Fifty-One
When Beauregard Armando Fernandez de Navarre kissed a woman, he only ever thought of stealing.
His mind was never on her; it was always a hundred other places, trying to figure out how to get a key out of her pocket, or slip a bracelet off her wrist, or sweet-talk the location of the master’s strongbox out of her.
Now, for the first time—for the only time—in his life, he thought nothing, he only felt.
He felt the sweet heat of Arabella’s lips on his, the taste of her, brandy and bitter chocolate.
He felt the warmth of her body pressed against his. And he felt doors open in his heart that he knew he’d never be able to close again.
Nothing, not bullets or knives or jail cells, scared him as much as this. He broke the kiss, fear overwhelming him, and took a step back, fighting down the panic, the urge to save himself, to walk out of the room, to walk away from her, without looking back.
Arabella’s eyes were questioning at first, then hurt filled them, and he couldn’t bear it. He took her face in his hands and kissed her again, but as he did, a noise rose behind them, the sinister ratchet of clock weights traveling up their chains.
The golden clock came to life. Gears, cogwheels, and pawls engaged. A door opened near the large silver bell. The mechanical clockmaker emerged with his hammer and started ringing the hour—midnight.
The chimes, bright and insistent, sounded like an alarm. They pushed at Beau’s consciousness, intruding, trying to warn him of something. He blocked them out; he didn’t want to hear them. He only wanted to stay like this, his lips pressed to Arabella’s, his hands buried in the silk of her hair. But before he knew what was happening, Arabella pulled away from him, stumbling backward, her eyes wild with fright.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, confused.
She didn’t answer. She just kept backing away, her eyes on the clockmaker, her hands raised, as if to push him from the room.
“Arabella?” he pressed.
And then it hit him. Midnight.
“My God, the beast,” he said.
Arabella shifted her gaze to him, but her eyes were far away. He wasn’t even sure that she saw him.
Beau knew the vicious creature would be coming out to prowl the castle at any second, if it wasn’t out already. They were in terrible danger, both of them. The servants, too.
“It’s all right,” he said, reaching for her. “I’ll get you to your room. You’ll be safe there.”
Arabella’s eyes focused on him, then grew large with fear. In a strangled voice, she whispered one word.
“Run.”