The Bride & the Beast

by Teresa Medeiros

  “I don’t give a damn where you go,” he ground out. “As long as it’s out of my sight.”

  Gwendolyn couldn’t have gone if there’d been another cannonball heading straight for the hall, not while there was a crack in the Dragon’s armor that might provide her with a glimpse of the man inside.

  “Shall I return to the village then?” She took another step toward him, thinking to lure him into the moonlight with her taunts. “Shall I tell them that their fierce Dragon is nothing but a man? A man who seeks to make others afraid of him, yet hides his face in shadows because he’s more afraid of himself than they could ever be.”

  “Tell them whatever you bloody well like,” he growled, his knuckles white against the mahogany of the mantel.

  Gwendolyn crept nearer, lifting her hand, but not daring to touch the unyielding expanse of his back. “Shall I also tell them that you’ve shown me nothing but kindness? That you replaced my rags with garments fit for a princess? That you forced me to eat when I would have starved myself out of sheer stubbornness? That you’ve declined to devour their virgin sacrifice?”

  He turned around. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. Don’t think I’m not considering it at this very moment!”

  Hunger gleamed in his eyes, but he did not lay his hands on her. It was that, more than anything, that prompted her to touch her fingertips to his face. He inhaled raggedly as she gently explored his features, seeking the scar, the burn, the terrible deformity that had driven him to live in darkness and branded him a beast in his own eyes and the eyes of the world.

  She had to ease aside a silky lock of hair to stroke a brow that was both strong and smooth. His eyebrows were thick and slightly arched, his lashes soft as feathers against her palm. She followed the arc of his cheekbone to the firm line of his nose. Her knuckles curved to caress a jaw lightly stubbled with a day’s growth of beard. She was reaching to brush her fingertips against his lips when he caught her wrist, groaning.

  She expected him to fling her hand away, not to bring her fingertips to his lips and press a kiss upon them. His lips were firm, yet soft. The tender urgency of their kiss sent a scorching sweetness melting through her veins.

  He caught her by the shoulders and drew her against him in the darkness. “Would you sacrifice yourself to me, Gwendolyn? Would you sacrifice yourself to save this poor wretched beast that I’ve become?”

  A strange calm stole over Gwendolyn as she gazed up into the shadows that composed his face. “You once told me what I had to do to turn you from beast to man.”

  Curling one hand around his nape, she drew him down and gently pressed her mouth to his.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE DRAGON STRUGGLED TO absorb the gift of Gwendolyn’s kiss. It was too late to confess that he had lied to her, too late to warn her that her kiss could only weave an enchantment more dangerous than any that had come before. Instead of taming him, her kiss made him wild. Wild to kiss her. Wild to touch her. Wild to take her. He sucked in a shuddering breath as her mouth ripened beneath his, her lips parting in an invitation he no longer had the strength to resist.

  Holding himself back so as not to frighten her, he wrapped his arms around her and swirled his tongue through the moist warmth of her mouth. She tasted of innocence and hunger, and it was precisely that shy ardor that made her kiss more affecting than any courtesan’s caress.

  “My sweet… my innocent,” he whispered against the corner of her mouth. “You are a dream, aren’t you? A dream come true.”

  Gwendolyn would have never believed the Dragon capable of such gentleness. His mouth glided down the curve of her jaw, leaving a tingling trail of delight. He kissed the dimple in her cheek, then sought the one at the hollow of her throat before returning his mouth to hers.

  This was no chaste brushing of lips, no misty mingling of breath. This was a kiss as sweet and dark as death itself. As he ravished her mouth with exquisite thoroughness, Gwendolyn had to cling to his shirtfront to keep from falling. He might have been the one drinking, but she was the one reeling, intoxicated more by his raw tenderness than by the whisky she tasted on his tongue. Although his breathing was as ragged as her own, she could feel his dragon’s heart beating strong and true beneath her palm.

  He did not break that bewitching kiss, not even when he bore her back against the table. Gwendolyn had thought to lure him into the moonlight. She had never dreamed that he would drag her deeper into the shadows or that she would go with him willingly, even eagerly.

  The table pressed into her backside; he pressed himself into the softness of her belly, proving once and for all that he was no beast, but simply a man. A man who desperately wanted her.

  “You’re a bloody little fool. You should have gone when I told you to,” he rasped even as he drew her more tightly against him.

  Gwendolyn reached blindly for his face, finding his hoarse reproach even more irresistible than his touch. He grazed her lips with his own, brushing them back and forth in a coaxing caress that made her heart double its already ragged rhythm.

  He began to unlace the satin ribbons at the throat of her nightdress. Gwendolyn felt the tremor in his hands as he dragged the fabric down, exposing her shoulders.

  “You have the softest skin,” he murmured, feathering his fingers against her collarbone.

  “Fat girls often do,” she informed him, pressing her burning cheek to his chest. “It’s their consolation for having so very much of it.”

  He cupped her face in his hands, his voice as fierce as his touch. “If you’re not a goddess among women, then why is Aphrodite over there turning green with jealousy at the prospect of your unveiling?”

  Gwendolyn laughed shakily. “Are you sure it’s not just moss?”

  As the Dragon buried his face against her throat to smother his exasperated chuckle, it was almost possible for him to believe that her yielding softness could fill all the empty places in his life. “If you won’t believe the praise that spills from my honeyed tongue, I’ll simply have to put it to another use.”

  Gwendolyn moaned deep in her throat as he did just that, sliding that honeyed tongue of his between her lips in a rhythm as ancient as that of the sea battering the rocks below the castle. A wicked thrill shot through her as he filled his hands with the softness of her breasts, his callused thumbs stroking her nipples to rigid attention through the crisp lawn of the nightdress.

  She gasped into his mouth; he groaned into hers. His dragon’s breath seemed to fill her, its tongues of flame igniting a raging fire low in her belly. Through the roaring in her ears, she could hear him murmuring her name, as if it were an incantation.

  She could do nothing but moan her surrender as his other hand crept beneath the skirt of her nightdress, lingering to stroke the baby-soft skin of her inner knee. Ever since the morning he’d rescued her from the window, Gwendolyn had taken great care to wear a pair of drawers beneath her nightclothes. Now she realized how foolish she had been to believe that thin layer of silk would shield her virtue. She should have known they’d present more of an enticement than a hindrance to a man like the Dragon.

  It wasn’t until she heard his ragged intake of breath that she remembered the slit in the silk at the cleft of her thighs. As those deft, aristocratic fingers of his brushed curls dampened by a desire she could no longer deny, her thighs went slack, inviting him—no— begging him to work his dark will upon her.

  So this was it, Gwendolyn thought, her head falling back to loll helplessly against her shoulders. This was the unholy rapture for which Nessa and Kitty had traded their innocence and their pride. He lavished her mouth with kisses, all the while petting and stroking her until she was slick with a nectar thicker and sweeter than honey. Only then did he flick his thumb across the swollen bud at the crux of her curls. Only then did he press one finger deep into the aching hollow that had never before known the touch of a man.

  Gwendolyn arched against his hand, pleasure spilling through her in a shimmering cascade t
hat seemed to have no end. She almost cried out his name before remembering with a pang of dismay that she did not know what it was.

  He was a stranger. A stranger looming over her in the darkness with his face masked by shadows and his hand up her skirt.

  Feeling suddenly sick with shame, Gwendolyn shoved at his chest. “No,” she cried, breaking away from his embrace.

  He followed her, stopping at the very brink of the shadows. “What is it? Did you think I would force you? For God’s sake, Gwendolyn, even I’m not that much of a monster!”

  Gwendolyn clutched the arm of the settee, fighting to steady her breathing. She didn’t want to cry in front of him; she wasn’t a pretty crier like Glynnis or Nessa. “You don’t understand. It’s not you. It’s me!” She hung her head. “I should have warned you. The women in my family all seem to possess a terrible weakness of the flesh.”

  A relieved laugh escaped him. “Oh, is that all? I can assure you, sweeting, that what you just experienced was utterly normal. There was nothing terrible about it. Not for you and most certainly not for me.”

  Gwendolyn whirled around to face him. “Do you know what the men in the village say about my sister Nessa? ‘Take care when ye toss up the skirts o’ that Wilder lass—ye may find another lad already under there.’ They wink and they nudge each other and whisper, ‘Do ye ken what’s bonnier than a Wilder lass on her back? Why, one on her knees!’ “ The Dragon watched her from the shadows, his stillness uncanny. “Nessa has given herself away until there’s nothing left of who she might have been. And now my youngest sister Kitty has started down the same path. But how can I condemn her when I’ve proved I’m no different from either of them! I’m just as willing to offer myself to any silver-tongued rogue who plies me with kisses or praises the softness of my skin.”

  He was silent for a long time—long enough for Gwendolyn to begin to wonder if she’d wounded him with her words. “And just how many other silver-tongued rogues have you offered yourself to?”

  Gwendolyn pondered the question for a moment, sniffing back a sob. “None. Only you.”

  “Why, you’re quite the little strumpet, aren’t you? “ he said lightly.

  “You can’t deny that I let you commit unspeakable liberties!”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call them unspeakable,” he replied, anger restoring the clipped edge to his voice. “First you let me kiss your mouth. Then you let me touch those exquisite breasts of yours through your nightdress. And then you let me put my fingers—”

  “Stop it!” Gwendolyn clapped her hands over her ears, unable to bear his deliberate mockery. “How could I have let you do any of those things when I’ve never even seen your face? When I don’t even know your name?”

  “That may be true,” he said quietly, “but for just a moment there, I would have sworn you knew my heart.”

  Gwendolyn’s chest shuddered with the effort of choking back her tears. She wanted nothing more than to run into his arms, but she was as trapped by the moonlight as he was by the shadows. As long as he refused to reveal his identity, the expanse of floor that separated them would remain as uncrossable as the chasm of nothingness separating the tower from the sea. Fearful that she might try anyway, she spun around and ran from the hall.

  Fingers of moonlight streamed through the open door, beckoning her toward freedom.

  Gwendolyn ran up the stairs, leaving the Dragon to his shadows. She did not see him burst from the great hall, braving the light to come after her. Nor did she see him slump against the wall and rake his hands through his hair when he heard the sobs echoing down from the highest reaches of the castle.

  Chapter Fifteen

  GOD’S FORESKIN!”Izzy bellowed, slamming a basin heaped with soiled nightshirts down on the kitchen table.

  Kitty flinched and Glynnis snatched her breakfast of stale sugar biscuits and tea out of the path of the grimy water that came sloshing over the basin’s edge. The hound napping on the hearth took one look at the maidservant’s thundercloud of a brow and bolted from the room.

  Kitty and Glynnis exchanged apprehensive glances, but wisely held their tongues as Izzy dumped the contents of the basin into a large iron kettle that was already steaming on the grate. Still cursing beneath her breath, she grabbed a wooden spoon and began to stir the laundry, looking like a wild-eyed witch brewing up a batch of toil and trouble.

  Nessa came drifting into the kitchen, her eyes swollen and bleary from lack of sleep even though it was after ten in the morning. “For heaven’s sake, Izzy, must you bellow and bang so? It’s enough to wake the dead.”

  “The dead p’r’aps, but not ye.” Izzy removed the spoon from the water long enough to shake it at her. “And I’ve every right to bellow and bang. I was up at dawn when ye and Kitty were just creepin’ in after dal-lyin’ all night with the menfolk.”

  Kitty blushed while Nessa sank into a chair and stretched, taking advantage of the graceful motion to steal a biscuit from Glynnis’s plate. “Since Lachlan is the only lad I’m interested in at the moment, that would be manfolk.”

  The maidservant rolled her eyes. “One man at a time, maybe. But there’s always another one right behind him.”

  “Unlike Nessa,” Glynnis pointed out, “I can be quite loyal. I never once strayed from the beds of either of my husbands.”

  “That’s most likely what killed ‘em,” Izzy said. “Two puir auld men tryin’ to do the job of a dozen strappin’ lads.”

  While Nessa cackled with laughter, Glynnis sniffed and bit off a dainty piece of the biscuit. “Perhaps I should have taken my breakfast in one of my own cottages, Izzy. There’s simply no point in trying to make polite conversation with you when you’re in such a foul temper.”

  Izzy jabbed her spoon at the wall. “Ye’d be in a foul temper, too, young missie, if ye were locked in this manor day and night with that daft father of yers. I don’t see how yer puir sister bore it all those years. If I were her, I’d’ve begged the Dragon to eat me!”

  They shared a moment of somber silence in honor of Gwendolyn before Kitty said softly, “Papa mistook me for Mama yesterday. He kept clutching at my skirts and begging me to forgive him.”

  “As well he should,” Izzy snapped, “since it was his own greed that killed the puir creature.”

  All three girls turned to stare at Izzy, having never heard such a thing pass the maidservant’s lips before. For an elusive moment, her florid face seemed to be flushed by more than just the heat of the fire.

  She averted her gaze, poking at the laundry with renewed violence. “I just meant because he had to go and try to get a son on her. After all, what man wouldn’t be content with the lot o’ ye?”

  “What man indeed?” Kitty murmured, pushing her plate away.

  Glynnis shifted her worried gaze to her youngest sister. “What ails you, kitten? You’ve been moping about for days. It’s not like you.”

  “You’re not breeding, are you, lass?” Nessa asked, reaching over to pat Kitty’s hand.

  Izzy groaned. “ That’s all we need ‘round here. Another arse to wipe.”

  Kitty snatched her hand away from her sister’s, her dark eyes blazing. “Of course I’m not breeding. How could I be when you taught me how to prevent it with my first monthly course? “

  Nessa sank back in her chair and poured herself a cup of tea, eyeing her sister cautiously. “And I should think you’d be grateful for that.”

  “Why should I when you might have taught me something useful? Like how to mend stockings or polish the silver or manage a man’s household.”

  “Trust me, Kitty,” Glynnis said, arching one flawlessly plucked eyebrow. “You’re better off knowing how to manage a man than his household.”

  “Aye,” Nessa agreed. “It’s not the silver most men want polished.”

  Kitty grew even more fierce. “Maybe every man isn’t interested in that.”

  Glynnis exchanged a knowing look with Nessa. “If he has a heartbeat, he’s interested.”

&nbs
p; “Don’t tell me you’ve met a man who can resist your charms!” Nessa teased.

  Kitty’s ire subsided. “Perhaps he doesn’t think I have any,” she mumbled, gazing dolefully into her teacup.

  Glynnis reached over to stroke her hair. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why, everyone knows you’re the bonniest lass in all of Ballybliss!”

  “And if you think that’s easy for her to admit, you’re wrong,” Nessa added, giving her older sister a feline smile.

  Glynnis wrinkled her nose at Nessa before returning her attention to Kitty. “You haven’t gone and done something foolish, have you, pet? Like falling in love? “

  Letting out a pathetic wail, Kitty shoved the teacup aside and buried her head on her folded arms. “Oh, why couldn’t I have been the one the villagers fed to the Dragon? “

  “Now why would that randy old Dragon want you? “ Glynnis exclaimed, hoping to cheer her. “He only has an appetite for virgins!”

  While Izzy snorted and Nessa joined Glynnis in her merry peals of laughter, Kitty burst into tears, sprang to her feet, and ran from the room.

  Her sisters stared after her, their laughter fading. “What on earth do you make of that?” Nessa asked, frowning.

  “I don’t know,” Glynnis replied grimly, rising to her feet. “But I intend to find out.”

  The Dragon sat with his back braced against one of the stone merlons at the pinnacle of Castle Weyrcraig. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched the rising sun tip the waves with gold or felt a southerly breeze play across his brow. He turned his face to the sun, bathing in its grace.

  Last night’s storm had washed the world clean, leaving it smelling as fresh and pure as a newborn babe. He only wished his own sins could be washed away so easily.

  Even with his eyes closed, he could still see Gwendolyn standing in the moonlight, her hair a tousled halo of gold and her cheeks flushed rose from the pleasure he had given her. It was as if one of the demigoddesses painted on the ceiling of the tower had tumbled to earth. But such gifts were not meant for the hands of mortal man.