Teresa Medeiros - [FairyTale 02] (27 page)

“—were already on MacCullough lands when you stumbled across their camp. As were the cannons they would later use to destroy the castle.” He caressed her knuckles with his thumbs. “They were just a pair of cruel men toying with a frightened child. Don’t you see, Gwendolyn? You couldn’t have told them anything that they didn’t already know.”

She frowned, struggling to absorb the enormity of what he was telling her. “Do you mean to suggest that
they already knew your father had offered sanctuary to Bonnie Prince Charlie?”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.” Bernard cupped her face between his hands, both his touch and his expression brimming with tenderness. “There was a traitor in the village that day, my darling, but it wasn’t you.”

With those words, he leaned forward and kissed the softness of her mouth, absolving her of a sin she had never committed.

“Oh, Bernard!” She touched her trembling fingertips to his cheek. “All these years I’ve been so ashamed because I thought I’d killed you!” Thinking only to hold on to the wonder of it all, she threw her arms around his neck. “I wouldn’t have deliberately harmed a hair on your head, I swear I wouldn’t, no matter how arrogant and insufferable you were.”

He chuckled into her hair. “Don’t you mean ‘no matter how arrogant and insufferable I am?’ “

Still clutching fistfuls of his plaid, Gwendolyn leaned back in his arms as another astonishing realization struck her. “And Papa… oh, Papa…”

Bernard smoothed a stray lock of hair from her cheek, leaving his fingertips to linger against her skin. “What about your father?”

Gwendolyn felt her heart contract with a familiar mixture of pride and pain. “Papa tried to make it to the castle that night. He was the only one who had the courage to try and warn your father that Cumberland’s men were coming. But somewhere along the way, the
redcoats attacked him. He was beaten so badly….” She shook her head, biting her lower lip. “I always believed I was to blame….”

Gwendolyn was so caught up in spilling out all of her misguided guilt that she didn’t see Bernard’s smile fade, didn’t feel the warmth seep out of his touch. “Exactly when did your father leave the manor that night?”

She frowned. “It was just after dark. Shortly before we heard the first cannon blast.”

Bernard sat in absolute silence for almost a minute, then without a word of explanation gently detached himself from her arms and moved to take one of the swords down from the wall over the mantel, his movements as cold and methodical as she had ever seen them.

Bewildered by his abrupt desertion, Gwendolyn came to her feet. “What are you doing? “

He swung around, gripping the hilt of the claymore in one white-knuckled fist. “Your father suffered an attack all right, my dear. An attack of conscience.”

His face grim, he strode past her and out of the hall.

Gwendolyn remained riveted in place, her mind struggling frantically to reach a conclusion that was as impossible as it was undeniable.

“Papa,” she finally breathed, the word both oath and prayer.

Realizing that she had already wasted several precious minutes, she hiked up her skirts and went sprinting after Bernard.

It wasn’t the laird of Castle Weyrcraig who came striding through the courtyard that night, but the dangerous creature who had been born out of its fiery ruins.

As he passed through the wrought iron gates and started down the cliff path, his face more beautiful and terrible than any beast’s, the villagers fell into step behind him, unable to resist his unspoken authority. Some retained enough of their wits to grab a torch from one of the iron sconces that ringed the walls, while others simply trotted along at his heels like befuddled sheep.

None of them had any idea where he was going, but it had been so long since they’d had anyone to lead them that they didn’t care. Where he went, they would follow.

Gwendolyn stumbled down the castle steps and raced through the gates, but found her path blocked by a shuffling wall of villagers.

“Bernard!” she shouted, fighting to be heard over the confused din of the crowd. She jumped up and down in a vain attempt to catch a glimpse of him over the sea of bobbing heads.

Spurred forward by a tantalizing hint of scarlet and black, she shoved and clawed her way past the stragglers in the back, only to be caught up in the mob’s midst and swept toward the village on a relentless tide. As she was driven along, she caught fragmented glimpses of a curious Nessa, a bewildered Kitty, a pale and worried-looking Tupper. But there was no time to
stop. No time to explain or plead for help. Not if she hoped to save one man’s life and another man’s soul.

Bernard strode through the streets of Ballybliss, not ceasing until he came to a dead halt in front of the manor.

As the villagers hung back, their excited murmurs dying to silence, Gwendolyn fought to break through their ranks. She trod soundly on Ross’s foot, ignoring his bellow of pain.

Just as she broke free and reached Bernard’s side, he threw back his head and roared, “Alastair Wilder!”

Gwendolyn snatched at his sword arm, but he jerked away from her. “Leave me be, lass! This is between your father and me. It has naught to do with you.”

“You don’t understand! My father isn’t the man you remember him to be. The beating he took from Cumberland’s men changed him. He’s never been the same since that night.”

“Neither have I,” Bernard replied, his jaw set in stone. “Alastair Wilder!” he shouted again as if she hadn’t even spoken.

A curtain twitched in one of the front windows of the manor.
Izzy,
Gwendolyn prayed,
let it be Izzy.

She grabbed Bernard’s arm again, refusing to let him shake her off this time. Despite the barely suppressed violence coiled in his muscles, she knew he would never strike her. “He’s mad, Bernard. Completely and utterly mad. He hasn’t had possession of his senses since you left Ballybliss.” She softened her grip, convinced that if she could just get him to look at her, she might be able
to reach him. “ No matter what he may or may not have done in the past, he’s nothing now but a defenseless old man.”

Bernard slowly shifted his wary gaze to her face. But Gwendolyn had no time to savor her triumph, for at that moment the door of the manor came creaking open and Alastair Wilder appeared in the entrance, garbed in a faded nightshirt and armed with a claymore even more ancient than the one in Bernard’s hand.

“I’ve been waitin’ for ye, Ian MacCullough,” he snarled, his voice more vibrant than it had been in years. “I knew the devil himself couldn’t keep the likes of ye in hell forever!”

A
LASTAIRWILDER
STAGGERED into the street, dragging the sword alongside him. “Aye, I knew ye’d come,” he said, squinting up at Bernard. “It may have taken ye fifteen long years, ye stubborn auld bastard, but I never once stopped lookin’ over my shoulder.”

“ Papa?” Gwendolyn whispered, struggling to reconcile this sharp-tongued vulture with the sweet-tempered old man she had left napping in her father’s bed.

“Papa?” Glynnis and Nessa echoed, drifting to the front of the crowd while Kitty clung to Tupper, her face as white as her gown. Izzy hung back in the shadows of the doorway, her broad face grim.

If Bernard was surprised to find himself face-to-face with the unknown enemy who had haunted him for all those years, he hid it behind a rigid mask. Nor did he betray so much as a flinch to find himself addressed by his father’s name.

Gwendolyn’s limp hand fell away from his arm as he took a step toward Alastair. “How could you? You were
his steward. His friend. He trusted you above all other men.”

Alastair wagged a bony finger at him. “If ye’d have truly trusted me, Ian, ye’d have heeded my advice. I couldn’t let ye destroy us all with yer noble ideas, yer romantic notions about restorin’ Scotland’s rightful king to her throne. I tried to warn ye! I begged ye not to offer shelter to that traitor, but ye wouldn’t listen. If I hadn’t given Ailbert a hundred pounds to stop the clan from comin’ to yer defense, ye’d have gotten us all butchered, just like those poor fools at Culloden.”

Ailbert went paler than Kitty, but Bernard didn’t spare the blacksmith so much as a contemptuous glance. “At least you’d have died like men.”

“Wrong or right, a MacCullough always stands to fight, eh?” Alastair shook his head sadly. “There wasn’t much left standin’ once Cumberland finished with you, was there?”

Bernard’s fingers flexed around the hilt of the claymore, and for one chilling moment Gwendolyn thought he was going to strike her father down where he stood. Instead he said, “I’m heartened to learn that it was concern for your fellow clansmen that drove you to betray your laird, not greed.”

Her papa shrugged his bony shoulders. “Cumberland already had all the evidence he needed. He was goin’ to make an example of you whether I took the gold or not.”

“But you took it anyway, didn’t you?”

Confusion clouded Alastair’s eyes for the first time
since he had emerged from the manor, making him look like the papa Gwendolyn knew, the papa she loved.

“I wouldn’t have taken the gold if it hadn’t been for my Leah,” he said plaintively. “She deserved finer things than I could give her. She never once complained about not havin’ enough, but I wanted her to have so much more.” He passed a hand over his eyes as if to blot out a memory he could not bear. “She was always so generous. She died tryin’ to give me a son.”

Izzy stepped into the torchlight, her massive arms folded over her chest. “It wasn’t the babe that killed her, ye auld fool. Aye, losin’ the babe sapped her strength, but it was shame that killed my lady. Shame that her own husband would’ve sold the chieftain of his clan. When ye told her what turrible thing ye’d done, she sent ye out into the night to warn the MacCullough. But it was too late, and when ye returned to her, ye were naught but a gibberin’ madman.”

The sword slid from Alastair’s hand, landing in the dirt with a muffled thud. Tears began to slip silently down Gwendolyn’s cheeks as he sank to his knees, his bravado melting away to reveal what he really was—a tired old man with a broken mind and a broken heart.

Pushing past Bernard, Gwendolyn went to her father’s side and knelt next to him in the dirt. “It’s all right, Papa. I’m here.”

“Gwennie? Is that you, Gwennie?” He fumbled for her hands, clinging to them like a frightened child. “I
had a turrible dream. I dreamt the Dragon came back for me. You won’t let him take me, will you, lass? “

“No, Papa, I won’t let him take you.” She glanced over her shoulder, but it was impossible to read the expression in Bernard’s eyes as he watched them together. Turning back to her father, she said, “I need you to think very hard, Papa. I need you to tell me where you hid the gold.”

“I did it for her,” he whispered, the familiar fog descending over his eyes. “All for her. I wanted her to have it. So she could buy fine things.”

It took Gwendolyn no more than a shuddering breath to realize what he was trying to tell her. “Oh, Papa,” she said, stroking his paper-soft cheek. “Mama never wanted fine things. She only wanted your love.”

As he began to rock back and forth in the dirt, Gwendolyn swiped fiercely at her cheeks, trying to scrub away the last traces of her tears before lifting her eyes to Bernard’s face. “I hope you’re satisfied now, m’laird. I believe you’ll find your precious gold buried in the side yard. In my mother’s grave.”

Bernard shook his head, an emotion that looked dangerously like regret shimmering in his eyes. “You know I didn’t come for the gold, Gwendolyn. I came for him.”

“Well, you can’t have him!” she cried. “Can’t you see that he’s been punished enough?”

“I’m his laird,” Bernard said quietly. “That’s for me to decide.”

“Do you honestly believe that cutting down a pathetic old man will make everything better? Will it right the wrongs of the past? Will it somehow turn back time and make you the boy you once were? Will it bring back your parents?”

Something flickered across his face, telling her she had struck a raw nerve. She pressed on, knowing she had no choice.