Teresa Medeiros - [FairyTale 02] (24 page)

“He’d best make haste if he hopes to catch you between husbands,” Gwendolyn said, slinging a sopping-wet towel over the line and barely missing Glynnis’s nose. “Then again, he might have enough silver in his pockets for your tastes, but not enough in his hair. You wouldn’t want to marry a man who could outlive you, would you?”

“You can be his wife if you want, Glynnis,” Nessa trilled. “For I have every intention of becoming his mistress.”

As her sisters collapsed in a fit of girlish giggles, Gwendolyn groped in her apron for more biscuits. She was choking down the last of them when the garden gate clanked shut.

When she saw the man standing in the shadow of the wall, her heart did an odd little flip. But as he stepped from shadow to sunlight, she realized that it
was simply Tupper, garbed in a sober black frock coat and knee breeches.

“Good day, ladies.” He spared a polite bow for both of her sisters before turning his earnest brown eyes on Gwendolyn. “I was wondering if I might have a word with you, Miss Wilder. Alone.”

“Why, certainly, Mr. Tuppingham,” she replied, taking her cue from his stilted formality. Although he had been a frequent visitor to the manor in the past few weeks, he always seemed to make some excuse to leave whenever she appeared. She supposed he still felt guilty for his part in her abduction.

Glynnis and Nessa grudgingly took their leave, casting Tupper curious glances over their shoulders. They still couldn’t quite believe that their baby sister had managed to snare such an exotic admirer.

Tupper drew off his hat and passed it from hand to hand, avoiding Gwendolyn’s eyes. “I hope you’ll forgive me for burdening you with this, but I didn’t know who else to turn to. If Catriona’s father were…” He hesitated, obviously at a loss.

“Sane?” Gwendolyn provided.

Tupper nodded gratefully. “If Catriona’s father were sane, I would have gone to him. I realize you’re not even her eldest sister, but you seem to be the one with the most…”

“Sense?” she offered when he hesitated again.

“Precisely! So it is with great trepidation that I find myself in the incredibly awkward position of standing before you today to beg for Catriona’s… C-Catriona’s…”

Sensing that he was about to lapse into a full-blown stammer, Gwendolyn suggested, “ Foot? “

He gave her a reproachful glance. “I should say not. It’s her hand I seek, in holy matrimony.” Looking taken aback by his own boldness, he lowered his eyes and began to wring the brim of his hat in his hands. “Of course, I shouldn’t blame you if you don’t find me worthy of her.”

“Don’t be silly. I’d always hoped Kitty would marry a kidnapper’s henchman.”

Tupper looked so crestfallen that Gwendolyn immediately regretted her teasing. She gently pried the hat from his hands and smoothed out the brim before handing it back. Gazing up into his soulful brown eyes, she said, “Whatever I may think of your choice of companions, I can’t deny that you’ll make my sister a fine husband. Just when do the two of you plan to wed? “

A delighted grin broke over Tupper’s face. “Since we’re to be married on Scottish soil, there’ll be no need to obtain a special license from the Crown. If it pleases you, we hope to be man and wife before the end of next week.”

“That doesn’t leave us much time.” Gwendolyn frowned, her head already spinning with all there was to accomplish. “Kitty should have a new gown, although I suppose we could borrow the one Glynnis was last married in. And Izzy will have to prepare a ginger cake or some other such trifle for the guests. We won’t be able to afford much extravagance, of course, but if we all sacrifice, we can…”

She trailed off as Tupper reached into the satin lining of his frock coat and drew forth a folded sheet of paper sealed with crimson wax. He held it out to her, looking even more nervous than before.

The creamy vellum was only too familiar. “If our laird is in need of some fresh venison,” Gwendolyn said coolly, “I suggest he try the butcher’s shop.”

“It’s not a demand this time,” Tupper assured her, “but an offer.”

Succumbing to his pleading look, she took the note and unfolded it, holding it between the very tips of her forefinger and thumb as if the ink itself might be tainted.

“So the MacCullough wishes to throw you and my sister a wedding,” she said, feeling her mouth tighten as she scanned the scrawled missive. “And he’s inviting the entire village to join in the celebration.” She snapped the note closed. “It’s a very generous proposal, but we’ve no need of his charity.”

“He said to tell you that he preferred to think of it as payment toward a debt he owes.”

Gwendolyn wanted nothing more than to tear the MacCullough’s note into a thousand pieces, march up the hill to the castle, and hurl them into his arrogant face. But she knew what such a grand wedding would mean to Kitty. There would be tables laden with every manner of meat and pie, freshly tapped casks of whisky, piping and singing that would go on until dawn. And all of this feasting, revelry, and dancing would be presided over by the prodigal prince of the clan. It would be a
night her sister would remember for the rest of her life. And one Gwendolyn wouldn’t be able to forget, no matter how hard she tried.

She sighed. She had been willing to sacrifice so that Kitty could have a fine wedding. She just hadn’t realized the cost would be so high.

“You may inform the MacCullough that I will accept his offer,” she told Tupper, “but that he should know better than anyone that some debts can never be repaid.”

T
HE
PIPES
NO
LONGER mourned for Ballybliss’s lost prince. Castle Weyrcraig blazed with light, its ghosts finally laid to rest. The villagers swarmed up the hill, their colorful tartans and plumed bonnets in open defiance of the Crown’s Act of Proscription, which had banned all manner of Highland dress after Bonnie Prince Charlie’s defeat at Culloden.

As they spilled through the newly restored wrought iron gates into the torchlit courtyard, their laughter ringing in the crisp night air, a solitary figure watched from a window high above, searching their joyful ranks for the one face he feared he would not find.

Although some of the finest workmen from Scotland and England had spent every waking moment of the last two months patching cracks and rebuilding walls, the castle seemed more of a ruin to Bernard than it had before. He missed the solitude. He missed the dark.

He missed her.

Leaning against the window frame, he briefly closed
his eyes. He missed Gwendolyn’s courage, her defiance, her softness in his arms. Her absence had left gaping holes and jagged cracks that no amount of mortar could fill. There were so many words left unspoken between them, so many questions she hadn’t given him the chance to answer.

For over two months, he had fought to stay away from her, telling himself that nothing had changed since that stormy night he’d first found her in his courtyard. He might dress like a gentleman and live like a prince, but he was still a beast at heart—a creature with no conscience or remorse.

He was haunted by the fear he’d glimpsed in her eyes that night on the beach. It was almost as if she were more afraid of Bernard MacCullough than she’d been of the Dragon. Not that he could blame her.

He watched the villagers stream through the gates that had been thrown wide to welcome them. They had no idea that they were marching into a trap. Before this night was done, they would be begging to hand over the traitor who had destroyed his family. Perhaps it would be best if Gwendolyn stayed away. It wasn’t as if he could ask her blessing on what he was about to do.

Bernard straightened, giving the ruffled cuffs of his shirt a practiced flick. The time for indulging his regrets was done. His adoring clansmen were waiting to toast the health of their host, and he was only too willing to oblige them.

Gwendolyn sat at her father’s bedside, determined to linger there for as long as she dared. She wished she could spend the entire evening with her nose buried in the latest pamphlet from the Royal Society for Improving Natural Knowledge by Experiment, but she hadn’t the heart to abandon Kitty on her wedding day. She sighed, already missing her sister. After tonight, she would never again have to worry about waking up with Kitty’s elbow in her ear.

The merry sound of piping drifted through the closed shutters. The ancient wood did little to muffle the music and laughter ringing through the glen. Thanks to the laird’s gracious generosity, no doubt the revelry would grow more raucous as the night wore on and the freely flowing whisky loosened tongues and inhibitions held in check for years.

Her papa twitched in his sleep. He’d been fretful all day—jumping at shadows, tugging at her hand, and muttering about the wrath of dragons until Gwendolyn had wanted to climb into the bed and bury her own head beneath the pillow. It was such a pity, she thought, that he would never know that his youngest daughter was about to become the wife of a future viscount.

The door creaked open and Izzy came bustling in, looking taken aback to find her there. “Why are ye dal-lyin’, lass? Yer sisters left for the castle nearly an hour ago.”

Gwendolyn rose and busied herself with tucking the blanket beneath her father’s chin. “ Papa’s been very restless today. I was thinking that perhaps I should stay
with him while you go and make merry with the rest of the villagers.”

“And what business does an auld woman like me have with makin’ merry? Makin’ merry is for those still young eno’ to get a rise out o’ the sap in their veins.” Izzy jerked her head toward the door. “Go on with ye, lass. I’ll look after yer father. Yer sister would never forgive ye if ye missed her weddin’.”

Still avoiding Izzy’s eyes, Gwendolyn plumped up the pillows. “If you reminded her of what a bad day Papa has had, I’m sure she would understand.”

Izzy planted her hands on her hips. “Kitty might understand, but I’ll be damned if I do.”

Gwendolyn bowed her head, ceasing her aimless motions. “I don’t know if I can go back to that place. I’m not ready to face him.”

Izzy shook her head. “In all the years I’ve known ye, lass, I’ve never known ye to back down from a battle. I don’t know what that young rogue did to ye up there in that castle, but it shames me to think ye’d let anyone, man or beast, keep ye from yer sister’s side on the most important day of her life.”

Gwendolyn slowly lifted her head, considering Izzy’s words. The maidservant was right. It was selfish of her to let her own apprehension cast a shadow over Kitty’s happiness. She stole a look at the bed. Her papa slept without stirring, at peace for the first time in that endless day.

“Very well, Izzy, I’ll go.” Gwendolyn’s pulse quickened as she took her shawl from the back of the chair.

“Not dressed like that, ye won’t,” Izzy retorted, eyeing Gwendolyn’s brown woolen gown. “I’ll not have ye bein’ mistaken for one o’ the kitchen maids at yer own sister’s weddin’.”

She hurried out of the room, returning a few minutes later with several yards of shimmering taffeta draped over one arm. Gwendolyn gasped.

It was the sky blue sacque gown she had worn that last night at the castle. Dawn had just begun to streak the sky when she had ripped it off and hurled it into the corner of the loft, hoping never to see it again. She had assumed it had been disposed of, but Izzy must have rescued it and painstakingly repaired the tears in the fragile fabric.

“Yer mother had such fine things before she married yer father,” Izzy said, stroking one rawboned hand over the sleek taffeta. “But she never truly had need o’ them. Lady Leah’s beauty was on the inside and would have shone through even the ugliest of rags.” She held her offering out to Gwendolyn, her sharp eyes dulled by a fine mist. “Much like yer own.”

Tears stung Gwendolyn’s eyes as she gently folded the gown into her arms. The brusque old maidservant had given her a much greater gift than she realized. Wanting to give her something in return, Gwendolyn stood on tiptoe and kissed Izzy’s cheek.

Turning a full shade redder than her usual color, Izzy shooed Gwendolyn toward the door. “Go on with ye, lass. Ye haven’t the time for such nonsense, and I haven’t the patience. That randy young Englishman’s
likely to have yer sister’s petticoats up and her drawers down before you can trot yer arse up the hill.”