Teresa Medeiros - [FairyTale 02] (31 page)

H
E
’
S
QUITE
THE
BEAST, isn’t he? “

“That depends on whether you’re referring to his temper or his wit. I’ve heard that a single lash from that tongue of his can flay the hide from even the most clever of conversationalists.”

“I wouldn’t be adverse to receiving a tongue-lashing from him. Provided it took place while my Reginald was in the country, at one of his interminable hunting parties.”

That husky quip earned a round of scandalized titters from the speaker’s companions.

The object of their speculation brought his champagne glass to his lips, pretending not to overhear the conversation taking place just over his left shoulder. Fortunately, his hostess had an overbearing fondness for the Greek Revival style of interior decoration, giving him a wide variety of columns to lurk behind.

“My husband heard a rumor that he isn’t even English,” offered another woman. “Apparently, he’s
been masquerading as one of us for years simply to disguise the fact that he’s actually”—she paused for dramatic effect—”a Scot!”

From the shocked gasps that greeted her revelation, she might as well have pronounced him an escaped Bedlamite.

“That explains his temper, doesn’t it? Scots are a savage lot, given to ravishing virgins and speaking whatever is on their minds.” The woman spoke as if these traits were equally abhorrent.

“Did you hear what he told Lady Jane after she cornered him in the drawing room and spent three quarters of an hour extolling her niece’s matrimonial virtues?”

The rustling of fans indicated a new flurry of excitement. “Oh, no. Do tell!”

The speaker deepened her shrill voice three octaves in a crude impression of Bernard’s baritone. “ ‘If I were seeking a wife, my lady, which I most certainly am not, she wouldn’t be a simpering chit with more bosom than brains.’ “

As the women dissolved into gales of laughter, Bernard lifted his glass in a bleak toast to a lass who had been blessed with both.

“Perhaps it’s not his own wife he needs to satisfy his appetites,” suggested the husky-voiced siren, “but someone else’s.”

As she and her tittering companions drifted away in search of fresh blood, Bernard brought the glass to his lips again. He was surprised to find it empty. If he kept swilling the foul-tasting froth at this rate, he would end
up propping himself up with the column instead of hiding behind it.

He’d been back in London for less than a month, but he’d spent most of that time sleeping too little and drinking too much. It was no wonder he was getting a reputation for beastly behavior. He’d never been one to suffer fools gladly, but now it took little more than a sidelong look to earn a snappish retort or a growled set-down. Had Lord Drummond not been a loyal investor in his shipping firm and one of Admiral Grayson’s oldest friends, he would have declined the duchess’s invitation and remained at his sparsely furnished town house, his only company a stack of neglected ledgers and a bottle of port.

Waylaying a passing footman, Bernard traded his empty glass for a full one. He had taken a deep swallow before he realized he was no longer alone. One of the women who had just spent the last ten minutes dissecting his charms, or the lack of them, had emerged from the greenery of the potted fern at his elbow.

“My lady,” Bernard said, offering her a curt nod.

“Oh, pardon me, sir.” Her ingenuous blink was at odds with the throaty purr of her voice. “I mistook you for my husband.”

“I believe that would be Reginald, wouldn’t it? Tell me, does your devoted Reginald suspect that you go out prowling for fresh game whenever he’s off hunting it?”

The woman’s rouged mouth widened into a shocked little
o
before curving into a feline smile. “My, you do have the keen ears and sharp teeth of a beast, don’t
you? If you’re trying to frighten me off, I should warn you that I’ve always been one to appreciate frankness in a man.” Her hungry gaze licked from the polished toes of his boots to the gleaming crown of his hair. “Among other things.”

Bernard almost wished he could return her appreciation. There was no denying that she was a beauty. Her dark hair had been whipped into a towering confection and dusted with a shimmering layer of powder that perfectly matched the alabaster of her face. Her lips were full and red, her cheekbones chiseled. She wore a black velvet ribbon around her slender throat and a mischievous patch of silk on her cheek where a dimple should be. Beneath the sleek satin of her bodice, a whalebone corset cinched her waist into a span he could have probably encompassed with his hands, while a frilled stomacher forced her creamy breasts upward until they threatened to spill from their constraints.

Yet, despite the broad panniers that gave her slender hips the illusion of softness, there was no disguising the hardness in her eyes. She looked brittle, prone to being shattered with a touch. There was nothing warm or solid about her. Nothing a man could hold on to… or sink himself into….

Bernard pushed away from the column, fearing for a moment that he might actually stagger. “I’m glad that you appreciate frankness in a man because, quite frankly, I must beg you to excuse me.”

“But you can’t go yet, sir. Supper hasn’t even been served!”

Bernard lingered just long enough to sweep her a polite bow. “I fear I wouldn’t do it justice, my lady. I seem to have lost my appetite.”

The fog muffled the click of Bernard’s bootheels against the damp pavement as he strode toward his town house. His cloak swirled around his ankles with each step, but did little to warm him. This wasn’t the crisp cold of a Highland evening, but a dank chill that seemed to sink deep into his bones. A murky blanket of soot hung over the ragged roofs and brick chimneys, dulling the shine of the distant stars to a wan flicker. The stilted hush made him realize just how keenly he missed Tupper’s cheerful blathering.

He belonged to this fog- and soot-shrouded city now. He was no longer Gwendolyn’s Dragon or chieftain of Clan MacCullough. He was just another faceless stranger among many.

He drew a cheroot from his pocket and lit it. Once, the restlessness that edged his soul would have sent him out to prowl the night. But his old haunts and the women who inhabited them had lost their allure, the victim of those few sweet hours in Gwendolyn’s arms.

He heard a muffled footfall behind him. He turned, but found the street deserted and draped in shadows. The lamps did little more than make hazy dents in the fog. He cocked his head, but the only sound he heard was the faint sizzle of the burning cheroot in his hand.

Tucking the cheroot in the corner of his mouth, he
resumed his trek. He hadn’t been back in London long enough to make any new enemies. Unless perhaps he’d insulted the wrong man’s wife with one of his scathing set-downs.

But an outraged husband was more likely to call him out than follow him home. And Bernard wouldn’t even begrudge him the privilege. At least being dispatched by a pistol ball in a duel would be quicker and more honorable than drinking himself to death.

As he turned down the street where he lived, his steps slowed. Who would have thought a London town house nestled within the tidy confines of Berkeley Square could manage to look more lonely and forbidding than a Highland ruin perched on the edge of a cliff? Lamps burned a cheery welcome in the windows of the neighboring houses. Somewhere a door opened and closed, briefly freeing the merry tinkle of a pianoforte and a child’s burst of laughter. Bernard’s house waited for him at the end of the street, dark and silent.

He was just starting up the front steps when a glint of light in one of the second-story windows caught his eye.

He paused, his hand on the wrought iron railing. He would have sworn he’d given Jenkins the night off. He waited for several minutes, gazing up at the darkened windowpanes, but that ghostly flicker did not come again. Shaking his head, Bernard unlocked the door, promising himself that he’d never again forsake port for champagne.

He dined on a cold supper of beef and bread, then remained closeted in his study until the tidy rows of
figures in his ledgers began to blur before his eyes. Exhaustion weighted his steps as he climbed the stairs leading to his bedroom, but it was well after midnight before he finally drifted into a fitful sleep.

An unearthly wailing jolted him awake. He sat straight up in the bed, recognizing the melancholy music of the pipes. Their song abruptly ceased, leaving him to wonder if he was dreaming.

Phantom footsteps. Ghostly flickers of light in a deserted house. The eerie wail of bagpipes in the heart of London.

If he wasn’t dreaming, he thought, then he must be going mad. He fumbled for the candlestick and tinderbox he’d left on the nightstand. At the exact moment he realized they were gone, he realized something else as well.

He was no longer alone.

Someone was in the room with him, someone whose breathing was a whispered counterpoint to the thundering of his heart. Reaching beneath his pillow, Bernard silently withdrew the loaded pistol he always kept there.

He leveled the mouth of the weapon at the shadows. “Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my house?”

A match was struck. A candle’s wick flared to life.

“There are some who call me the chieftain of Clan MacCullough and others who call me the lady of Castle Weyrcraig, but you, sir, may call me M’lady Dragon.”

W
ATCHING
GWENDOLYN
MELT out of the shadows was like watching the sun emerge from a bank of storm clouds. The unexpected radiance made Bernard’s eyes sting. She was a vision in lavender silk. The flowing lines of her sacque gown complemented the voluptuous curves of the body beneath. Her hair cascaded around her face in soft golden curls, while her blue eyes shimmered with warmth.

“Now I know I’m dreaming,” he muttered. He closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, she was still there, regarding him with bemused tolerance.

“You’d best lower that thing before it goes off.”

It took Bernard a dazed moment to realize that Gwendolyn was referring to the pistol. He slowly complied. “That wasn’t very smart of you, stealing my candlestick but not my gun. I could have shot you, you know.”

“No you couldn’t.” Her dimples deepened. “It’s not loaded.”

Disgusted more with himself than with her, Bernard tossed the gun to the table. “So where have you stashed Tupper and his pipes? The attic?”

“The cellar. But don’t worry about him. I left Kitty there to keep him company. They’re on their honeymoon, you know. I convinced them that coming to London with me would be even more of an adventure than Edinburgh.”

“A new wardrobe. Honeymoons for your family. I’m glad to know you’re putting that thousand pounds I left you to good use.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” She lifted one eyebrow. “I earned it, did I not?”

Bernard was speechless for a moment. “Is that why you think I left you the gold? As payment for your services?”

She shrugged. “ What else was I to think? When I awoke that morning, you were gone and the gold was there.”

Bernard was on the verge of throwing back the sheet so he could get up and pace the room when he remembered that he had always scorned nightshirts. His breeches were draped over the chair next to the door. Unless Gwendolyn had stolen them as well.

Folding his arms across his chest, he scowled at her. “Some treasures, my lady, are beyond price.”

She might have blushed, but the flickering candlelight made it impossible to tell. “Or perhaps they’re only worth what one is willing to pay for them.”

Bernard eyed her warily. “So why are you here,

M’lady Dragon?
Have you come to seek a virgin sacrifice?”

“If so, I’ve come to the wrong place, haven’t I?” Gwendolyn sat down on the end of the bed, just out of his reach. “Actually, I’m not seeking a virgin, but a trustworthy solicitor.”

“ I can’t imagine why you’d have need of one of those. Unless, of course, you plan to make a habit of breaking into houses to the accompaniment of bagpipes.”

She gave his foot an affectionate pat. “Don’t be silly. I wish to discuss the possibility of obtaining an annulment, or even a divorce if necessary.”

Bernard sank back against the headboard, unprepared for the icy chill that shot down his spine. “You would divorce me? “

“And why not? You offered me my freedom, didn’t you? Surely you didn’t think I’d be content to molder away in that damp pile of stones for the rest of my life. You might not wish to marry again, but I have no intention of spending the remainder of my days”—she slanted him a provocative glance—”or my nights… alone.”

“I’ve only been gone for a few weeks. Have you already chosen my successor?”

She shrugged. “I’ve found there to be no lack of suitors in Ballybliss. There’s Ross, for instance.”

Bernard almost came out of the bed, breeches be damned. “Ross? Are you out of your bloody mind? He tried to feed you to a dragon
and
burn you at the stake.”

Gwendolyn fluffed out her skirts as if oblivious to his
consternation. “ That may be true, but I’ve seen a much gentler side of him since I became the MacCullough. He’s been ever so attentive.” A prim little smile played around her mouth. “Not a day passes by that he doesn’t bring me a bouquet of heather or some other small token of his affection. Of course, if Ross and I don’t suit, there’s always Lachlan. The lad’s been quite heartbroken since Nessa cast him aside for the tinker’s nephew.”