Teresa Medeiros - [FairyTale 02] (20 page)

That may be true, but for just a moment there, I would have sworn you knew my heart.

She squeezed her eyes shut, wondering if he had been right. She might not know his name or his face, but she felt as if she knew his soul—his kindness, his tenderness, the generosity of spirit he sought to hide beneath his gruff exterior and mocking detachment.

Perhaps it was that glimpse of the man behind the mask that had frightened her so badly, driven her to say the words that would wound his pride and force him to set her free.

But she would never be free as long as her heart was still his prisoner.

Gwendolyn slowly turned to face the panel. She could slip into her nightdress, extinguish the candles, and climb into that inviting bed, but she knew instinctively that the Dragon would not come to her as he had done in the past.

If she wanted to set herself free, she would have to go to him.

Vaporous tongues of mist crept out of the glens and hollows, swirling like dragon’s breath around the parapets of Castle Weyrcraig. The sea pounded at the cliffs below, roaring with mindless fury. The full moon cast an icy glow over the castle, chilling everything it touched and deepening the illusion that the ancient stones had been frozen in time.

Gwendolyn moved through the shadowy passages, refusing to be mired in the past for another moment. She was no longer a girl in search of a boy, but a woman in search of a man. A man woven not of myth and moonlight, but flesh and blood.

She cupped a hand around her candle flame to shield it from a violent gust of wind, not sparing so much as a glance at the gaping wound in the north wall of the
stairwell or its shocking plummet into the sea. She sidestepped the fallen blocks of stone as if they were no more than a handful of pebbles scattered in her path.

The moonbeams streaming through the splintered remains of the entranceway door proved no enticement to Gwendolyn. She turned her back on them to scan the shadows, wondering just where a dragon might hide if he didn’t wish to be found.

The great hall had been deserted by all but its ghosts. The crystal decanter still rested upon the table, the thimbleful of whisky in its bottom undisturbed.

Gwendolyn searched room after room—her haste growing along with her impatience—before finding her way to a dusty chapel. Except for a round window of stained glass set high in the nave above the altar, little of the sanctuary had survived the unholy wrath of Cumberland’s cannons.

Picking her way around the splintered pews, Gwendolyn fought despair. What if the Dragon had gone? What if he’d slipped away to catch the ship she’d seen anchored offshore only a few nights ago?

“Please,” she whispered, gazing up at the luminous circle of jewel-toned light.

Her eyes fluttered shut as a bone-deep conviction warmed her. If he was gone, she would feel it. He was still here within these walls. Somewhere.

She opened her eyes and hastened out of the chapel, her steps carrying her to the ramshackle structure that had once served as the castle’s gatehouse. A faint reddish glow emanated from the dank stone stairwell in
the corner, confirming what she should have already guessed.

The Dragon had gone to ground.

She waved the candlestick before her, making the shadows dance, but could see no end to the stairs. They looked as if they might wind all the way down into the heart of hell itself.

Gwendolyn lowered the candle, drawing in a shaky breath. It would be risky to beard the beast in his lair, but she had little choice. She wasn’t sure how he’d react to being cornered, but if he lashed out at her, she only prayed her heart would be strong enough to survive the blow.

She began her descent, gathering the pleated taffeta skirts of the sky blue sacque gown close to keep them from brushing the glistening, lichen-furred walls. It was easy to believe that the narrow tunnel of stairs might open into the heart of a towering cavern. That she would find the Dragon curled up on a glittering nest of gold, diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. That he would lift his massive head, his iridescent scales shimmering in the mist, and breathe forth a blast of fire that would consume her to the bone.

Gwendolyn paused, forcing herself to shake off the fancy. If the Dragon had proved one thing last night, it was that he was no monster.

As she reached the foot of the stairs, the reddish glow deepened, beckoning her through an arched passageway that led to a stone antechamber. It was there that she finally found the Dragon, napping not on
a nest of hidden treasure, but on a tousled heap of blankets and bolsters.

A rush of tenderness caught Gwendolyn unawares. The Dragon lay on his back, one arm outflung, his fingers curled into a loose fist. His face was turned away from the dying embers on the hearth. Although their faint glow did little to take the edge off the clammy chill of the chamber, he had kicked away the blanket that was supposed to be covering him, revealing one long, lean thigh encased in a pair of doeskin knee breeches and one stockinged foot. His shirt was open to the waist, exposing the gilded planes of a chest lightly furred with crisp, dark hair.

A drop of hot wax spattered on Gwendolyn’s fingers. Her mouth went dry as she realized she held the power to expose his true nature within her trembling hands.

She hesitated. It seemed wrong somehow to spy on him when he was as defenseless as a child. But he’d suffered no similar qualms of conscience, she reminded herself sternly, when sneaking into her chamber to watch her sleep.

She slipped to her knees beside him and held the candlestick aloft.

His hand shot out, seizing her wrist. In a moment, he had sent the candlestick flying against the wall and switched positions with her. Gwendolyn gasped. It was one thing to be on her feet in his arms, but quite another to be on her back beneath him, the softness of her breasts colliding with the unyielding wall of his chest.

“Did you misplace something, Miss Wilder? Your common sense, perhaps? “

So she was to be Miss Wilder again, was she? Remembering how he had murmured her name against her mouth as if it were a sacred incantation, Gwendolyn felt a pang of loss.

“The only thing I’ve misplaced, M’lord Dragon, is my candle.”

“Which is a blessed mercy, since you were about to set my hair afire with it.”

“I suppose that now you’re going to point out that I should be thanking you for not cutting my throat.”

“Don’t thank me yet. The night is still young.”

Gwendolyn swallowed, transfixed by the predatory gleam of his eyes and the raw heat of his big, masculine body above hers. There was no hint of whisky on his breath, confirming her suspicion that he was more dangerous sober than drunk.

He rolled off her and dragged her to her feet.

“You’re a most vexatious creature,” he said, his purposeful strides carrying him to the hearth, where he used the iron poker to scatter all but a few stubborn embers. “When you’re supposed to stay put, you try to escape. When you’re supposed to escape, you stay put.”

“Is that what you want? For me to go? “

He swung around to face her, the feeble glow of the embers casting him in silhouette. “What I want is of little consequence. You made that quite clear last night.”

Even through the warmth permeating her body,

Gwendolyn could feel her cheeks heat. She was only too aware that she had tasted the pleasure he had apparently been denied.

“You should blush more often, Miss Wilder,” he added softly. “It becomes you.”

She touched a hand to her cheek. “How did you… ?”

“It’s a well-known fact that dragons can see in the dark.”

If he could see her blush, she thought, then he could see the care she’d taken with her appearance. He could see how she’d brushed her hair until it cascaded in shimmering waves down her back. He could see how she’d chosen the gown that would most flatter her curves. He could see how hard she had striven to see herself through his eyes.

“I suspected as much,” she said wryly. “The shadows never did seem to afford me much protection where you were concerned.”

“Is that what you felt you needed? Protection? From me?”

“More than you know.” Yet even as she confessed her weakness, Gwendolyn drew nearer to him.

The wary gleam in his eyes deepened at her approach. “If you’ve come to bid me farewell before you hie back to that charming village of yours, I can spare you the trouble. I’ll be leaving myself on the morrow.”

Gwendolyn’s heart lurched. “Without the thousand pounds you came for?”

“I’ve come to suspect that the cost of finding the gold may be more than it’s worth.”

“And just when did you make this discovery? “

She expected him to make light of her question, but when he finally replied, it was without a trace of humor. “Last night. When you tore yourself from my arms as if I were the vilest of beasts.”

Gwendolyn shook her head. “We were both wrong last night, M’lord Dragon. It’s not a maiden’s kiss that has the power to change a beast into a man or a girl into a woman. As sweet as a kiss can be, there’s something much more powerful.”

“Don’t!” he exclaimed harshly. “As much as I want you in my bed, I’ll not have you compromise your precious virtue on my behalf.”

“Is that why you think I came here tonight? To offer myself to you?” She took another step toward him.

“I must warn you that should you be so foolish, I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to refuse you. But I will have the strength to leave you on the morrow.” He stretched out his hand as if it might have the power to stay her should his words fail to do so.

Gwendolyn caught that hand in her own. “ I’ve come to offer you something more powerful than a kiss and more lasting than a touch.” She pressed his palm to her breast, knowing he would feel the shudder of her heart beneath. “My love.”

The Dragon couldn’t have bolted in that moment had Gwendolyn flashed a torch in his face. With those two words, she had compromised something far more precious than her virtue, a treasure she had guarded her entire life—her pride.

“Don’t be a bloody fool! How could you love a man whose name you don’t know? A man whose face you’ve never seen?”

“I don’t know,” she confessed, bringing his hand to her lips. “But I do know that if you leave here on the morrow, you’ll take my heart with you wherever you go.”

As Gwendolyn’s lips flowered against his knuckles, the Dragon groaned. He could almost feel the rugged scales that had armored his heart for so long cracking and falling away. He could not stop himself from breathing in the fragrance of her hair, weaving his fingers through its incandescent softness, lowering his mouth to hers.

He had once been fool enough to wonder who possessed the greater power—the Dragon or the maiden. But as Gwendolyn’s lips parted beneath his own, entreating him to love her in return, his legs buckled, bringing him to his knees.

He wasn’t even startled by the rumble of thunder in the distance. At least he thought it was thunder—his ears were roaring so loudly that it could have been thunder or cannon fire or simply the pounding of his heart as he surrendered it into Gwendolyn’s hands.

“Kill the Dragon! Kill the Dragon!” The muffled chant sent a quiver of alarm through Gwendolyn’s body.

“What in the bloody hell… ?” The Dragon cocked his head to listen. The chant was growing louder by the moment.

Kill the Dragon!
Kill the Dragon!
We’ll take his head.
Then he’ll be dead.
And he’ll trouble us no more!

The Dragon swore beneath his breath, rose to his feet, then cupped Gwendolyn’s face in his hands and pressed a fierce kiss to her lips. “Forgive me for interrupting our little interlude, my love, but I do believe we’re about to receive some uninvited callers.”

Before she could catch her breath, he grabbed her hand and went running up the stairs, dragging her along behind him.

T
HE
D
RAGON HAD QALLED HER
his love.

Gwendolyn stumbled along behind him, torn between terror and exhilaration. Even as her damnable common sense warned her that his words might have been nothing more than a mocking endearment, her heart sang with joy.

Which was why it was such a pity that they were going to die.

By the time they emerged from the dungeon stairwell into the gatehouse, the steady chant of the approaching mob had already disintegrated into shouts and howls. The Dragon pressed his back to the wall and wrapped one arm around her waist, dragging her against him.

“They haven’t yet reached the castle,” he murmured. “If we can make it to the battlements before they storm the courtyard, I can signal my ship to come retrieve us.”

There was no need for explanation. As he brushed
his lips against her temple and gave her hand a heartening squeeze, Gwendolyn knew she would have followed him into hell itself. Hand in hand, they ran through the gatehouse, past the chapel, across the main en-tranceway of the castle. Although moonlight streamed through the splintered door, there was no time to steal a glimpse of his face, no time to do anything but run and try to choke air into her starving lungs. As they raced up the steps, a gray streak bolted past them. It took Gwendolyn a startled moment to realize it was Toby, moving at a clip much faster than his usual languid swagger.