The Bride & the Beast

by Teresa Medeiros

  She darted a frantic glance over her shoulder, shaken by the growing rumble of the cannons. If she couldn’t catch him soon, it would be too late. But she was too fat. Too slow. Her short, plump legs were no match for his long, limber ones. Before she could turn one corner, he was rounding the next.

  Gwendolyn! He sang out her name, urging her not to give up the chase.

  The cannons were growing louder still, their sporadic booming shaking the floor beneath her feet. Couldn’t he hear them? Couldn’t he feel them?

  As she plunged down the main staircase, she caught a glimpse of him sprinting into the great hall, his scarlet and black tartan rippling behind him like wings.

  Hope spilled through her chest. If she could just grab that tartan, she could hold him fast. She could throw her arms around him and keep him safe forever.

  Her feet struck the flagstones at the foot of the stairs. A deafening roar shook the castle. She fell to her knees, clapping her hands over her ears.

  When she finally dared to open her eyes and lower her hands, the cannons had fallen silent, leaving an eerie hush in their wake.

  She slowly climbed to her feet, the yawning archway of the great hall beckoning her forward. Her voice cracked as she called out his name.

  Her only answer was the whisper of the dust sifting down from the ceiling. She wanted to believe the stubborn boy must be hiding, that he was probably choking on his own laughter as he prepared to spring out at her from some shadowy corner.

  But then she saw the scarlet and black bundle lying on the floor of the great hall. She knelt to gently brush her hand across the wool, expecting to find it damp with blood just as it had been in a hundred other dreams. But the wool was dry, her fingers unstained.

  Those fingers began to tremble as she reached to tug back a corner of the tartan. Instead of resisting her pull as it usually did, the garment wafted up around her, leaving her gaping in astonishment.

  The tartan was empty. The boy was gone.

  The Dragon jerked bolt upright on his pallet, sweat sheening his muscular torso despite the chill in the air.

  They were coming. He could hear them—the clattering hoofbeats; the rumble of wagon wheels on the rutted road that led to the castle; the cacophony of voices, cursing and shouting orders; the scattered musket fire. He leapt to his feet, his breath coming short and fast, and dragged on his discarded shirt.

  He staggered blindly up the stairs, not bothering to light a candle or lamp. He emerged in the gatehouse, bewildered to find the cavernous room dark and deserted instead of teeming with men preparing for battle. He groped his way to the chapel, praying that he would find someone there, but his questioning cry came back to him as a hollow echo. It seemed that even God had abandoned him.

  As he ran past a recessed window, a dazzling flash of light nearly blinded him.

  He was too late. They’d already touched a torch to the first fuse.

  The Dragon came to a halt in the main entranceway of the castle, his chest heaving and his hands clenched into fists. Never again would he cower in the dark, waiting to hear the damning whistle of that first incoming cannonball. Never again would he trust his fate to a deliverance that would not come. He wrenched open the main door and stumbled into the night.

  He strode to the center of the courtyard and flung his arms wide, inviting the bastards to blow his bones into splinters. Squeezing his eyes shut, he threw back his head and let loose a roar that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. But even that anguished howl was no match for the booming crash that shook the earth beneath his feet.

  The crash faded to a rumble. The Dragon opened his eyes, surprised to find himself still standing. Rain poured over him, plastering his shirt and breeches to his body and washing away the last traces of the madness that had seized him.

  “Oh, God,” he whispered, sliding to his knees.

  Had he known there was a storm coming, he would not have let himself sleep. If Tupper had been there, his friend would have tried to distract him with some witty anecdote, a game of chess, a glass of port, anything to take the edge off this torturous wildness that threatened his soul.

  The Dragon buried his face in his hands. He could stand on the deck of a ship and withstand without flinching the cannons fired at his orders, but here in this accursed place, even the harmless blustering of thunder could drive him to the brink of insanity.

  He lifted his head just as a flash of lightning revealed that he was kneeling at Aphrodite’s feet. The last storm had brought him Gwendolyn, he remembered, a more welcome distraction than any Tupper could provide. He was shaken to realize how badly he longed to go to her at that moment.

  He rose, his bones aching. Fighting the lash of the wind and the rain, he made his way toward the castle, determined to seek the only solace he deserved.

  Gwendolyn jerked awake.

  At first she mistook the pounding of her heart for the ghostly echo of the cannons in her dream, but that was before a flash of lightning was followed by a clap of thunder. Gusts of wind pummeled the tower, howling their frustration when it refused to crumble before their force.

  She hugged herself to still her trembling. She almost wished the Dragon were there, almost wished for the sweetness of his kiss to wash away the bitter taste of the nightmare. But a dazzling flare of lightning proved she was alone.

  Finally the wind began to die down. She cocked her head as a curious banging reached her ears, too rhythmic to be thunder. She nearly shrieked when Toby landed on her feet with a muffled thud.

  “Where on earth did you come from, big fellow? “ she asked, stroking her fingers through his ruff. “I would have sworn Tupper let you out when he left.”

  The cat’s only reply was a rumbling purr. Gwendolyn climbed out of the bed and began to feel her way around the wall. Between each flicker of lightning, the chamber went dark as pitch.

  She fumbled for the panel door, but her hand met only air. The banging she had heard was the panel thudding softly against the opposite wall, still caught in the powerful fingers of the draft that had wrenched it open.

  The door was ajar. Gwendolyn was free.

  Chapter Thirteen

  GWENDOLYN BACKED AWAY from the door, wondering if she was still dreaming. If she dared to pass through that portal, would she hear the ghostly tap of a boy’s footsteps on the stairs? Would the mocking music of his laughter beguile her into giving chase?

  She pinched the tender flesh on the inside of her arm—hard. Reassured by the sting, she took a deep breath and ducked through the opening.

  She hadn’t fully realized what pains had been taken to make her tower warm and cozy until she encountered the chill, dank air outside her room. She groped her way down the narrow, winding staircase, ducking beneath a stream of rain that poured right through a crack in the ceiling. A broken block of stone snagged her nightdress. She jerked the hem free, then stumbled down three steps, the clumsy motion bringing her face-to-face with…

  Nothing.

  A ragged wound had been torn in the north wall, exposing a dizzying vista of storm-tossed whitecaps. Fading flickers of lightning danced in the moonless sky, illuminating the craggy face of the cliffs and the sheer drop to the rocks below.

  Gwendolyn scrambled backward, pressing herself flat against the opposite wall. Were these the terrors the Dragon had braved to come to her side in the dark of night?

  At first she feared she wasn’t going to be able to pry herself off the wall. But by steadying her breathing and squeezing her eyes shut, she managed to inch her way past the yawning gap and creep to the gallery below.

  At the far end of the gallery was a flight of broad, stone stairs.

  Gwendolyn started down the stairs, still not convinced that she wasn’t dreaming. In this dream, her footsteps were not slow or plodding. Instead, she seemed to float down the stairs, the ruffled hem of her nightdress drifting behind her.

  As she reached the entranceway, a cool, rain-scented breeze played across her skin. The
splintered door that led to the courtyard hung half off its hinges in an invitation Gwendolyn could not ignore.

  She hastened toward the door, trying to imagine the joy that would light her papa’s face when she threw herself into his arms. She hesitated, unable to bring his dear, familiar features into focus. A troubling thought plagued her. What if he hadn’t even missed her? When the Dragon had first made her his prisoner, she had believed her father’s madness to be a blessing. But now she wasn’t so sure. What if Papa simply squeezed her hand, called her his “good girl,” and shooed her off to bed? Then there would be nothing left for her to do but crawl beneath the covers with one of Reverend Throckmorton’s pamphlets, worry about Kitty, and wait for Nessa to return from the arms of her latest lover.

  Gwendolyn slowly turned. The yawning archway of the great hall seemed to beckon her forward, just as it had in her dream.

  She took one step, then another, her pulse racing with a strange mixture of fascination and dread.

  The great hall had once been the heart of Castle Weyrcraig, and it was that heart that had been broken by Cumberland’s attack. A cannonball had shattered a vast portion of the roof, freeing the clouds to scud across its ragged canvas. The rain had nearly stopped, and the moon had begun to peep shyly through the veil of clouds, as if to make sure the storm was truly gone and it was safe to come out. Tattered banners fluttered from the massive crossbeams that hadn’t been splintered by the blow, the scarlet dragons that danced on their fields of black faded to the hue of dried blood. A massive stone hearth crowned the far wall, its hand-carved mantel draped with cobwebs.

  Gwendolyn drifted into the hall, feeling barely more substantial than the ghosts who must surely haunt this place. She could almost hear the echoes of their laughter, their voices raised in song as they lifted their goblets in a victory toast to the might and majesty that had once been Clan MacCullough.

  She shook off the fancy. It wasn’t the ghosts of those long-dead warriors who haunted her, but the ghost of the woman who had once striven to make this drafty hall a home. Gwendolyn remembered the MacCullough’s wife as a stout, good-natured soul who laughed a great deal and adored her only son. Her sweetly feminine touch was everywhere. A settee framed by ornate gilt scrollwork sat below a shattered looking-glass, cotton batting spilling out of its frayed silk cushions. In lieu of gloomy tapestries, the walls had been festooned with French linen in once ethereal pastels of pink and blue. A fluted Corinthian column lay toppled on its side in a puddle of rainwater.

  As Gwendolyn traversed the hall, she had to pick her way through a field of broken pottery. She bent to pick up a shard of fine porcelain, smoothing her thumb over its lustrous surface. She had spent her life yearning for such beautiful things, and she could not help but mourn their destruction and the broken fragments of the dreams they represented.

  She was turning it over in her hand when her foot came up against a disembodied head. She nearly screamed before realizing it was the marble head of the statue in the courtyard—Aphrodite, her shapely lips curved in a knowing smile that both pitied and mocked.

  That was when she saw him.

  He sat, as always, in shadow. But on this night, it seemed that even the shadows weren’t enough to hide him. He slumped in the center chair of a long mahogany table, his head buried in his folded arms. A crystal decanter with less than an inch of whisky remaining in its bottom rested before him, along with a silver tinderbox and a candle he hadn’t bothered to light. He wore no coat or waistcoat, just a white shirt with its sleeves shoved carelessly past his elbows. From the way the fine linen clung to his powerful shoulders, outlining every sinew and muscle, Gwendolyn guessed he must be soaked to the bone.

  He was oblivious to her presence. All she had to do was tiptoe away and she would be free of him forever. But before she could turn and do just that, thunder boomed in the distance, sending a shudder through his rigid muscles.

  Before she even realized what she was going to do, Gwendolyn had crossed to his side and gently laid her hand on his shoulder.

  He lifted his head without looking at her, shedding droplets of rainwater. “Good evening, Miss Wilder.”

  “How did you know it wasn’t Tupper? “

  “Tupper knows better than to sneak up on me in the dark. He might inadvertently get his throat cut.” Gwendolyn swallowed. “But then again, his throat isn’t nearly as bonny as yours.”

  The whisky hadn’t yet slurred his speech, but it had softened the clipped consonants and flat vowels, giving his words a disarming lilt. Before she could withdraw her hand from his shoulder, he caught it and held it fast, his thumb gliding across her palm. “Nor are his hands so soft. Perhaps you’re only a dream,” he murmured, rubbing the back of her hand against his cheek. “Pray tell, would the prickly Miss Wilder have enough pity in her heart to come to me in my dreams with her soft hands and her skin smelling of sleep?”

  The delicious warmth emanating from his touch only made Gwendolyn feel more prickly. “I don’t believe that men in drunken stupors are capable of dreaming.”

  The Dragon laughed harshly. “Perhaps you’re not a dream then, but a ghost. The white lady of the castle sent to warn me to leave this place before it costs me my eternal soul.” He turned his head to look at her, his expression masked by shadows. “Ah, but the ever-practical Miss Wilder probably doesn’t believe in ghosts, does she?”

  Unnerved that he should have echoed her own dream so precisely, Gwendolyn said softly, “I used to think I didn’t. But when I stand in a place like this, I’m not so sure.”

  She felt oddly bereft when he relinquished her hand and rose, seeking the deeper shadows of the hearth. The damp chill of the hall seemed to seep into her bones.

  He looked up at the splintered rafters. “Have you ever wondered how they must have felt that night? Betrayed by one of their own. Abandoned by those they trusted to defend them. All they could do was huddle in the darkness with their own meager weapons and wait for that first cannonball to fall from the sky.”

  “They could have fled into the night with Bonnie Prince Charlie,” she reminded him, wondering as she often had why they hadn’t done just that.

  His chuckle held little humor. “That might have saved their lives, but it would have cost them their precious pride.” He traced the motto engraved over the mantel with his forefinger. “ ‘Wrong or right…’ “

  “ ‘… a MacCullough always stands to fight,’ “ Gwendolyn finished for him. There was no need for her to read the motto. Its hateful words were carved into her heart.

  “Were there children, do you suppose?” he asked lightly, swiping his finger through the thick layer of dust on the mantel.

  Now Gwendolyn was the one who turned away, seeking to hide from the moonlight. “There was a child. A boy.”

  “Only one. That’s unusual, is it not? I thought these Highland lords bred like rabbits.”

  Gwendolyn shook her head. “His wife was able to bear him only the one child. But unlike most men, he never reproached her. Instead, he treated her as if she’d given him the rarest and most precious of gifts—a son. An heir who would lead the clan once he was gone.” Her voice trailed to a murmur. “I don’t believe the villagers ever recovered from his loss.”

  The Dragon snorted. “From what you’ve told me about the good folk of Ballybliss, I doubt that anyone shed a tear for him.”

  Gwendolyn swung around to face him. “I did!”

  Unable to bear his silence, she drifted over to the jagged remains of a window. “I was little more than a child when he died, but I suppose I was half in love with him even then.” A rueful smile touched her lips. “Silly, wasn’t I, thinking a lad like that might spare a thought for a great, awkward girl like me?”

  “Your only folly was fancying yourself in love with someone who was little more than a child himself.”

  “Ah, but you didn’t know him. He was quite an extraordinary lad—strong and kind and noble. It was apparent even then what manner of man he
would grow up to be.”

  The Dragon sounded oddly subdued. “A paragon of goodness, no doubt, given to uplifting the downtrodden, protecting the virtue of the innocent, and rescuing damsels in distress.”

  “He rescued me once. But I was proud and stubborn and instead of thanking him properly, I gave him a scathing set-down. I didn’t realize it would be the last time I would ever see him alive.”

  She gazed out over the shattered ruins of the courtyard, but saw instead a sunlit path lined with weeping villagers, felt the rough bark as she dug her fingernails into the trunk of the oak, heard the mournful wail of the pipes as they heralded the death of all her dreams. “I saw them carry his body down the hill. I must have hidden in that very same tree and watched him ride through that pass a hundred times before, but that last time, he was draped facedown over the back of his pony. They’d wrapped him in the tartan he’d always worn so proudly.”

  Gwendolyn was aware that tears had begun to slip silently down her cheeks, just as they had done that day. Unaware that the Dragon had taken two halting steps toward her, his fingers curled into helpless fists at his sides.

  Gwendolyn brushed a tear away with the back of her hand and turned to face him.

  He stumbled around and braced both hands on the mantel. “I suggest that you leave me now, Miss Wilder. I’m lonely and I’m drunk. I’ve only been drunk for a few hours, but I’ve been lonely for a very long time, which hardly makes me fit company for discussing ghosts with a lady in her nightdress.”

  Gwendolyn was taken aback by his admission. She supposed she’d assumed that pangs of loneliness were reserved for plain women with lovely sisters.

  “And where would you suggest I go, M’lord Dragon? Back to my cell?”