The Winter Rose

by Alexandra Benedict

  Her heart thumped ever so loud as Ian curled an arm around her waist, pulling her against his broad chest. Soon music plinked throughout the chasm, echoing sweet, and he twirled her around the room.

  “Where is it coming from?” she asked in awe, turning her head, searching for the musician.

  “There,” he said.

  At last she spotted a pedestal, where a porcelain music box played the charming folk tune, and she laughed, lost in the jig, the embrace of the laird and the magical night.

  As the song chimed to an end, she was breathless, flushed.

  Ian stopped in the middle of the dance floor, staring into her eyes with a smoldering expression. “I’ve had a wonderful time, Bonnie.”

  “So have I,” she whispered.

  He leaned toward her … But she tensed.

  Bonnie lowered her gaze, offered her cheek.

  Ian hardened and swiftly released her. He gave a curt bow, a brusque, “Good night.” And stormed from the ballroom.

  “Wait!” she cried. “Ian!”

  But he was gone.

  “Drat.”

  She rubbed her brow. She’d made a terrible blunder. She’d given him the impression she’d wanted something more than a friendship. And though she was lonely, like him. And she yearned for comradery, like him. She wasn’t prepared for a romantic interlude.

  She just … well, she wasn’t sure what her feelings were for the laird. The sherry had lowered her guard; she’d flirted shamelessly, she was sure.

  Drat. And drat again! She had not intended to cause him confusion, or worse, embarrassment. Did he think she’d rejected his kiss because of his scar? What rot! He was a strong and tender protector. A good, if broken, man. And the wound on his cheek? She paid it no mind anymore.

  Oh, what was she going to do? How was she going to make things right between them again?

  She looked down at the slippers in desperation. “Any advice?” But the shoes remained silent. “Oh, now you’ve lost your tongue.”

  Bonnie circled the ballroom, massaging her temples. After a few restless minutes, she charged after Ian—toward the west wing.

  At the foot of a spiral staircase, she stiffened. The shadows seemed alive, threatening.

  No, you mustn’t! warned the shoes.

  But Bonnie kicked off the slippers and grabbed a lantern from the wall. The soft light illuminated her footfalls as she climbed the stairs, the stone freezing beneath her feet.

  At the top of the landing, the causeway was dark and foreboding, yet she pressed onward in search of the laird. Unlike the rest of the keep, the west wing was in disarray, neglected and covered in dust and cobwebs. There, the curtains decayed, the stone facade crumbled, hinting at the castle’s true age. It was also ghostly quiet. Dead.

  A shudder gripped her. “Ian?” She raised the lantern, casting a long beam of light down the decrepit corridor. “Where are you? I’ll not go back until I see you. Speak out!”

  She heard a growl instead.

  The shadows shifted, closing in around her. “Ian!”

  Something snapped at her heels. She jumped, shrieked. As she whirled around, she found no animal. What had nipped at her feet, then?

  “Ian!”

  A rough hand clinched her wrist. “What are you doing here?” he gritted.

  She gasped in relief when he stepped out of the swirling shadows, then gasped again when she eyed his bare chest covered in slash marks.

  “Mercy,” she breathed, aghast. “What happened to you?”

  Another unholy growl from the darkness.

  “Come.” He dragged her through the passageway at a swift pace. “I told you not to come here, Bonnie.”

  But she was unable to defend herself, transfixed by the gashes across his backside, too. Had he been mauled by a beast? The very beast lurking in the passage right now?

  He soon ushered her inside a bedchamber and shut the door.

  Her hands trembled, and she set the lantern on a table. “What is this place?”

  “My sanctuary.”

  He was still dressed in his kilt, the bedsheets rumpled. Perhaps she’d stirred him from his slumber.

  “Sanctuary?” she repeated, her gaze circling the unsightly room with its tattered tapestries and sooty portraits and beat up rugs. “How chilling.”

  “Precisely,” he quipped. “If I forgot what I am or why I am cursed, I come here—and remember.”

  “Ian, I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” he sneered.

  “I hurt you—”

  “No,” he snapped. “You put me in my place. I don’t need to be dreaming about castles in the sky.” He reached for his jacobite shirt. “I’m taking you back to your room.”

  “But the beast?”

  He hardened.

  “Not you! Out there! In the shadows.”

  “There is no beast.”

  “He bit me, Ian.”

  The laird stiffened. “Where?”

  “On my heel.”

  He quickly scooped her in his arms and carried her over to the bed, dropping her on the mattress rather unceremoniously. She released an “oof” before he examined her feet, his expression intent.

  “I see nothing,” he said.

  “Well, I felt something.”

  “An overactive imagination, I’m sure.”

  What gall! “In this place? A cursed castle? Can one really have an ‘overactive’ imagination under the circumstances?”

  “Touché.”

  Was that a smile? Damn, it transformed his entire visage from hardheaded laird to a vulnerable man.

  Her heart quickened. She cupped his cheeks and pulled him closer. But he wedged a knee on the bed, preventing her from drawing him too near.

  “Ian,” she beseeched. “I care for you.”

  “Stop,” he ordered, voice taut. “Don’t lie to me, lass. I don’t want your pity.”

  He reached for her hands.

  She scrambled onto her knees, leaned toward him, and kissed him with an unfathomable need in her soul. The thought of losing him, wounding him, rent her heart in half. And she wanted him to know the truth, to believe the truth—that she loved him.

  How had it happened? In the garden? In the library? In the ballroom? When had her desire for friendship turned into something more? She had been so sure her feelings for him had not been romantic in nature. Had she lied to herself? Had she been too afraid to admit the truth?

  It mattered naught now, she thought, moving her lips over his lush mouth with an almost violent passion. At first, he offered her little in return, his manner frosty. But when she moaned with an ardent want for him, he quivered, then cracked, and instead of wrenching her hands away, he covered them with his own, opening his mouth and letting her roam with unhindered longing.

  “Oh, Ian. I—”

  “Nay,” he whispered, bussing her bottom lip, her chin, her throat. “I know what you want, lass.”

  And they tumbled onto the bed.

  A growl came from the darkness.

  Ian cursed. He hovered over her a moment more before he pushed away and vacated the bed.

  “What is it?” she demanded, scrambling onto her rump and pressing her backside against the headboard. “And don’t tell me it’s my imagination. Is it a dog?”

  A feral dog? A rabid dog?

  “It’s my keeper,” he returned with a hapless sigh, weaving his fingers through his hair.

  “Y—Your keeper?” Her eyes flitted, searching for his “keeper.” “I don’t understand, Ian. What is it?”

  “A Pict.”

  Her jaw dropped. “But … there’s no such thing as a faerie.”

  Another growl.

  All right, perhaps there was such a thing as a faerie. According to folklore, the Pechts lived underground. Is that why it growled? Lurked in the shadows?

  “Ian, I’m frightened.”

  “It won’t hurt you, Bonnie—only me.”

  She gasped then, remembering the wounds on his chest
and back. Had the Pict attacked him? “But why?”

  “I’m cursed. And if I try to break free from the curse …”

  “It hurts you?”

  He dropped his head. “Aye.”

  In the wispy shadows, he looked truly hopeless. And her heart ached for him, for the burden he suffered alone.

  She scrambled off the bed, fury rising in her soul, and approached him, taking his hand. “How do we break the curse?”

  A bright spark flared in his eyes. “I must find true love … and receive it in return.”

  “But I do love you, Ian … Oh, unless you don’t feel as I—”

  “No.” He squeezed her palm. “I love you, Bonnie. But you do not know me, lass.” His voice trailed off. “You do not know why I’m cursed.”

  The glimmer in his eyes dimmed, then died.

  “Tell me,” she pleaded. “Let me help you.”

  “No!”

  She started at the sharp retort.

  He yanked his hand from her and stalked a few feet away. “I’d rather stay cursed than tell you the truth.”

  “What rubbish!”

  “You’ll hate me, Bonnie. I … I couldn’t bear that.”

  “I’ll not hate you, Ian. Tell me! Set us both free!”

  Her entreaty caused him pause. At last, he turned toward her and sighed. “You’re right, luv. It’s time I reveal the truth.”

  There was another rumble from the darkness.

  “Quiet!” Bonnie ordered. She whirled around, searching for the Pict, but she found nothing. “I don’t know what you really are, but you’ll not keep Ian forever. Do you understand?” She faced the laird again. “The curse can be broken and it will—tonight.”

  He offered her a half smile. “You are a remarkable woman, Bonnie.”

  She didn’t feel very remarkable; more like scared out of her wits. But she was also determined to help Ian. “Go on. Tell me the truth. Why are you cursed?”

  He moved toward the window, gazed at the raging blizzard. “I was a wastrel in my youth. I lived according to my whims. I had no respect for my position or even for my people.” His voice tightened. “I had an affair with a clanswoman … Emelia. She had a good heart; thought herself in love with me. But I had no honor. I dismissed her. When she came to me, pregnant, I threw coins at her, told her to take her troubles elsewhere.

  “A few days later, I learned she had drowned in the river. Some whispered it an accident, but I knew the truth. She had taken her life. She had honor. And she could not face the clan, her family with a babe and no husband. I am responsible for her death.”

  Bonnie listened with intent, her lungs starved for air. As she heaved for breath, tears welled in her eyes—tears of compassion for the poor girl.

  “Ian, I—”

  “Let me finish, Bonnie. I may not have the courage to confess again.” He bowed his head. “Emilia’s sister came to me, raged at me, but I still refused to admit I’d done wrong. It was then she revealed herself as a Pict. It was then she cursed me, the castle, the clan. There would be no time or light or peace between these walls until her sister received justice.

  “There, now, Bonnie. You have the whole truth. What do you think of me now? Does love still fill your heart?”

  Bonnie shook her head. “I—I’m confused, Ian. I don’t know what I feel anymore.”

  “I do,” he said in a weak voice. “If I heard such a ghastly tale, I would hate the man who told it. I would abandon him in his misery. I’d condemn him to death.”

  Tears streaked her flushed cheeks. “I can’t bear it.” She hiked her skirt. “I’m sorry, Ian. I must leave.”

  And she raced pell-mell from the bedchamber, her breast congested with sorrow for the girl, for Ian. She cried for herself, too. Mercy, what would she do now?

  At the bottom of the stairs, Bonnie grabbed the shoes, hopping on one foot, then the other as she covered her bare feet.

  What happened, gel?

  “I—I can’t break the curse,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

  She dashed toward the hothouse, into the rose garden. There she collapsed at the foot of the red rose bush, more sickly and weak than she remembered. As she cried, the petals flitted to the ground, blanketing her in velvety softness. Soon only one rose remained, and it, too, started to wilt.

  What would happen when the last petal fell? Something ominous, she sensed. But she was powerless to stop it; her heart was broken. Ian was a beast.

  A crash resounded through the castle.

  “Bonnie!”

  Bonnie bristled at the bone-chilling voice of her barbarous betrothed. How had he found her? Oh, God! She was trapped. If she tried to escape the castle, Death awaited her. What would she do?

  Hide, gel. In the fruit trees.

  The trees. Aye, she thought. She scrambled up the branches and settled on the highest bow, her fingers trembling. The leaves shuddered. Be still, she prayed. If she didn’t rest as quiet as a mouse, he’d find her for sure.

  The hothouse doors burst open.

  Heavy footfalls pounded the tiled paths.

  Bonnie bit her tongue, tasted blood in her mouth. She gripped the gnarled bark until her knuckles numbed, shut her eyes tight, but her heart still pounded like canon blasts and her breaths quickened until she verily gasped.

  The footfalls paused.

  She was lightheaded.

  “What are ye doin’ up there, Bonnie?”

  No! she screamed in her soul. His every word pierced her like a knife. At last, she opened her eyes. “Galvan,” she rasped. The Ruler. The Beast. The real beast.

  Mercy, she had made a horrible mistake. As she stared into his cruel and unforgiving eyes—eyes so unlike the laird’s—she realized Ian wasn’t the beast, after all. She had not made a blunder by giving Ian her heart. She had not misjudged him for he had changed. And it was so terribly obvious in that gruesome moment.

  Galvan grabbed her ankle and yanked her from the tree.

  She hit the ground hard, shrieking, her bones throbbing.

  Run! cried the shoes.

  But Bonnie moaned in agony.

  Galvan grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her to her feet. She limped and wobbled, unsteady after the nasty tumble. He jerked her into his arm, his red beard white with frost, his eye black with fury.

  A pistol in his hand, he waved the weapon. “Is this where ye’ve been hiding from me?”

  “Galvan, let me explain.”

  “You ran away on our wedding day.” His fingers twisted into her hair until she winced. “Do you ken the humiliation ye’ve caused me?”

  “I—I—”

  “Ye’ll pay for it, that’s what ye’ll do.”

  She whimpered, hopeless.

  And then Galvan sailed across the tiled floor, slamming into the ground.

  Bonnie dropped to her knees.

  “Get the hell away form her!” roared Ian, pounding her betrothed into the dirt.

  But Galvan wasn’t a small man and threw several blows in defense. After a violent struggle, he jabbed Ian in the belly with his boot and sent the laird lumbering toward her.

  Galvan’s eyes widened. “Are ye the devil?”

  “Aye,” returned Ian.

  “Ian,” she screamed. “He has a gun!”

  “Have you shacked up wi’ the devil? Ye bleedin’ whore!”

  And Galvin lifted the pistol, aiming it straight at her.

  A shot ripped through the hothouse.

  Bonnie sensed a hard blow to the chest … but it wasn’t the bullet. Ian had pulled her into his arms, shielded her from the blast and collapsed with her onto the ground.

  “Ian!” she cried.

  Blood seeped from the wound in his back, pooling around him. He gasped for breath, but only gurgling noises escaped his mouth, followed by a trickle of blood.

  “Nooo!” she sobbed and draped her head over his lips. “Ian,” she whispered, tears gushing down her cheeks and into his mouth. “Don’t leave me,” she beseeched. “
Please! I love you!”

  And she pressed her mouth over his cold lips.

  The castle rumbled. The ground rolled. Stones busted from the walls. Glass splintered and rained, staking into the ground.

  The keep was falling apart.

  Bonnie cared not a jot. Cradling Ian in her arms, she prepared to perish with him as the walls lurched and roiled and shuddered with the force of a medieval siege.

  Galvan howled as the hothouse crashed all around him, shards of glass impaling him. Soon the rest of the keep followed, the stones crumbling like a sand castle.

  Bonnie squeezed her eyes tight, still gripping Ian, as the heavens trembled and the earth seized.

  Goodbye, gel, she heard the shoes. And thank you!

  Then—poof—the slippers wilted and vanished from her feet.

  Silence.

  A cloud of dust roiled in the air.

  Slowly Bonnie lifted her head.

  She coughed and waved her hand. As the ash and grime settled, she stared at the castle ruins. In the midst of so much destruction, she was alive. How?

  Voices. She heard voices. At least a hundred orbs lifted from the rubble, pulsing with electric blue light. Singing. Laughing.

  Tears filled her eyes. “You’re welcome,” she said.

  And the spirits shot toward the heavens, finally free.

  Bonnie glanced at Ian, still cold and lifeless. “I’m sorry I couldn’t set you free, too.”

  She dropped her head again, pressed her brow against the his.

  And she sensed something warm.

  A pulse.

  “Ian?” she croaked, her lungs choked with soot. “Ian!”

  He groaned.

  She laughed. “Oh, how sweet!”

  “My broken bones?”

  “Your voice!” she cried, then, “Are you bones really broken?”

  He strained to sit up, teeth gritted. “No, I don’t think anything is broken.”

  She quickly checked his backside—but the bullet wound was gone. A sob of joy filled her lungs, and she bussed his back, his shoulder, his cheek, his lips—and there she lingered for a few sensual moments.

  “It’s over,” she breathed, breaking away from the kiss. “The curse is broken.”

  The dubious laird scanned his ravished surroundings.