Beastly Beauty

Seventy-One

“Turn around.”

“Is that what this is about?”

“Are you the only one who’s allowed to be modest?”

“Fair point,” Arabella said, turning her back to Beau “But I still need that shirt. Right now.”

She stretched her hand back and, a few seconds later, felt him press his shirt into it. Clutching it, she ran for the far side of the gatehouse, ducking behind the windlass in the nick of time.

An instant later, her agony began. She’d borne it every night for a century, and yet the intensity of it always broke her. Everything that was too big and too much—the long bones of her limbs, her teeth, her snout, her powerful muscles—pulled back into themselves. She felt as if her entire body, every inch of flesh, every sinew, blood vessel, and nerve, was being folded into a too-small box. She bit back her cries, not wanting Beau to hear them, and then, just when she thought she would go mad from the pain, it was over, and she was her human self again, compressed and contained.

She took a few steadying breaths, then shrugged into Beau’s shirt. It had no buttons, just a V at the neck, and it slipped easily over her head. The cuffs hung down over her hands and the hem fell to her thighs. She wasn’t warm, but at least she was covered.

“Th-thank you,” she said to Beau as she stepped out from behind the windlass, her teeth chattering.

“You should get inside, before you freeze to death,” he said. He had put his jacket on. It was made of leather, soft and worn, with a collarless neck.

“You should, too.”

“I have to see to the fire.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

He shook his head. “There’s no need.”

Arabella gave a self-conscious nod, confused. A moment ago, he’d apologized to her. She hadn’t expected it, and it pleased her deeply that he believed her, but now a wall had come down between them again. He wouldn’t even look at her and she had no idea why.

“All right,” Arabella said, trying to hug some warmth into herself. “I’ll see you inside.”

Beau made no reply. He leaned forward, poking at the fire, and as he did, the front of his jacket sagged open, exposing his neck, a bit of his chest, the curve of his left shoulder.

He hurried to close the jacket up again, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Arabella stopped dead when she saw it.

She stared. She couldn’t help herself.

Beau saw her looking. He awkwardly tugged his jacket back into place, blood rushing to his cheeks, and Arabella felt as if she’d seen something she shouldn’t have, something he would never have willingly revealed.

Look away, a voice inside her said. Look at the sketch. At that pile of rope over there. The floor. Anywhere but at him.

But she didn’t.

“Guess you were right, weren’t you?” he said. “I am anything but beau.”

Arabella did not answer him. She took hold of his jacket, then, asking him with her eyes, she pushed it back off his shoulders. It settled in the crooks of his arms.

Arabella caught her breath. Gently, she touched one of the scars. “Do they still hurt?”

Beau nodded.

“What happened?”

He shook his head. “It’s in the past. It should stay there.”

“Tell me.”

Beau stood very still for a moment, and Arabella knew he was fighting with himself, weighing whether to trust her or not. For a split second, she saw indecision in his eyes, and a raw vulnerability, but then his face hardened. He wrenched his jacket back up. A second later, he was across the gatehouse, heading for the doorway.

“Beau, wait …”

Beau stopped but did not turn around.

“Gustave makes a salve. It eases pain. It might help.”

“I don’t need Gustave’s salve. All I need is a way out of here.”

As he walked out of the gatehouse, his footsteps sounded final, irrevocable, like the slamming of a dungeon door. Arabella stared after him, afraid she’d gone too far, pushed him too hard. Afraid this was the end.

Until a child stepped into the gatehouse and, in a small, quiet voice, said, “Don’t let it be.”

Arabella looked at her. It was the first time they had been alone with each other in a very long time.

“Go to him. Hurry. The clock is winding down.”

Arabella shook her head. “He hates me.”

“He hates himself,” Hope said. “You have much in common.”

“Here you go again, promising so much.”

“I give possibilities. Turning them into certainties is your job.”

Arabella stood, looking fearfully at the archway. Then Hope gave her a little push. It was all she needed. She kept going, through the archway, and into the courtyard, her steps growing quicker, until she was running.