Teresa Medeiros - [FairyTale 02] (8 page)

W
HEN
GWENDOLYN
AWOKE the next morning, she was both angry and hungry—a dangerous combination when she was in her best temper, which she most definitely was not at the moment. She’d had a restless night to brood over M’lord Dragon’s highhanded treatment of her and it hadn’t helped that every time she’d awakened, it had been with his scent in her nostrils.

She sat up, relieved that she was no longer in darkness. A buttery shaft of sunlight poured through a round iron grate set high on the wall. Last night, all of her senses had been enveloped by her captor, and she had not noticed the sound of the breakers striking the rocks far below. Now she realized that he must have carried her to one of the castle towers facing the sea, a tower spared the worst of the English cannon fire all those years ago.

She clambered out of the bed, wrapping the satin sheet around her as if it were one of the Roman togas
garbing the demigoddesses on the ceiling. Her linen robe was lying in a soggy heap on the floor. Gwendolyn shook her head. She supposed it was too much to expect the Dragon to have enough sense to hang up the garment so it could dry.

As she circled the chamber, trailing the sheet behind her, a cascade of dust motes drifted through the air, tickling her nose. It was quickly apparent that the extravagant bed, the satin sheets, and the wax candles in their standing candelabrum were an oasis of luxury in a desert of barren neglect. A superior smile touched her lips. M’lord Dragon might be a beast at heart, but he certainly appreciated his creature comforts.

Faded wainscoting and peeling whitewash covered the paneled walls of the chamber. She poked her nose behind a moth-eaten curtain and found an ancient privy. Any ideas she might have had about escaping down its yawning shaft were banished after she dropped a loose bit of plaster into it and failed to hear so much as an echo of a splash. At least she was to be spared the indignity of asking M’lord Dragon to empty her chamber pot. Although, she thought with an evil grin, it might be worth sacrificing her dignity to insult his.

A wooden birdcage festooned with cobwebs hung in the corner, its occupant long flown—or so Gwendolyn believed until she stood on tiptoe to peep through the cage’s bars and saw the tiny nest of bones huddled on its floor.

She backed away from the cage. There was something so pathetic, so betrayed about that fragile corpse. At one
time, it had belonged to some merry, chirping creature who had trusted that someone would return to listen to him sing, to clean his cage… to feed him.

Gwendolyn whirled around, suddenly discovering what was missing from the chamber.

A door.

She circled the walls, tempted to beat against them as the hapless bird must have beat his wings against the bars of his cage when he realized no one was ever coming back. She could almost believe the Dragon had cast some dark enchantment upon her. Some diabolical spell that would allow him to come and go as he desired, but that would keep her his prisoner forever.

She sagged against the wall, shamed by her panic. What was it about this place? It was no longer the enchanted castle she had once believed it to be, yet it still possessed the power to awaken her every girlish fancy. Fancies she’d squelched during the years she’d spent caring for her father. She was even more ashamed to realize it was the first time she’d thought of Papa since last night.

Her only hope for him lay in his frequent lapses of memory. If his broken mind decided to go wandering in the past as it so often did, perhaps he wouldn’t even miss her. The thought gave her less comfort than she had hoped.

She straightened. The solution to her dilemma was really quite simple. One of the panels had to be a door. She began to circle the room again, this time using
her fingernails to pry at each panel in turn. She soon found herself back where she had started without having heard even a creak of encouragement. The Dragon might as well have chained her to a wall in the castle dungeon.

“God’s toenails,” she swore, slumping against the panel as her stomach growled in frustration.

The distant sound of singing drifted to her ears. Gwendolyn cocked her head, recognizing the words and melody of the familiar ditty, but not the voice of the singer.

I love the fair hair o’ me Jenny Claire.
The bonniest lady is she.
But to woo the lass,
I must kick the… um, rump
O’ her braw brothers three.

Gwendolyn winced. The song was not only atrociously off-key, but sung in a Scottish burr thicker than Auld Tavis’s. As it deteriorated into cheery whistling, Gwendolyn pressed her ear first to one panel, then to another, until she was rewarded by the sound of approaching footsteps.

Still gripping the sheet in one hand, she looked frantically around for a weapon. All she could find was the birdcage. With a muttered apology to its lifeless occupant, she wrenched it from its chain, then pressed herself to the wall next to the panel, holding the cage over her
head with her free hand. Let M’lord Dragon see how he liked being caught in his own trap!

The panel clicked, then swung inward. A man ducked through the opening. Without allowing herself time to lose her nerve, Gwendolyn slammed the birdcage down on the back of his head.

He slumped into a boneless heap.

“Oh, no!” Gwendolyn cried out, not in regret but in dismay, as the tray he’d been carrying crashed to the floor along with him, spilling a basket of crossbuns and a pitcher of steaming chocolate.

She scrambled to rescue one of the crossbuns before it rolled under the bed, but could do nothing to stop the rich chocolate from seeping into the floorboards.

She blew the dust off the bun and sank her teeth into its crust as she surveyed her captive. M’lord Dragon didn’t look quite so fierce lying facedown on the floor in a puddle of chocolate, now, did he? She nudged him with her foot, but he did not stir. She knew she ought to take advantage of his stupor and flee, but her curiosity had always been stronger than her fear. She could not leave this place without seeing the face of the Dragon just once.

Clutching the sheet to her breast, she knelt down and gave his limp form an ungainly shove. As he rolled onto his back, she retreated, stifling a squeak.

Her alarm was quickly replaced by another emotion— one it took her a moment to identify.

Disappointment.

This? This
was the fierce beast who had terrorized
the village?
This
was the man whose smoky baritone had sent shivers cascading over her bare skin?
This
was the man whose spice and sandalwood scent had haunted her restless dreams?

A snore escaped his parted lips, fluttering the sandy hairs of his well-trimmed mustache. The hair on his head was equally pale and already thinning at the crown. Although he wore a tartan plaid draped over one shoulder of his frock coat, his full cheeks were fair and stained with the natural blush of a born and bred Englishman. His generous girth strained the pearl buttons of his double-breasted waistcoat. His nose was rounded, his mouth bland, his face decidedly pleasant.

Gwendolyn slowly backed away from him, chiding herself for being ridiculous. After all, what had she expected? Some handsome, brooding rogue with a devilish smile and piercing eyes? Some dark prince laboring beneath a terrible curse that could only be broken by a maiden’s kiss? She ought to be relieved that the beast had turned out to be nothing but a man. And a very ordinary one at that.

Shaking her head, Gwendolyn backed toward the open panel. “Farewell, M’lord Dragon,” she murmured. “For I doubt we shall ever meet again.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I were you.” A pair of warm hands closed over her shoulders from behind, caressing the fluted arch of her collarbones. “On the contrary, my dear, I think we’d best be prepared to enjoy each other’s company for quite some time.”

DON’T TURN AROUND,” the Dragon commanded with the authority of a man accustomed to having his orders obeyed.

Gwendolyn was tempted to defy him, but the subtle pressure of his fingertips warned her that he was fully capable of enforcing his command, with or without her cooperation. She didn’t relish the prospect of engaging him in a full-out brawl, especially while garbed only in a sheet that had an alarming tendency to slither down her body with a will of its own.

Out of a swirl of dizzying impressions, she struggled to form an image of him. He was taller than her by at least a head, maybe more. He had an aristocrat’s hands, with lean, long fingers and neatly clipped nails. Black hair dusted the backs of those hands. As she breathed in his scent, now mingled with the tantalizing musk of cheroot smoke, she realized what a fool she’d been to have mistaken the man she’d bashed with the birdcage
for the Dragon, whose mere presence made every nerve in her body tingle with awareness.

The other man sat up, groaning and rubbing the back of his head.

“The cheeky little chit ambushed me,” he muttered, drawing a handkerchief from his breast pocket and using it to swipe chocolate from his cheek. “I never saw it coming.”

“One rarely does where a woman is concerned,” the Dragon said dryly. She could sense him eyeing the carnage of what was meant to be her breakfast. “I take it she has no great fondness for crossbuns and chocolate.”

“ ‘She’ has no great fondness for being locked up like an animal in a cage,” Gwendolyn retorted, holding herself rigid in the vain hope that she would forget she was still in his arms.

His smoky chuckle caressed her nape. “Wouldn’t it be more pleasant to think of yourself as a pampered pet?”

“Even the most pampered of pets has been known to tear out its master’s throat if ill-treated or too long deprived of attention.”

“I shall take your warning to heart, although I can assure you that it was never my intent to deprive you of my attentions.” Before Gwendolyn could fully digest that rather alarming statement, he nodded toward his companion. “Shall I make the introductions, Tup, or will you?”

The man climbed to his feet, brushing cross
bun crumbs and splinters of birdcage from his fawn knee breeches before sweeping her a sheepish bow. “Theodore Tuppingham, my lady, at your humble service. But I hope you’ll call me Tupper. All my friends do.” His eyes were the same earnest brown as those of a spaniel her papa used to hunt with when she was a little girl.

“Gwendolyn Wilder,” she replied stiffly. “And I fear I can hardly consider you a friend,
Mr. Tuppingham,
as long as you and your companion insist upon holding me hostage.”

“Now that we’ve concluded with the pleasantries…” The Dragon stretched out a hand. “Tupper, your cravat.”

Tupper gave the ruffled stock draped around his neck a puzzled look. “Is it crooked?”

The Dragon’s long-suffering sigh stirred Gwendolyn’s hair.

“Oh!” Tupper exclaimed, whipping off the cravat and laying it across the Dragon’s palm.

As Gwendolyn realized what he meant to do with it, she began to struggle in earnest. “If you toy with the blindfold,” he murmured, folding the scrap of linen over her eyes, “ I’ll bind your hands. And that might make it a trifle bit more challenging to keep your white-knuckled death grip on that sheet.”

Gwendolyn had no choice but to surrender to his will. It was mortifying enough that he’d seen her without her clothes; she wasn’t about to let him make sport of her in front of the blushing Mr. Tuppingham.

It would have been easier to despise him if he’d been rough with her, but he seemed to take exquisite care to make sure the silky strands of her hair didn’t get tangled in the blindfold’s knot. Still, as he caught her arm and steered her toward the bed, his taut grip warned her that his patience was at an end. “Leave us, Tupper. I should like to have a word with Miss Wilder. Alone.”

“There’s really no need for you to be angry with her, lad,” Tupper said. “If I’d have taken more care—”

“You wouldn’t have ended up wearing the birdcage for a bonnet. You can stop hovering like a nervous nursemaid, Tupper. I’ve no intention of torturing or ravishing our guest. Yet,” he finished darkly.

The dreaded click of the panel came too soon.

“Sit,” the Dragon commanded as the back of Gwendolyn’s knees came up against the bed.

Gwendolyn sat, her jaw set at a mutinous angle.

The measured tread of the Dragon’s bootheels told her he had taken to pacing. “Surely you must realize, Miss Wilder, that your untimely arrival at Castle Weyrcraig is as great a misfortune to me as it is to you. If I could let you leave, I would. You’re a distraction I don’t need and can ill afford.”

“Then why don’t you just send me home? I can assure you that I’m needed there,” she said, hoping it was still true.

“Because I’m as much a prisoner in this as you are. I refuse to let you destroy everything I’ve labored over for—” he broke off suddenly, purging the passion from
his voice, “the past few months. You’ll simply have to remain my guest until my business with Ballybliss is finished.”

“Your ‘guest’?” Gwendolyn echoed with a disbelieving laugh. “Do you always keep your ‘guests’ locked in a room without doors? And what ‘business’ could a man like you possibly have with a dying Highland village populated only by those too poor or too mule-headed to leave?” A new thought struck her. “Is it the curse? Did you and your Mr. Tuppingham hear about the curse and decide Ballybliss would be easy prey for your trickery?”