Her eyes narrowed as she considered how that was even possible. This had to be a basement or dungeon area, underground where there couldn’t be any windows. And even if there were, she would expect the light from outside to be whiter, more like daylight than candle glow.
Rounding the corner, she sucked in a breath, realizing it was candlelight. There was a single, thick taper stuffed into the neck of a stout wine bottle in the center of a small, round wooden table, burning strongly enough to illuminate the center of the room and cast shadows farther out.
It didn’t take long for her mind to shake off the sense of surprise she was feeling and make the logical conclusion that for a candle to be burning here, in the depths of the rundown, abandoned castle, there would have to be someone to light the candle.
She swallowed, concentrating on the soft, even rhythm of her breathing as she took in her surroundings. There was a build-up of melted wax running in thick rivulets down the sides of the bottle holding the candle, telling her it had been used for just that purpose many times before. She also noticed several more bottles strewn about…some empty, in a pile in the corner, others full or half-full, standing upright on the table or on the floor.
Along the far wall, there was a pallet—much like her own upstairs—made up of blankets and a single, ratty-looking pillow. Books and old food wrappers littered the floor.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that someone was living here. Living here, in this old, abandoned keep, where there was no running water, no electricity, no anything but stone and dirt, spiders and vermin.
Until this moment, she didn’t think she’d truly believe she’d find the person she sought. She’d hoped. She’d told herself she would just to bolster her own spirits. But deep down, she wasn’t sure she’d actually expected to find the infamous Dougal MacKay.
Now, though…Someone was living here, exactly where all of her research had led her. And who else could it be but the man the villagers both feared and revered? The man her great-grandmother had cursed to a life of isolation.
A scuffling sound near the stairs had her spinning back around as a tall, dark figure stepped out of the shadows. He blocked the only exit, her only means of escape, and she was chagrined to realize that her brain was indeed urging her to run for her life.
She stayed where she was, though, even as her heart lurched and a scream worked its way involuntarily into her throat. She locked her lips, holding it back, and did the same with her knees, which had turned to rubber.
He loomed over her, making her feel like Jack after he’d climbed his beanstalk to confront the giant. He was covered from head to toe with some sort of cloak, the hood large enough to hide his face from view, and heat seemed to emanate from him in waves, the same as it did in her dreams.
Her fingers flexed at her sides and she shifted slightly, fighting the urge to lift her camera and immediately begin snapping pictures of the man who, until this moment, had been more legend to her than flesh-and-blood fact.
“Hi,” she said cautiously, licking her dry lips. And then, because she couldn’t think of a single other thing to say beyond what was bouncing around in her head, she blurted, “You’re Dougal MacKay, aren’t you?”
Even in the muted light of this underground room, she could sense his surprise and sudden wariness.
“It’s all right,” she continued when he seemed unwilling to answer the question. “I’m not here to hurt you, or expose you, or anything like that. My name is Laura Tomescu, and I believe you knew my great-grandmother. The woman who cursed you.”
CHAPTER 3
DOUGAL STARED AT THE WOMAN IN FRONT OF HIM. Everything about her screamed danger!, and it took every ounce of bravery in his bones not to turn and make his escape.
Running did not come naturally to him. He had been no coward during his mortal years. But after nearly a century of being reviled and hunted, he’d learned well when to flee and how to hide from those who would do him harm.
Last night, when this woman had first encroached upon his sanctuary, he’d thought her dangerous only in the way that all strangers could be dangerous to his safety. If discovered, they would be terrified of his appearance and perhaps cost him his last refuge.
Now, however, he knew that she was a threat to him in much more dire ways.
“Get out,” he ordered, the words scalding his throat as fury and alarm mingled in his gut.
“Excuse me?” Her dark brows rose, and instead of fear, her expression conveyed only a whisper of shocked annoyance.
“You don’t belong here.” He took a menacing step forward, letting the full brunt of his rage sweep forward in his words and the heat of his fiery breath. “Get out or face my wrath.”
If possible, her brows lifted even higher, but she stood her ground, not the least intimidated by either his size or his wrath. Crossing her arms beneath the full swell of her breasts, she cocked her head and tapped an impatient foot.
“If this is how you talked to my great-grandmother Cosmina, I can understand why she put a curse on you.”
Because Dougal was used to people quaking in fear in his presence, he was unsure how to respond to this slip of a woman who not only didn’t flee in horror, but had the nerve to return his ire with a sharp retort of her own.
Perhaps retreat was the best plan of action, after all, he thought, still somewhat taken aback by her behavior. With a huff, he turned for the stairs, intending to leave her here and find somewhere outside, deep in the woods, to hide until the wretched wench was gone. But just as his foot hit the first step, she reached out to grab his arm.
It wasn’t her attempt to stop him that did so, but the fact that she was touching him. No one had touched him in a hundred years. Not even those who had run him off from his own home with torches and pitchforks, screaming that he was demon spawn and cursing him back to the devil. And certainly no woman, of her own free will.
But this one…this one was touching him, not by accident, but on purpose.
A ripple of something he was afraid came too close to abject gratitude and relief shuddered through him and he locked his knees to keep from sinking to the ground. Turning slowly back to face her, he found her staring at him, full in the face, and her expression was not one of disgust or terror, but of awe.
“Don’t go,” she said softly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
Perhaps not, but that didn’t make her words any less true, did it? Had he learned nothing in the hundred years since he’d been transformed into a monster?
“I don’t even know…” She paused, licked her lips, seemed to struggle to put voice to her thoughts. “I don’t even know if the stories I’ve heard are true. If what the legends say my family did to you are fact or fiction.”
“Fiction?” he snapped, anger once again pushing the boundaries of his self-control. Pulling back his hood, he threw his cloak to the ground. “Does this look to you like the work of an imaginary tale?”
He expected to see revulsion in her eyes, to hear the shrieks that had grown so familiar to his ears over the years. Instead, he saw a strange curiosity. Fascination, even.
Her gaze roamed over him, over every inch of exposed skin that even now flushed with the shame of his disfigurement. She looked her fill, taking in the reptilian slits of his eyes, the multi-colored patches marring his face, the rough scales that covered his hands and arms.
And then she reached out…reached out and touched him, flesh to flesh. He made a sound of protest and tried to shrug away, out of instinct and self-preservation. But she held fast, her grip tightening on his wrist, not the least aghast by the feel of his flawed skin.
He held himself rigid, still awaiting the moment when she would realize he was a fiend and she needed to run for her life, but as the seconds ticked by, eagerness began to pour through his blood like an elixir.