The Winter Rose

by Alexandra Benedict

  A lump formed in her throat. She gasped for air. Trapped. Like her host? How long had he lived in purgatory? He had asked her for the date, so much time had passed. Oh, God!

  There, now. Don’t cry, said the slippers.

  But Bonnie crumpled onto the floor.

  It won’t help, gel.

  She wailed anyway. And how had the shoes returned to her bedchamber? Had they walked from the dining hall?

  Get dressed. Go down to breakfast. It will be all right, you’ll see.

  As she wiped the briny moisture from her eyes, Bonnie spotted yet another frilly dress propped in the armchair. There was something about the ornamental costume that repelled her. The pageantry reminded her of a lost world she would never be a part of again. What use had she for glamorous corsets and billowing skirts? Or was the splendor for the pleasure of her host? Had he made everything for her?

  If so, she would not give him the satisfaction of admiring her in sparkling things. She wasn’t an exotic pet!

  Blood swelled in her veins. She lifted to her feet and approached the armchair. In one swift movement, she rent the glittering fabric.

  Oh, you mustn’t do that!

  But Bonnie was impervious to any more advice from the slippers. She marched over to the wardrobe and pulled the gowns off their hangers, stomping over the textiles until they were crumpled, ripped and ragged. She would sooner wear a bedsheet than be swaddled by another garnished garment.

  “I loathe you!” she cried, though she wasn’t sure what incensed her more: the clothes, the foolish idea of a curse or her monstrous host?

  After releasing her frustrations, Bonnie spied one last dress in the wardrobe. How had she missed it?

  She reached for the attire.

  When she yanked it into the light, she noticed it was a brown and red tartan frock made from the finest wool. Her breath hitched. Her eyes welled with tears.

  “Aye,” she whispered. “Better.”

  She slipped into the warm, supple dress and twirled in front of the mirror; it suited her figure just fine. A brown ribbon frittered from the ceiling next. She picked up the strip and fastened her curly hair in a simple plait. There was a shawl in the wardrobe, too, made also of plaid. She folded the wrapper around her shoulders and sighed.

  Her appetite returned. She slipped her feet into the shoes and headed for the dining room.

  The keep was silent, not a soul in sight.

  Bonnie was beginning to think there were no servants, that the castle was enchanted after all, and that her host was cursed.

  And now she was cursed, as well.

  It was a gloomy thought.

  At the dining hall door, she was about to rap on the wood, but displays of propriety seemed trite under the circumstances. Instead, she opened the door without warning or invitation. The table was crowded with an assortment of pastries and fruit. She moved toward her chair and sat down, pouring herself a cup of steaming tea.

  “Good morning,” from her captor.

  She selected a scone and buttered it, ignoring the man and his empty felicitation. There was nothing “good” about the day, and his pretense otherwise vexed her all the more. She refused to meet his gaze or even search for him in the room. She was tired of his lurking in the shadows like a wraith. If he wanted a polite conversation, he could join her at the dining table like a true gentleman.

  “A petulant chit, I see.”

  His taunt caused her pause … but she refrained from making a tart comment and stuffed her mouth with the scone.

  “I expect—”

  “You can expect the devil for all I care,” she returned in a surly manner, licking her sticky fingertips. “I am not your pet bird, and I will not squawk at your command.”

  She reached for another pastry.

  He stormed toward her like a raging bull. “Ungrateful woman!”

  Bonnie jumped from her seat, palms fisted, as he cleared the table with a swipe of his arm, sending the food and dishes clattering to the floor. What a waste!

  “A petulant boy, I see,” she shouted.

  The scar on his cheek throbbed like a pulsing vein. He rubbed the wound, wincing as if it pained him.

  “I saved your life,” he hissed, chest heaving. “I should have let you freeze, you ungracious creature.”

  “And miss the opportunity to keep a ‘creature’ at your side?” She snorted. “Do not pretend you saved my life to spare me the fate of death. You saved my life because you didn’t want to be cursed and alone. I would rather be dead than trapped in this castle with you!”

  And she bolted from the room.

  “Bonnie!”

  But his roar of protest only spurred her onward. She winded through the castle, searching for an outside door. At last, she found one and wrenched it opened.

  A wintry gale smacked her in the face, taking her breath away. She pulled the shawl above her head, then clambered through the snow.

  The road had to be near. The entire world wasn’t cursed, just him. If she reached the road, she’d find help. She’d find her way home. But the snow drifts grew higher as she lumbered forth. Still, she would not go back to the keep, to him.

  “Bonnie!” sounded a faint voice in the turbulent wind.

  She trudged through the thick snow until her feet rooted in the hellish stuff, and she soon drowned like a hapless animal in quicksand. She was trapped, she realized, then. Cursed, like him.

  Forever.

  “No,” she cried. “No!”

  A hand grabbed her arm and hoisted her from the frigid mire. He dumped her over his sturdy shoulder and struggled through the blizzard, back to the castle.

  Bonnie blacked out from the cold—and despair.

  ~ * ~

  With a blazing fire at her backside, Bonnie shivered with warmth. Her lashes fluttered, and she peeked at her unfamiliar surroundings: a library. Her joints stiff with cold, she remained under the woolly blankets and nuzzled her cheek against the bearskin rug.

  She was not alone, though. She heard her captor breathing, rough, unbroken gusts of air. From the ground, she peered upward and found him seated in an armchair, fury in his sable brown eyes. She brushed off his temper. He had his “creature.” And in a hopeless vein, she released a sob.

  His features softened at the sound of her weeping, she assumed. He even cursed under his breath.

  “There’s no need for your caterwauling,” he grumbled, his tone verging on apologetic. “I’ll not hurt you.”

  “But I am a prisoner?” she croaked.

  After a somber pause, he said, “I can not break the curse, Bonnie.”

  “Who are you? Why are you cursed?”

  He reached for his right cheek, rubbed the scar. “I am Ian MacGregor, Laird of Lockaber.”

  She sniffed. “There is no clan in these hills.”

  “There was once … many moons ago.”

  She glanced at her dress. “Are these your tartan colors?”

  “Aye.”

  “What happened to you? Your clan?”

  “That is a tale for another day.” He turned his face, hiding the scar. “You are free to explore the castle, find amusement where it suits you, but do not enter the west wing.”

  “Why?”

  “It is forbidden,” was his curt reply.

  She scowled at his finesse. “Are we to dine at every meal?”

  “If it pleases you,” he gritted. “I will stay in the shadows, otherwise.”

  And with that brisk retort, he shot out of the chair and left the room.

  Bonnie scrunched her legs and sighed, draping the blanket over her nose. She remained on the bearskin rug, cocooned and toasty warm, wondering what she was going to do now.

  Though the castle was grand, and she would surely find some diversion, she shuddered at the thought of spending her time alone. She didn’t want to become icy on the inside, like her host, to turn as frosty as the cursed snow. And while engaging with Ian sounded just as unappealing, he was the only other soul a
t the keep. Could they form a truce? Find some common ground?

  She was determined to coax him from his beastly ways. She had to. If this was her new home, she needed a real friend.

  ~ * ~

  Bonnie had not seen Ian in several days. She had passed most of her time exploring the castle. There was a vast sitting room with both cross stich and tapestry embroideries to entertain her. A music room with two pianos. An impressive library with more than a thousand tomes. A spectacular ballroom, the walls made of illuminating stained glass. A barrage of bedchambers, salons and galleries. And the dining hall, where Bonnie had supped alone since her last encounter with Ian.

  She was restless, bored. On a few occasions, she’d been tempted to investigate the west wing and drag her solitary host from his damned reclusiveness. She’d avoided the impulse for now, but if she didn’t have some companionship soon, she’d go mad.

  Curled in a window seat in one of the salons, Bonnie stared at the swirling squall, tapping her feet in quick succession, wringing her fingers.

  What’s the matter, gel?

  “I’m unsettled, of course,” she sniped at the slippers.

  Why don’t you read a book? That will keep you engaged.

  “Blah!”

  She cleared the window seat and paced the room, her gaits short and swift. “I need …”

  What do you need?

  She wasn’t sure anymore. Her past was like a hazy dream. A few indiscriminate memories flashed through her mind. “Roses,” she cried. “I love red roses. And dancing. And looking at the stars. I love minced pies. And sherry! And … I can’t remember the rest.” She sobbed. “I’m losing myself; I’m disappearing, aren’t I? Is that how the curse works? It takes your soul?”

  Hush, gel.

  “No! I won’t stand quiet any longer. What is happening to me?”

  Follow the rose petals.

  “What?” she rasped, wiping her foggy tears—and there, scattered across the floor was a plethora of red rose petals. “But how?”

  Don’t ask, gel.

  Bonnie had come to accept the castle’s mysterious ways, and she bustled from the room, following the trail of flowers.

  The snaking route eventually led her to a part of the keep she had never seen before, and as she neared a door with frosted glass inlays, a heady fragrance, both sweet and tangy, lured her toward the curious room.

  She opened the barrier and stilled, the breath sucked from her lungs.

  Her gaze rolled over exotic fruit trees, honey scented plants, perfumed blossoms, spicy herbs and even strange vegetables infused with an array of striking color. The hothouse was protected under glass. There was a domed ceiling in the centre of the construction and a balmy heat emanating from the tiled floor.

  Bonnie wandered the aisles in awe, stopping every few yards to smell a divine bloom or finger a velvety leaf or pop a peculiar green into her mouth, the tartness a savory thrill. She could stay here forever, she thought with delight, especially when she came upon the rose garden.

  Her chest tightened at the magnificent sight of thorny stems twisting over arches and lattices, and brilliant petals dangling in hues of sunset peach and ivory white and, yes, even scarlet red.

  Bonnie teetered on her toes, reaching for a cluster of roses, inhaling their unearthly scent. Home. She felt like she was home.

  The leaves rustled.

  She glanced toward the sound—and spotted Ian. He stood beside a sickly red rose bush, the foliage blighted with dark spots.

  A pair of pruning shears in hand, he carefully tended the ailing shrub, snipping the unhealthy sprouts and tossing them to the ground. He whispered something; she strained her ear in an attempt to catch his words, but his voice was too low. Was he talking to the flowers?

  Her heart cramped at the vison of such tender regard. He willed the vines to live, to flourish, she sensed, and her impression of him changed in that delicate moment from beastly laird to a broken man.

  “Ian.”

  He paused, fingered a jagged-edged leaf. “Aye, lass?”

  He stared at the flowers, not looking her way, and for the first time, she trembled as she approached him, uncertain. At the hothouse, they had common ground: a love of botany. Might the blossoms be the foundation of a true friendship between them?

  “How is this possible?” she asked of the hothouse. “In the midst of winter with so little light?”

  “There is life within these walls.”

  She brushed her fingertips over the red rose, grazing his knuckles, and her blood warmed. “Some life here struggles,” she said, thinking of him.

  At last, he peered at her with such fire in his eyes he set her flesh alight.

  “What more can I give you, lass?” he beseeched.

  “Me? I—I don’t know,” she stammered, gooseflesh spreading across her arms.

  Was he thinking of her struggle? Surely, he carried greater pain. He had been trapped in the castle far longer.

  “Do you remember the night you came to the castle?” he wondered, clipping the tainted leaves again.

  She whispered, “No.”

  “You had a bouquet of red roses.”

  She glimpsed at the afflicted stock and petals. “I did?”

  “Aye … A wedding bouquet.”

  Bonnie seized. She glanced at her left hand, but there was no gold band.

  “I have no ring,” she verily squeaked.

  Married? No. Impossible. She had no husband. She just … felt it.

  “I threw the flowers, and your wedding clothes, into the fire,” he said.

  “Stop!” She backed away from him, quivering. “What are you doing, Ian?”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “How?” Her hand went to her aching breast. “What good is it to know I have a husband? A husband I will never see again? Did you throw the ring into the fire, too? To erase all my memories?”

  “I did not erase your memories, lass … You did.”

  “What?”

  “Think, Bonnie. Why did you come to the castle on your wedding day? You had no ring when I found you in the storm. You had not yet married your betrothed. You had run away from him, instead.”

  Her head throbbed with memories hammering to be set loose, but she crammed them back into the darkest recess of her mind.

  “Stay away from me!” she cried and dashed from the hothouse, her skirt hiked and flailing in her desperate wake.

  Disoriented, Bonnie sprinted and stumbled through the keep until she found herself back inside the library. She glanced at the bearskin rug, the roaring fire and she remembered a blustering night …

  “Bonnie.”

  She whirled around.

  Ian was at the door, approaching her. “Don’t run, lass. You’re safe here, I promise.”

  A sob welled in her throat. “No, stay away!”

  She tripped over the bearskin rug and landed on her rump. Ian was at her side in an instant, kneeling beside her.

  “What’s happening to me?” she cried as a welter of emotion stormed her breast. “I’m so afraid.” And she wrapped her arms around the laird, burrowing her face in the crook of his neck and shoulder.

  He hesitated to touch her in return. After a short while, though, he embraced her, tight, buried his lips in her hair, soothed her with hushed words of comfort.

  She sobbed and shuddered and gripped him with all her might until the barrier in her mind gave way, and a torrent of recollections flooded her head. The swarm was overwhelming, inscrutable at first. It took her several minutes to shift through the deluge of murky memories and make any sense of the turmoil.

  “A beast,” she whispered.

  He hardened. “What?”

  “I remember a beast. I—I was to marry him, to pay off my father’s debt. But when I reached the church, I panicked. I saw the storm. I ran through it, hoping he would never find me.”

  Ian loosened his hold on her.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, voice risin
g. “Don’t let me go!”

  “I don’t want to frighten you, lass.”

  She looked up at him, her cheeks stained with tears. “You are not a beast, Ian. I know a beast when I see one. Your eyes are not black like your soul. And … I’m not afraid of you.”

  He grazed her cheek, sending shivers of warmth down her spine. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, Bonnie.”

  “I believe you,” she whispered.

  He lifted her in his arms and carried her to her bedchamber. There, he set her on the bed and fetched a blanket, draping it over her. “Rest.”

  “I can’t. I’m …”

  Ian settled on the bed beside her and leaned forward. Her breath hitched. He pressed his mouth over her brow, kissing her softly, and his lips lingered until she sighed with an indescribable calm. She was sorry when he ended the buss, but her heartbeat remained fixed, her soul quiet.

  “I’ll see you at dinner, Bonnie.” He brushed her temple. “Sleep.”

  And she closed her eyes and dreamed good dreams.

  ~ * ~

  Bonnie smiled when she entered the dining hall. At the head of the table stood Ian wearing a kilt with jacobite shirt, belt, leather sporran and tartan hose.

  He bowed and pulled out her chair. “Good evening, my lady.”

  There was a subtle shift in his voice, a throaty vein she’d never heard before that night, and she shivered at the sensation of prickled delight that came over her.

  “Why, good evening, sir,” she returned in kind and took the offered seat.

  When he repositioned his own armchair at the side of the table, she shuddered again at his intimate proximity.

  “Look what I found in the wine cellar.”

  He revealed a bottle of sherry.

  Her grin widened. “A tipple, if you please.”

  After he poured the fortified wine, they clinked glasses.

  “To roses in winter,” he toasted, a gleam in his dark brown eyes.

  Bonnie sipped the sherry, feeling warm, oh, so very warm.

  Their dinner was gracious and refreshing, and she was giddy toward the end of it, when Ian extended his hand.

  “Would you like to dance, lass?”

  Aye, she would. Very much. And she took his hand.

  He escorted her from the dining hall to the ballroom. Candles glistened from floor candelabras. Moonlight pierced the stained glass, creating a prism of muted color across the polished floor.