The Bride & the Beast

  “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.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  OF 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.

  “Look at me, Gwendolyn.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered, her voice choked.

  “Why not? Because I’m not your precious Dragon? “ His voice softened. “You’re wrong, Gwendolyn. I’m the same man who kissed you.” He brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth, but she turned her face away. “The same man who held you in his arms. The same man you…”

  Loved.

  He wasn’t cruel enough to say it.

  “No you’re not,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut. “You’re Bernard MacCullough, laird of Castle Weyrcraig and chieftain of Clan MacCullough.”

  “That boy is dead,” he said flatly. “You were right about him all along. He died in this very hall nearly fifteen years ago, the victim of his own misplaced faith in his fellow man. He died, but I lived.” He caught her chin in his hand, tilting her face toward his. “Look at me, Gwendolyn. See me!”

  If he had been rough with her, Gwendolyn might have been able to resist him. But his grip was as gentle and compelling as she remembered. She slowly lifted her lashes.

  His face was no longer masked by shadows, but open and vulnerable. Her helpless gaze searched his features, finding the same brow she had traced with her fingertips, the same lips that had so tenderly kissed her. Despite its beguiling familiarity, it was still the face of a stranger.

  “You’re right,” she said softly, backing out of his embrace. “You couldn’t be Bernard MacCullough, because the boy I knew could never have fought for the English. He would never have sold his sword or his soul to his father’s enemies.”

  Bernard gazed at her for a long moment, bitterness darkening his eyes. “Slipped your dirk right between my ribs, didn’t you, my dear?” He reached out to smooth his fingers across her cheek. “The English may shoot you through the heart, but at least you’ll see it coming.”

  He retrieved his glass from the mantel and crossed to the sideboard to pour himself another glass of port. “The redcoats killed my father, but it was his own faithless clansmen who betrayed him into their hands.”

  Gwendolyn’s heart sank. “You haven’t forgiven them, have you? You’re just biding your time until you can make them pay for what they did to your family.”

  Bernard finished off the port. “Oh, I’m all done biding my time.”

  “I don’t know what you mean to do,” she said, giving the window an apprehensive glance, “but I implore you not to ruin this night for my sister.”

  “Do you really think I’d spoil Tupper’s wedding? “ He gave her a reproachful look. “I’m not that much of a monster. I have every intention of waiting until Kitty and Tupper are safely away on their journey to Edinburgh before I make my little announcement.” “Your announcement?”

  Bernard poured himself another glass of port and lifted it in a toast. “ If my loyal clansmen don’t bring me the thousand pounds that was paid for my father’s life by dawn tomorrow, I’m going to evict them.”

  For a long moment, Gwendolyn couldn’t speak. She’d heard of ruthless English landlords driving native Scotsmen from the land they’d shared for centuries, but she couldn’t fathom one of their own doing it. “You wouldn’t… you can’t…”

  Bernard slammed the glass down on the sideboard. “The hell I can’t! It’s my land and I can do whatever the bloody hell I please with it!” His burr deepened as his temper blazed, betraying a glimpse of that stubborn boy who had been determined to climb a tree simply because Gwendolyn had told him not to.
br />   As the full implication of his words sank in, her horror deepened. “But they’ve lived in Ballybliss all their lives. Their parents have lived here… their grandparents…. They don’t know anything else. Where will they go? What will they do?”

  “They won’t have to worry about it, will they, if they bring me the gold?”

  “You don’t want the gold, do you? “ Gwendolyn said softly, chilled by the ruthless cast of his features. “You never did. You want the man who’s been hoarding it all these years. You don’t want justice. You want revenge.”

  “I stopped believing in justice the night I watched my mother die, choking on her own blood. I started believing in revenge when Cumberland’s men came and dragged me away from everything I had ever known, everything I loved—including my father, who was fighting for his every breath as he watched them bind his only son and carry him away like so much livestock.”

  Gwendolyn bowed her head. “There’s obviously nothing I can say to change your mind. So if you’ll excuse me, m’laird, I will go pack my things.”

  Bernard stepped in front of her. “You don’t have to go.”

  She recoiled, flinging out one hand to keep him at a distance. “You must be mad if you expect me to just sit here by your cozy little fire and toast your brilliant plot to evict an entire village of people who are dependent upon your goodwill for their very survival!”

  “I meant that you don’t have to leave Ballybliss.” He took a step toward her. “Or me.”

  Gwendolyn slowly lifted her gaze to his face. “Just what are you asking of me, sir? “

  “I’m asking you to stay. Here. At Castle Weyrcraig. With me.”

  Gwendolyn had to struggle to catch her breath. “The villagers may believe me to be your mistress, sir, but I would think that neither you nor I should be under any such delusions.”

  “I’m not asking you to be my mistress. I’m asking you to be my wife.”

  At first Gwendolyn thought he must be making some sort of heartless jest, but there wasn’t a hint of humor in his eyes. It was his very grimness that made him look so vulnerable. He looked less like a man who had just asked a woman to marry him than a man prepared to drink poison.

  She sank into one of the chairs, remembering all the times she had dreamed of hearing him utter those very words. When Gwendolyn was only seven, Nessa had discovered her accepting a proposal from the kitchen hound, whom Gwendolyn had attired in a handsome cloak sewn from a scrap of scarlet and black tartan she had filched from the castle. Her sisters had teased her mercilessly and insisted upon addressing her as “M’lady Pup” for months afterward.

  But now the joke was on them. She could be the wife of the MacCullough. She could sleep in his bed each night and wake up in his arms every morning. He could give her dark-haired babies with eyes the color of emeralds and not a single inclination toward plumpness. Together, the two of them and their children could reign over the glen—the abandoned glen that had once rung with the laughter and music of Clan MacCullough.

  Gwendolyn slowly came to her feet and faced him. “Very well, m’laird. If you wish, I shall marry you.” Before triumph could spark in his eyes, she added, “ But only if you’ll forsake your vengeful scheme and allow the villagers to remain in Ballybliss.”

  Bernard gazed at her for a long moment, frustration and admiration warring in his eyes. “Am I to understand that you’re offering me your body in exchange for their absolution?”

  Ignoring the flush she could feel creeping up her throat, Gwendolyn boldly held his gaze. “I’m offering you the opportunity to pay for your pleasure in advance. So you’ll have fewer regrets come morning.”

  “You’ve piqued my curiosity, Miss Wilder. Suppose my part of the bargain didn’t include a proposal of marriage? Would you still be willing to make such a noble sacrifice on their behalf?”

  Gwendolyn hesitated only long enough to catch her breath. “Aye, I would.”

  As he closed the distance between them, she believed he’d come to claim his prize. But instead of taking her into his arms, he cupped her cheek in his hand. “I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t do almost anything to make you mine. But as tempting as your offer might be, I’m afraid I shall have to decline. I’ve waited fifteen years for this moment, and no one is going to take it away from me.” As his fingers sifted through the softness of her hair, she caught a glimpse of the raw regret that lay beneath his determination. “Not even you.”

  Withdrawing his hand, he turned and started for the archway.

  “Not even if I can tell you who betrayed your father to the English?”

  Her words weren’t much more than a whisper, but they stopped Bernard in his tracks. He slowly turned back to her.

  “Who?” The single word tolled like a death knell in the taut silence.

  Gwendolyn lifted her gaze to his face, no longer able to stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks. “I did.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  AS BERNARD DRIFTED BACK into the room, his expression disbelieving, Gwendolyn sank into a chair, staring straight ahead.

  She folded her hands in her lap, her voice dispassionate despite the tears that were coursing down her cheeks. “Do you remember when I fell out of the oak tree and nearly killed you?”

  “Of course I remember. You were such a funny little thing—all prickly and proud. I couldn’t decide whether you needed to be spanked or kissed.” His frown deepened. “I still can’t.”

  “I stumbled onto the redcoats’ camp almost as soon as I left you that afternoon. I was so angry that I wasn’t paying any mind to where I was going. The next thing I knew, one of them was holding me by the braids while his companion poked me in the belly and said, ‘I do believe we’ve captured ourselves a plump little Highland partridge. Shall we let it go or roast it on the spit?’ “ A shaky little hiccup of a laugh escaped her. “I must confess that I truly thought they meant to eat me. You see, Ross had told me that Cumberland and his men frequently dined on Scottish children.” She slanted Bernard a rueful look. “But I suppose that wasn’t nearly so foolish as believing that you might come charging to my rescue again.”

  Bernard groped blindly behind him for a chair, sinking down as if his legs no longer possessed the strength to support him.

  “One of the men said, ‘She has the look of a spy, don’t you think?’ “ Gwendolyn mirrored the soldier’s scowl without realizing it. “ ‘Perhaps we should torture her to see if she has any secrets.’ I doubt that they meant to do much more than tickle me, but at the time it seemed a most dire threat. And I only had one secret.” She looked Bernard dead in the eye. “Yours.”

  When his face betrayed no change in expression, she rose from the chair and began to pace in front of the hearth. “Don’t you dare think that I told them just because I was afraid! I was still furious at you for calling me a child, a ‘mere slip of a girl.’ I wanted to punish you for not trusting me. For not—”

  She bowed her head, unable to go on. “So I told them that our laird’s son would be escorting a most esteemed guest to the castle that night. A true hero…”

  “A prince among men,” Bernard whispered, running a hand over his face.

  “The redcoats gave each other a most peculiar look then, and I managed to wriggle away and run for home. I never even realized the significance of what I’d told them. Until it was too late. So you see,” she said fiercely, “there was no bargain with Cumberland and there was no thousand pounds. If you’re seeking the traitor who destroyed your family, you need look no further.”

  Her passion spent, Gwendolyn sank back into the chair. The shame she’d kept buried for all those years was so overwhelming that she wouldn’t have been able to summon up more than a token protest if Bernard had pulled one of the claymores from the wall and proceeded to whack off her head.

  He continued to sit with his head bowed and his eyes covered by one hand. When his condemning silence stretched beyond the tolerable, Gwendolyn stole a furtive peek at him from be
neath her lashes.

  His shoulders were heaving, his cheeks wet with tears. She almost rose to go to him, but when he lowered his hand, she realized that it wasn’t sobs wracking his frame, but helpless snorts of laughter.

  Gwendolyn gaped at him, wondering if her terrible confession had caused him to take leave of his senses. She’d never seen him laugh with such abandon before. It brought about a most remarkable transformation, wiping away the strain and bitterness that usually edged his features. He looked like a boy on the brink of manhood again, with all of his hopes and dreams shining brightly before him.

  He shook his head, grinning at her as if she were some sort of delightful creature fashioned solely for his amusement. “For a lass blessed with both beauty and brains, you’ve some daft notions, Gwendolyn Wilder. I never could understand why you kept defending the villagers, even after they tried to feed you to a bloody dragon and burn you at the stake. But you blame yourself for their predicament, don’t you? Why, you were even willing to bargain away your precious virtue to a devil like me! And no wonder you were so angry when you found out who I really was. You must have believed that because of your ‘betrayal’ we had no hope of a future together.” He swiped tears of mirth from his cheeks, surveying her dumbfounded expression with disarming affection. “I suppose it’s not very funny to you, is it, sweeting?”

  Still grinning like a fool, he moved to kneel in front of her, covering her icy hands with his big, warm ones. He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if he were speaking not to the woman she was, but to the little girl she had been. “Cumberland’s attack on Castle Weyrcraig was a major military undertaking. There was no possible way he could have planned it all in one afternoon.”

  “But those soldiers… the redcoats—”

  “—were already on MacCullough lands when you stumbled across their camp. As were the cannons they would later use to destroy the castle.” He caressed her knuckles with his thumbs. “They were just a pair of cruel men toying with a frightened child. Don’t you see, Gwendolyn? You couldn’t have told them anything that they didn’t already know.”