A delighted grin broke over Tupper’s face. “Since we’re to be married on Scottish soil, there’ll be no need to obtain a special license from the Crown. If it pleases you, we hope to be man and wife before the end of next week.”
“That doesn’t leave us much time.” Gwendolyn frowned, her head already spinning with all there was to accomplish. “Kitty should have a new gown, although I suppose we could borrow the one Glynnis was last married in. And Izzy will have to prepare a ginger cake or some other such trifle for the guests. We won’t be able to afford much extravagance, of course, but if we all sacrifice, we can…”
She trailed off as Tupper reached into the satin lining of his frock coat and drew forth a folded sheet of paper sealed with crimson wax. He held it out to her, looking even more nervous than before.
The creamy vellum was only too familiar. “If our laird is in need of some fresh venison,” Gwendolyn said coolly, “I suggest he try the butcher’s shop.”
“It’s not a demand this time,” Tupper assured her, “but an offer.”
Succumbing to his pleading look, she took the note and unfolded it, holding it between the very tips of her forefinger and thumb as if the ink itself might be tainted.
“So the MacCullough wishes to throw you and my sister a wedding,” she said, feeling her mouth tighten as she scanned the scrawled missive. “And he’s inviting the entire village to join in the celebration.” She snapped the note closed. “It’s a very generous proposal, but we’ve no need of his charity.”
“He said to tell you that he preferred to think of it as payment toward a debt he owes.”
Gwendolyn wanted nothing more than to tear the MacCullough’s note into a thousand pieces, march up the hill to the castle, and hurl them into his arrogant face. But she knew what such a grand wedding would mean to Kitty. There would be tables laden with every manner of meat and pie, freshly tapped casks of whisky, piping and singing that would go on until dawn. And all of this feasting, revelry, and dancing would be presided over by the prodigal prince of the clan. It would be a night her sister would remember for the rest of her life. And one Gwendolyn wouldn’t be able to forget, no matter how hard she tried.
She sighed. She had been willing to sacrifice so that Kitty could have a fine wedding. She just hadn’t realized the cost would be so high.
“You may inform the MacCullough that I will accept his offer,” she told Tupper, “but that he should know better than anyone that some debts can never be repaid.”
Chapter Twenty
THE PIPES NO LONGER mourned for Ballybliss’s lost prince. Castle Weyrcraig blazed with light, its ghosts finally laid to rest. The villagers swarmed up the hill, their colorful tartans and plumed bonnets in open defiance of the Crown’s Act of Proscription, which had banned all manner of Highland dress after Bonnie Prince Charlie’s defeat at Culloden.
As they spilled through the newly restored wrought iron gates into the torchlit courtyard, their laughter ringing in the crisp night air, a solitary figure watched from a window high above, searching their joyful ranks for the one face he feared he would not find.
Although some of the finest workmen from Scotland and England had spent every waking moment of the last two months patching cracks and rebuilding walls, the castle seemed more of a ruin to Bernard than it had before. He missed the solitude. He missed the dark.
He missed her.
Leaning against the window frame, he briefly closed his eyes. He missed Gwendolyn’s courage, her defiance, her softness in his arms. Her absence had left gaping holes and jagged cracks that no amount of mortar could fill. There were so many words left unspoken between them, so many questions she hadn’t given him the chance to answer.
For over two months, he had fought to stay away from her, telling himself that nothing had changed since that stormy night he’d first found her in his courtyard. He might dress like a gentleman and live like a prince, but he was still a beast at heart—a creature with no conscience or remorse.
He was haunted by the fear he’d glimpsed in her eyes that night on the beach. It was almost as if she were more afraid of Bernard MacCullough than she’d been of the Dragon. Not that he could blame her.
He watched the villagers stream through the gates that had been thrown wide to welcome them. They had no idea that they were marching into a trap. Before this night was done, they would be begging to hand over the traitor who had destroyed his family. Perhaps it would be best if Gwendolyn stayed away. It wasn’t as if he could ask her blessing on what he was about to do.
Bernard straightened, giving the ruffled cuffs of his shirt a practiced flick. The time for indulging his regrets was done. His adoring clansmen were waiting to toast the health of their host, and he was only too willing to oblige them.
Gwendolyn sat at her father’s bedside, determined to linger there for as long as she dared. She wished she could spend the entire evening with her nose buried in the latest pamphlet from the Royal Society for Improving Natural Knowledge by Experiment, but she hadn’t the heart to abandon Kitty on her wedding day. She sighed, already missing her sister. After tonight, she would never again have to worry about waking up with Kitty’s elbow in her ear.
The merry sound of piping drifted through the closed shutters. The ancient wood did little to muffle the music and laughter ringing through the glen. Thanks to the laird’s gracious generosity, no doubt the revelry would grow more raucous as the night wore on and the freely flowing whisky loosened tongues and inhibitions held in check for years.
Her papa twitched in his sleep. He’d been fretful all day—jumping at shadows, tugging at her hand, and muttering about the wrath of dragons until Gwendolyn had wanted to climb into the bed and bury her own head beneath the pillow. It was such a pity, she thought, that he would never know that his youngest daughter was about to become the wife of a future viscount.
The door creaked open and Izzy came bustling in, looking taken aback to find her there. “Why are ye dal-lyin’, lass? Yer sisters left for the castle nearly an hour ago.”
Gwendolyn rose and busied herself with tucking the blanket beneath her father’s chin. “ Papa’s been very restless today. I was thinking that perhaps I should stay with him while you go and make merry with the rest of the villagers.”
“And what business does an auld woman like me have with makin’ merry? Makin’ merry is for those still young eno’ to get a rise out o’ the sap in their veins.” Izzy jerked her head toward the door. “Go on with ye, lass. I’ll look after yer father. Yer sister would never forgive ye if ye missed her weddin’.”
Still avoiding Izzy’s eyes, Gwendolyn plumped up the pillows. “If you reminded her of what a bad day Papa has had, I’m sure she would understand.”
Izzy planted her hands on her hips. “Kitty might understand, but I’ll be damned if I do.”
Gwendolyn bowed her head, ceasing her aimless motions. “I don’t know if I can go back to that place. I’m not ready to face him.”
Izzy shook her head. “In all the years I’ve known ye, lass, I’ve never known ye to back down from a battle. I don’t know what that young rogue did to ye up there in that castle, but it shames me to think ye’d let anyone, man or beast, keep ye from yer sister’s side on the most important day of her life.”
Gwendolyn slowly lifted her head, considering Izzy’s words. The maidservant was right. It was selfish of her to let her own apprehension cast a shadow over Kitty’s happiness. She stole a look at the bed. Her papa slept without stirring, at peace for the first time in that endless day.
“Very well, Izzy, I’ll go.” Gwendolyn’s pulse quickened as she took her shawl from the back of the chair.
“Not dressed like that, ye won’t,” Izzy retorted, eyeing Gwendolyn’s brown woolen gown. “I’ll not have ye bein’ mistaken for one o’ the kitchen maids at yer own sister’s weddin’.”
She hurried out of the room, returning a few minutes later with several yards of shimmering taffeta draped over one arm. Gwendo
lyn gasped.
It was the sky blue sacque gown she had worn that last night at the castle. Dawn had just begun to streak the sky when she had ripped it off and hurled it into the corner of the loft, hoping never to see it again. She had assumed it had been disposed of, but Izzy must have rescued it and painstakingly repaired the tears in the fragile fabric.
“Yer mother had such fine things before she married yer father,” Izzy said, stroking one rawboned hand over the sleek taffeta. “But she never truly had need o’ them. Lady Leah’s beauty was on the inside and would have shone through even the ugliest of rags.” She held her offering out to Gwendolyn, her sharp eyes dulled by a fine mist. “Much like yer own.”
Tears stung Gwendolyn’s eyes as she gently folded the gown into her arms. The brusque old maidservant had given her a much greater gift than she realized. Wanting to give her something in return, Gwendolyn stood on tiptoe and kissed Izzy’s cheek.
Turning a full shade redder than her usual color, Izzy shooed Gwendolyn toward the door. “Go on with ye, lass. Ye haven’t the time for such nonsense, and I haven’t the patience. That randy young Englishman’s likely to have yer sister’s petticoats up and her drawers down before you can trot yer arse up the hill.”
Gwendolyn hurried up the cliff path, no longer able to resist the song of the pipes. Their pagan wail stirred her blood, made her ache to cast off her own inhibitions and dance with abandon by the icy glow of the moon hanging in the northern sky. The night seemed to whisper her name just as it had at Castle Weyrcraig, coaxing her to embrace the seductive dangers of the dark.
The sleek taffeta of her skirts rustled around her slippers. She touched a hand to her hair. After changing gowns, she had traded her woolen snood for a pair of tortoise-shell combs that allowed soft ringlets to escape from the French knot at her nape.
A carriage waited outside the courtyard gates, its patient horses draped with a profusion of flowers and ribbons. After the wedding, Tupper and Kitty would be departing for Edinburgh for a brief honeymoon. A heady journey indeed, Gwendolyn thought wistfully, for a lass who would have been content to spend her entire life within the sheltering walls of the glen.
Although the castle windows blazed with light, most of the merriment seemed to be confined to the courtyard. Standing torches ringed the walls, banishing the shadows with their luminous glow. Aphrodite presided over the revelry, both her head and her mocking smile restored to their former beauty. Servants worked their way through the crowd, bearing trays laden with food and drink. Their scarlet livery and powdered wigs earned more than a few sniggers from the Highlanders.
Auld Tavis was wheezing out a jaunty melody on the pipes, his bony chest heaving as if every note would be his last. Lachlan strummed along on the strings of his clarsach, accompanied by drums, fife, and fiddle. Even though Reverend Throckmorton looked like a drab crow amongst a flock of preening robins in the severe black of his breeches and coat, it appeared he had decided to turn a blind eye to the clan’s petty rebellion. A smile lit his puckish face as he clapped along in time to the music, missing more beats than he hit.
It didn’t take Gwendolyn long to locate her radiant sister. Tupper clasped Kitty’s hands in his as they led two lines of dancers through a galloping reel. A halo woven from wild roses and dried sprigs of heather crowned Kitty’s dusky curls, making her look even more angelic than usual.
Kitty’s dimples deepened as she spotted Gwendolyn. She broke from the line of dancers, dragging a winded Tupper along behind her. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming!” She relinquished her grip on her husband-to-be just long enough to give Gwendolyn a fierce squeeze.
Gwendolyn squeezed her back. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, kitten. Or perhaps I should call you ‘cat,’ since you’ll soon be a grown-up married lady.”
Tupper beamed down at his betrothed, his broad face flushed with exertion and pride. “In a very short while, you can call her Mrs. Tuppingham.”
“I thought perhaps she’d prefer ‘Mrs. Dragon,’ “ Gwendolyn replied, giving him an arch glance.
Kitty scowled and punched him on the arm. “You shouldn’t tease so. I still haven’t quite forgiven him for that wicked little charade.”
“After tonight, you’ll have the rest of your life to make me pay,” Tupper reminded her, bringing her fist to his lips.
“And don’t think I won’t,” Kitty purred.
Before their flirting could disintegrate into open cooing, a line of dancers galloped past, grabbing them both back into the reel.
“Don’t go away! I’ll be back!” Kitty shouted over the music and laughter, throwing Gwendolyn an apologetic glance.
Gwendolyn sighed as she watched them whirl away from her. She was supposed to be the sensible sister. Why couldn’t she have fallen in love with someone as sweet-natured and uncomplicated as Tupper?
The thought made her look furtively across the courtyard. There was no sign of the MacCullough.
In a shadowy corner, a lass and lad were sharing a lingering kiss. Gwendolyn didn’t realize she was staring until the girl lifted her head and looked straight at her.
Cheeks burning, Gwendolyn headed for the nearest buffet table. The music was climbing to a feverish pitch that made her blood feel too hot for her veins. Nine months from now, there would doubtlessly be a rash of babes born in the village, some begotten willingly and others forced upon women drunk or foolish enough to wander away from the protection of the light. Wishing she had remained at her father’s bedside where she belonged, Gwendolyn helped herself to a fluffy scone. Perhaps if she ate enough of them, she would grow too fat to ever again squeeze out the door of her home.
The pastry was halfway to her mouth when she heard a familiar high-pitched titter. She turned to find Nessa and Glynnis bearing down upon her.
Nessa wrinkled her pert nose. “For heaven’s sake, Gwennie, must you make such a pig of yourself?”
“As much as she’s eaten in the past two months,” Glynnis said, “you’d think the MacCullough refused to feed her the last time she was his guest.”
Gwendolyn’s fingers tightened on the scone, crumbling it into bits. She was growing weary of her sisters’ baiting. “Oh, he fed me. He fed me sumptuous banquets of nectar and ambrosia while I reclined on cushions of pure silk.”
Nessa and Glynnis leaned forward as one, mesmerized by the uncharacteristic huskiness of Gwendolyn’s voice. Although she didn’t realize it, several of the nearby villagers also paused to listen.
“He would pop plump, succulent grapes into my mouth one by one, then kiss away each sparkling drop of dew that fell upon my quivering breast.”
Nessa gasped and Glynnis clapped a hand over her mouth, but Gwendolyn was too busy savoring their reaction to realize that their attention was no longer on her, but on something just over her right shoulder.
“After I was all done licking the nectar from his fingertips,” she continued, allowing a lascivious smile to curve her lips, “he would lay me back among those very cushions, tear off all my clothes, and make mad, passionate love to me all night long.”
“There’s no need to flatter me, Miss Wilder,” said someone standing just behind her. “I expect your sisters, as kindhearted as they appear to be, would not be disappointed to learn that even a man of my stamina might require a brief nap between such vigorous… shall we say… exertions?”
The smoky baritone with the lilting hint of heather washed over Gwendolyn, followed by an icy flush of horror. After waiting just long enough to make sure God wasn’t going to answer her prayer and allow the ground to open up and swallow her, she slowly turned to find herself glaring up into the smirking face of Bernard MacCullough.
“Don’t you ever grow weary of sneaking up on people?” she demanded.
Had she believed he possessed even an ounce of shame, the downward sweep of his thick, dark lashes might have been quite convincing. “ I realize my rudeness is unforgivable, but if I announced my presence everywhere I went, how
would I be able to eavesdrop on such delicious conversations?” He arched one dark eyebrow, bringing to mind the torrid scene Gwendolyn had just described to her sisters.
As far as she was concerned, he had picked a wretched time to embrace his heritage. In defiance of the Crown’s edict, he wore a short kilt and a matching scarlet and black plaid draped over the dazzling whiteness of his shirt. The froth of lace at his wrists and throat only emphasized the masculine strength of his imposing chest and long limbs. His knees were bare, his lower legs encased in tartan stockings and leather shoes. His thick, dark hair brushed his shoulders.
It might have been a trick of the torchlight, but he seemed to be both the boy Gwendolyn had loved for more than half her life and the man she had always dreamed he would become. She felt as if she were nine years old again, yearning for something she could never have.
“Good evening, m’laird,” Nessa chirped as she and Glynnis took turns curtsying, bobbing up and down like the windup birds in a mechanical clock.
“Good evening, ladies,” he replied, his gaze never straying from Gwendolyn’s face.
At that moment someone wrested the pipes away from Auld Tavis while someone else began to weave a beguiling melody on fife and clarsach. It was a ballad they all knew, one that bemoaned the fate of a young girl foolish enough to give her heart to the first lad who looked her way.
Bernard held out his hand, his eyes darkened by an emotion Gwendolyn couldn’t begin to fathom. “Shall we dance, Miss Wilder?”
The crowd fell into a sudden hush, leaving the strains of the song to swirl around them—sweet, seductive, and dangerous.
Gwendolyn gazed down at his hand. Once she had trusted not only her hand to him, but her heart. Once she had been a fool.
She lifted her gaze to his face. “Is that an invitation or a command, m’laird?”
“Which would you prefer?”
“From you? Neither.” Gwendolyn turned on her heel, fully intending to leave him to the mercy of her twittering sisters.
The Bride & the Beast Page 17
