“There’s a postscript,” the reverend pointed out, lifting the lamp to squint at the back of the paper. “ ‘While your recent offering was much more delicious than I had anticipated,’ “ he read, “ ‘I should warn you that any more uninvited gifts will cost you not only a thousand pounds, but your miserable lives as well.’ “
Ross rested his chin on his father’s shoulder, his broad face crestfallen. “Can ye believe he has the nerve to ask for all that? Ye’d have thought he’d be full after he ate that Wilder lass.”
Granny Hay shook her grizzled head. “P’r’aps she only whet his appetite. Me puir Gavin was like that. The more he ate, the more he wanted.” She sighed. “The priest swore ‘twas his heart that gave out in the end, but I’ve always believed ‘twas that last mouthful o’ me haggis that done him in.”
Reverend Throckmorton’s horrified gaze traveled the glum circle of their faces. “God in heaven,” he whispered, “what have you done? “
Kitty Wilder tore herself out of her sisters’ arms, her face smeared with grimy tear tracks. “They fed my poor sister to that nasty old Dragon, that’s what they’ve done! And they ought to be ashamed!”
“Hush, lass,” Nessa crooned, tugging her back. “Gwennie sacrificed herself for all of us, and she was more than glad to do it!”
The reverend blinked his red-rimmed eyes in disbelief. “ You gave that poor child to this Dragon of yours? Why, she was the only one among you who had even a pinch of sense!”
“Keep talkin’ like that,” Ailbert snapped, “and I’ll be thinkin’ the Dragon might like a nice juicy Presbyterian.”
“He’s a bit on the scrawny side,” Ross noted, leaning forward until his bulk threw an ominous shadow over the stoop, “but we could always let Granny Hay take him home and fatten him up with a bit o’ her haggis.”
Without warning, the good reverend hopped backward and slammed the door in their faces.
Ailbert swung around, swearing violently. “I’d like to wring the neck o’ the muttonhead who talked us into tryin’ to break that blasted curse.” It was at that precise moment that he spotted Auld Tavis on the fringes of the crowd, attempting to tiptoe away. “And there he is now!”
He gestured to his youngest son. Lachlan grabbed the old man by the scruff of the neck. In his billowing shroud of a nightshirt, Auld Tavis looked even more like a moldering corpse than usual.
“ ‘Twas only a suggestion,” Auld Tavis said in a wheedling tone as Lachlan hauled him toward the stoop. “I meant no harm by it.”
“I say we stone him!” Ross shouted.
Ailbert shook his head. “There’s no point in that now. The harm’s been done.”
Lachlan lowered a relieved Tavis to the ground while Ross shook his head in disgust.
“But whatever are we to do?” asked Marsali, hugging her baby daughter to her breast.
Ailbert scowled down at the paper in his hand, his long face even grimmer than before. “Start gatherin’ eggs and milkin’ cows. There’s a dragon to be fed.”
Gwendolyn’s second day in captivity began with a jarring thump and a muffled oath. She sat up in bed, shaking her tousled hair out of her eyes just in time to see the panel easing shut behind someone. Her first instinct was to throw something at it, but as her eyes adjusted to the pearly glow of dawn seeping through the grated window, her anger turned to amazement.
She almost threw back the sheet before remembering that such a motion would leave her as naked and rosy as she’d been on the day she was born. Tying the rumpled and chocolate-stained silk around her with a clumsy knot, she clambered out of the bed and surveyed the chamber with disbelieving eyes.
While she had slept, someone had crept into her tower cell and transformed it into a bower fit for a princess. She supposed it shouldn’t surprise her that M’lord Dragon would have an ambitious clan of bogies to do his bidding. She was surprised the pitter-patter of their hairy little feet hadn’t awakened her.
She wandered the chamber, absently touching this item or that. Against the wall beneath the window leaned a table draped with a cloth of wine satin. A single chair invited her to sit and partake of the feast that had been spread upon it, a feast that made yesterday’s breakfast of crossbuns and chocolate seem little more than pauper’s fare. Roasted apples, poached eggs, buttery crispbread, and oatcakes shared a platter, their appearance as delectable as their mingling aromas. Gwendolyn pinched off a taste of the crispbread, but for the first time in her life, food failed to hold her interest.
The hearth had been swept clean of its mouse droppings and cobwebs and laid with a tidy nest of logs. A pewter tinderbox perched on the mantel. The wax tapers in the standing candelabrum had also been replaced.
On a smaller but higher table, Gwendolyn discovered a ceramic basin, a pile of clean rags, and a pitcher of warm water. She leaned nearer and sniffed, half expecting the water to be scented with sandalwood and spice. But it was a sweetly floral fragrance that drifted to her nose.
She poured some water into the basin and splashed a little of it on her face, but it failed to startle her from the waking dream her life had become.
That dream grew even sweeter when she spotted the books stacked in the corner. They were old, their covers cracked and their bindings frayed, but as far as Gwendolyn was concerned that only made the words cocooned between their musty pages more precious. There was Volume II of Swift’s collected works, a first edition of Pope’s The Rape of the Lock, Daniel Defoe’s Roxana. But none of those novels thrilled her soul as much as a copy of Colin Maclaurin’s Treatise on Fluxions, which looked as if its spine had never once been cracked.
Gwendolyn sat down on the floor, drawing the books into her lap. She might have sat there all day, content to leaf through their faded pages, if a splash of color in the opposite corner hadn’t caught her eye.
She slowly stood, the books tumbling from her lap. An ancient leather trunk squatted against the wall, its lid propped open to allow its bounty to spill free. Gwendolyn drifted toward it as if beckoned by an unseen hand, the dreamlike haze surrounding her deepening with each step.
Before she was even aware that she had moved, she found herself kneeling like an unworthy supplicant before a sacred altar. Unable to resist the temptation, she plunged both hands into the trunk, bringing forth two fistfuls of pink-and-white-striped poplin and a quilted petticoat with a frilled hem. A white muslin dress trimmed in cherry ribbon emerged next, followed by yards and yards of pleated taffeta in a hue that perfectly matched her eyes. She was already holding the elegant sacque gown against her sheet-clad bosom when she suddenly awoke from her daze.
She let the gown slide from her fingers. Such pretty things were never tailored for great girls like her. They were made to fit willowy beauties like Glynnis and Nessa. A wistful smile touched Gwendolyn’s lips as she imagined Kitty’s squeals of delight if she were to be presented with such a dazzling array of finery.
Gwendolyn knew she ought to slam the lid of the trunk down, but she could not resist tucking her hands into the plush softness of a sable muff. Such finery had probably been commonplace for Gwendolyn’s mother in her youth. But Leah Wilder had never expressed a word of regret when she’d given up such luxuries to marry the brash young steward of a Highland chieftain, taking with her only a loyal young kitchen maid named Izzy. When Gwendolyn’s papa would vow to provide her with a fortune of her own someday, her mother would simply throw her arms around him, kiss his cheek, and proclaim that his love and her precious little girls were the only treasures she would ever need.
Gwendolyn blinked away a mist of tears. How had the Dragon come by such beautiful things? she wondered, trailing a velvet choker over her palm. How many other towns had he plundered before setting his greedy sights on Ballybliss? And was he deliberately mocking her by offering her a feast of finery?
She started to close the trunk, but hesitated, her gaze caught by a quilted petticoat.
Stealing a guilty glance around as if to make sure she wasn
’t being watched by invisible eyes, she unknotted the sheet, stepped into the petticoat, and drew it up over her hips. It hung there as if it had been tailored for her, even requiring a stubborn tug of its silk ribbons to secure it in place. She studied but then rejected an underbodice of blue silk, fearing she would need a lady’s maid to untangle its web of laces.
She took up the sacque gown once again. She had no desire to stretch the taffeta or split the seams of the exquisite garment. Sucking in a deep breath, she dropped the gown over her head. It settled around her in a shimmering cloud, inviting her to slip her arms into the elbow-length sleeves that flared into pleated bells at the cuff.
Gwendolyn slowly extended her arms, marveling at the gown’s flawless fit. Even without a corset to bind her waist, it wasn’t the least bit snug or inclined to split its seams. She spun around, feeling as graceful and airy as the swirl of taffeta around her ankles.
The cherry rosettes adorning the bodice of the white muslin gown seemed to wink at her, and before she knew it, she was casting aside the sacque gown and slipping into the muslin. She tried on gown after gown until she finally sank into an exhausted heap, clutching a lace apron, a lavender silk bag on a ribbon, and six pairs of shoes fashioned from brightly colored morocco.
She swept her gaze across the chamber, torn between elation and despair. What peculiar magic was the Dragon working? She’d hardly been beneath his spell for more than a day and he’d already transformed her into a vain and frivolous creature who scorned books in favor of gauze and ribbons.
Without warning, the echo of his smoky baritone flooded her mind. Wouldn’t it be more pleasant to think of yourself as a pampered pet?
Perhaps that was exactly what he intended to make of her. She told herself that she would do well to remember that no matter how luxurious, the tower was still her cell and she was still his prisoner. He could shower her with extravagant offerings, but none of them could compare with the one gift he refused her— her freedom.
He came to her in the night.
Gwendolyn awoke from a sound sleep with the uncanny certainty that she was not alone. He did not stir or betray himself with so much as a whisper of a breath, yet his presence was as undeniable as the ever-present murmur of the sea against the rocks.
This night was not moonless like the night of their first meeting, and she could make out the faintest glimmer of his eyes in the ghostly light filtering through the grate. He appeared to be cocked back in the chair by the table, his long legs stretched out before him.
Gwendolyn sat up, thankful that she had chosen to don the most modest nightdress in the trunk and a prim cap to cover her hair. She refused to betray how much his presence unsettled her. “Good evening, M’lord Dragon. I would have thought you’d have more pressing things to do than spy on me while I sleep. Such as swooping down from the sky and carrying off innocent children in your talons.”
“I never much cared for children. They generally turn out to be more of a bother than they’re worth.”
“I was rather hoping you’d decide the same thing about me.”
“I haven’t yet determined what your worth might be, although I suspect it’s far beyond the value you place upon yourself.”
Gwendolyn frowned, beset by the strange fancy that the darkness only allowed him to see her more clearly, to penetrate deeper beneath her skin until she was as vulnerable to him as when she’d been garbed in nothing but the sheet and her pride.
“So why have you come?” she asked, icy composure her only defense. “Did you think perhaps to bask in my appreciation for all the rare gifts you’ve bestowed upon me?”
“Did they please you?” “Do you care?”
She could almost hear the pensive frown in his voice. “Oddly enough, I find that I do.”
“The clothes are beautiful,” she confessed, toying with the satin ribbons at the nightgown’s throat. “But I can’t help but wonder how you came by such a treasure trove of ladies’ finery.”
“They once belonged to a woman I knew.”
“A woman you loved?” Gwendolyn asked, unable even as she spoke the words to fathom what compelled her to give voice to such a bold and improper question.
“Deeply,” he responded without hesitation.
Hoping to hide the curious pang his words gave her, Gwendolyn laughed. “ I was surprised to discover the gowns were a perfect fit. Of course, unlike most women of your acquaintance, I have no need of bustle or panniers to support the weight of the skirts,” she added, referring to the padded frames and broad hoops that made it so difficult for ladies of fashion to negotiate carriages and doorways.
His voice was devoid of amusement. “Has it ever occurred to you that most of the women of my acquaintance wear those torturous devices to make themselves look more like you? Softer, fuller… more inviting of a man’s touch?”
Gwendolyn couldn’t have answered his question if she had wanted to. She could barely breathe. She could only be thankful that she wasn’t still wearing only the sheet, for it would have surely slipped from her limp grasp.
He continued, paying her distress no heed. “Truth be told, I might not even have noticed that you had a bit more flesh on your bones than is considered strictly fashionable if you weren’t compelled to point it out with such damning regularity.”
When Gwendolyn found her voice, it was a ragged whisper. “I discovered long ago that it spared others the trouble.”
“How very convenient,” he said, without mercy or pity. “I’m sure it also spared you the trouble of risking your own feelings as the rest of us mortals are forced to do.”
Gwendolyn sat up straighter, hoping he couldn’t see the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Have you forgotten, sir? You’re no mortal. You’re a monster.”
She was prepared for some witty retort. She was not prepared for him to come striding toward her out of the shadows, revealing fragmented glimpses of his face.
He reached the bed, casting them both in shadow, and she felt the callused pad of his thumb stroking her cheek, caressing away the single tear that had spilled from her eyes. “Has it occurred to you, Miss Wilder, that we’re both mythical creatures of a sort—I a dragon, and you a maiden? From the dawn of time, maidens have been endowed with miraculous powers. They can charm unicorns, break curses…” Although she would have thought it impossible, his voice grew even huskier. “… bring a man to his knees. But it remains to be seen whose is the greater power—yours or mine.”
The last thing she expected was for him to lean down and lay his lips against hers. His kiss was dry, even chaste, but it set off a wistful yearning deep in her soul. When he drew away, she wanted to grab his shirt and pull him back.
Not wanting him to slip away into the darkness, she scrambled to her feet, using the bedpost to steady herself. “If my powers are truly so great, sir, then such a kiss should have turned you from beast to man.”
He paused at the panel, his face still wrapped in a veil of moonlight and shadow. “Ah, but you’re forgetting that it was I who kissed you. To free me from my dark enchantment, you would have to kiss me.”
Leaving her with that bold challenge, he vanished into the night that had spawned him.
The Dragon stood at the highest point of Castle Weyrcraig, gazing out to sea with the eyes of a man who received little comfort from its soothing ebb and flow. Past the point where the breakers licked the shore, the inky waters were as smooth as a woman’s skin, but the Dragon was not fooled by their deceptive calmness. Sharp crags and submerged rocks that could tear a man’s heart from his flesh lurked just beneath those gentle swells.
His hands closed over the stone embrasure, all that separated him from the great abyss of nothingness beyond. He watched as the moon flirted with the clouds, creating luminous pockets of light in the night sky, and wondered just how long it would be before he would shy away from even that much illumination.
Circumstance had driven him to become a nocturnal creature, but he’d been a bloody fool to thi
nk he could ease his restlessness by watching his captive sleep.
She had breathed like a child, deep and even, her stern jaw softened by the tantalizing hint of a dimpled smile. Tendrils of gold had caressed the rosy softness of her cheek, escaping from that ridiculous cap she must have unearthed from the trunk. She’d thrown one leg outside the sheet, causing her nightgown to ride up to the curve of her thigh.
When she had first awakened, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to speak, because his mouth had gone dry with desire.
He had known he should flee before the moonlight betrayed him, yet he had lingered—mocking her, taunting her, pushing her until those beautiful, proud eyes of hers had glazed over with tears. Risking both the moonlight and his pride, he had gone to her.
But that bit of lunacy had been nothing but a mild derangement compared with the madness that had possessed him to touch her lips with his own. To steal a taste—no more than a sip really—of a nectar he’d denied himself for far too long. It had been all he could do not to bear her back against the mattress and sink his tongue into the melting sweetness of her mouth.
His burning eyes searched the sky, but found no more solace than the sea had offered. He was already beginning to fear that he had lied to her. Because her kiss, willingly offered, wouldn’t change him from beast to man, but might instead unleash his lust and brand him a beast forever.
Chapter Eight
WHEN GWENDOLYN AWOKE the next morning, there was a bogie stretched across her feet.
She had slept fitfully during the long and restless night, and it took her a bleary moment to realize her legs weren’t paralyzed by exhaustion, but by dead weight. She opened her eyes and saw ragged whiskers, tufts of woolly gray hair, and yellow eyes narrowed to malevolent slits. Shrieking, she went bounding out of the bed.
Before she could flatten herself against the door panel, the thing had disappeared. But the swinging sheet draped over the foot of the bed left little doubt as to its hiding place.