“I don’t understand,” he said, splitting her thoughts in two. “Why did you help me? After everything I’ve done to you? After all the pain I’ve brought...”
Silently she shook her head. “I’ve seen glimpses of the good in you. Gentleness, a compassionate spirit. And besides... you helped me, stayed by my side. I couldn’t have lived with myself had I left you lying in the snow to die. Papa taught me better than that.” She paused to collect her nerves. “The beautiful trinkets and clothing in my chamber—did... did they belong to someone special?” She ached to press further about the eastern wing, but she stilled her tongue, knowing it was neither the time nor place.
“Yes,” he murmured, fiddling with his signet ring. “They were my mother’s.”
Silence thrummed between them, as evocative and meaningful as a pianoforte refrain. Mutely she stared down at her robe and night rail and stroked the intricate lace detail with her free hand.
His mother’s robe and night rail.
“Keeping her memory alive in that way... it’s clear that you really loved her.”
“Thank you,” he whispered at length, “for giving me another chance.” Tangible emotion laced the words together and reached out to her with a gentle, seductive caress. He leaned closer, and the pressure of his fingers intensified on her hand. His unique scents—pine, sandalwood, and winter—filled her nostrils in a compelling assault of the senses. Firelight danced in the dark waves of his hair, infusing those thick strands with flashes of navy blue. Her gaze tracked over the contrasting sides of his face, then became ensnared in the spell of his sapphire eyes. Once again, the king’s portrait flared through her racing thoughts.
“You are mine now, Isabelle,” he said, his voice a husky purr that brushed against her cheeks. “Mine to guard and protect.”
Another powerful silence seized hold. She peered down at their intertwined fingers—studying how his much larger hand overpowered and dominated her own. “Non, Adam,” she whispered, pulling her hand away. “That’s where you are wrong. I shall never belong to another. Never again.”
Chapter Twelve
“She warned him not to be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within.”
Walt Disney’s Beauty and the Beast
I’ve been here two weeks now. Who would ever believe it?
Gazing into the hearth, Isabelle placed her empty breakfast plate on the end table. Secretly she longed for Adam’s company during her mealtimes, yet he rarely showed himself. And so she’d contented herself with Stranger and Spirit.
She’d spent the past few days exploring the twisting corridors and ancient rooms, where the castle’s distractions had proved endless. Reading. Piecing wooden puzzles together. Uncovering treasures from a past age. Tidying the place and trying her luck at new recipes; she absently wondered where the food came from, since Adam never left the security of his castle.
Yes, the distractions were quite endless yet proved mundane and empty all the same. Except for Adam’s music. She enjoyed that most of all; each night, he’d play a song of her choosing as she nodded off to sleep and into the lush fabric of a dream world. His melodies added color to her world and a stunning light to her days...
Sipping her tea, she heaved a weary sigh as the mantel’s decorative coat of arms ensnared her focus. Light from the fireplace flashed across the intricate metalwork and jewel embellishments, illuminating the two intertwined salamanders and ignited shield. Stranger lay beside the wingback chair, silent and still. Isabelle draped her hand down the side of her chair and idly ran her fingers over his ragged fur.
The Delacroix royal coat of arms. She’d seen it in books before, where she’d read about the family’s heart-wrenching tale countless times. Betrayal and deceit had sealed their dark fate.
But what sealed Adam’s?
An hour later, donning one of the walking dresses from her quarters, Isabelle wandered through the castle’s stunning gardens. The storm had cleared the previous morning, leaving the world revived and refreshed in its wake.
Her breath caught; her ears vibrated with her heartbeats. She felt like she’d stepped into the pages of a storybook. The roses, which were miraculously in full bloom, appeared perfect and undisturbed—unaffected by winter’s touch or any other ailments. Here, right in the colorful heart of the rose garden, the mosaic hedges looked lush and healthy. No weeds were in sight, and the small fruit trees reached for the overcast sky as if embracing a summer sun. The courtyard, encased in an icy shell and overgrown with untamed foliage, materialized in Isabelle’s mind. Every petal and blade of grass looked perfect, beautiful, polished—like a jeweler had handcrafted each one into an extraordinary gem.
She’d seen the gardens from her balcony before and had pushed their mystical quality from her mind. Now, standing in the aromatic garden and touching those flawless petals, she could no longer ignore its existence or power. The realization sent a tremor of mingled fright and awe through her.
Much like Adam does...
If she was completely honest with herself, she was beginning to fall in love with the castle’s mysteries and darkness.
Morning’s rays trickled through the pine trees like prying fingers and bathed the manicured hedges, flowers, and ponds with dappled light. How wonderful it felt to be out of the dark castle and one with nature again. Indeed, Isabelle had always held a great love for the outdoors. She suppressed the memories of her papa, knowing nothing good could come from immersing herself in further grief.
Turning her face into the aromatic, crisp breeze, she relished the caress of the wind on her cheeks.
Isabelle surrendered to an inward sigh, then collected several colorful blooms and placed them in her skirts. The dress was quite beautiful, and she couldn’t help but stroke her fingers over the fine silks and lace. Flowing, crème-colored fabric spilled over her body in elegant lines. The waist was about one size too large and the chest one too small, but she felt like royalty all the same.
Crouched before a towering hedge, she stared at the massive castle, in awe of the intricate architecture and jutting buttresses. An unexpected emotion filled her and shook her to the very core.
Heartache for Adam.
It was all incredibly frustrating and confusing; a part of herself felt like she was betraying her papa.
Adam was a true enigma. Confident yet full of insecurities. Commanding yet strangely shy and withdrawn.
How long had he lived here, alone and in the shadow of this castle?
Isabelle felt his formidable presence before she saw him. Glancing over her shoulder, she stared into his penetrating blue eyes for a weightless moment. A breeze rustled his dark, wavy hair, causing the wayward strands to whip against his cheeks. She inwardly chastened herself. It was no great wonder why he lived completely alone and cut off from society. Despite his callous demeanor and quick temper, Isabelle knew he had a sensitive, compassionate side. He preferred to keep that side hidden, but she’d witnessed it nonetheless. She recalled their interaction when she’d tended to his head wound, and a resounding warmth spread through her limbs.
His brilliant gaze tracked over her dress in a slow perusal.
She cleared her throat, then glanced at the cluster of flowers lying in her skirts. “I feel like I’m going mad. Your garden—it’s thriving in the middle of winter. How? How is such a thing possible?”
Adam’s lips quirked. A note of cold steel carried in his voice, blending with his cultured accent in a rather compelling way. “I’ve seen this garden outlive winter so many times that I hardly notice it anymore. Indeed, after all these years, it’s come to look as normal as anything else. That first season, when I planted the flowers, I watched them with a morbid anticipation—waiting for winter to choke them like it does everything else, waiting for their petals to fall away and rejoin the earth. But they endured. They survived that harsh winter, unchanged, beautiful, complete... I thought I was living in a dream of sorts...” His voice trailed off, and a shadow eclipsed his blu
e eyes.
“And now?”
His lips quirked again—this time with a humorless mirth. “I wouldn’t call my life a dream.”
She felt his eyes on her as she stroked one of the silken petals. Clearing her throat again, she whispered, “Papa always loved asters. I thought I’d brighten his grave.”
Isabelle inwardly cursed herself as a tear escaped her eye. She swatted it away and inhaled a fortifying breath.
Then Adam knelt beside her, intimately close. The heat of his large body radiated and brushed against her own. Hardly thinking, Isabelle urged his forelock aside, leaned closer to him, and gently ran her fingertip over the wound. The skin was scabbed and slightly raised. Her thoughts traveled back to the East Tower—to the feel of his large body against hers, the sensation of his lips brushing her pulse—
He shuddered at her touch; she retracted her hand and scooted back a few centimeters. “Oh, I—I’m sorry. I thought I’d check on your wound. I didn’t mean to cause you any pain.”
“You didn’t. You couldn’t.” He repeatedly swept a hand through his silky hair before speaking again. The unconscious movement urged the heavy locks off his face and exposed his shriveled ear. Isabelle dropped her eyes and focused on the darkly hypnotic lull of his voice. It wrapped around her thoughts, cloaking her mind and body in a dangerous oblivion. “I understand how you feel,” he said. “The hurt, that vacant feeling inside your heart... I lost my parents when I was just a boy.” That haunted look entered his eyes again, and Isabelle felt an undeniable pull toward him. “Some nights, it feels like it happened only yesterday.”
Isabelle swallowed and glanced at the vivid blooms in her lap. The East Tower portraits materialized in her mind. “I suppose this sort of wound never fully heals. But does it get easier?” she asked in a whisper, half speaking to herself.
A long silence seized hold. Isabelle inhaled the cool winter air, inviting it inside her lungs. It had a strange, purifying effect, and she felt some of her grief subside. Then Adam reached out and gently clasped her hand. She watched in admiration as his large, scarred fingers swallowed her own. Breathless, her heart thudding, she stared at their untied grips for several iridescent moments. He unfurled his fingers and massaged her palm with his thumb pad. The rough, uneven skin grated against hers in a tender caress.
Dieu, she wanted to continue to hate him—to spit curses at him and condemn him for the tragedy that had befallen her father... but she could not. The remorse was evident in his touches and words, in how he’d cared for her during her hours of darkness and every day since—and she was coming to realize they needed each other.
Since the East Tower incident, her heart had lightened several shades—yet the sadness lurked like a transient shadow. She supposed it would always exist—a dark void that could never be filled or made complete. And when she imagined her papa, the way he’d looked that night—the sadness seized her soul in an iron grip, and an avalanche of despair came rushing back.
Searching Adam’s gaze, a tremor raced through her as she recalled his night terrors. Alas, the nights brought a separate agony and darkness altogether. Almost every evening, she’d lie in bed, her face crushed in her pillow, bearing witness to Adam’s cries as they echoed through the castle’s corridors. Truly it felt like a form of torture—and with each passing day, it was becoming harder to stomach. Within the darkness, she’d listen to those heart-wrenching sobs while her mind ventured through the East Tower and all its secrets again and again...
“No,” he finally answered, his voice a broken and husky whisper. So faint were his words, the wind nearly carried them away. Body heat and the scent of his skin—sandalwood, pine, and winter—radiated, urged her trust. He continued to massage her palm, drawing invisible half circles and carefully tracing her lifeline. She swallowed and shut her eyes, savoring the simple feel of human contact.
How she’d missed it.
“The wound never fully heals. The loss and pain are always there, like a raw sore, reminding you of what once was... of what should have been.” Her eyes whipped open as his body heat moved away. He smoothed down his cloak, climbed back to his feet, and held out his hand for her taking. “But you grow stronger. You move forward as best you can. And you learn to endure.”
You survive the winter.
Adam observed as Isabelle approached her father’s resting spot. Overhead, the black ash creaked and bowed as a gust of wind manipulated it. A wooden cross, assembled from two slabs of pine, jutted out from the heart of the cairn.
Restless and unable to sleep, he’d constructed it the previous evening. He’d collected the wood from the surrounding forest, sanded it to a shine, and carefully etched the date of the man’s death. Indeed. He’d laid awake for hours, afraid to sleep—anxious of what would be waiting in his nightmares. Now, he felt a little calmer, and the world appeared brighter with Isabelle close by.
“I... I didn’t know his name,” Adam whispered, gesturing to the wooden cross.
“Bernard.” Her eyes captured his, those hazel depths inflamed with a naked curiosity and wonder. He stole a glance at her delicate features—her small, upturned, freckled nose, the deep red of her lips, and her whirlwind of dark curls.
His gaze dropped lower, to the rise of her full breasts; they strained against the dress’s silks and lace, as if beckoning his touch. “It’s lovely,” she said, cropping his erotic thoughts in two. “Thank you. Your parents—how did they die?” When his answer never came, she shook her head and whispered, “I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t have to share such things with me.”
Adam felt his blood run cold. He gazed at her papa’s resting place, then reached out and tracked his scarred fingers over the cross. “They were killed.” As he spoke, he extracted a small blade from his cloak’s pocket and engraved the man’s name above the date. Isabelle visibly flinched at the sight of the blade and inconspicuously scooted backward. He fought to ignore her reaction and continued to engrave the cross. “They were brutally murdered when I was just a boy.” And I was forced to witness everything. A deep shudder rocked his body. His hand stilled in midair, and the blade shook in his grip.
Suddenly a featherlight touch graced his arm. Fairly holding his breath, he glanced over to find Isabelle’s slender hand grasping his bicep. Her eyes captured his own again, and for several moments, he had to remind himself to so much as breathe.
“I’m so sorry, Adam. Dieu... I can’t imagine the pain you must have endured all these years.”
Her eyes lifted to the cross. A vacant, faraway look entered her beautiful gaze.
“Your scars—” Adam heard the cautious and wary note in her voice, as if she were traveling from one stepping-stone to the next, hopping with care across a tumultuous stream. A dark shadow had also crossed her lovely eyes—one that drew him in and whispered to the most intimate caverns of his soul. “Did they happen on the night of your parents’ deaths?”
“Yes,” he said as he carved the final letter of her father’s name. “These scars and others.” She was asking too many questions. Spinning the blade between his thumb and forefinger, he mutely shook his head and inhaled a fortifying breath. If he didn’t tread with caution, he’d fall into those tumultuous waters and bring Isabelle down with him.
Silence took hold with the force of an iron fist. She met his eyes again, then slowly shifted her gaze over his deformity. Mon Dieu, how he ached to run and hide. Shame and resentment twisted inside him like a knife. “Men have endured worse in the wars. You don’t have to shut yourself away, to—”
“Men fighting in the wars are heroes. Soldiers,” he harshly spat, tossing the blade point first into the snow-covered ground. “Their scars are badges of honor.” Adam waved toward his face while the resentment reached a steady boil. “These bring me no honor, and I am certainly no hero.”
I watched as my mother and father were massacred in cold blood, he thought, simultaneously cringing at the hypocrisy of his words from moments ago. He’d never grown st
ronger. He’d never moved forward. And he never had endured. Instead, he’d shut himself up and hid from humanity, like a grotesque beetle scuttling beneath a rock. “And besides... I’m afraid most people don’t have your compassion. Or stomach.”
“Forgive me, but those are rather cynical words from a man who’s kept himself hidden away. You haven’t seen the world. You don’t know—”
“I’ve seen enough.”
She said nothing—merely returned her gaze to the wooden cross and exhaled a weary breath. “The storm killed him.” She shook her head, physically battling her own revelation. “You frightened him—you frightened us both, there’s no doubting that. And you frightened me in your eastern tower. But the storm stole Papa from me. That and his illness.” She swallowed deeply, and Adam found himself mesmerized by the slender muscles in her throat, the way her pale breaths misted the air. “I should have known better. Disregarding the truth and hating you won’t bring him back. It won’t change anything.”
“And neither shall blaming yourself.” He hesitated, then plucked the blade from the ground and pocketed it. “Do you have any other relatives? A sister or brother, perhaps? Even a cousin?”
Isabelle mutely stared forward while her fine brows knotted in concentration. The simple question appeared to puzzle her. “Two stepsisters. Though I’d hardly call them family...” She shook her head in defeat, as if arriving at an unpleasant decision. “My father never turned his cheek to Clarice and Elizabeth—and God knows they often deserved that and worse. My stepsisters have always despised me. Their mother made certain of that...” Her voice trailed off, and she swatted the air like swishing away a horsefly. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter now. They are probably grateful to be rid of me. And I certainly shan’t miss their scowling faces. But you would... provide them with funds? Security?”
Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1) Page 17
