Isabelle felt her smile grow. “May I look around? I promise not to wander far!”
Papa gave a hesitant off look, a protective glint in his brown gaze. Then he turned to Isabelle and nodded. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he said, “Stay within eyeshot. Now show me your hands.” He dropped several francs into her outstretched palms.
And without another word, she rushed toward those beautiful dollies.
Then something shifted.
The air grew heavy and ice-cold. Isabelle hugged her body and massaged her arms in an attempt to warm herself. She glanced over at Papa, and her heart gave a violent turn. Just behind him, a shadowy figure crawled through the long grass. It had the distinct shape of a man—long arms and legs, a strong torso—but something warned Isabelle that it was every bit monster. Wisps of smoke, which were nearly transparent, rose from its body. Wherever the thing crawled, a trail of ashes followed in its wake.
It was Death—and he was coming straight for Papa.
Her heart pounding in her throat, Isabelle ran toward him and watched in horror as the beast slithered closer. Ashes littered the ground like macabre flower petals at a wedding ceremony.
The crush of ladies and gentlemen thickened around her. Sweeping top hats blocked her view, and dozens of bodies crowded her vision of Papa. She pocketed her francs, then attempted to shove her way through the ever-growing horde of people.
“Oh, let me through! Let me through! Papa!” Isabelle screamed at the top of her lungs, but a cold gust of wind swept her voice away. “Papa!”
Then a low, slurred voice was in her ear, mocking her fate. “Go run to your papa. While you still can…”
She was slipping into the darkness again, fighting to hold on to something.
Within that endless night, she perceived a calm, mesmerizing voice... gentle touches and coolness along her brow. She grew steady, and some of the pain and coldness ebbed away.
“You are in my care now. Shh. You are fine, ma belle. You must stop exerting yourself and relax.”
Relax? she thought in mild panic. How could she possibly relax? She felt a light pressure on her back, urging her forward. A cup touched her lips, and cool water trickled down her parched throat. She groaned as sudden relief flowed through her veins.
“There we are. Easy now.” Long fingers pushed her curls aside. Someone wiped sweat from her brow, and she felt herself falling backward once more. Isabelle frantically reached forward and grasped handfuls of thick fabric.
Papa’s cloak.
“Non. Papa, don’t leave me—”
“Shh. Lie back and relax...” That deep, melodic voice whispered in her ear—the one tangible thing left in her life. She seized hold as if it were a lifeline. And in many ways, it was.
“Please... don’t leave me... Please. Don’t let go of me...”
“Don’t worry. I am here with you, ma belle. And I shan’t let you go.”
Chapter Seven
For over two nights, the beauty slid in and out of delirium and consciousness. Adam left her side only to refill the water basin; he applied cool linens to her arms and legs and fought to reverse her sweltering fever. He hand-fed her warm broth, whispered calming words in her ear, cleaned and disinfected her bloodied knees, and continually wiped the sweat from her hairline.
Indeed, the sound of his voice appeared to soothe her. Whenever he spoke, her breaths grew more regular, and she stopped fighting whatever darkness seemed to beckon her.
The illness had sprung so suddenly, so violently—Adam knew the storm hadn’t been the sole catalyst. He recalled all too well the mental, emotional, and physical tolls of despair and shock. How your insides felt gutted. Raw. Exposed. How the distress could morph into a sick fatigue, how your entire body could shut down, as if to scream, I give up. No more suffering. This is the end.
But Adam would not let her surrender to such a fate. Perhaps it was his own guilt or selfishness, but from the moment he’d embraced her trembling body, he vowed she’d emerge from this stronger than before.
He glanced down at her delicate features, and her final words echoed in his mind. You are a monster.
That declaration had affected him more than she could ever know. A small part of him yearned to prove her right—to leave her alone in the dungeon while the fever pulled her into the depths of madness.
She had good reason to loathe him. In her eyes, he’d killed her father and stolen her freedom.
A monster.
He shoved away her words, his attention riveted on rebuilding the mental walls that prevented his self-hatred from conquering him completely.
Adam gently cradled her back and softly whispered in her ear. The woman’s face was a beautiful song of a lush mouth, velvety eyes, high cheekbones, and a smattering of freckles across the pert bridge of her nose. He urged her into an upright position, the nearness of her slender body flooding him with an excruciating longing, and lifted a cup to her lips. “You must drink, ma belle,” he said in a low, careful tone, as if he were coaxing a wild horse into submission.
They were connected now—fate had made certain of that—and, Mon Dieu, he wouldn’t let her fade away. Not without a fight.
Adam hesitantly reached out and ran his fingertips through her hair, needing to see if those curls were as soft as they looked. They felt luscious, like fresh-spun silk, though the scars on his hand dulled the sensation. Even through the thick material of her dress, it was clear that she wore no petticoats or corset. Just a chemise and pantalettes. With mounting desire, he eyed the mud-streaked hem and considered changing her garment.
Non, it wouldn’t be proper. I couldn’t possibly invade her virtue in such a way.
A lost part of his humanity resurfaced, and for the first time in countless years, he felt like a man again. Not a reclusive monster. Not a shadow of the person he’d once been. A true, living and breathing man who had urges like any other—
Slender arms lashed out and encircled his neck; the jarring movement knocked the air from his lungs and flooded his body with that wretched feeling again.
Hope.
Calm yourself, you stupid fool. She doesn’t even know what she’s doing. Or who you are.
Regardless, Adam melted against her warm curves. Lost in her scent and feel, he gathered her body and echoed her embrace with trembling arms. His shoulders shook, his heart thundered, and sudden tears misted his gaze. He expelled a sigh, hardly believing what was happening, then tracked his palms over her slim shoulders and back.
Such a simple thing, a hug. Something most people took for granted, never stopping to savor the feel of another person’s warmth and closeness.
Feeling her heartbeat slamming against his own, the wisps of her breaths fanning his shoulder... it was nearly his undoing.
The soft curves of her breasts rocked against his chest. Desire slammed into him with the force of a fist. He took several deep breaths as he fought to regain control of himself, painfully aware of the hardness of his body and surging blood. He made himself remember the prostitute who’d fled at the sight of his disfigurement... made himself recall what he’d done to the beauty’s ill, blind father.
Her words echoed in his mind again and helped alleviate that aching want.
You are a monster.
Cursing away his wretched arousal, he murmured in her ear, brushed back her sweaty curls, and returned her to a reclined position. Then his eyes snapped to the floor—where a sparkling engagement ring drank in the lantern’s illumination.
The following night, the beauty’s fever and delirium settled considerably. Whatever demon she’d battled the first few evenings appeared to have temporarily subsided. Now, she slept soundly and deeply, occasionally stirring awake and grasping for him to come closer.
“Where in God’s teeth did you ever manage to find a pretty piece like that?”
Adam jerked his hand away from the woman and turned to Sébastien, who was standing in the doorway. Both arms were knotted over his chest, a defiant curl qu
irking his thin lips. With all his focus on tending to the woman’s fever, he’d forgotten about Sébastien’s arrival several nights before.
“She is no one’s business but my own,” Adam shot over his shoulder. Stranger, who was napping beside the bed, stirred awake and stretched his colossal paws.
“Dumont,” Sébastien muttered as he slid into Adam’s bedchamber without invitation. “The name on the carriage—I’ve heard it before. Seen the coat of arms, too. Many times, actually. A quite distinguished family in Demrov. If I remember correctly... a comte who settled here from Paris a decade past... not so long after the French monarchy lost their reign.” Cracking his knuckles, Sébastien shifted his weight from heel to foot. “The young vicomte is rumored to be a rather pretty-looking fellow. Makes ladies simper behind their fans with only a glance. Or so I’ve heard.”
Adam shrugged, pretending Sébastien’s words didn’t deter him. “Good for him.” He applied a damp linen to the woman’s upper face and brow. She stirred in her sleep, and Adam gently brushed the hair back from her forehead. His fingers remained longer than necessary while her eyes slid open for half a heartbeat, locking on to his own. Then she faded back into darkness again.
Sébastien towered above the four-poster canopied bed, standing far too close for Adam’s comfort, and pushed the linen from her brow. “Beautiful, to be sure. But she doesn’t look like nobility,” he said, gesturing to her plain wool dress. “Not by the appearance of her clothing. More like a scullery maid or kitchen wench. I ask again: Where did she come from?”
“Thankfully for you, her social standing doesn’t make a bit of difference. She’s under my care now. She came here seeking shelter from the snowstorm. That’s all you need to know. She’s quite ill,” he added, stating the obvious—annoyed with Sébastien’s hovering body and nosy inquiries.
“Well, I gathered as much, her being unconscious and such.” Adam felt the scrutinizing burn of Sébastien’s green eyes. He was suspicious of the girl’s presence—that much was obvious. “A young lady stumbled upon your castle all alone? With no escort or chaperone to speak of, dressed in a servant’s shift and driving the comte’s brougham? Queer, to say the least...”
The same thought had haunted Adam for several nights. The comte’s brougham and the engagement ring.
What is she running from? Or from whom?
“Perhaps she prefers to observe her comfort rather than fashion’s high demands.” A transient smile played across Adam’s mouth as his consciousness trickled into the past. Indeed, Maman had cursed the tight-laced, elaborate French gowns, which were always worn by the ladies at court. She’d much preferred the flowing and earthy garb of the peasants and common people. A familiar ache settled in his heart; he pushed away the response and shrugged his broad shoulders. The ritual had become as natural as breathing. Pretending not to care, then convincing himself of the blatant lie. For a teasing moment, Adam was back in the rose garden, running beside his parents and gazing down at Demrov when it still had existed as a kingdom. “Or better yet, maybe she’s a highway woman on the run,” Adam mused. “Perhaps she took off with the old comte’s brougham and is headed for France or Italy.”
Sébastien laughed and shook his head. “Careful now, mon ami. You’d best stop creating fanciful stories for the poor girl. If not, I’m afraid you’ll make yourself heartsick with love for her.”
Adam scoffed. He could never love again. Love demanded a considerable degree of trust, and after his family had been betrayed all those years ago, he’d lost his faith in others. Although he sometimes had doubts about his loyalty, he placed a delicate trust in Sébastien. The man was often a pain in the ass, to be sure—but he’d never betrayed him or his family in over twenty-five years. Sébastien and Stranger, he sardonically mused, my two loyal companions.
“What is she to you? A ticket back to the land of the living, I suppose?”
Adam opted for silence as his anger and frustration heated from a simmer to a steady boil. The sound of Sébastien’s cracking knuckles shattered the ambiance. Mon Dieu, Adam loathed that habit.
“And what of the gentleman’s hat by the fireplace?” Sébastien asked. “It’s quite worn and outdated—clearly not the comte’s possession. I assume that belonged to your lady friend as well?”
“Perhaps it belongs to me. I’m still a gentleman of sorts.”
Sébastien gave a bark of laughter that could have woken the dead. Adam was surprised it didn’t rouse his sleeping beauty. “That, mon ami, couldn’t be further from the truth, I’m afraid. And I distinctly recall bringing you such a hat once, which you threw into a heap of trash while stating, ‘a handsome hat won’t make my face any prettier.’” Sébastien sighed and scratched the stubble on his square jawline. “I have known you for a very long time, Adam—since you were a carefree boy; when you still believed the Kingdom of Demrov was woven from rose gardens and pretty bedtime stories. You were a terrible liar then. You’re an even worse liar now.”
Adam gritted his teeth while he repeatedly thrust a scarred hand through his hairline. “I haven’t the slightest idea how Dumont’s brougham came into her possession. As I said, she came here seeking shelter from the damnable storm.”
“And discovered a much more pleasant atmosphere inside these wretched walls, I suppose,” Sébastien murmured, his words dripping with dry sarcasm and something more. Something that threatened to destroy his equilibrium and their tentative friendship.
“You are supposed to be my servant. Not an inspector.”
“Yes, yes—I am your humble servant, your friend, and I like to think I was your father’s friend as well, God rest his soul... All the same, I shall not stand idly by while I smell foul play. Or sense that you’re tampering with Dumont’s property. You may lurk obliviously in the dark, Adam, but I have not. I’ll have you know the comte has ruined people for far less a crime.”
“Property? She’s a woman—not a goat for trade or barter.”
“Yes, a woman, and a most stunning prize of a woman, at that. Pray tell, what is this woman’s name?”
Adam swallowed, swiping his fingers along his hairline. “I... We didn’t exchange names.”
“What sort of gentleman fails to inquire a lady’s name? Your parents would be quite disappointed.” It was meant to be a jab in the side, a rather harmless jest, yet it stung all the same.
“The kind who hasn’t said more than a few fucking sentences to a woman in over twenty years.”
“Tell me now,” Sébastien demanded at length. “What was that favor you wished to ask me?”
Wiping her brow, Adam paused in his handiwork, not sure how to proceed. He damn well needed Sébastien out of his hair before the girl awoke, yet he also required his aid. His questions and prodding were bad enough. He couldn’t risk Sébastien’s presence when the girl regained consciousness. First things first, he decided, making the woman’s health his priority.
My priority—and somewhat of an obsession.
“Come back in a fortnight. I’ll explain the favor then.”
Sébastien stabbed him with a penetrating glance, then strode toward the door. He buried his hands in his trouser pockets and whistled under his breath. His devil-may-care attitude flared Adam’s temper, escalating it to new heights. “Very well,” Sébastien muttered with a crack of his knuckles. “I daresay she’ll have plenty to say to me in two weeks.”
Raphael’s breath, sharp with the scents of alcohol and sweat, scorches my cheeks as he restrains my wrists and holds me close. Intimately close. He whispers in my ear, and his words render me more immobile than his physical hold. I fight to break free of him—to emerge from this nightmare with a semblance of my virtue still intact—but my protests are in vain. His deep chuckle resonates against my belly, his grasp tightens until my hands whiten, and his words grow darker still. His speech sounds slurred and guttural, his breath smells rancid. Each word is half-drowned in alcohol.
He pushes my body against the edge of the grand pianofor
te, keeping me pinned in place. My heart pounds as he slips a cold, smooth hand inside my bodice. Revulsion and hatred fill me. I squeeze my eyes shut, resenting his vile caresses and how those fingers run over my skin, leaving their taint.
Most of all, I resent myself for ever lowering myself to such disgrace. Then, in a slow and suggestive perusal, his gaze slithers down and over my heaving chest. He visibly drinks me in, undressing me with those hazy eyes. I feel consumed, vulnerable, helpless. Fear seizes my beating heart with the force of a steel fist. His erection strains against his trousers with each movement. I struggle, jerk, and plead—but nothing seems to reach him.
A hooked finger is deep inside me now—twisting, tearing—causing a jolt of pain to speed through my limbs. Then his hands wrap around either side of my head, and he pulls me forward, forcing his musky breath upon me. He slides his dry lips over my collarbone, branding me forever. “You are mine. You belong to me.”
Isabelle fell back into reality like a babe taking its first breath of life. Her heart thudded while sweat and tears swam down her clammy cheeks. She panted, battling for the precious air; it felt as though a weight laid across her chest, causing her lungs to fold up and surrender. Her eyes came into focus, though the edge of her vision remained frayed and fuzzy. But she saw enough.
Large hands enclosed either side of her face, and a pair of startling sapphire eyes stared into her own. Everything came rushing back.
Raphael’s vile assault. Journeying with Papa through Demrov’s dense forest as the storm raged around them. Venturing inside the desolate province of Hartville—and straight into this man’s clutches. Oddly she recalled his voice most of all—her one lifeline, a guiding light within an endless darkness...
Except he didn’t save me from the darkness. He brought the darkness.
For a brief instant, she wondered where Papa was—then her great loss returned at full force and spirited away her breaths. On the verge of descending into blackness again, Isabelle scooted backward as she held the man’s powerful stare. His hands slid away, almost in slow motion, as if he was struggling not to frighten her any further.
Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1) Page 10
