THE WINTER ROSE

 

Scotland, 1793

 

The furious wind slashed and swirled, whipping up snowflakes in delirious funnels.

From his vantage in the castle library, Ian MacGregor studied the storm through the frosted window. Crystals had formed in the corners of the glass. The glittering flecks spread outward like spider webs. Soon the whole pane would be covered in rime.

He rubbed his scarred cheek. It ached with the bitter gale. The more savage the flurries, the more savage his pain. The cold pierced him to the bone, even with a great fire blazing at his backside. But he would not move away from the window. He stood in front of the glass, listening to it splinter under the blight of ice, waiting for it to shatter, for the tempest to besiege the castle and destroy him.

His eyes burrowed into the night.

Come, he beseeched the darkness. Come and take me.

And then Death appeared.

At last.

A white figure in the snowdrifts stumbled toward him. It sidestepped in the mighty gale, floundered—then collapsed.

“No!” he shouted and bounded from the room.

Tearing through the castle, he reached the entryway and pulled apart the heavy oak doors. The biting wind slapped him, sliced through his clothes. His muscles burned with cold. He pushed onward through the whirling snow. The mounds reached his knees. He pushed onward still.

He followed the firelight from the castle window. The bright beam stretched deep into the night, illuminating a billowing sail of … tulle and taffeta.

Ian stared at the woman. Her cloak lashed him. She clenched a wilted bouquet of red roses.

It was not Death that had come to the castle but a simple lass.

He gritted his teeth. When would Death stalk him?

Ian reached down and scooped the frozen body into his arms, trudging back to the keep. Once inside, he hastened with her to the library and placed her on the bearskin rug before the roaring fire.

Her lips were blue. Her veins purple. Even her dark brown hair was stiff with frost. But she lived. White puffs of air seeped between her chilled lips.

He grabbed blankets and pillows from the chairs and cocooned her, waited for her limbs to shiver and generate heat, but she remained unmoving, her eyes shut tight, her lashes white with ice.

“Damn.”

With no other recourse, Ian settled behind her and drew her into his arms, hissing at the stark feel of her iced flesh. His own body shivered. He pressed his mouth against her exposed throat and breathed over her weak pulse.

“Wake up, lass,” he whispered.

He rubbed her arms, her hands. Her fingers cricked. The blossoms fell from her grip, and he threw the petals into the fire. Soon her chest spasmed. She gasped for breath. And her bones shuddered.

“That’s it, lass. Wake.”

When he heard her chattering teeth, he knew she was coming ’round. The layer of hoarfrost over her skin and clothes melted. He stripped off her wet outerwear, tossing the garments away.

After wrapping her body in more woolly blankets, he gathered her trembling figure into his arms again, cursing his misfortune.

Death had not come for him tonight. It had tried to take the woman, instead.

He clenched his teeth, grinding his molars.

If Death would not take him after so many wretched years, Ian would take something from Death.

He would keep the lass.

~ * ~

Bonnie opened her eyes, absorbing the soft light. As her foggy gaze regained focus, she explored her surroundings from the warmth of the bed. Where was she? And how had she found her way under the plush covers?

She peeked beneath the linens and found her body draped in a shift and chemise, though her outerwear was missing. What had happened to her clothes?

Her thoughts churned with ever greater vim, searching for answers, but shadows filled her mind: inscrutable shadows.

She was sore, weak. It took much of her strength to struggle upright. As if she had the palsy, her limbs were like paste.

Bonnie heaved a deep breath. Mercy, what strange fate had befallen her?

It was several more minutes before she’d gathered enough energy to scramble to the edge of the feather mattress, wincing at the aches and pains. Vertigo gripped her for many moments before she hoisted off the bed, grabbing a bedpost for support.

As her dizziness eased, she felt firmer on her bare feet and took another, more detailed survey of her unfamiliar milieu.

The chamber was massive with vaulted ceilings covered in frescos. The flickering light from the candles, the fire caused the carved images to almost dance. How enchanting!

There was a large wood wardrobe, opened and filled with illustrious gowns of every color under heaven. One gown had been laid out—for her?—seated in an armchair. It was a shimmering aqua blue, festooned with diamond and sapphire stones.

She had never seen such lavishness, not even in Paris during her grand tour. At the foot of the chair was a pair of silken shoes, also covered with precious gems sparkling in the firelight. The hourglass heels seemed ready to kick up and dance. The pointed toecap with high vamp and gold embroidered tongue begged to be paraded and admired.

“Oh, how beautiful,” she whispered, unarmed by their majestic charm.

Thank you.

“You’re welcome,” returned Bonnie.

Bonnie clamped her hand over her gaping mouth. Had she just conversed with a pair of shoes? “I must be mad.”

Aren’t I worthy of your adoration?

Bonnie crouched beside the slippers. “Oh, yes, very worthy. But I mustn’t touch you. I’m afraid …”

Afraid of what?

“I’m afraid I might do something rash.”

With me?

“Yes.”

How delightful!

“No,” Bonnie chastised the shoes. “You are meant for another. I am not your mistress.”

Aye, you are, gel. Read the note.

She frowned. “What note?”

On the vanity. Look.

Bonnie slowly approached the vanity and paused when she noticed the folded missive. She wasn’t sure what was more frightening: that she heard voices or that the voices were truthful?

Apprehensive, she reached for the card and unfurled the note:

 

Meet me in the Dining Room for Dinner.

 

Her heart pounded after reading the invitation; it sounded more like a behest—one she could not decline. Was it from her host?

And the shoes? The frocks? Were they really for her? Why?

Bonnie was overwhelmed.

Mustn’t be late. The master is strict about time.

“And who is your master?”

First, get dressed. Make haste!

As an inexplicable sense of urgency came over her, Bonnie bustled toward the chair and retrieved the blue skirt and bodice. The hooks and eyes fastened in the front, making it easy to get dressed without the assistance of a maid.

Bonnie then slipped into the fancy shoes—who cooed with delight, much to her bewilderment—then headed for the vanity, where she twisted her dark ringlets into a crown above her head, using the pins and combs scattered across the desk to secure her chignon.

How lovely! Now for the jewels.

“Jewels?” said Bonnie. “No, that is too much.”

Master will be displeased if you do not wear the jewels.

Bonnie was starting to dislike the sound of “the master.” He seemed an authoritarian. Mayhap a tyrant. And the thought of such a beastly host set her pulse pounding. A coldness came over her, chilled her very toes. There was something about the thought of an autocrat that sent her into a near panic, though she wasn’t sure why.

Brrr. Are you cold?

“Aye,” returned Bonnie. “I’m not sure I want to meet your master.”

Oh, but you must! He would be so …

“So what?” demanded Bonnie. “Angry? Violent?”

She gulped at the distressing thought. Scooping the sides of her glimmering gown, she dashed toward the window and gazed outward, searching for escape. Her eyes widened. She found the land covered in snow—blinding, raging, impenetrable, howling snow. In the heart of summer? Impossible! Even in the Highlands, surely?

And yet, Bonnie was trapped.

He would be disappointed, is all. Fret not, gel.

Bonnie wasn’t comforted by her new friend’s assurance. Still, she had no choice but to obey. If she wanted to leave the castle, she would need her host’s assistance. She might as well tolerate his quirks; they seemed harmless enough.

“Very well,” said Bonnie, treading back toward the vanity where a jewellery box with inlaid wood beckoned her.

Slowly she lifted the lid and groaned at the brilliant array of priceless ornaments. If she lost or damaged an irreplaceable bauble, she feared she was doomed.

Ooh, the sapphires are divine! There’s a pin for your hair, a set of earrings and a demure necklace. Wear the set!

Demure, her foot, grumbled Bonnie, but she warily adorned herself with the jewels.

Ah, you look like a princess.

“I feel like a fraud.”

Rubbish! It was all made for you, gel.

“What do you mean? I just arrived. How is that possible?”

What did her host exactly want from her?

It’s time for dinner. Master will explain, I promise.

Bonnie took in a desperate breath, then headed for the door. “Where is the dining hall?”

Just follow the candles.

As soon as Bonnie entered the passageway, the corridor was lined with candlelight. Several other passageways were dark as pitch. As instructed, Bonnie pursued the trail of illumination, making her way through the drafty stone keep.

After traversing several halls and winding staircases, she found herself at a set of double doors, carved with charming images of woodland creatures.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the latch.

Knock first!

Bonnie started in alarm.

Master does not like to be surprised.

“That’s two of us,” she muttered under her breath.

Bonnie curled her fingers and rapped on the door, awaiting a summons, but her host remained silent.

Should she knock again? A little louder perhaps?

You can enter now. Master isn’t much of a talker.

Bonnie sighed. How was she going to learn anything about him or her situation at the castle if he wasn’t “much of a talker”?

She gathered her bravado, opened one of the doors and gawked at the sumptuous meal laid out across the linen-covered dining table.

Her belly growled the moment she set eyes upon the steaming fare. How mortifying! Had her host heard the unladylike gurgles?

But the room appeared empty. She searched the shadows under the roaring flames of the hearth and still found the dining parlor deserted. How odd. Why had she knocked?

She headed for the ingleside. There, she reached toward the blaze, rubbing her hands in a brisk fashion. Her host was late. For all the urgency she’d endured, the master was actually late. Whatever happened to his strictness about time? And to leave her amid such tempting cuisine? It was tantamount to torture.

Bonnie looked back at the spread, meshing her lips together. There were only two armchairs, one at either head of the table, and no servants. She frowned. In retrospect, she had not encountered a single soul during her journey to the dining room. Where were the staff? A keep required a hundred helpers, at least. Were they in bed for the night? Hiding?

But her thoughts disbanded the longer she stared at the dishes. At last, she inched her way toward the table and nipped a roasted carrot. How divine! A pinch of meat, next. Oh, heavens! Then, with her forefinger, a scoop of mashed potatoes. Unearthly goodness!

“Have a seat.”

Her shoulders jerked. “Who’s there?” She backed away from the table as if it were cursed, her backside burning as she neared the flames. “Where are you?”

“Right here,” said the voice, a low timbre with a soft brogue.

She squinted, searched the far-off shadows, and there, beside a pillar, stood a tall and muscular figure.

“H—How long have you been there?” she stammered. And how had he entered the room without her notice?

“I’ve been here from the start,” he returned in a slow vein.

“No, I would have spotted you before now.”

“Things are not always as they seem at the castle,” was his cryptic response. “Sit.” He then ordered, “Eat.”

Bonnie moved toward the table again. She took a seat. And waited.

At length she wondered, “Won’t you join me?”

“No.”

No? He was her host. How could she start the meal if he wasn’t seated at the table, too? How ill-mannered! Was she just supposed to stare at the food?

“I said, eat.”

“I can’t,” she snapped. Then with a little less heat, “My host is dragging his feet to the table.”

A rough chortle. “You have spirit, lass.”

“I have an empty belly, too.”

“Then eat,” he verily growled.

Bonnie huffed. She took wine and bread. Meat and vegetables. Fruit for dessert. And pudding. Pies, too! It wasn’t long before her belly ached from gluttony.

“Are you satisfied?” his deep voice rumbled.

She shivered at the peculiar affect his rugged tone had over her. “Aye, I’m sated.”

“I bid you good evening, then.”

Bonnie lifted from her seat. “Wait!”

He paused.

“Come into the light, I insist.”

The shoes on her feet quivered. Gracious, were they frightened? What rubbish!

Bonnie kicked off the shrinking slippers. The pair clattered against the wall. In her bare feet, she rounded the table. “I said, come into the light.”

A tangible tension filled the room, but she refused to skirt away and retreat to the bedchamber. Where was she? How had she arrived at the castle? And when could she leave the keep? She would have answers.

“I’d mind your tongue, lass.”

“Or you’ll dismiss me? Splendid! I’ll borrow a horse in the morning, just as soon as the storm passes.”

His laughter boomed in the great dining hall. “The storm will never pass, I’m afraid.”

“What nonsense!”

“You will see … in time.”

She shirked under his threat. “What do you mean? Are you going to keep me prisoner?”

He stepped toward her, though his features remained in the dark. “I must.”

“No!” she cried.

“And where would you go if I set you free?”

“Home, I suppose.”

“Where is home?”

“I—I don’t remember.”

“Death stalks you, lass. Out there. It will take your life.”

“I don’t believe you. You can’t keep me here! I will leave as soon as the storm ends.”

“I told you, it will never end.” Another step forward. “It snows night and day. Every day.”

“Impossible.”

“I thought so, too, once upon a time … but the seasons have disappeared, and I don’t know how many years have passed. What is the date?”

“You are trying to frighten me.”

“The truth is frightening, lass.”

“Bonnie. I am Bonnie.”

He finally stepped into the firelight. He had black britches and boots. A white shirt and black vest. His hair, an amber brown, was neatly combed. He looked every bit the gentleman—except for the scar.

She gasped at the sight of the wound; it slashed over his right eye, down his cheek and cut into his upper lip. Tears filled her eyes. Tears of pity. Horror.

“What’s the matter, Bonnie?” he asked with glaring bitterness, his brunet brown eyes blackening. “Did you not insist I come into the light?”

“What happened to you?” she whispered.

“I am cursed.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

He eased back into the shadows. “You will.”

She squinched her eyes ... but he was gone. There must be another door, she assumed, mayhap even a secret passage in the wall.

As tears streaked her cheeks, Bonnie glanced at the discarded slippers. “How long has he been here?”

Too long.

With a hopeless sob, she dropped back into her chair.

~ * ~

At first light, Bonnie stood beside the window, watching the snowstorm in dismay. It hadn’t relented since last night. It was just as blinding, raging, impenetrable and howling as ever. Her heart thumped loud and fierce. Was she truly a prisoner at the castle?

She turned away from the window and glanced at her resplendent surroundings, but the fancy trappings didn’t comfort her. She was still a captive, even if she dwelled within a gilded cage.

A lump formed in her throat. She gasped for air. Trapped. Like her host? How long had he lived in purgatory? He had asked her for the date, so much time had passed. Oh, God!

There, now. Don’t cry, said the slippers.

But Bonnie crumpled onto the floor.

It won’t help, gel.

She wailed anyway. And how had the shoes returned to her bedchamber? Had they walked from the dining hall?

Get dressed. Go down to breakfast. It will be all right, you’ll see.

As she wiped the briny moisture from her eyes, Bonnie spotted yet another frilly dress propped in the armchair. There was something about the ornamental costume that repelled her. The pageantry reminded her of a lost world she would never be a part of again. What use had she for glamorous corsets and billowing skirts? Or was the splendor for the pleasure of her host? Had he made everything for her?

If so, she would not give him the satisfaction of admiring her in sparkling things. She wasn’t an exotic pet!

Blood swelled in her veins. She lifted to her feet and approached the armchair. In one swift movement, she rent the glittering fabric.

Oh, you mustn’t do that!

But Bonnie was impervious to any more advice from the slippers. She marched over to the wardrobe and pulled the gowns off their hangers, stomping over the textiles until they were crumpled, ripped and ragged. She would sooner wear a bedsheet than be swaddled by another garnished garment.

“I loathe you!” she cried, though she wasn’t sure what incensed her more: the clothes, the foolish idea of a curse or her monstrous host?

After releasing her frustrations, Bonnie spied one last dress in the wardrobe. How had she missed it?

She reached for the attire.

When she yanked it into the light, she noticed it was a brown and red tartan frock made from the finest wool. Her breath hitched. Her eyes welled with tears.

“Aye,” she whispered. “Better.”

She slipped into the warm, supple dress and twirled in front of the mirror; it suited her figure just fine. A brown ribbon frittered from the ceiling next. She picked up the strip and fastened her curly hair in a simple plait. There was a shawl in the wardrobe, too, made also of plaid. She folded the wrapper around her shoulders and sighed.

Her appetite returned. She slipped her feet into the shoes and headed for the dining room.

The keep was silent, not a soul in sight.

Bonnie was beginning to think there were no servants, that the castle was enchanted after all, and that her host was cursed.

And now she was cursed, as well.

It was a gloomy thought.

At the dining hall door, she was about to rap on the wood, but displays of propriety seemed trite under the circumstances. Instead, she opened the door without warning or invitation. The table was crowded with an assortment of pastries and fruit. She moved toward her chair and sat down, pouring herself a cup of steaming tea.

“Good morning,” from her captor.

She selected a scone and buttered it, ignoring the man and his empty felicitation. There was nothing “good” about the day, and his pretense otherwise vexed her all the more. She refused to meet his gaze or even search for him in the room. She was tired of his lurking in the shadows like a wraith. If he wanted a polite conversation, he could join her at the dining table like a true gentleman.

“A petulant chit, I see.”

His taunt caused her pause … but she refrained from making a tart comment and stuffed her mouth with the scone.

“I expect—”

“You can expect the devil for all I care,” she returned in a surly manner, licking her sticky fingertips. “I am not your pet bird, and I will not squawk at your command.”

She reached for another pastry.

He stormed toward her like a raging bull. “Ungrateful woman!”

Bonnie jumped from her seat, palms fisted, as he cleared the table with a swipe of his arm, sending the food and dishes clattering to the floor. What a waste!

“A petulant boy, I see,” she shouted.

The scar on his cheek throbbed like a pulsing vein. He rubbed the wound, wincing as if it pained him.

“I saved your life,” he hissed, chest heaving. “I should have let you freeze, you ungracious creature.”

“And miss the opportunity to keep a ‘creature’ at your side?” She snorted. “Do not pretend you saved my life to spare me the fate of death. You saved my life because you didn’t want to be cursed and alone. I would rather be dead than trapped in this castle with you!”

And she bolted from the room.

“Bonnie!”

But his roar of protest only spurred her onward. She winded through the castle, searching for an outside door. At last, she found one and wrenched it opened.

A wintry gale smacked her in the face, taking her breath away. She pulled the shawl above her head, then clambered through the snow.

The road had to be near. The entire world wasn’t cursed, just him. If she reached the road, she’d find help. She’d find her way home. But the snow drifts grew higher as she lumbered forth. Still, she would not go back to the keep, to him.

“Bonnie!” sounded a faint voice in the turbulent wind.

She trudged through the thick snow until her feet rooted in the hellish stuff, and she soon drowned like a hapless animal in quicksand. She was trapped, she realized, then. Cursed, like him.

Forever.

“No,” she cried. “No!”

A hand grabbed her arm and hoisted her from the frigid mire. He dumped her over his sturdy shoulder and struggled through the blizzard, back to the castle.

Bonnie blacked out from the cold—and despair.

~ * ~

With a blazing fire at her backside, Bonnie shivered with warmth. Her lashes fluttered, and she peeked at her unfamiliar surroundings: a library. Her joints stiff with cold, she remained under the woolly blankets and nuzzled her cheek against the bearskin rug.

She was not alone, though. She heard her captor breathing, rough, unbroken gusts of air. From the ground, she peered upward and found him seated in an armchair, fury in his sable brown eyes. She brushed off his temper. He had his “creature.” And in a hopeless vein, she released a sob.

His features softened at the sound of her weeping, she assumed. He even cursed under his breath.

“There’s no need for your caterwauling,” he grumbled, his tone verging on apologetic. “I’ll not hurt you.”

“But I am a prisoner?” she croaked.

After a somber pause, he said, “I can not break the curse, Bonnie.”

“Who are you? Why are you cursed?”

He reached for his right cheek, rubbed the scar. “I am Ian MacGregor, Laird of Lockaber.”

She sniffed. “There is no clan in these hills.”

“There was once … many moons ago.”

She glanced at her dress. “Are these your tartan colors?”

“Aye.”

“What happened to you? Your clan?”

“That is a tale for another day.” He turned his face, hiding the scar. “You are free to explore the castle, find amusement where it suits you, but do not enter the west wing.”

“Why?”

“It is forbidden,” was his curt reply.

She scowled at his finesse. “Are we to dine at every meal?”

“If it pleases you,” he gritted. “I will stay in the shadows, otherwise.”

And with that brisk retort, he shot out of the chair and left the room.

Bonnie scrunched her legs and sighed, draping the blanket over her nose. She remained on the bearskin rug, cocooned and toasty warm, wondering what she was going to do now.

Though the castle was grand, and she would surely find some diversion, she shuddered at the thought of spending her time alone. She didn’t want to become icy on the inside, like her host, to turn as frosty as the cursed snow. And while engaging with Ian sounded just as unappealing, he was the only other soul at the keep. Could they form a truce? Find some common ground?

She was determined to coax him from his beastly ways. She had to. If this was her new home, she needed a real friend.

~ * ~

Bonnie had not seen Ian in several days. She had passed most of her time exploring the castle. There was a vast sitting room with both cross stich and tapestry embroideries to entertain her. A music room with two pianos. An impressive library with more than a thousand tomes. A spectacular ballroom, the walls made of illuminating stained glass. A barrage of bedchambers, salons and galleries. And the dining hall, where Bonnie had supped alone since her last encounter with Ian.

She was restless, bored. On a few occasions, she’d been tempted to investigate the west wing and drag her solitary host from his damned reclusiveness. She’d avoided the impulse for now, but if she didn’t have some companionship soon, she’d go mad.

Curled in a window seat in one of the salons, Bonnie stared at the swirling squall, tapping her feet in quick succession, wringing her fingers.

What’s the matter, gel?

“I’m unsettled, of course,” she sniped at the slippers.

Why don’t you read a book? That will keep you engaged.

“Blah!”

She cleared the window seat and paced the room, her gaits short and swift. “I need …”

What do you need?

She wasn’t sure anymore. Her past was like a hazy dream. A few indiscriminate memories flashed through her mind. “Roses,” she cried. “I love red roses. And dancing. And looking at the stars. I love minced pies. And sherry! And … I can’t remember the rest.” She sobbed. “I’m losing myself; I’m disappearing, aren’t I? Is that how the curse works? It takes your soul?”

Hush, gel.

“No! I won’t stand quiet any longer. What is happening to me?”

Follow the rose petals.

“What?” she rasped, wiping her foggy tears—and there, scattered across the floor was a plethora of red rose petals. “But how?”

Don’t ask, gel.

Bonnie had come to accept the castle’s mysterious ways, and she bustled from the room, following the trail of flowers.

The snaking route eventually led her to a part of the keep she had never seen before, and as she neared a door with frosted glass inlays, a heady fragrance, both sweet and tangy, lured her toward the curious room.

She opened the barrier and stilled, the breath sucked from her lungs.

Her gaze rolled over exotic fruit trees, honey scented plants, perfumed blossoms, spicy herbs and even strange vegetables infused with an array of striking color. The hothouse was protected under glass. There was a domed ceiling in the centre of the construction and a balmy heat emanating from the tiled floor.

Bonnie wandered the aisles in awe, stopping every few yards to smell a divine bloom or finger a velvety leaf or pop a peculiar green into her mouth, the tartness a savory thrill. She could stay here forever, she thought with delight, especially when she came upon the rose garden.

Her chest tightened at the magnificent sight of thorny stems twisting over arches and lattices, and brilliant petals dangling in hues of sunset peach and ivory white and, yes, even scarlet red.

Bonnie teetered on her toes, reaching for a cluster of roses, inhaling their unearthly scent. Home. She felt like she was home.

The leaves rustled.

She glanced toward the sound—and spotted Ian. He stood beside a sickly red rose bush, the foliage blighted with dark spots.

A pair of pruning shears in hand, he carefully tended the ailing shrub, snipping the unhealthy sprouts and tossing them to the ground. He whispered something; she strained her ear in an attempt to catch his words, but his voice was too low. Was he talking to the flowers?

Her heart cramped at the vison of such tender regard. He willed the vines to live, to flourish, she sensed, and her impression of him changed in that delicate moment from beastly laird to a broken man.

“Ian.”

He paused, fingered a jagged-edged leaf. “Aye, lass?”

He stared at the flowers, not looking her way, and for the first time, she trembled as she approached him, uncertain. At the hothouse, they had common ground: a love of botany. Might the blossoms be the foundation of a true friendship between them?

“How is this possible?” she asked of the hothouse. “In the midst of winter with so little light?”

“There is life within these walls.”

She brushed her fingertips over the red rose, grazing his knuckles, and her blood warmed. “Some life here struggles,” she said, thinking of him.

At last, he peered at her with such fire in his eyes he set her flesh alight.

“What more can I give you, lass?” he beseeched.

“Me? I—I don’t know,” she stammered, gooseflesh spreading across her arms.

Was he thinking of her struggle? Surely, he carried greater pain. He had been trapped in the castle far longer.

“Do you remember the night you came to the castle?” he wondered, clipping the tainted leaves again.

She whispered, “No.”

“You had a bouquet of red roses.”

She glimpsed at the afflicted stock and petals. “I did?”

“Aye … A wedding bouquet.”

Bonnie seized. She glanced at her left hand, but there was no gold band.

 

“I have no ring,” she verily squeaked.

Married? No. Impossible. She had no husband. She just … felt it.

“I threw the flowers, and your wedding clothes, into the fire,” he said.

“Stop!” She backed away from him, quivering. “What are you doing, Ian?”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“How?” Her hand went to her aching breast. “What good is it to know I have a husband? A husband I will never see again? Did you throw the ring into the fire, too? To erase all my memories?”

“I did not erase your memories, lass … You did.”

“What?”

“Think, Bonnie. Why did you come to the castle on your wedding day? You had no ring when I found you in the storm. You had not yet married your betrothed. You had run away from him, instead.”

Her head throbbed with memories hammering to be set loose, but she crammed them back into the darkest recess of her mind.

“Stay away from me!” she cried and dashed from the hothouse, her skirt hiked and flailing in her desperate wake.

Disoriented, Bonnie sprinted and stumbled through the keep until she found herself back inside the library. She glanced at the bearskin rug, the roaring fire and she remembered a blustering night …

“Bonnie.”

She whirled around.

Ian was at the door, approaching her. “Don’t run, lass. You’re safe here, I promise.”

A sob welled in her throat. “No, stay away!”

She tripped over the bearskin rug and landed on her rump. Ian was at her side in an instant, kneeling beside her.

“What’s happening to me?” she cried as a welter of emotion stormed her breast. “I’m so afraid.” And she wrapped her arms around the laird, burrowing her face in the crook of his neck and shoulder.

He hesitated to touch her in return. After a short while, though, he embraced her, tight, buried his lips in her hair, soothed her with hushed words of comfort.

She sobbed and shuddered and gripped him with all her might until the barrier in her mind gave way, and a torrent of recollections flooded her head. The swarm was overwhelming, inscrutable at first. It took her several minutes to shift through the deluge of murky memories and make any sense of the turmoil.

“A beast,” she whispered.

He hardened. “What?”

“I remember a beast. I—I was to marry him, to pay off my father’s debt. But when I reached the church, I panicked. I saw the storm. I ran through it, hoping he would never find me.”

Ian loosened his hold on her.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, voice rising. “Don’t let me go!”

“I don’t want to frighten you, lass.”

She looked up at him, her cheeks stained with tears. “You are not a beast, Ian. I know a beast when I see one. Your eyes are not black like your soul. And … I’m not afraid of you.”

He grazed her cheek, sending shivers of warmth down her spine. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, Bonnie.”

“I believe you,” she whispered.

He lifted her in his arms and carried her to her bedchamber. There, he set her on the bed and fetched a blanket, draping it over her. “Rest.”

“I can’t. I’m …”

Ian settled on the bed beside her and leaned forward. Her breath hitched. He pressed his mouth over her brow, kissing her softly, and his lips lingered until she sighed with an indescribable calm. She was sorry when he ended the buss, but her heartbeat remained fixed, her soul quiet.

“I’ll see you at dinner, Bonnie.” He brushed her temple. “Sleep.”

And she closed her eyes and dreamed good dreams.

~ * ~

Bonnie smiled when she entered the dining hall. At the head of the table stood Ian wearing a kilt with jacobite shirt, belt, leather sporran and tartan hose.

He bowed and pulled out her chair. “Good evening, my lady.”

There was a subtle shift in his voice, a throaty vein she’d never heard before that night, and she shivered at the sensation of prickled delight that came over her.

“Why, good evening, sir,” she returned in kind and took the offered seat.

When he repositioned his own armchair at the side of the table, she shuddered again at his intimate proximity.

“Look what I found in the wine cellar.”

He revealed a bottle of sherry.

Her grin widened. “A tipple, if you please.”

After he poured the fortified wine, they clinked glasses.

“To roses in winter,” he toasted, a gleam in his dark brown eyes.

Bonnie sipped the sherry, feeling warm, oh, so very warm.

Their dinner was gracious and refreshing, and she was giddy toward the end of it, when Ian extended his hand.

“Would you like to dance, lass?”

Aye, she would. Very much. And she took his hand.

He escorted her from the dining hall to the ballroom. Candles glistened from floor candelabras. Moonlight pierced the stained glass, creating a prism of muted color across the polished floor.

Her heart thumped ever so loud as Ian curled an arm around her waist, pulling her against his broad chest. Soon music plinked throughout the chasm, echoing sweet, and he twirled her around the room.

“Where is it coming from?” she asked in awe, turning her head, searching for the musician.

“There,” he said.

At last she spotted a pedestal, where a porcelain music box played the charming folk tune, and she laughed, lost in the jig, the embrace of the laird and the magical night.

As the song chimed to an end, she was breathless, flushed.

Ian stopped in the middle of the dance floor, staring into her eyes with a smoldering expression. “I’ve had a wonderful time, Bonnie.”

“So have I,” she whispered.

He leaned toward her … But she tensed.

Bonnie lowered her gaze, offered her cheek.

Ian hardened and swiftly released her. He gave a curt bow, a brusque, “Good night.” And stormed from the ballroom.

“Wait!” she cried. “Ian!”

But he was gone.

“Drat.”

She rubbed her brow. She’d made a terrible blunder. She’d given him the impression she’d wanted something more than a friendship. And though she was lonely, like him. And she yearned for comradery, like him. She wasn’t prepared for a romantic interlude.

She just … well, she wasn’t sure what her feelings were for the laird. The sherry had lowered her guard; she’d flirted shamelessly, she was sure.

Drat. And drat again! She had not intended to cause him confusion, or worse, embarrassment. Did he think she’d rejected his kiss because of his scar? What rot! He was a strong and tender protector. A good, if broken, man. And the wound on his cheek? She paid it no mind anymore.

Oh, what was she going to do? How was she going to make things right between them again?

She looked down at the slippers in desperation. “Any advice?” But the shoes remained silent. “Oh, now you’ve lost your tongue.”

Bonnie circled the ballroom, massaging her temples. After a few restless minutes, she charged after Ian—toward the west wing.

At the foot of a spiral staircase, she stiffened. The shadows seemed alive, threatening.

No, you mustn’t! warned the shoes.

But Bonnie kicked off the slippers and grabbed a lantern from the wall. The soft light illuminated her footfalls as she climbed the stairs, the stone freezing beneath her feet.

At the top of the landing, the causeway was dark and foreboding, yet she pressed onward in search of the laird. Unlike the rest of the keep, the west wing was in disarray, neglected and covered in dust and cobwebs. There, the curtains decayed, the stone facade crumbled, hinting at the castle’s true age. It was also ghostly quiet. Dead.

A shudder gripped her. “Ian?” She raised the lantern, casting a long beam of light down the decrepit corridor. “Where are you? I’ll not go back until I see you. Speak out!”

She heard a growl instead.

The shadows shifted, closing in around her. “Ian!”

Something snapped at her heels. She jumped, shrieked. As she whirled around, she found no animal. What had nipped at her feet, then?

“Ian!”

A rough hand clinched her wrist. “What are you doing here?” he gritted.

She gasped in relief when he stepped out of the swirling shadows, then gasped again when she eyed his bare chest covered in slash marks.

“Mercy,” she breathed, aghast. “What happened to you?”

Another unholy growl from the darkness.

“Come.” He dragged her through the passageway at a swift pace. “I told you not to come here, Bonnie.”

But she was unable to defend herself, transfixed by the gashes across his backside, too. Had he been mauled by a beast? The very beast lurking in the passage right now?

He soon ushered her inside a bedchamber and shut the door.

Her hands trembled, and she set the lantern on a table. “What is this place?”

“My sanctuary.”

He was still dressed in his kilt, the bedsheets rumpled. Perhaps she’d stirred him from his slumber.

“Sanctuary?” she repeated, her gaze circling the unsightly room with its tattered tapestries and sooty portraits and beat up rugs. “How chilling.”

“Precisely,” he quipped. “If I forgot what I am or why I am cursed, I come here—and remember.”

“Ian, I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he sneered.

“I hurt you—”

“No,” he snapped. “You put me in my place. I don’t need to be dreaming about castles in the sky.” He reached for his jacobite shirt. “I’m taking you back to your room.”

“But the beast?”

He hardened.

“Not you! Out there! In the shadows.”

“There is no beast.”

“He bit me, Ian.”

The laird stiffened. “Where?”

“On my heel.”

He quickly scooped her in his arms and carried her over to the bed, dropping her on the mattress rather unceremoniously. She released an “oof” before he examined her feet, his expression intent.

“I see nothing,” he said.

“Well, I felt something.”

“An overactive imagination, I’m sure.”

What gall! “In this place? A cursed castle? Can one really have an ‘overactive’ imagination under the circumstances?”

“Touché.”

Was that a smile? Damn, it transformed his entire visage from hardheaded laird to a vulnerable man.

Her heart quickened. She cupped his cheeks and pulled him closer. But he wedged a knee on the bed, preventing her from drawing him too near.

“Ian,” she beseeched. “I care for you.”

“Stop,” he ordered, voice taut. “Don’t lie to me, lass. I don’t want your pity.”

He reached for her hands.

She scrambled onto her knees, leaned toward him, and kissed him with an unfathomable need in her soul. The thought of losing him, wounding him, rent her heart in half. And she wanted him to know the truth, to believe the truth—that she loved him.

How had it happened? In the garden? In the library? In the ballroom? When had her desire for friendship turned into something more? She had been so sure her feelings for him had not been romantic in nature. Had she lied to herself? Had she been too afraid to admit the truth?

It mattered naught now, she thought, moving her lips over his lush mouth with an almost violent passion. At first, he offered her little in return, his manner frosty. But when she moaned with an ardent want for him, he quivered, then cracked, and instead of wrenching her hands away, he covered them with his own, opening his mouth and letting her roam with unhindered longing.

“Oh, Ian. I—”

“Nay,” he whispered, bussing her bottom lip, her chin, her throat. “I know what you want, lass.”

And they tumbled onto the bed.

A growl came from the darkness.

Ian cursed. He hovered over her a moment more before he pushed away and vacated the bed.

“What is it?” she demanded, scrambling onto her rump and pressing her backside against the headboard. “And don’t tell me it’s my imagination. Is it a dog?”

A feral dog? A rabid dog?

“It’s my keeper,” he returned with a hapless sigh, weaving his fingers through his hair.

“Y—Your keeper?” Her eyes flitted, searching for his “keeper.” “I don’t understand, Ian. What is it?”

“A Pict.”

Her jaw dropped. “But … there’s no such thing as a faerie.”

Another growl.

All right, perhaps there was such a thing as a faerie. According to folklore, the Pechts lived underground. Is that why it growled? Lurked in the shadows?

“Ian, I’m frightened.”

“It won’t hurt you, Bonnie—only me.”

She gasped then, remembering the wounds on his chest and back. Had the Pict attacked him? “But why?”

“I’m cursed. And if I try to break free from the curse …”

“It hurts you?”

He dropped his head. “Aye.”

In the wispy shadows, he looked truly hopeless. And her heart ached for him, for the burden he suffered alone.

She scrambled off the bed, fury rising in her soul, and approached him, taking his hand. “How do we break the curse?”

A bright spark flared in his eyes. “I must find true love … and receive it in return.”

“But I do love you, Ian … Oh, unless you don’t feel as I—”

“No.” He squeezed her palm. “I love you, Bonnie. But you do not know me, lass.” His voice trailed off. “You do not know why I’m cursed.”

The glimmer in his eyes dimmed, then died.

“Tell me,” she pleaded. “Let me help you.”

“No!”

She started at the sharp retort.

He yanked his hand from her and stalked a few feet away. “I’d rather stay cursed than tell you the truth.”

“What rubbish!”

“You’ll hate me, Bonnie. I … I couldn’t bear that.”

“I’ll not hate you, Ian. Tell me! Set us both free!”

Her entreaty caused him pause. At last, he turned toward her and sighed. “You’re right, luv. It’s time I reveal the truth.”

There was another rumble from the darkness.

“Quiet!” Bonnie ordered. She whirled around, searching for the Pict, but she found nothing. “I don’t know what you really are, but you’ll not keep Ian forever. Do you understand?” She faced the laird again. “The curse can be broken and it will—tonight.”

He offered her a half smile. “You are a remarkable woman, Bonnie.”

She didn’t feel very remarkable; more like scared out of her wits. But she was also determined to help Ian. “Go on. Tell me the truth. Why are you cursed?”

He moved toward the window, gazed at the raging blizzard. “I was a wastrel in my youth. I lived according to my whims. I had no respect for my position or even for my people.” His voice tightened. “I had an affair with a clanswoman … Emelia. She had a good heart; thought herself in love with me. But I had no honor. I dismissed her. When she came to me, pregnant, I threw coins at her, told her to take her troubles elsewhere.

“A few days later, I learned she had drowned in the river. Some whispered it an accident, but I knew the truth. She had taken her life. She had honor. And she could not face the clan, her family with a babe and no husband. I am responsible for her death.”

Bonnie listened with intent, her lungs starved for air. As she heaved for breath, tears welled in her eyes—tears of compassion for the poor girl.

“Ian, I—”

“Let me finish, Bonnie. I may not have the courage to confess again.” He bowed his head. “Emilia’s sister came to me, raged at me, but I still refused to admit I’d done wrong. It was then she revealed herself as a Pict. It was then she cursed me, the castle, the clan. There would be no time or light or peace between these walls until her sister received justice.

“There, now, Bonnie. You have the whole truth. What do you think of me now? Does love still fill your heart?”

Bonnie shook her head. “I—I’m confused, Ian. I don’t know what I feel anymore.”

“I do,” he said in a weak voice. “If I heard such a ghastly tale, I would hate the man who told it. I would abandon him in his misery. I’d condemn him to death.”

Tears streaked her flushed cheeks. “I can’t bear it.” She hiked her skirt. “I’m sorry, Ian. I must leave.”

And she raced pell-mell from the bedchamber, her breast congested with sorrow for the girl, for Ian. She cried for herself, too. Mercy, what would she do now?

At the bottom of the stairs, Bonnie grabbed the shoes, hopping on one foot, then the other as she covered her bare feet.

What happened, gel?

“I—I can’t break the curse,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

She dashed toward the hothouse, into the rose garden. There she collapsed at the foot of the red rose bush, more sickly and weak than she remembered. As she cried, the petals flitted to the ground, blanketing her in velvety softness. Soon only one rose remained, and it, too, started to wilt.

What would happen when the last petal fell? Something ominous, she sensed. But she was powerless to stop it; her heart was broken. Ian was a beast.

A crash resounded through the castle.

“Bonnie!”

Bonnie bristled at the bone-chilling voice of her barbarous betrothed. How had he found her? Oh, God! She was trapped. If she tried to escape the castle, Death awaited her. What would she do?

Hide, gel. In the fruit trees.

The trees. Aye, she thought. She scrambled up the branches and settled on the highest bow, her fingers trembling. The leaves shuddered. Be still, she prayed. If she didn’t rest as quiet as a mouse, he’d find her for sure.

The hothouse doors burst open.

Heavy footfalls pounded the tiled paths.

Bonnie bit her tongue, tasted blood in her mouth. She gripped the gnarled bark until her knuckles numbed, shut her eyes tight, but her heart still pounded like canon blasts and her breaths quickened until she verily gasped.

The footfalls paused.

She was lightheaded.

“What are ye doin’ up there, Bonnie?”

No! she screamed in her soul. His every word pierced her like a knife. At last, she opened her eyes. “Galvan,” she rasped. The Ruler. The Beast. The real beast.

Mercy, she had made a horrible mistake. As she stared into his cruel and unforgiving eyes—eyes so unlike the laird’s—she realized Ian wasn’t the beast, after all. She had not made a blunder by giving Ian her heart. She had not misjudged him for he had changed. And it was so terribly obvious in that gruesome moment.

Galvan grabbed her ankle and yanked her from the tree.

She hit the ground hard, shrieking, her bones throbbing.

Run! cried the shoes.

But Bonnie moaned in agony.

Galvan grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her to her feet. She limped and wobbled, unsteady after the nasty tumble. He jerked her into his arm, his red beard white with frost, his eye black with fury.

A pistol in his hand, he waved the weapon. “Is this where ye’ve been hiding from me?”

“Galvan, let me explain.”

“You ran away on our wedding day.” His fingers twisted into her hair until she winced. “Do you ken the humiliation ye’ve caused me?”

“I—I—”

“Ye’ll pay for it, that’s what ye’ll do.”

She whimpered, hopeless.

And then Galvan sailed across the tiled floor, slamming into the ground.

Bonnie dropped to her knees.

“Get the hell away form her!” roared Ian, pounding her betrothed into the dirt.

But Galvan wasn’t a small man and threw several blows in defense. After a violent struggle, he jabbed Ian in the belly with his boot and sent the laird lumbering toward her.

Galvan’s eyes widened. “Are ye the devil?”

“Aye,” returned Ian.

“Ian,” she screamed. “He has a gun!”

“Have you shacked up wi’ the devil? Ye bleedin’ whore!”

And Galvin lifted the pistol, aiming it straight at her.

A shot ripped through the hothouse.

Bonnie sensed a hard blow to the chest … but it wasn’t the bullet. Ian had pulled her into his arms, shielded her from the blast and collapsed with her onto the ground.

“Ian!” she cried.

Blood seeped from the wound in his back, pooling around him. He gasped for breath, but only gurgling noises escaped his mouth, followed by a trickle of blood.

“Nooo!” she sobbed and draped her head over his lips. “Ian,” she whispered, tears gushing down her cheeks and into his mouth. “Don’t leave me,” she beseeched. “Please! I love you!”

And she pressed her mouth over his cold lips.

The castle rumbled. The ground rolled. Stones busted from the walls. Glass splintered and rained, staking into the ground.

The keep was falling apart.

Bonnie cared not a jot. Cradling Ian in her arms, she prepared to perish with him as the walls lurched and roiled and shuddered with the force of a medieval siege.

Galvan howled as the hothouse crashed all around him, shards of glass impaling him. Soon the rest of the keep followed, the stones crumbling like a sand castle.

Bonnie squeezed her eyes tight, still gripping Ian, as the heavens trembled and the earth seized.

Goodbye, gel, she heard the shoes. And thank you!

Then—poof—the slippers wilted and vanished from her feet.

Silence.

A cloud of dust roiled in the air.

Slowly Bonnie lifted her head.

She coughed and waved her hand. As the ash and grime settled, she stared at the castle ruins. In the midst of so much destruction, she was alive. How?

Voices. She heard voices. At least a hundred orbs lifted from the rubble, pulsing with electric blue light. Singing. Laughing.

Tears filled her eyes. “You’re welcome,” she said.

And the spirits shot toward the heavens, finally free.

Bonnie glanced at Ian, still cold and lifeless. “I’m sorry I couldn’t set you free, too.”

She dropped her head again, pressed her brow against the his.

And she sensed something warm.

A pulse.

“Ian?” she croaked, her lungs choked with soot. “Ian!”

He groaned.

She laughed. “Oh, how sweet!”

“My broken bones?”

“Your voice!” she cried, then, “Are you bones really broken?”

He strained to sit up, teeth gritted. “No, I don’t think anything is broken.”

She quickly checked his backside—but the bullet wound was gone. A sob of joy filled her lungs, and she bussed his back, his shoulder, his cheek, his lips—and there she lingered for a few sensual moments.

“It’s over,” she breathed, breaking away from the kiss. “The curse is broken.”

The dubious laird scanned his ravished surroundings.

“Look up,” she cried. “It’s the sky, Ian. The storm is over. Forever.”

He glanced upward, squinting, for his eyes had not seen the light of day in ages. And it was then his features quivered—with hope.

“Bonnie.” He cupped her cheeks, his eyes glassy with tears. “You did this, luv.”

“We did this, Ian. I love you.”

“And I you, lass.” Another buss. “Look. At the rose bush.”

Bonnie followed his gaze. She found the once sickly red rose bush bursting with brilliant, healthy clusters of magnificent blooms; the only plant to have survived the carnage.

“Miraculous,” she breathed.

A growl lifted from the pile of stones, then—and flitted away. The Pict was gone.

Bonnie released a sigh and collapsed in Ian’s embrace. “Free. Forever.”

“And what shall we do with forever?” he asked.

She removed the brown ribbon from her hair and wrapped it around their wrists in a handfasting. “We shall marry, open a hothouse, sell roses … and live.”

He smiled. “It sounds perfect, lass.”

 

THE END