Beastly Beauty

Forty-Two

Soft morning light washed over Beau as he slept.

One of his arms was flung across the bed, one leg was hanging over it. He was snoring. Drooling, too. He needed a shave.

And still, he was so beautiful.

Arabella’s eyes drank him in. She wished she could stroke the dark hair cascading over his pillow, run her fingers over his full lips. Press her own lips to the patch of skin showing in the V of his shirt.

Stop, she told herself. It’s not right to stare at a sleeping man who doesn’t know he’s being stared at, and would be appalled if he did.

“Ahem,” she said.

But Beau did not wake.

Arabella bit her lip. “Monsieur Beauregard Armando Fernandez de Navarre? Pardon me …”

Beau rolled over onto his back and snored louder.

Unsure what to do next, Arabella self-consciously tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. It had escaped from the scarf she’d tied around her head—a scarf that was a marked departure from her usual attire, as was the old, plain jacket she was wearing over a scruffy sweater, the linen work skirt, and the battered, flat-heeled boots. She was holding a scroll of paper.

“Beau. Beau? Beau!” she called.

But Beau snored on.

“Really,” she huffed. “I don’t have all day.” She strode over to him then and gave him a shove. “Do wake up!”

Beau’s eyes snapped open. A split second later, he was on his feet, fist cocked.

Arabella yelped; she jumped back. “Is that how you say good morning?” she asked warily.

She’d been badly startled by his reaction, but she wondered at it, too. What had happened to him to make him so ready to fight before he was even awake?

“How did you get in here?” Beau asked, lowering his fist.

“I asked Valmont for the key to the door,” Arabella replied.

“But it’s the middle of the night.”

“Hardly. It’s past seven. The sun’s coming up,” she said briskly. “And we have work to do. But perhaps you’d like to get dressed first?”

Beau looked down at himself. His shirt was wrinkled. His underwear sagged in the butt. One foot was covered by a sock; the other was bare. Blushing a little, he stalked over to the chair and snatched his britches off it. He stepped into them, then sat down on the bed and pulled on his boots.

Arabella, impatient, knelt down on the floor by him and smoothed open the rolled-up paper she was holding. There was no time to waste.

“I drew this last night,” she said, pointing at the sketch she’d made. “There are still problems to solve, but it’s a start.”

Beau leaned in close to her. His expression sharpened as he saw what she’d drawn. “It’s a bridge …”

“How astute you are,” she teased.

But he did not seem to be in the mood for banter. He was different this morning, serious and unsettled. As if something had spooked him.

“Why did you change your mind?” he asked, touching her arm, making her turn toward him.

His beautiful eyes were wide and searching, and Arabella had to look away before they saw too much.

To save you, she thought. “Because I can’t resist a challenge,” she said.

“No, because you want me gone,” he countered.

Arabella didn’t like where the conversation was going, so she changed it back to the bridge. “If we start fashioning the pilings this morning, we might be able—”

“Arabella …”

“Yes?” she said, still not looking at him.

“I know.”

Dread skittered across her heart. “Mmm?” she said lightly, her gaze on her drawing. “What do you know?”

“I know who your court ladies are. I know what they are. I found out last night.”

Arabella sucked in a sharp breath. “How do you know?” She was still looking at her drawing, but she no longer saw it.

“Two children told me … Hope and Faith.”

“No, that can’t be true. It can’t,” Arabella said, feeling sick to her very soul. “You saw them?”

Beau nodded.

“Where?”

“Here. In the castle.”

“They escaped. I knew it. I felt it.” She let out a moan, then buried her face in her shaking hands.

“Arabella? What’s wrong? Are you afraid of them?” Beau asked, putting a gentle hand on her back. “Why? They’re just children, just innocent kids.”

Arabella laughed bitterly. She lowered her hands. “Believe me,” she said, “they are neither children nor innocent.”

“But I don’t believe you,” Beau said. “Not you or Valmont or Camille. Not anyone in this whole damn place. How can I? You’ve lied to me all along.”

His words scalded her. “I’m sorry. You must have wondered—” she started to say.

“Wondered?”he echoed, incredulous. “Yeah, you could say that. I wondered why your ladies-in-waiting look like they stepped out of a nightmare. Why your moat is filled with the living dead. Why some wolf creature from hell roams the castle at night. And why you don’t look a day over eighteen when you’re well past a hundred.”

Arabella winced at the sarcasm in his voice, and the anger underneath it. “There are things, Beau … things it’s better you do not know.”

Beau bristled at that. “Better for who?”

“For you.”

He started to argue with her. “No way. That’s not good enough.”

“It’s going to have to be. You think you know things. About my ladies. About me. You don’t. You know nothing. Keep it that way.”

She meant her words to sound like a command; instead they sounded like what they were: a frightened, desperate plea.

“But I want to know.”

Something in his voice—kindness? Pity?—broke her.

“No!” she cried. “You don’t. You don’t.”

“All right, all right, calm down, Arabella. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I am going to help you build a bridge,” Arabella said, trying to keep her voice level. “And then you’re going to walk across it and keep on walking. Across the moat, through the forest, and over the mountains, without looking back. Say you will …”

“Arabella, I don’t—”

“Say it, Beau!”Arabella shouted, slamming a hand down on the floor.

Beau pulled away from her, unnerved. “I will. There, I said it. Are we good?”

Arabella nodded, still upset, still scared, ashamed at her outburst, but relieved that he’d stopped pressing her.

An awkward silence descended on them. Beau was the one who broke it. He looked at the drawing again, more closely this time. “Will it work?”

Arabella drew a deep breath, trying to steady her hands, her voice, her stuttering heart. “It might,” she replied. “Then again, we might both fall into the moat before we even get the first piling sunk. I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

She rolled up her drawing and stood. Beau did, too. Another awkward silence fell. This time, Arabella broke it. “Get some breakfast,” she said, forcing a smile. “Then meet me by the gatehouse. We have a lot to do.”

“I will,” he said. “And hey, thank you for helping me. It’s good of you to build me a new bridge, seeing as I helped break your old one.”

And then he hugged her.

It was the kind of hearty, thumping hug someone would give a friend, or a horse, or a very large dog. At first, Arabella stiffened, surprised by the gesture, but his nearness thawed her. Her hands found his back. She closed her eyes and felt his cheek pressed against hers, the prickle of his stubbled chin. She felt the rhythm of his breath rise and fall, and the warmth of him enfolding her.

It was the first real embrace she’d had in a hundred years, and it was over all too soon.

“Sorry,” he said as he released her. “I probably shouldn’t rumple the royalty.”

Arabella’s legs shook so hard as she left his room, she thought her knees would buckle. She took a few steps down the stairwell, nearly stumbled, and caught herself against the wall. Sobs clawed their way up from her heart to her throat.

Deep inside her, something shifted, something so seismically deep, so irrevocable, that she had to bite back a cry. Her hand went to her chest; she felt the tumblers of her locked heart fall, one by one by one, and it terrified her.

Hope and Faith were free. And Espidra had admitted that she hadn’t locked Love away. She’d said that Love had left the castle. But what if she was wrong? What if she was here, and Hope and Faith freed her?

“Damn you, thief,” she whispered. “What have you done?”