Teresa Medeiros - [FairyTale 02] (25 page)

Gwendolyn hurried up the cliff path, no longer able to resist the song of the pipes. Their pagan wail stirred her blood, made her ache to cast off her own inhibitions and dance with abandon by the icy glow of the moon hanging in the northern sky. The night seemed to whisper her name just as it had at Castle Weyrcraig, coaxing her to embrace the seductive dangers of the dark.

The sleek taffeta of her skirts rustled around her slippers. She touched a hand to her hair. After changing gowns, she had traded her woolen snood for a pair of tortoise-shell combs that allowed soft ringlets to escape from the French knot at her nape.

A carriage waited outside the courtyard gates, its patient horses draped with a profusion of flowers and ribbons. After the wedding, Tupper and Kitty would be departing for Edinburgh for a brief honeymoon. A heady journey indeed, Gwendolyn thought wistfully, for a lass who would have been content to spend her entire life within the sheltering walls of the glen.

Although the castle windows blazed with light, most of the merriment seemed to be confined to the courtyard. Standing torches ringed the walls, banishing the shadows with their luminous glow. Aphrodite presided over the revelry, both her head and her mocking smile restored to their former beauty. Servants worked their
way through the crowd, bearing trays laden with food and drink. Their scarlet livery and powdered wigs earned more than a few sniggers from the Highlanders.

Auld Tavis was wheezing out a jaunty melody on the pipes, his bony chest heaving as if every note would be his last. Lachlan strummed along on the strings of his clarsach, accompanied by drums, fife, and fiddle. Even though Reverend Throckmorton looked like a drab crow amongst a flock of preening robins in the severe black of his breeches and coat, it appeared he had decided to turn a blind eye to the clan’s petty rebellion. A smile lit his puckish face as he clapped along in time to the music, missing more beats than he hit.

It didn’t take Gwendolyn long to locate her radiant sister. Tupper clasped Kitty’s hands in his as they led two lines of dancers through a galloping reel. A halo woven from wild roses and dried sprigs of heather crowned Kitty’s dusky curls, making her look even more angelic than usual.

Kitty’s dimples deepened as she spotted Gwendolyn. She broke from the line of dancers, dragging a winded Tupper along behind her. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming!” She relinquished her grip on her husband-to-be just long enough to give Gwendolyn a fierce squeeze.

Gwendolyn squeezed her back. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, kitten. Or perhaps I should call you ‘cat,’ since you’ll soon be a grown-up married lady.”

Tupper beamed down at his betrothed, his broad
face flushed with exertion and pride. “In a very short while, you can call her Mrs. Tuppingham.”

“I thought perhaps she’d prefer ‘Mrs. Dragon,’ “ Gwendolyn replied, giving him an arch glance.

Kitty scowled and punched him on the arm. “You shouldn’t tease so. I still haven’t quite forgiven him for that wicked little charade.”

“After tonight, you’ll have the rest of your life to make me pay,” Tupper reminded her, bringing her fist to his lips.

“And don’t think I won’t,” Kitty purred.

Before their flirting could disintegrate into open cooing, a line of dancers galloped past, grabbing them both back into the reel.

“Don’t go away! I’ll be back!” Kitty shouted over the music and laughter, throwing Gwendolyn an apologetic glance.

Gwendolyn sighed as she watched them whirl away from her. She was supposed to be the sensible sister. Why couldn’t she have fallen in love with someone as sweet-natured and uncomplicated as Tupper?

The thought made her look furtively across the courtyard. There was no sign of the MacCullough.

In a shadowy corner, a lass and lad were sharing a lingering kiss. Gwendolyn didn’t realize she was staring until the girl lifted her head and looked straight at her.

Cheeks burning, Gwendolyn headed for the nearest buffet table. The music was climbing to a feverish pitch that made her blood feel too hot for her veins. Nine
months from now, there would doubtlessly be a rash of babes born in the village, some begotten willingly and others forced upon women drunk or foolish enough to wander away from the protection of the light. Wishing she had remained at her father’s bedside where she belonged, Gwendolyn helped herself to a fluffy scone. Perhaps if she ate enough of them, she would grow too fat to ever again squeeze out the door of her home.

The pastry was halfway to her mouth when she heard a familiar high-pitched titter. She turned to find Nessa and Glynnis bearing down upon her.

Nessa wrinkled her pert nose. “For heaven’s sake, Gwennie, must you make such a pig of yourself?”

“As much as she’s eaten in the past two months,” Glynnis said, “you’d think the MacCullough refused to feed her the last time she was his guest.”

Gwendolyn’s fingers tightened on the scone, crumbling it into bits. She was growing weary of her sisters’ baiting. “Oh, he fed me. He fed me sumptuous banquets of nectar and ambrosia while I reclined on cushions of pure silk.”

Nessa and Glynnis leaned forward as one, mesmerized by the uncharacteristic huskiness of Gwendolyn’s voice. Although she didn’t realize it, several of the nearby villagers also paused to listen.

“He would pop plump, succulent grapes into my mouth one by one, then kiss away each sparkling drop of dew that fell upon my quivering breast.”

Nessa gasped and Glynnis clapped a hand over her
mouth, but Gwendolyn was too busy savoring their reaction to realize that their attention was no longer on her, but on something just over her right shoulder.

“After I was all done licking the nectar from his fingertips,” she continued, allowing a lascivious smile to curve her lips, “he would lay me back among those very cushions, tear off all my clothes, and make mad, passionate love to me all night long.”

“There’s no need to flatter me, Miss Wilder,” said someone standing just behind her. “I expect your sisters, as kindhearted as they appear to be, would not be disappointed to learn that even a man of my stamina might require a brief nap between such vigorous… shall we say… exertions?”

The smoky baritone with the lilting hint of heather washed over Gwendolyn, followed by an icy flush of horror. After waiting just long enough to make sure God wasn’t going to answer her prayer and allow the ground to open up and swallow her, she slowly turned to find herself glaring up into the smirking face of Bernard MacCullough.

“Don’t you ever grow weary of sneaking up on people?” she demanded.

Had she believed he possessed even an ounce of shame, the downward sweep of his thick, dark lashes might have been quite convincing. “ I realize my rudeness is unforgivable, but if I announced my presence everywhere I went, how would I be able to eavesdrop on such
delicious
conversations?” He arched one dark
eyebrow, bringing to mind the torrid scene Gwendolyn had just described to her sisters.

As far as she was concerned, he had picked a wretched time to embrace his heritage. In defiance of the Crown’s edict, he wore a short kilt and a matching scarlet and black plaid draped over the dazzling whiteness of his shirt. The froth of lace at his wrists and throat only emphasized the masculine strength of his imposing chest and long limbs. His knees were bare, his lower legs encased in tartan stockings and leather shoes. His thick, dark hair brushed his shoulders.

It might have been a trick of the torchlight, but he seemed to be both the boy Gwendolyn had loved for more than half her life and the man she had always dreamed he would become. She felt as if she were nine years old again, yearning for something she could never have.

“Good evening, m’laird,” Nessa chirped as she and Glynnis took turns curtsying, bobbing up and down like the windup birds in a mechanical clock.

“Good evening, ladies,” he replied, his gaze never straying from Gwendolyn’s face.

At that moment someone wrested the pipes away from Auld Tavis while someone else began to weave a beguiling melody on fife and clarsach. It was a ballad they all knew, one that bemoaned the fate of a young girl foolish enough to give her heart to the first lad who looked her way.

Bernard held out his hand, his eyes darkened by an
emotion Gwendolyn couldn’t begin to fathom. “Shall we dance, Miss Wilder?”

The crowd fell into a sudden hush, leaving the strains of the song to swirl around them—sweet, seductive, and dangerous.

Gwendolyn gazed down at his hand. Once she had trusted not only her hand to him, but her heart. Once she had been a fool.

She lifted her gaze to his face. “Is that an invitation or a command, m’laird?”

“Which would you prefer?”

“From you? Neither.” Gwendolyn turned on her heel, fully intending to leave him to the mercy of her twittering sisters.

“Then consider it a command. Like it or not, I’m still your laird and master.”

Gwendolyn whirled around with a snap of her skirts. “That’s where you’re wrong, Bernard MacCullough. No man will ever be my laird and master.”

The villagers were openly gawking now, such outright defiance of their laird’s will unthinkable.

A smile slowly curved his lips. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, lass, if I were you.”

He seized her hand, but instead of drawing her into the dance, he began to march toward the castle. Gwendolyn had no choice but to stumble along behind him, once again the Dragon’s captive.

O
F
ALL
THE
SMUG, high-handed…” Gwendolyn sputtered as she marched along behind Bernard. “You can hide behind the MacCullough tartan all you like, but man or beast, you’re still a bully!”

“And you’re still a brat,” he retorted without slowing his long strides.

“Just what do you intend to do about it? Lock me in the tower?”

He snorted. “If I did, none of your clansmen would come to your rescue. I’m sure they believe it my divine right to claim any one of the village lasses for my pleasure.”

As if to prove his point, the servants and stray merrymakers they passed in the entranceway took one look at his face and went bolting for the door.

To Gwendolyn’s keen relief, he bypassed the stairs, hauling her instead toward the great hall. As they passed beneath its graceful archway, she gasped.

The Dragon’s bogies had been at it again.

The moon was no longer free to spy on the hall’s occupants. The roof had been repaired, the shattered beams replaced, the ceiling plastered and painted. A bronze chandelier strung with tiers of wax tapers dangled from the center beam, casting a soft glow over the freshly polished table. The faded pastel linen that had once draped the walls had been replaced with rich burgundy damask. A pair of crossed claymores hung over the mahogany mantel, which had been refinished and buffed to a warm sheen.

Velvet drapes of a verdant forest green shrouded the windows overlooking the courtyard. As Bernard led her past the table, she tried desperately not to remember the night she had been so foolish as to try and tame a dragon with her kiss.

A pair of leather wing chairs nestled before the fire. Bernard gave her a gentle shove toward one of them, and she sat. She wasn’t surprised to find Toby draped across the warm hearthstones like a plush catskin rug. He roused himself from his stupor just long enough to give her a somnolent blink. He was obviously under the impression that she’d stepped out of the room for two minutes, not two months.

While she perched stiffly on the edge of the chair, her host moved to the sideboard and poured two glasses of port.

He held out a glass to her. “It will have to do, I’m afraid. I’m fresh out of kitten’s blood.”

Toby, apparently offended, bounded off the hearth
and went trotting from the room, his fluffy tail twitching.

“No thank you. I’m not thirsty,” Gwendolyn said. “But I am famished. Haven’t you any refreshments?”

“No nectar and ambrosia, I fear,” he replied silkily, “although there might be a grape or two around here somewhere.”

Hoping to steady her frazzled nerves, Gwendolyn took the glass from his hand and tossed back its contents in one swallow. A heady warmth spilled through her, loosening her tongue.

“So is it customary to drag a woman off by her hair if she refuses your invitation to dance? Is that how it’s done in the drawing rooms of London?” She toyed with the empty glass. “Of course, I’ve been told that it wasn’t the drawing rooms you preferred to frequent.”

He took a leisurely sip of the port. “When you have to make your own way in the world, you soon discover that it’s more sensible to pay for your pleasure in advance. There are far fewer regrets come morning.”

Gwendolyn rose to set her glass on the mantel. She toyed with the braided gold tassels adorning the hilt of one of the claymores, trying to avoid his eyes.

“If you’d like,” he said, reaching around her to rest his glass on the mantel next to hers, “I can extinguish the candles so as to spare you the unpleasant task of looking at me.”

“No!” Her reply came out with more passion than she intended.

He stood next to her, so close she could feel the heat of his breath stirring her hair. Gwendolyn knew it was a mistake to close her eyes, but the familiar aroma of sandalwood and spice was more intoxicating than aged Scotch whisky.