Beastly Beauty

Sixty-Five

Beau reeled.

He felt as if he’d been hit by a runaway carriage and left for dead.

“Leaving the portcullis up wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a mistake,” he said woodenly. “You trapped me here on purpose.”

“No, Beau, that’s not true!” Arabella said vehemently.

But Beau barely heard her denial. “You ordered the portcullis to be raised, like a hunter setting a snare. You laid out a feast in the great hall as if you were laying bait. And we?” He laughed bitterly. “Raphael, Antonio, all the rest … we were the stupid rabbits that hopped right in. And I’m the stupidest of them all. I was supposed to save you, right? To fall in love with you and break the curse.”

“I didn’t do it,” Arabella protested, her voice catching. “I swear I didn’t.”

Beau shook his head, furious now. Why had he trusted her? Why had he let her into his heart? He knew better. She was no different from the other women who’d used him. Women who’d seen him as nothing but a pretty face, an amusing diversion.

“Who did, then?” he asked. “Your servants? Please. For some reason, they’re as loyal as lions to you.” The pain of her betrayal snatched away his words. It was a moment before he could speak again. “Looks like you’re a thief, too, Arabella,” he finished. “But you took more than I ever did.”

Hope stepped forward. She pulled Elge off the bed, away from Beau, then regarded him, her eyes beseeching.

“Don’t. Don’t look at me like that,” he said to her. “She’s not my problem. Nobody in this hell house is my problem.” Then he threw back the covers, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stood up. The hem of his shirt dropped as he did, covering him to his thighs.

A constellation of puncture marks from the wolves’ teeth dotted one of his calves. Ugly stitches seamed the gouges Arabella’s claws had made in a forearm. A groan of pain escaped him as his legs took his weight.

“What are you doing?” Arabella cried. “Lie down or you’ll pull out your stitches!” She turned to Elge. “Call for Valmont!”

Beau ignored her. “Where’s my jacket? My britches?” he demanded as Elge tugged frantically on the bellpull.

“They’re being repaired. They were torn and bloodstained,” Arabella explained. “Percival found you some old clothes to wear.”

“Where are they?”

Arabella hesitated but, seeing he was determined, pointed to a neat pile of clothing atop a bureau.

Fighting off light-headedness, Beau quickly dressed. He pulled on his boots, relieved to see that the leather on one had only been punctured, not torn. Valmont entered the room as he was buttoning his jacket.

“Yes, Your Grace?” Valmont said.

“Please, Valmont, tell him he shouldn’t be up. Make him see sense,” Arabella pleaded.

Beau, fully dressed now, was heading for the doorway, but Valmont intercepted him, ready to strong-arm him back to bed.

“Get out of my way,” Beau said, shaking him off. “I’m not going back to bed. And you’re not locking me in. Not today, or tonight, not ever again. If you’re still so worried that I’ll murder you in your sleep, you can damn well lock me out.” He cast a scathing glance around the room at the court, the servants. “You’re all as guilty as your mistress is. You all knew, but not one of you told me the truth. Not one.”

And then he left, and left them all staring after him. Within a few minutes, he was outside the castle. The day was clear but brutally cold. He made his way to the gatehouse slowly, his gait stiff and shambling, anger still simmering in his blood.

A brisk wind swirled dead leaves across his path as he walked. They sounded like ghosts whispering as they rasped over the cobblestones. From deep within him, a memory surfaced from years ago. He was standing at the edges of a Christmas market in a busy town square, watching the shoppers. They were red-cheeked and laughing. They were warmly dressed and well fed, buying presents for their families and friends. Couples walked arm in arm. Parents held their children’s hands.

As Beau had looked at them, something dark had unfurled inside him. He’d blown on his hands to warm them, then he’d delved into the crowd like a shark among herring.

When he got back to the thieves’ hideout, he’d walked up to Raphael, who was sitting by the fire, and divested himself of his loot. He pulled out billfolds and coins, watches, rings, bracelets, snuffboxes, pillboxes, even a few silver buttons, and dumped all of it in the thief lord’s lap. It took him five full minutes to empty his pants pockets, coat pockets, the insides of his boots.

Raphael’s eyes had lit up in amazement at the swag Beau had brought him. He was so pleased, so proud of his protégé, that he handed him a shiny gold coin to keep for himself.

But Beau gave it back. He didn’t want it. Raphael didn’t understand; none of the thieves did. Beau hadn’t robbed those people of coins or a pocket watch. He’d robbed their smiles, their happiness. He’d grabbed at the love between them, trying to snatch it away. If he couldn’t have any, why should they?

As he entered the gatehouse now, the memory drifted away. He couldn’t wait to get out of here. What an ass he was, playing at being a builder. Playing at being a nobleman. A lover. He was nothing but a thief. That’s all he was, all he ever would be. Hadn’t the whole world told him so?

He picked up a hammer, gritted his teeth against the pain from his wounds, and got to work. He had a bridge to build. He was nobody’s damn savior.