clenched teeth, shaking her head like a truculent three-year-old.

  They were both only too aware that he possessed the strength to force that spoon between her teeth if he so desired. But as it turned out, that wasn’t his desire at all. The spoon vanished, replaced by the beguiling warmth of his breath against the corner of her mouth.

  That tender whisper of breath was followed by the faintest graze of his lips against hers. Her lips seemed to soften of their own volition, and when he took advantage of that softness by sliding his tongue between them, she moaned at the shock of it.

  Before Gwendolyn could clear her dazed mind, he’d replaced his tongue with the spoon and poured a mouthful of melting warmth down her throat. She sputtered, but he covered her mouth with his own again, forcing her to swallow the delectable concoction.

  The bread pudding was sweet, but not nearly as sweet as the teasing swirl of his tongue against hers.

  She shoved against his chest, forcing him to break the kiss. But when she opened her mouth to utter an outraged protest, he simply dipped the laden spoon between her lips again, as if she were a baby bird who had tumbled out of her nest and he the naturalist intent upon saving her.

  Before he could lift the spoon again, Gwendolyn managed to gather the wits he’d so skillfully scattered. “If you put any more of that stuff in my mouth without my leave, I’m going to spit it in your face.”

  “Come now, you wouldn’t wish to wound Tupper’s feelings, would you? He fancies himself quite the chef, you know. I should have let him try out his new recipe for haggis on you,” he said, referring to the Highland staple of sheep’s stomach stuffed with herbs.

  “Tupper may be a fine chef, but you, sir, are a miserable bully.”

  “Only when I’m forced to deal with a stubborn child.”

  Gwendolyn struggled to escape his embrace, her temper flaring. “Which am I to be, M’lord Dragon—a pampered pet or a stubborn child? Or does your perception depend on how malleable a slave I am to your whims?”

  His arms tightened around her. “You know nothing of my whims. If you did, you’d stop squirming in that maddening manner.”

  Gwendolyn did just that. The darkness that enveloped them seemed to heighten her every sense. It magnified the ragged cadence of his breathing and the shudder of his heartbeat beneath her palm. Every breath she drew was rich with the aroma of sandalwood and spice. The crisp hairs spilling from the open throat of his shirt tickled her fingertips. But it was the rigid warmth of his lap beneath the softness of her bottom that sent a tremor of panic shooting through her. She tensed, going as stiff as a puppeteer’s marionette.

  “Now,” he said, his voice deadly serious, “are you going to eat or do I have to kiss you again?” His breath grazed her flaming cheek, warning her that he had every intention of making good on his threat.

  “I’ll eat,” she snapped, opening her mouth.

  “You certainly know how to deflate a man’s opinion of his charms,” he said ruefully as he fed her a heaping spoonful of the pudding.

  Gwendolyn’s knowledge of male anatomy might have been limited to what she had overheard Nessa and Glynnis discussing, but as far as she could tell, his charms showed no sign of deflating. She swallowed. “Most men don’t feel compelled to offer their kisses as a threat of punishment.”

  “Why, I’ve known ladies in the past who considered them a reward!”

  “Were you holding them captive at the time or is that a more recent diversion for you?”

  “I can promise you that none of them were quite as diverting as you.” He used the spoon to dab a drop of pudding from her lower lip.

  It made her wild to be so near him, yet unable to make out more than a shadowy mask of his features. It should have been unbearably awkward to be cradled on a stranger’s lap. But somewhere between their first encounter and this one, he had ceased to be a stranger. He might have been nothing more than a phantom woven of shadow and texture, but those shadows and textures were becoming as familiar to her as the feel of her papa’s wispy hair between her fingers or the sound of Kitty’s breathing in the dark.

  “I saw the ship,” she blurted out, desperate to distract them both from the way each mingled breath seemed to draw their lips closer together.

  It was his turn to stiffen. “Ah, and was that what spoiled your appetite?”

  “Aye, it was. Because I still can’t fathom why a man of your obvious resources would seek to steal from those who have so little.”

  “Perhaps I don’t consider it stealing. Perhaps I simply consider it relieving them of something that was never rightfully theirs in the first place.”

  “If you’re talking about the thousand pounds, it doesn’t exist! It never did.”

  That infuriating note of amusement returned to his voice. “And why should I believe you, Miss Wilder? Only a short while ago, you didn’t believe dragons existed.”

  “I still don’t. And you’ve yet to prove me wrong.” “Then perhaps I don’t believe in maidens, either. Are you willing to prove their existence?”

  Gwendolyn had no answer for such a provocative challenge. She could only tip back her head to study the gleam of his eyes in the darkness.

  He captured one of the golden tendrils that had escaped her nightcap and twined it around his finger, his voice deepening to a husky whisper. “Having you here… like this… do you have any idea what it does to a man like me?”

  “Makes your legs go numb?” Gwendolyn ventured.

  He was silent for a long moment, then a harsh bark of laughter escaped him. Still laughing, he swooped her up and strode to the bed. He didn’t so much lower her to the mattress as toss her on it. She scrambled toward the head of the bed, believing for a breathless instant that he might actually be planning to join her.

  Instead, he sank down beside her and splayed his palms against the headboard, pinning her between his arms. “Eat, Gwendolyn Wilder,” he commanded, lowering his face to hers, “for if you don’t eat every morsel on that tray, I’m coming back with Tupper’s haggis. Then you’ll be sorry you didn’t choose my bloody kisses instead!”

  A moment later, he was gone, leaving Gwendolyn to wonder if she wasn’t already sorry.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE NEXT DAY DAWNED with an oppressive heaviness. Gwendolyn dutifully ate every bite of her meals beneath Tupper’s watchful eye, although the food tasted like sawdust in her mouth. She wasn’t sure her poor beleaguered heart could withstand another of the Dragon’s midnight visits.

  Throughout the interminable day, even Tupper seemed distracted. Instead of chattering as he usually did, he spent most of his time looking longingly at the door, as if he were the prisoner instead of her. After choking down some woodcock and a warm bowl of cullen skink, Gwendolyn finally shooed him away, convinced she�
�d rather retire early than endure another moment of his pained attempts at conversation.

  She had risen from the table to blow out the last of the candles when the first haunting strains of bagpipe music drifted through the grate. Shivering in the darkness, she climbed into the bed, leaned against the headboard, and hugged her knees to her chest. Although she now knew that the fingers that played upon the pipes were only too human, the mournful wail still stirred her own ghosts of sadness and regret.

  For a wistful moment, the raw beauty of the music allowed her to forget the Dragon and remember instead a tall, slender boy with an unruly lock of dark hair that had insisted upon tumbling over his emerald green eyes. This castle had been his home, and if someone hadn’t betrayed his father to Cumberland, he might still reign here as lord. She gazed up at the shadowy nymphs cavorting on the ceiling, wondering if he had ever slept in this very chamber.

  Had he lived, she might have had to watch from the shadows while he took another woman to be his wife— the noble daughter of some neighboring chieftain or one of the prettier village lasses, perhaps even Glynnis or Nessa. She might have had to smile through her tears as his dark-haired, green-eyed son rode his own pony past the tree that had been her haven as a girl. But her pain would have been a small price to pay for the joy of watching Bernard MacCullough grow to manhood as the hope and pride of his clan.

  Gwendolyn touched her cheek, startled to find it wet with tears. She didn’t mourn just for that lost boy, but for the girl who had loved him. The girl who had roamed the forest glens and the winding corridors of this very castle, pining for a glimpse of him. Sometimes it seemed as if both of their lives had ended in the moment that first cannonball tore through the heart of the castle’s keep.

  The piping died on a plaintive note. She curled up on her side and drew the sheet to her chin, wondering what that boy would have thought of the woman she had become.

  Gwendolyn was dreaming.

  She ran through the maze of the castle corridors, a child again. She could hear the boy, but she could not see him. He stayed just ahead of her, dancing down the winding stone staircases, clearing the landings in one leap with the fleet grace of a cat. His laughter drifted back to her, bold and teasing, but no matter how hard she begged him to stop, he kept running, refusing to believe any harm could come to him.