The Bride & the Beast Read online

  “The clan didn’t come to his defense,” she said softly. “The MacCullough was forced to stand alone.”

  “No wonder he cursed them,” the Dragon said with a cynical snort of laughter.

  “They were afraid!” Gwendolyn cried. “Every man, woman, and child in that village knew why Cumberland’s enemies called him The Butcher. They’d heard how he’d slaughtered the wounded at Culloden until the soil ran red with Scots blood.”

  “So the villagers of Ballybliss just huddled in their cottages behind their bolted doors while their laird and his family were massacred.” Somehow, the utter lack of emotion in his words made them even more damning.

  “They believed Cumberland would spare them if they didn’t interfere.”

  “And did he? “

  “They weren’t murdered in their beds. Their cottages weren’t razed to the ground.” The blindfold did not hide the blush creeping into her cheeks. “Their wives and daughters weren’t raped and forced to bear the babes of English soldiers nine months later.”

  The Dragon began to pace again, the husky counterpoint of his voice mesmerizing her. “But what little gold they’d managed to hoard was confiscated by the Crown in the name of taxation. Everything that had bound them together as a clan was outlawed—their faith, their tartans, their weapons. The youngest and the strongest fled Ballybliss, while those who were left behind spent the next fifteen years looking over their shoulders, waiting for the doom they’d been promised to swoop down from the sky like some angel of vengeance and destroy them.”

  “How do you know all of this?” Gwendolyn whispered.

  “Perhaps I am that angel.” Before she could decide if he was mocking her or himself, he laughed. “Or perhaps I’m simply an opportunistic devil who bought a drink for some pathetic old Highlander in a run-down tavern somewhere. Perhaps he spilled all of Ballybliss’s secrets in my ear, including the morsel that someone in your village might be hoarding the thousand pounds they earned for betraying their chieftain. Perhaps he even told me that the badge of the MacCullough clan was a flame-breathing dragon.”

  “Perhaps he did,” Gwendolyn agreed, wanting desperately to believe him. “After all, no one blathers more than a drunken Highlander.”

  “You’ve never seen Tupper after a few glasses of port.”

  “Nor do I care to. Which is one of many reasons why I want you to let me go.”

  “So we’re back to that, are we? “

  An image of Papa’s face, crumpled with confusion as he wondered why she hadn’t come to dress him and feed him his porridge, drifted into Gwendolyn’s head. “What of my family? Have you no regard for their feelings? Would you have them think I was dead?”

  A disarming note of anger edged his voice. “Where was your precious family when that mob of savages made off with you?”

  Tucked in their beds with a warm brick wrapped in flannel. Thanking her for her noble sacrifice. Promising to have their lovers write songs in her honor. Vowing never to forget her. Gwendolyn swallowed, her silence condemnation enough.

  “Just as I thought,” he said. “The way I see it, you’re safer in my hands than in theirs.”

  Now that, Gwendolyn thought, was the greatest lie he had told. “What if I promised not to expose your little charade?”

  She was unprepared for the sweet shock of his fingers cupping her cheek. “You’d be lying.”

  As he stroked his thumb across her bottom lip, she closed her eyes beneath the blindfold, seeking to deny the melting effect of his touch.

  “Couldn’t you pretend to believe me? “ she whispered. “ I can be very convincing.”

  “I’m sure you can,” he murmured. “But I haven’t trusted anyone for a very long time, and something tells me I’d be a bloody fool to start with you.” He drew away, the clipped formality returning to his voice. “If you’ll promise not to render him unconscious, I’ll send Tupper up with more breakfast. Will there be anything else you require during your stay?”

  Gwendolyn surged to her feet. She cast one corner of the sheet over her shoulder and thrust her chin toward the general direction of his last comment. “There will be much I require. I strongly suggest that you double your demands for food. As you can see by my appearance, I am a woman of hearty appetites, and I shall expect them to be well satisfied.”

  He seemed to have something stuck in his throat, making his reply sound choked. “I’ll consider it my privilege. I just hope you’ll find me up to the task.”

  “And surely you can’t expect me to spend the remainder of my incarceration garbed in this—this— rag.” He didn’t have to know that the cool satin felt like bliss against her bare skin compared with the scratchy wool she usually wore.

  “Most certainly not. You can remove it anytime you like.”

  “And I shall also require some amusements to brighten the long hours. I prefer the stimulation of books to the tedium of needlework. Dozens of them. I’ve been known to devour two or three a day.”

  “Ah, so we return to your hearty appetites.”

  If she hadn’t believed he’d have her hands bound before she could get them to her face, Gwendolyn would have jerked off the blindfold purely for the satisfaction of shooting him a venomous look.

  “Will there be anything else, Miss Wilder?” he asked. “I could arrange for some musical entertainment. A quartet of string musicians fresh from their triumphant performance at Vauxhall Gardens, perhaps?”

  “I don’t believe I’ll be needing anything else.” She waited until she heard him moving toward the panel before spitefully adding, “Yet.”

  Gwendolyn sank toward the thronelike bed, hoping to maintain her air of regal dignity. Which might have been possible if she hadn’t misjudged the distance and plopped down onto the floor, landing in a puddle of cold chocolate.

  Her captor’s rich laughter poured through the room.

  Gwendolyn furiously jerked off the blindfold, only to discover that the Dragon had flown.

  A short while later, Gwendolyn was perched on the foot of the bed, clinging to her soggy sheet and glaring at the panel when it crept open.

  Tupper poked his head into the chamber like a timid turtle. “ If you’re going to bash me over the head again, miss, would you mind letting me put down the tray first? White flour and Swiss chocolate are rather hard to come by in this particular corner of the Highlands.”

  “You’re safe for now, Mr. Tuppingham. I’m all out of birdcages.”

  “That’s a relief. Although getting clobbered did take my mind off the headache I’d earned from imbibing too much port last night.”

  As he moved to set the tray on the bed, giving her a wide berth, they eyed each other warily. With his puppy-dog eyes and sandy cowlick, Gwendolyn supposed he looked harmless enough. But she couldn’t afford to forget that he was one of Satan’s minions.

  “I gather your master won’t be joining us.” Gwendolyn gave one of the crossbuns a poke, pretending indifference.

  “Oh, he’s not my master. He’s my friend,” Tupper replied, offering her a delicate china cup.

  She took it, savoring the aroma of chocolate wafting up from its depths. The first sip was sheer rapture. “I can’t help but wonder how you came to make the acquaintance of such a”— she had to grit her teeth against the urge to bring her captor’s parentage into question—”mysterious fellow.”

  Tupper chuckled. “ It’s a long story, and my great-aunt Taffy always said I talk too much. I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

  “Oh, please do,” Gwendolyn implored, gesturing at the barren chamber. “What else have I to do?”

  When he appeared to be wavering, she offered him a crossbun, recognizing the kindred gleam in his eye. He wasted no time in plopping down on the opposite corner of the bed and tearing off a buttery hunk of the bread. Gwendolyn helped herself to a bun, in the interest of being companionable and encouraging him to confide in her. If she hoped to defeat the Dragon in his own lair, she would have to learn both his streng
ths and his weaknesses.

  “We met in one of the gambling hells in Pall Mall two years ago,” Tupper confessed, pausing just long enough in his chewing to brush a sprinkling of crumbs from his rumpled waistcoat.

  “Why am I not surprised? “ Gwendolyn hid the acid sweetness of her smile behind another sip of chocolate.

  “I was alone in one of the back rooms preparing to shoot myself in the head—” At Gwendolyn’s horrified gasp, he paused just long enough to give her a heartening smile. “As I was saying, I was in one of the back rooms preparing to shoot myself in the head when—” He paused again, his mouth hanging open. Gwendolyn leaned forward, praying the name on the tip of his tongue would come tumbling out. “—the Dragon came strolling in.”

  “And he stopped you? “

  Tupper shook his head vigorously, speaking through a hearty mouthful of bun. “Oh, no. He simply pointed out that I’d neglected to properly tamp down my charge and was just as likely to blow off my foot as my head. He removed the pistol from my hand, used his own rod to do the honors, then handed it back.”

  Gwendolyn lowered her crossbun, her mouth falling open. “If he was determined to be so accommodating, why didn’t he just shoot you himself?”

  Tupper chuckled. “I was deep in my cups at the time, and I do believe it was his matter-of-fact manner that sobered me out of my self-pity. You see—the Marquess of Eddingham had just threatened to call in all my vowels after he discovered I wasn’t good for them. He was intent upon ruining me. The scandal would have killed my father. Of course, that wouldn’t have been such a tragedy, since the ill-tempered old goat has always considered me the most wretched disappointment of his life and his death would have made me a viscount. But all of his assets are tied up in entailed land, and a fat lot of good a title would have done me while I was rotting away in debtors’ prison.”

  Gwendolyn shook her head. “Please don’t tell me the Dragon paid off your gambling debts.”

  “Not exactly.” A rueful smile played around Tupper’s mouth. “But he did engage the marquess in a game of dice that went on until dawn.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen a grown man so close to tears as the marquess was when he realized he had no chance of recouping his losses. And I can assure you they were quite staggering. As the sun began to rise, my new friend turned around and handed me his winnings. I then handed them back to the marquess to pay off my debts in full. When he realized what we’d done, he tore up my vowels and hurled them in our faces, shouting that he hoped we choked on them.”

  “The Dragon didn’t keep any of the winnings for himself?”

  “Not so much as a ha’pence.”

  Gwendolyn stopped chewing. “So why would such a benevolent soul choose to prey upon villagers who have little more than the rags on their backs? Does he need the money to pay off his own gambling debts?”

  Tupper let out a bray of laughter. “I should say not. Why, there are some who say he’s one of the wealthiest men in—” He snapped his mouth shut, his mustache twitching guiltily. She could almost see his round, guileless face withdrawing into its shell.

  He sprang to his feet and began to back away from the bed. “He warned me about you. He told me you were more clever than I am by half and I should take care to guard my tongue whenever I was around you.”

  Gwendolyn scrambled to her feet, narrowly averting disaster when she tripped over the hem of the sheet. “Surely you can’t blame me, Mr. Tuppingham, for seeking to learn something of the man who has made me his hostage. Please don’t go, I implore you!”

  Tupper shook a finger at her. “He warned me about that, too. Told me if you couldn’t outwit me, you’d probably try to charm me with those dimples and that pretty mouth of yours.”

  Gwendolyn was accustomed to being blamed for her intelligence, but no one had ever before accused her of being pretty or charming. “He said such a thing?”

  Tupper fumbled in the pocket of his frock coat, drawing forth paper, pen, a flask of sand, and a bottle of ink. “He told me to leave these with you. Said you should make a list of everything you require.”

  He tossed the items on the bed and dove for the panel, leaving her alone once again. Gwendolyn recognized the stationery. It was the same expensive vellum the Dragon used for his demands.

  She caressed the creamy sheaf between thumb and forefinger, lost in thought. Despite their recent encounters, she was no closer to divining the Dragon’s true nature than she’d been last night. If she could just remember what she had seen in that courtyard…. But the memory continued to elude her, leaving her with nothing but the conflicting truths she’d learned since then. He was a gambler who gave away his winnings, a bully who took exquisite care not to pull her hair, a thief who had her completely at his mercy, yet had made no attempt to steal her innocence.

  Sinking down on the bed, she brushed her thumb against her lower lip, just as the Dragon had done earlier. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her? She was beginning to feel as witless as Nessa. Instead of being outraged by his impertinence, she was yearning for a mirror for the first time in her memory.

  Shaking off the ridiculous longing, she uncapped the ink, dipped the pen into it, and began to scribble. If the Dragon was intent upon keeping her as his prisoner, then she would see to it that he paid dearly for the pleasure of her company.

  Chapter Seven

  A WOMAN’S SCREAM ripped through the deserted streets of Ballybliss. When the villagers came spilling out of their cottages in their nightdresses and nightshirts, they found Kitty Wilder standing in the moonlight at the mouth of the village, gripping her chest as if the arrow still quivering in the trunk of the ancient oak had pierced her heart.

  Three young lads tripped over their own feet in their rush to comfort her, but her sisters reached her first. As Glynnis and Nessa gathered the trembling young girl into their arms, clucking like mother hens, a dour-faced Ailbert reached up and pried the arrow from the rough bark. A hushed murmur traveled through the crowd. There was no need for the blacksmith to tell them that the ivory paper rippling from the arrow’s shaft was not a flag of surrender.

  For the past twenty-four hours, Castle Weyrcraig had yielded nothing but ominous silence. While many had expressed their hope that the curse had been broken and the Dragon was off to torment some other unfortunate village, none had dared give voice to their secret fear that they’d somehow compounded their past transgressions with a darker and even more damning sin. A warm spring sun had burned off all traces of last night’s storm, making the madness that had seized them during their march to the castle seem more nightmare than reality.

  But the consequences of that madness could no longer be denied—Gwendolyn Wilder was gone and her poor, mad father would spend the rest of his days waiting to hear a familiar footstep that would never come.

  Clutching the paper in his fist, Ailbert led a grim parade through the narrow streets of the village, accompanied by Kitty Wilder’s sobs. He marched right up to the stoop of the only cottage in Ballybliss maintained by the English Crown and began to pound on the door.

  After several minutes, the door flew open, bathing them in a golden halo of lamplight. “G-g-good heavens, man, what is it? “ stammered Reverend Throckmorton, his nightcap on backward and his wire-rimmed spectacles hanging askew from one ear. “The second coming? “

  Ailbert did not speak. He simply thrust the piece of paper beneath the man’s nose.

  The reverend shooed it away. “And what’s this? Another message from that beastly Dragon of yours? “ He shook his head. “I strive to be a patient man, you know, but I’ve just returned from a grueling journey and I’ve no time for such pagan nonsense. Why don’t you go wake that dear, sweet Wilder girl and let me get a decent night’s sleep.”

  He was about to close the door in their faces when Ailbert wedged his foot between door and jamb. “ We’d be much obliged if ye’d read this note for us. So obliged we wouldn’t even think o’ breakin’ that lamp ye’re holdin’ in yer hand th
ere and burnin’ yer cottage to the ground.”

  The reverend gasped in outrage, then took the paper from Ailbert’s hands. While the villagers crowded closer to hear his words, he adjusted his spectacles, tutting beneath his breath, “Bagpipe-playing ghosts. Dragons burning up your fields with their breath. Pointy-eared bogies stealing your babies and leaving their own. Is it any wonder you were such easy prey for the Papists?”

  “We didn’t come here for a sermon, old man,” Ross snarled, hanging over his father’s shoulder.

  With an injured sniff, Throckmorton began to read. “ ‘Good folk of Ballybliss’ “—the reverend started to interrupt himself, then obviously thought better of it— “ ‘although you’ve taxed my patience before, I’ve decided to give you a full fortnight to retrieve the thousand pounds I requested.’ “

  The pronouncement was greeted with fresh gasps and groans. Even the reverend looked taken aback. “A thousand pounds? Wasn’t that the reward the Crown paid for the life of that traitor MacCullough?”

  “That was naught but vicious gossip,” Ailbert muttered. “No one in this village has ever seen that much gold.”

  Throckmorton wisely returned his attention to the paper. “ ‘Until that time, I will have need of the following: five dozen eggs, a half-dozen rounds of cheese, ten steak and kidney pies, three dozen biscuits, twelve loaves of crispbread, five pounds of smoked haddock, a bag of onions, a sack of oatmeal, seven turnips, twenty-five apples, two dozen oatcakes, a side of moor venison, three pounds of fresh mutton, three dozen potatoes, a head of kale, fourteen…’ “

  When Throckmorton’s recitation went on and on without so much as a pause for breath, Ailbert’s mouth dropped open. He snatched the paper out of the minister’s hand, then scanned it from right to left. He didn’t have to know how to read to recognize that it was covered from margin to margin on both sides with the same carelessly elegant scrawl.