The Bride & the Beast

by Teresa Medeiros

  “Ballybliss?” Bernard straightened. “Ballybliss? I can’t believe you were fool enough to let her go!”

  “And I can’t believe you were fool enough to abandon her in the first place,” Tupper retorted.

  Bernard sank down in the chair opposite him, rubbing the back of his neck. “To be honest, neither can I. Although at least I had the common decency to leave her a note.”

  Exchanging a look with her husband, Kitty drew a folded piece of vellum from the pocket of her skirt. “Before she departed, my sister asked me to give this to you.”

  Bernard took the missive, recognizing his own sta tionery. Gwendolyn must have filched it from his study before he arrived home the previous night. He wasn’t surprised to discover that her handwriting was as graceful and precise as she was.

  “If you ever wish to spend another night in my company,” he read, “it will cost you more than a thousand pounds.” Bernard waved the piece of paper at Tupper. “Just what am I supposed to make of this? “

  “Whatever you choose, I would imagine,” his friend replied, helping himself to a forkful of kipper.

  Bernard was still gazing down at the note when Kitty gave his sleeve a tug. “Forgive my impertinence, m’laird, but I simply have to ask. Why did you leave my sister? “

  It was hard to hold on to his anger beneath the wide-eyed sincerity of Kitty’s gaze. It was even harder to remember that she was also the daughter of the man who had destroyed his life. He couldn’t very well confess that he was afraid he would spend the rest of his life punishing Gwendolyn for their father’s sin.

  He opened his mouth to lie but instead found himself uttering a truth he’d kept even from himself. “I suppose I didn’t believe I could ever be worthy of her.”

  Tupper chuckled and caressed his wife’s cheek, earning an adoring glance for his trouble. “Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought. Since when has any man ever been worthy of the woman he loved? It’s only by God’s grace that they love us in spite of ourselves.”

  Bernard gently folded Gwendolyn’s note and slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat. “What if it’s too late,

  Tupper? What if God doesn’t have any grace left for the likes of me? “

  “There’s only one way to find out, my friend.”

  Bernard sat in silence for several minutes before rising and starting for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Tupper asked, coming to his feet.

  Bernard turned in the doorway. “Home, Tupper. I’m going home.”

  The pipes were calling him home.

  As Bernard flew through the mountain passes and lonely glens, he could hear their music over the rhythmic thunder of his horse’s hooves. They no longer wailed a lament to mourn all he had lost but soared in a jubilant song to celebrate all he hoped to win.

  He was finally able to put a name to the hopeless yearning that had plagued him for fifteen years— homesickness. He was homesick for the salty sting of the wind that blew off the sea, the rippling music of the burns gurgling over their rock-strewn beds, the melody of English being spoken with a lilting burr. He was even homesick for the drafty old castle that had come to symbolize the ruin of all his dreams.

  The towers of Castle Weyrcraig appeared in the distance, silhouetted against the night sky. Bernard reined his horse to a halt, remembering all the times his parents had been waiting there to welcome him home. Times when his mother would scold him for lingering too long in the damp while his father ruffled his hair and challenged him to a game of chess or a reading of some epic Gaelic poem. He’d never had the chance to bid farewell to either of them, but as he gazed over that moonlit glen to the castle beyond, it was as if he was finally free to let them go.

  During all the years he’d spent plotting his return to Ballybliss, he had never once thought of it as going home because he’d believed there would be no one waiting for him once he got there.

  But he’d been wrong.

  A girl had been waiting for him. A girl who’d grown into a woman with a kind, brave, and constant heart. Instead of pity, she had offered him compassion. She had trembled beneath his hands yet given herself willingly into his arms. She’d taken mercy upon him when he’d had none to offer her and tempered his fury with tenderness.

  He could only pray she hadn’t given up on him yet.

  The village of Ballybliss slumbered peacefully in the castle’s shadow. As Bernard walked his horse through the deserted streets, he saw a single light burning in the window of the manor.

  He tugged on the reins, bringing his mount to a halt. That cozy square of light seemed to mock all his noble intentions. Before he even realized what he was going to do, he was standing on the front stoop of the manor, his hand poised to knock.

  Izzy swung open the door before his knuckles could touch the wood. His first instinct was to duck, but as far as he could tell, she was unarmed.

  “What is it ye want, lad? If ye wait a few weeks, there’ll be no need to finish what ye started. The good Lord’ll do it for ye.”

  “I just want to see him,” Bernard said.

  Izzy gave him one long, hard look before stepping aside to let him pass. Taking up her basket of mending, she sank back into her rocking chair, her joints creaking. While she seemed content to darn stockings by the light of the kitchen fire, a lamp burned brightly at the bedside of the man in the next room.

  Alastair Wilder was curled up on his side like a child. He had kicked off his blanket, exposing a body stripped of all but sinew and bone.

  His eyes fluttered open as Bernard’s shadow fell across the bed. It took them several seconds to focus, but when they did, anger glinted in their red-rimmed depths. “That must have been some bargain ye made with the devil, Ian MacCullough. To keep yer youth and vigor while I wither away like an auld man’s cock.”

  Bernard couldn’t think of a single reason to dispossess the old man of the notion that he was conversing with his long-dead friend. In truth, he felt almost as if his father were speaking through him.

  “It was you, not I, Alastair Wilder, who made the bargain with the devil. You sold your soul and mine for a thousand pounds in gold.”

  “And I’ve been payin’ for it every minute o’ every day since,” Wilder spat out.

  “As have I,” Bernard countered.

  Wilder cocked his head to the side, eyeing him with more than a trace of cunning. “So why have ye come here? To take yer revenge on a daft auld fool?”

  Before Bernard had time to ponder that question himself, Wilder’s gnarled hands closed around his wrists with surprising strength. He tugged, guiding Bernard’s hands toward his throat.

  “Wouldn’t ye just love to fasten yer hands round my scrawny throat? Don’t it give ye pleasure to imagine me gaspin’ my last while ye squeeze the life out o’ me?”

  Hypnotized by the old man’s singsong coaxing, Bernard gazed down at his hands as if they were the hands of a stranger. He wouldn’t even have to use his hands. He could simply press the heather-stuffed pillow over the old rogue’s smug face and hold it there until—

  It was almost as if Wilder could read his thoughts. “Go on, lad,” he whispered. “Izzy won’t tell anyone. She’s eager eno’ to be free o’ me. She might even help ye convince my daughters I perished in my sleep.”

  His daughters.

  Gwendolyn.

  Bernard shifted his gaze to Wilder’s eyes. They weren’t glittering with fear, but hope.

  Shaking his head, Bernard pried himself free of the old man’s grip. “ I’m not going to help the devil do his work. I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait until he comes to collect.”

  As Bernard turned away from the bed, Wilder pounded on the tick, his eyes filling with tears of impotent rage. “I know ye still want me dead! I can see it in yer eyes! I can feel yer hatred boilin’ through yer veins like acid!”

  Bernard turned at the door. “You’re not worthy of my hatred, Alastair Wilder. All I feel for you is pity.”

  He s
trode from the room, missing the bitter twist of Wilder’s lips as the old man muttered, “Then ye’re as great a fool as ye always were, Ian MacCullough.”

  He wasn’t coming.

  Gwendolyn huddled between two stone merlons at the pinnacle of Castle Weyrcraig, her feet tucked beneath her, and Bernard’s plaid wrapped around her shoulders.

  Every day for the past week, she’d made the arduous climb to the parapets of the castle and spent endless hours gazing out to sea. But on this, the seventh night of her vigil, there was still no sign of a ship on the horizon.

  The frigid bite of the rising wind made her shiver.

  Bernard might not be coming, but winter was, and she feared it was going to be the longest, coldest one of her life. In the past few days she had even dared to hope that she might spend it huddled in that decadent bed in the tower, warmed by a roaring fire and the heat in her husband’s eyes. Hugging the plaid around her, she tilted her head back to gaze up at the stars. They glittered like shards of ice, near enough to touch yet forever out of her reach.

  She had stood on this very spot and told Tupper that wrong or right, a MacCullough always stands to fight.

  Well, she had fought, but she had lost, and her sense of defeat was more bitter than she had anticipated. She felt much as she had all those times when Bernard had ridden his pony beneath the oak tree without ever glancing up to see the little girl huddled in its branches. A little girl who would have given him her heart for nothing more than a smile or a kind word.

  Unfolding her stiff limbs, Gwendolyn stood, stealing one last look at the sea. There wasn’t so much as a hint of light to break the inky blackness of the waves. Bowing her head, she turned toward the stairs.

  Her breath caught in her throat. A man stood there, veiled in shadows. If it hadn’t been for the wind rippling his cloak, she might not have seen him at all. She had no way of knowing how long he had been watching her.

  “What sort of coward would spy on a woman from the shadows?” she called out, biting her trembling lip.

  “Only the worst sort, I’m afraid,” he replied, stepping into the moonlight. “ The sort who’s spent half his life running from ghosts. The ghost of his past. The ghost of his parents. Even the ghost of the boy he used to be.”

  “Are you certain you weren’t running from me?” Bernard shook his head helplessly, his dark hair whipping in the wind. “ I could never hope to escape you, because you’re here”—he touched a hand to his chest—”in my heart.”

  Gwendolyn felt tears well up in her eyes. She was on the verge of running into his arms, when a ghostly white shape appeared on the stairwell.

  “Papa!” she cried. “How did you get here? Where’s Izzy? “

  Her father clung to the stone wall, barefoot and wearing nothing but a faded nightshirt. “I might not walk so good,” he wheezed out between gasps for air, “but I’m still man enough to sneak past a dozin’ auld woman and steal a horse.”

  “He must have followed me,” Bernard said. “I stopped at the manor on my way here.”

  “Why? “ Gwendolyn asked, wary of the guarded expression in his eyes. “It’s a bit late to ask for his blessing on our marriage, don’t you think?”

  All her questions were forgotten as her father staggered forward and she saw the claymore in his hand.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  FOR ONCE HER FATHER’S HAND did not waver. It held steady and true as he glided forward, leveling the deadly blade at Bernard’s heart.

  Bernard began to back toward her, spreading his cloak to make himself a larger target. “Put down the sword, old man. Your battles are long over.”

  “They could’ve been over when ye came to my bedside and stood starin’ down at me with those devil’s eyes o’ yers. All ye had to do was finish it. But, no—ye chose to spit in my face instead.”

  As Bernard moved within her reach, Gwendolyn clutched at the back of his cloak. “I don’t understand, Papa. What did he do to you?”

  “He offered me his pity, lass, that’s what he did. As if he had the right!” A sneer twisted Alastair’s lips as he shifted his contemptuous gaze to Bernard. “I’ve no need o’ yer stinkin’ mercy, Ian. Ye may be laird o’ Clan MacCullough, but ye’re not God!”

  He lunged forward, closing half the distance between them.

  Bernard flung out an arm to hold Gwendolyn back, but she ducked beneath it, taking her rightful place at her husband’s side. “He’s not Ian. He’s Bernard, Ian’s son. And you mustn’t hurt him. I won’t stand for it.”

  Her papa searched Bernard’s face, his rage slowly giving way to bewilderment. “Bernard? It can’t be. The lad is dead.”

  “No, Papa, he survived Cumberland’s attack. And he’s grown into a fine man—strong and true and kind.” She stole a look at Bernard to find him gazing down at her, his green eyes burning with emotion. “He’s everything I always hoped he would be.”

  Her father’s face crumpled. The sword slipped from his hand to land on the stones with a dull clank. “I suppose I’ll have to take yer word for it, lass.” A sad little smile touched his lips as he shook his head at her, his eyes gleaming in one of their rare moments of lucidity. “Ye’re a good girl, Gwennie. Ye always have been.”

  His eyes remained clear when he turned them on Bernard. “I may be a daft auld man, lad, but I was right about one thing. Only God can offer me mercy.”

  He turned, but instead of limping toward the stairs as they expected him to do, he went lurching for the parapet. Gwendolyn froze, rooted to the stones. For a fraction of an eternity Bernard didn’t move a muscle, but after taking one look at her stricken face, he bit off an oath and went barreling toward her father.

  He caught her father’s calves just as the old man sought to fling himself between two of the merlons. The struggle should have been an easy one, but her father’s desperation to end the life that had brought him so much misery seemed to imbue his wiry limbs with inhuman strength. As the two men grappled at the edge of the wall, Bernard’s cloak billowed around them, caught in the relentless grip of the wind.

  They teetered there, balanced between the past and the future.

  Her spell of terror broken, Gwendolyn lunged for them, terrified that they were both going over. She grabbed for Bernard’s cloak, tugging with all her might. But the wind tugged back, seeking to rip the heavy fabric from her hands.

  Her father slipped over the edge. The muscles in Bernard’s throat corded with the effort as he sought to keep the elderly man from plummeting into the churning sea.

  Bernard began to slide after Alastair, no longer able to battle both the wind and the dead weight. Gwendolyn clawed for his back, but she was afraid to loosen her grip on the cloak.

  Blinding panic assailed her. All Bernard had to do to save himself was let go of her father. If he didn’t, she was going to lose them both.

  Her strength was nearly spent when a massive arm banded with muscle from a lifetime of wrestling with iron pots and heavy washtubs shot past her, wrapping itself around Bernard’s shoulders. Before Gwendolyn could catch her breath, Izzy had hauled them all to safety.

  She and Bernard collapsed against the parapet. Her papa continued his fitful struggles until Izzy drew back her massive fist and slammed it into his jaw, sending him crumpling into a boneless heap.

  “You should have let me do that,” Bernard said grimly, massaging his shoulder. “Although I might have enjoyed it more than was strictly necessary.”

  Izzy shook her head, her hair rags bobbing like a nest of Medusa’s snakes. “Don’t think I didn’t. The daft auld rascal should’ve known better than to try to escape me.”

  Still shaking her head, she heaved Alastair over her shoulder as if he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes and went marching for the stairwell.

  Tears coursed down Gwendolyn’s cheeks as she struggled to absorb all that had just taken place.

  Bernard had risked his own life to save her father’s.

  He had chosen the future o
ver the past.

  He had chosen her.

  Laughing through her tears, she gave him a fierce shake. “Damn you, Bernard MacCullough. I’m tired of you almost dying on me. If you do it again, I’m going to kill you!”

  He grinned, looking exactly like the boy she had fallen in love with all those years ago. “I wasn’t afraid for a minute. Don’t you know that dragons can fly?”

  “So you’re back to being M’lord Dragon, are you? “ she asked, stroking his cheek.

  Bernard sobered as he gazed down into her eyes. “For the first time in my life, I know exactly who I am. I’m the man who loves you. The man who wants to spend the rest of his days making you happy.”

  Instead of melting into his arms as he’d expected, Gwendolyn scowled up at him.

  “Why on earth are you looking at me that way?”

  “I’m trying to decide if you’d have married me if Izzy hadn’t been standing over you with that ax.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” He tenderly folded her hand into his. “Gwendolyn Wilder… um, MacCullough, would you marry me?”

  She inclined her head, giving him a demure glance from beneath her lashes. “If you mean to make me your bride again, there’s something I must confess. I’m afraid I let some wicked scoundrel steal my virtue. I’m no maiden.”

  “Wonderful,” he pronounced, sweeping her up in his arms. “Then I won’t feel like such a beast for carrying you back to my lair and ravishing you.”

  “My beast,” she murmured, cupping his face in her hands.

  As their lips met in the most enchanted of kisses, Gwendolyn would have almost sworn she heard the song of the pipes soaring above the castle on wings of joy. In the village below, several of the townsfolk sat bolt upright in their beds, listening in awe as the jubilant melody thundered through the glen.

  For years after that, the sons and daughters of all who had heard that unearthly music would tell their sons and daughters of the thrilling time when a fearsome Dragon had surrendered his heart to a brave and beautiful maiden, winning a happy ending for them all.