The Bride & the Beast

by Teresa Medeiros

“Had I known being fed to a dragon would be so sweet,” she murmured into his mouth, “I might have gone willingly to that stake.”

  “Ah, but the taste of you only whets my appetite,” he growled, grazing her throat with his teeth.

  The hungry stroke of his fingers left no doubt as to what would satisfy him. He pressed two of them deep inside of her, using the dew his mouth had coaxed from those lush petals to prepare her for what was to come. As his shadow covered her, blocking out the moonlight, Gwendolyn began to tremble again.

  He cupped her face in his hands. “You were brave enough to defy a dragon in his own lair. Don’t tell me you’re afraid now.”

  “I’m not,” she whispered, tenderly stroking his hair from his brow. “I’m terrified.”

  Bernard gazed deep into her eyes. “So am I.”

  His hoarse confession gave Gwendolyn the courage to open her legs to him. As he buried himself deep within her, a ragged groan tore from his throat. Gwendolyn might have cried out herself had his pleasure not seemed to be so much more powerful than her pain. The ache of accommodating him was quickly eclipsed by the primal thrill of being filled to the brink by his throbbing length. There would be no escaping this stake, and as Bernard began to glide in and out of her, each thrust driving him deeper, Gwendolyn realized she no longer wanted to escape.

  She wrapped her arms around him and clung for dear life. He could no longer hold himself apart from her—not the boy she had adored, nor the man she had loved.

  She arched against him, eager to embrace all that he was and all that he ever would be—angel and demon, boy and man, beast and prince, husband and stranger.

  She no longer rebelled against his tender mastery, but rejoiced at being a captive to the pleasure he would lavish upon her.

  Bracing his palms on each side of her head, he rocked into her, all the while gazing into her eyes with an urgency as fierce and driving as the ancient rhythm building to a crescendo between her thighs. “You told me you were once half in love with me,” he reminded her. “Well, I’m a greedy bastard and I’m not willing to settle for half. I want it all.”

  At that moment, he shifted his body, angling his strokes so that each plunge of his hips abraded the tender bud nestled at the peak of her damp curls.

  The words he sought broke from her on a wail, driven forth by a relentless tide of pleasure. His body went rigid, seized by the same convulsions of ecstasy that wracked her womb. In the glen below, several of the villagers lifted their eyes to the castle and signed crosses on their breasts, swearing that they had once again heard the Dragon’s roar.

  Gwendolyn stood in Bernard’s arms on the table below the grate, watching the moon drift toward the sea. The ship that had first brought him to her was still anchored in the inlet, its masts silhouetted against the falling moon. Despite his most valiant efforts, they both knew the night couldn’t last forever.

  As the last traces of the moon’s silvery wake disappeared beneath the swells, his arm tightened around her waist. She leaned the back of her head against his shoulder, sighing wistfully.

  Although there seemed to be no shame in their nakedness, Gwendolyn was further emboldened by the dark. Turning in Bernard’s arms, she slipped to her knees before him.

  As the softness of her lips flowered against his abdomen, he gently twined his hands through her hair. “What are you doing, woman? Trying to drive me mad?”

  Since there were no words to speak what was in her heart, Gwendolyn gave him the only answer she could. His hands fisted in her hair and his head fell back, the muscles in his throat cording as he uttered a groan of raw rapture. Gwendolyn had been seeking to atone for her father’s sins, but instead she found herself exalted by this potent combination of power and vulnerability, both Bernard’s and hers. She was no longer his captive, but a willing supplicant on the altar of his pleasure. Her absolution was sweeter than anything she had anticipated, but not nearly as sweet as the moment when Bernard dropped to his knees and pressed her cheek to his thundering heart.

  Although the rosy glow of dawn was already beginning to warm the chamber, Bernard sat in the shadows beside the bed, watching Gwendolyn sleep. With her golden hair and pale skin, she was a creature of the light, defying the darkness with her very existence.

  He leaned back in the chair, the kilt draped over his lap. Any other time he would have wished for a glass of port and a cheroot, but he wasn’t yet ready to vanquish the taste of her from his mouth.

  She was curled on top of the sheets, her cheek lying on her folded hands, her lips still swollen from his kisses. His groin tightened. Shortly before dawn he had learned just how generous those lips could be.

  He reached to stroke a tendril of gold from her brow. For the first time in fifteen years, his urge to protect was stronger than his urge to destroy. Even if the danger he most needed to protect her from was himself.

  He could no longer ignore the dried stains on the sheets, the rusty flecks marring Gwendolyn’s pale thighs.

  May vengeance be upon yer heads

  ‘Til innocent blood be shed.

  As his father’s curse echoed through his mind, Bernard dropped his head into his hands. He had shed the blood of an innocent, only to discover that nothing had changed. He had warned Gwendolyn that the boy she had once loved was dead, but until this moment, Bernard had never truly grieved for him.

  That boy would have never sought to punish her for her father’s transgressions. He never would have forced such a ridiculous travesty of a marriage upon her. He would have given her the wedding she deserved. And the wedding night.

  She would have had clean sheets and fresh flowers and a fire to warm her while her lady’s maid helped her out of her gown and into a virginal white nightdress. She would have sat on a stool before the mirror while the maid drew a brush through her hair and perhaps answered a few questions to allay her fears about the night to come.

  He wouldn’t have come to her in darkness, but by candlelight, offering her a glass of wine to soothe her nerves before stealing a few chaste kisses. Then he would have carried her to the bed, gently laid her back among the pillows, and made love to her with all the consideration she deserved. He certainly wouldn’t have subjected her to one feverish coupling after another without giving her tender young body any time to recover from his brutish attentions.

  Bernard lifted his head, tracing the graceful curve of Gwendolyn’s back with his despairing gaze. That boy could have given her so much—a home, his children, his heart.

  Bernard wanted to believe he could still give her those things. But every time he looked at her he would remember the bargain her father had struck with the devil and just what that bargain had cost him.

  Memories he’d denied himself for over fifteen years came flooding back—the warm, briny scent of his pony after a hard rain; the deep rumble of his father’s exasperated chuckle; the tenderness in his mother’s touch as she brushed a lock of hair from his brow. Alastair Wilder’s treachery had robbed him of his past, and now it seemed it would rob him of his future as well.

  His enemy finally had a face. And it was the face of a man he had once admired and respected. A man his father had trusted with his life and the life of his family. By betraying that trust, Wilder had earned Bernard’s undying hatred.

  Surely it would be only a matter of time before that hatred poisoned everything he touched—even Gwendolyn.

  It was just as he had feared. Her kiss, willingly surrendered, had doomed him to walk in darkness for the rest of his days. Only now he was cursed with the knowledge that darkness wasn’t the absence of light, but the absence of her.

  The Dragon came to Gwendolyn in her dreams. She was curled up on a bed of sandalwood and spice when his shadow fell over her.

  Reluctant to wake up, she kept her eyes closed even as she opened her arms to him, murmuring his name. At first she thought he meant to slip between her thighs again—to ease the hollow ache that was satisfied only by his presence. But, instead, he gathere
d her into his arms, then gently touched his lips to her brow, her dimpled cheek, the corner of her mouth.

  “Is it morning?” she murmured, nuzzling her lips against his throat.

  “Not for me,” he whispered, his arms tightening around her.

  She snuggled deeper into their warmth. “Then do I have to wake up?”

  “No, angel, you can sleep as long as you like.” Planting a kiss on the softness of her lips, he eased her back to the mattress. He tucked the soft folds of his plaid around her, his hands lingering everywhere they touched.

  His shadow drifted away from her. Gwendolyn burrowed into the tartan cocoon, secure in the knowledge that her Dragon would be watching over her while she slept.

  When Gwendolyn opened her eyes again, there was a beast sitting on her chest. Once she might have shrieked to make such a discovery, but now she simply thought how astonishing it was that she could breathe while encumbered with so much dead weight. Toby returned her drowsy blink with one of his own.

  “How do you stay so fat?” she inquired of him. “I know it’s not from eating mice.” His whiskers twitched, his expression so contrary that she had to laugh. “ I suppose you’d like to ask the same thing of me.”

  In reply, he extended his claws and began to knead the plaid. Gently heaving him aside before he could puncture one of her lungs, Gwendolyn sat up.

  This time, she didn’t have to wonder how the cat had gotten into the tower. The panel door was half-ajar and Bernard was nowhere in sight.

  “I hope he’s gone to fetch us both some breakfast,” she told the cat, stretching her stiff muscles. Noting the steep slant of the sun through the grate, she added, “Or lunch.”

  A naughty little smile curved her lips. Not even that dour English manservant of Bernard’s could blame her for languishing in bed half the day, since it had been his master who had kept her up for half the night.

  The villagers had been right about one thing. The Dragon’s appetites were insatiable.

  Gwendolyn collapsed on the pillows, giggling like a schoolgirl. The sheets no longer smelled only of sandalwood and spice, but of an earthy musk redolent of their loving. She breathed deep, savoring the memories it evoked.

  She smiled up at the mural, musing over the parallels between Psyche’s story and her own. Like the Dragon, Cupid had come to Psyche only at night, making her promise never to try and see his face. Gwendolyn struggled to remember more of the story her mother had once told her. Prompted by her jealous sisters, Psyche had broken her vow, stealing a glimpse of Cupid’s face while he slept. But when a drop of hot oil from her lamp spilled upon his arm, he had awakened. Angered by his bride’s betrayal, he had flown away, vowing never to see her again.

  Gwendolyn’s smile faded. She sat up, becoming aware of how very quiet the castle was. Since Toby was still sulking at being evicted from her chest, she didn’t have even his purr to break the silence.

  She rose and slipped into her rumpled gown, then wrapped the plaid around her shoulders. Some childish whisper of hope made her close her eyes just as she had done in the ruins of the chapel on the night she had gone in search of the Dragon.

  This time, there was no bone-deep certainty of Bernard’s presence. There was only a vast emptiness, underscored by the unsettling hush that had fallen over the castle.

  Opening her eyes, Gwendolyn dashed across the tower and scrambled up onto the table.

  Bernard’s ship was already drifting out of the inlet, its sails unfurled to catch the southerly breeze.

  By the time Gwendolyn reached the peak of the castle, she was gasping for breath. The wind whipped at her hair, momentarily blinding her as she ran to the battlement.

  She leaned over the wall, her nails digging into the stone as she spotted the ship approaching the horizon. Before a rush of hot tears blurred her vision, she saw a lone figure standing at the stern of the ship, his black cloak billowing about his broad shoulders.

  She wondered if he could see her. He might have been able to see the sun glinting off her golden hair, but he couldn’t have seen the sobs that wracked her shoulders or the tears coursing down her cheeks. She stood there, refusing to crumple as long as there was the smallest chance that she might be visible to his eyes.

  As the ship melted into the misty horizon, Gwendolyn sank to her knees on the cold stone, burying her face in her hands. She couldn’t have said how long she remained like that. It could have been only moments, or an eternity. But when she heard a footfall behind her, she jerked her head around, hope flaring in her breast.

  Tupper stood there, compassion shining in his soft, brown eyes. “This was delivered to the manor a short while ago,” he said gently, holding out his hand. “I suppose he didn’t want you to be alone when you read it.”

  Gwendolyn smoothed the creamy paper beneath her hand, then slid her fingernail beneath the familiar dab of crimson wax that had been used to seal it.

  Bernard’s elegant scrawl lacked its usual flair. The forceful slashes and graceful loops were marred by ink blots and smears.

  “My lady,” Gwendolyn read softly. “The curse has been broken. Both you and Ballybliss are free. I tried to warn you that I was no longer the boy you once loved. After what transpired between us last night, you must surely believe me.”

  Tupper blushed, but Gwendolyn refused to feel even a flicker of shame.

  “From this day forward,” she continued, “no man will ever be your laird and master, because you will be the MacCullough, the chieftain of Clan MacCullough and lady of Castle Weyrcraig. I’ve arranged for the thousand pounds your father accepted from Cumberland to be delivered to you so that you might do what is best for the clan and the castle. A thousand pounds will follow each year until my death.”

  Gwendolyn faltered. “You once asked me for the truth and I refused you. Last night you asked me for mercy and I refused you that as well. All I have left to offer you now is the one thing that was never truly mine to take—your freedom.” Gwendolyn was forced to read the last through the tears streaming from her eyes. “I leave you with both my name and my heart. Ever yours, Bernard MacCullough.”

  She bowed her head, crumpling the paper in her fist. Looking nearly as miserable as she felt, Tupper fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for a handkerchief and waved it at her.

  Gwendolyn climbed to her feet, batting it aside. “Damn him, Tupper! Damn his arrogant soul to hell!” Hugging the plaid around her shoulders, she turned back to the sea, letting the wind sear the tears from her eyes. “Does he think everything can just go back to the way it was before he came to this place? Does he think I can just go back to pretending that dragons don’t exist? “

  Tupper shook his head helplessly. “ I’m sure he believed he was only doing what was best.”

  Gwendolyn whirled around. “Yet he has the sheer gall to try and convince me that he’s no longer the boy I remembered? He is precisely that boy! Smug. Bullheaded. Arrogant. Always trying to decide what’s best for others without bothering to consult them. Why, he hasn’t changed one whit!”

  “He can be very stubborn once he gets a notion into his head. Perhaps in time…”

  “I’ve already waited fifteen years. How long am I supposed to wait for him this time? Twenty years? Thirty? A lifetime?” She shook her head. “Oh, no! I’ve no intention of wasting another second of my life waiting for Bernard MacCullough to come to his senses.”

  Tupper stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “So what do you mean to do?”

  Gwendolyn straightened to her full height. Dashing the last of her tears from her cheeks, she drew the plaid around her shoulders as if it were the mantle of some ancient Celtic queen. “You heard his words, Tupper. I’m the MacCullough now. And wrong or right, a MacCullough always stands to fight.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  HE’S QUITE THE BEAST, isn’t he? “

  “That depends on whether you’re referring to his temper or his wit. I’ve heard that a single lash from that tongue of his can flay th
e hide from even the most clever of conversationalists.”

  “I wouldn’t be adverse to receiving a tongue-lashing from him. Provided it took place while my Reginald was in the country, at one of his interminable hunting parties.”

  That husky quip earned a round of scandalized titters from the speaker’s companions.

  The object of their speculation brought his champagne glass to his lips, pretending not to overhear the conversation taking place just over his left shoulder. Fortunately, his hostess had an overbearing fondness for the Greek Revival style of interior decoration, giving him a wide variety of columns to lurk behind.

  “My husband heard a rumor that he isn’t even English,” offered another woman. “Apparently, he’s been masquerading as one of us for years simply to disguise the fact that he’s actually”—she paused for dramatic effect—”a Scot!”

  From the shocked gasps that greeted her revelation, she might as well have pronounced him an escaped Bedlamite.

  “That explains his temper, doesn’t it? Scots are a savage lot, given to ravishing virgins and speaking whatever is on their minds.” The woman spoke as if these traits were equally abhorrent.

  “Did you hear what he told Lady Jane after she cornered him in the drawing room and spent three quarters of an hour extolling her niece’s matrimonial virtues?”

  The rustling of fans indicated a new flurry of excitement. “Oh, no. Do tell!”

  The speaker deepened her shrill voice three octaves in a crude impression of Bernard’s baritone. “ ‘If I were seeking a wife, my lady, which I most certainly am not, she wouldn’t be a simpering chit with more bosom than brains.’ “

  As the women dissolved into gales of laughter, Bernard lifted his glass in a bleak toast to a lass who had been blessed with both.

  “Perhaps it’s not his own wife he needs to satisfy his appetites,” suggested the husky-voiced siren, “but someone else’s.”

  As she and her tittering companions drifted away in search of fresh blood, Bernard brought the glass to his lips again. He was surprised to find it empty. If he kept swilling the foul-tasting froth at this rate, he would end up propping himself up with the column instead of hiding behind it.