Teresa Medeiros - [FairyTale 02] (16 page)

Gwendolyn touched her cheek, startled to find it wet with tears. She didn’t mourn just for that lost boy, but for the girl who had loved him. The girl who had roamed the forest glens and the winding corridors of this very castle, pining for a glimpse of him. Sometimes it seemed as if both of their lives had ended in the moment that first cannonball tore through the heart of the castle’s keep.

The piping died on a plaintive note. She curled up on her side and drew the sheet to her chin, wondering what that boy would have thought of the woman she had become.

Gwendolyn was dreaming.

She ran through the maze of the castle corridors, a child again. She could hear the boy, but she could not see him. He stayed just ahead of her, dancing down the winding stone staircases, clearing the landings in one leap with the fleet grace of a cat. His laughter drifted back to her, bold and teasing, but no matter how hard she begged him to stop, he kept running, refusing to believe any harm could come to him.

She darted a frantic glance over her shoulder, shaken by the growing rumble of the cannons. If she couldn’t catch him soon, it would be too late. But she was too fat. Too slow. Her short, plump legs were no match for his long, limber ones. Before she could turn one corner, he was rounding the next.

Gwendolyn!
He sang out her name, urging her not to give up the chase.

The cannons were growing louder still, their sporadic booming shaking the floor beneath her feet. Couldn’t he hear them? Couldn’t he feel them?

As she plunged down the main staircase, she caught a glimpse of him sprinting into the great hall, his scarlet and black tartan rippling behind him like wings.

Hope spilled through her chest. If she could just
grab that tartan, she could hold him fast. She could throw her arms around him and keep him safe forever.

Her feet struck the flagstones at the foot of the stairs. A deafening roar shook the castle. She fell to her knees, clapping her hands over her ears.

When she finally dared to open her eyes and lower her hands, the cannons had fallen silent, leaving an eerie hush in their wake.

She slowly climbed to her feet, the yawning archway of the great hall beckoning her forward. Her voice cracked as she called out his name.

Her only answer was the whisper of the dust sifting down from the ceiling. She wanted to believe the stubborn boy must be hiding, that he was probably choking on his own laughter as he prepared to spring out at her from some shadowy corner.

But then she saw the scarlet and black bundle lying on the floor of the great hall. She knelt to gently brush her hand across the wool, expecting to find it damp with blood just as it had been in a hundred other dreams. But the wool was dry, her fingers unstained.

Those fingers began to tremble as she reached to tug back a corner of the tartan. Instead of resisting her pull as it usually did, the garment wafted up around her, leaving her gaping in astonishment.

The tartan was empty. The boy was gone.

The Dragon jerked bolt upright on his pallet, sweat sheening his muscular torso despite the chill in the air.

They were coming. He could hear them—the clattering hoofbeats; the rumble of wagon wheels on the rutted road that led to the castle; the cacophony of voices, cursing and shouting orders; the scattered musket fire. He leapt to his feet, his breath coming short and fast, and dragged on his discarded shirt.

He staggered blindly up the stairs, not bothering to light a candle or lamp. He emerged in the gatehouse, bewildered to find the cavernous room dark and deserted instead of teeming with men preparing for battle. He groped his way to the chapel, praying that he would find someone there, but his questioning cry came back to him as a hollow echo. It seemed that even God had abandoned him.

As he ran past a recessed window, a dazzling flash of light nearly blinded him.

He was too late. They’d already touched a torch to the first fuse.

The Dragon came to a halt in the main entranceway of the castle, his chest heaving and his hands clenched into fists. Never again would he cower in the dark, waiting to hear the damning whistle of that first incoming cannonball. Never again would he trust his fate to a deliverance that would not come. He wrenched open the main door and stumbled into the night.

He strode to the center of the courtyard and flung his arms wide, inviting the bastards to blow his bones into splinters. Squeezing his eyes shut, he threw back his head and let loose a roar that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. But even that anguished
howl was no match for the booming crash that shook the earth beneath his feet.

The crash faded to a rumble. The Dragon opened his eyes, surprised to find himself still standing. Rain poured over him, plastering his shirt and breeches to his body and washing away the last traces of the madness that had seized him.

“Oh, God,” he whispered, sliding to his knees.

Had he known there was a storm coming, he would not have let himself sleep. If Tupper had been there, his friend would have tried to distract him with some witty anecdote, a game of chess, a glass of port, anything to take the edge off this torturous wildness that threatened his soul.

The Dragon buried his face in his hands. He could stand on the deck of a ship and withstand without flinching the cannons fired at his orders, but here in this accursed place, even the harmless blustering of thunder could drive him to the brink of insanity.

He lifted his head just as a flash of lightning revealed that he was kneeling at Aphrodite’s feet. The last storm had brought him Gwendolyn, he remembered, a more welcome distraction than any Tupper could provide. He was shaken to realize how badly he longed to go to her at that moment.

He rose, his bones aching. Fighting the lash of the wind and the rain, he made his way toward the castle, determined to seek the only solace he deserved.

Gwendolyn jerked awake.

At first she mistook the pounding of her heart for the ghostly echo of the cannons in her dream, but that was before a flash of lightning was followed by a clap of thunder. Gusts of wind pummeled the tower, howling their frustration when it refused to crumble before their force.

She hugged herself to still her trembling. She almost wished the Dragon were there, almost wished for the sweetness of his kiss to wash away the bitter taste of the nightmare. But a dazzling flare of lightning proved she was alone.

Finally the wind began to die down. She cocked her head as a curious banging reached her ears, too rhythmic to be thunder. She nearly shrieked when Toby landed on her feet with a muffled thud.

“Where on earth did you come from, big fellow? “ she asked, stroking her fingers through his ruff. “I would have sworn Tupper let you out when he left.”

The cat’s only reply was a rumbling purr. Gwendolyn climbed out of the bed and began to feel her way around the wall. Between each flicker of lightning, the chamber went dark as pitch.

She fumbled for the panel door, but her hand met only air. The banging she had heard was the panel thudding softly against the opposite wall, still caught in the powerful fingers of the draft that had wrenched it open.

The door was ajar. Gwendolyn was free.

G
WENDOLYN
BACKED
AWAY from the door, wondering if she was still dreaming. If she dared to pass through that portal, would she hear the ghostly tap of a boy’s footsteps on the stairs? Would the mocking music of his laughter beguile her into giving chase?

She pinched the tender flesh on the inside of her arm—hard. Reassured by the sting, she took a deep breath and ducked through the opening.

She hadn’t fully realized what pains had been taken to make her tower warm and cozy until she encountered the chill, dank air outside her room. She groped her way down the narrow, winding staircase, ducking beneath a stream of rain that poured right through a crack in the ceiling. A broken block of stone snagged her nightdress. She jerked the hem free, then stumbled down three steps, the clumsy motion bringing her face-to-face with…

Nothing.

A ragged wound had been torn in the north wall,
exposing a dizzying vista of storm-tossed whitecaps. Fading flickers of lightning danced in the moonless sky, illuminating the craggy face of the cliffs and the sheer drop to the rocks below.

Gwendolyn scrambled backward, pressing herself flat against the opposite wall. Were these the terrors the Dragon had braved to come to her side in the dark of night?

At first she feared she wasn’t going to be able to pry herself off the wall. But by steadying her breathing and squeezing her eyes shut, she managed to inch her way past the yawning gap and creep to the gallery below.

At the far end of the gallery was a flight of broad, stone stairs.

Gwendolyn started down the stairs, still not convinced that she wasn’t dreaming. In this dream, her footsteps were not slow or plodding. Instead, she seemed to float down the stairs, the ruffled hem of her nightdress drifting behind her.

As she reached the entranceway, a cool, rain-scented breeze played across her skin. The splintered door that led to the courtyard hung half off its hinges in an invitation Gwendolyn could not ignore.

She hastened toward the door, trying to imagine the joy that would light her papa’s face when she threw herself into his arms. She hesitated, unable to bring his dear, familiar features into focus. A troubling thought plagued her. What if he hadn’t even missed her? When the Dragon had first made her his prisoner, she had believed her father’s madness to be a blessing. But now
she wasn’t so sure. What if Papa simply squeezed her hand, called her his “good girl,” and shooed her off to bed? Then there would be nothing left for her to do but crawl beneath the covers with one of Reverend Throckmorton’s pamphlets, worry about Kitty, and wait for Nessa to return from the arms of her latest lover.

Gwendolyn slowly turned. The yawning archway of the great hall seemed to beckon her forward, just as it had in her dream.

She took one step, then another, her pulse racing with a strange mixture of fascination and dread.

The great hall had once been the heart of Castle Weyrcraig, and it was that heart that had been broken by Cumberland’s attack. A cannonball had shattered a vast portion of the roof, freeing the clouds to scud across its ragged canvas. The rain had nearly stopped, and the moon had begun to peep shyly through the veil of clouds, as if to make sure the storm was truly gone and it was safe to come out. Tattered banners fluttered from the massive crossbeams that hadn’t been splintered by the blow, the scarlet dragons that danced on their fields of black faded to the hue of dried blood. A massive stone hearth crowned the far wall, its hand-carved mantel draped with cobwebs.

Gwendolyn drifted into the hall, feeling barely more substantial than the ghosts who must surely haunt this place. She could almost hear the echoes of their laughter, their voices raised in song as they lifted their goblets
in a victory toast to the might and majesty that had once been Clan MacCullough.

She shook off the fancy. It wasn’t the ghosts of those long-dead warriors who haunted her, but the ghost of the woman who had once striven to make this drafty hall a home. Gwendolyn remembered the MacCullough’s wife as a stout, good-natured soul who laughed a great deal and adored her only son. Her sweetly feminine touch was everywhere. A settee framed by ornate gilt scrollwork sat below a shattered looking-glass, cotton batting spilling out of its frayed silk cushions. In lieu of gloomy tapestries, the walls had been festooned with French linen in once ethereal pastels of pink and blue. A fluted Corinthian column lay toppled on its side in a puddle of rainwater.

As Gwendolyn traversed the hall, she had to pick her way through a field of broken pottery. She bent to pick up a shard of fine porcelain, smoothing her thumb over its lustrous surface. She had spent her life yearning for such beautiful things, and she could not help but mourn their destruction and the broken fragments of the dreams they represented.

She was turning it over in her hand when her foot came up against a disembodied head. She nearly screamed before realizing it was the marble head of the statue in the courtyard—Aphrodite, her shapely lips curved in a knowing smile that both pitied and mocked.

That was when she saw him.

He sat, as always, in shadow. But on this night, it
seemed that even the shadows weren’t enough to hide him. He slumped in the center chair of a long mahogany table, his head buried in his folded arms. A crystal decanter with less than an inch of whisky remaining in its bottom rested before him, along with a silver tinderbox and a candle he hadn’t bothered to light. He wore no coat or waistcoat, just a white shirt with its sleeves shoved carelessly past his elbows. From the way the fine linen clung to his powerful shoulders, outlining every sinew and muscle, Gwendolyn guessed he must be soaked to the bone.

He was oblivious to her presence. All she had to do was tiptoe away and she would be free of him forever. But before she could turn and do just that, thunder boomed in the distance, sending a shudder through his rigid muscles.