Once Stranger had rejoined the quiet earth, Adam lay on top of the fresh grave and gazed up at the heavens he’d for so long forsaken.
Chapter Twenty-Two
For three nights, Isabelle dwelled in the depths of a living nightmare. She held back her tears and tried not to think about this cruel stroke of fate—how Raphael had torn the world out from her and Adam. Positioned on aching hands and knees, she ran an oiled cloth over the medallion-style marble floor.
Memories of Adam rained down on her thoughts. In his absence, a black void filled her chest. Rising in the morning was a battle. All stimulus fled from her world, abandoning her to a hollow existence. Food had no taste. Colors were depthless and bland. The art hanging in the Dumont Chateau was without form or beauty. And with each passing day, the precious light slipped from her world a little more. Only her love for Adam kept her sane and functioning.
He shall find me. I know it in my heart...
Or maybe I shall poison them both and take back my freedom myself.
I don’t need rescuing, she thought, glancing down at her silver cross. Only courage and strength. And a semblance of a plan…
One way or another, she would reclaim her happiness. These miserable walls would not hold her.
In the interim, as a scheme formed in her mind, she found it difficult to breathe. Impossible to stay anchored. The world seemed to move around her while she remained stationary, cold, alone. Her heart throbbed with a pain and emptiness she hadn’t known to exist.
Blinking back tears, she paused in her handiwork and rocked onto her sore knees. Anger and frustration churned inside her gut. She gave her silver cross a squeeze and prayed for strength.
Then she felt the silky caress of Vivian Brazin’s skirts. The woman’s voice echoed in the empty hallway, amplified by the marble flooring and cathedral ceiling. At first, when Raphael had spirited her from Adam’s castle, she’d thought he meant to force her into marriage—among other things. But she’d quickly learned that he had other, less noble plans in store. She was to be his and Vivian’s plaything—and Raphael had every intention to make her pay for trying to escape him. Isabelle clasped the center of her chest as grief incapacitated her; she missed Adam so deeply it physically pained her.
“Why, you truly are as useless as Raphael says you are.” Vivian bent forward and tilted her head. “I can hardly see my reflection.”
Isabelle twisted the rag between her fingertips and inhaled a calming breath. It did nothing to soothe her nerves or mounting fury. “Then you should count yourself blessed. The very sight of your—”
Vivian’s knuckles collided with Isabelle’s jaw in a jarring crash. The impact of her large diamond ring sliced her cheek, tearing her flesh open. Isabelle lowered her head between her hands and watched as her blood puddled on the well-oiled marble. And indeed, she saw Vivian’s smirking features in that shiny surface—and the sight made her insides curdle.
“Why, you are dirtying the floor again,” Vivian said in a flat whisper. “Go on now, ma chérie... Clean up your mess like a good little girl.” Using her dainty foot, Vivian kicked the rag toward Isabelle. Isabelle released a long breath, then rocked onto her knees and glared at Vivian’s hovering face.
Beautiful. Cold. Callous.
She felt as blood trickled down her chin like one great tear. The words tumbled out of her mouth without warning, spilling from a very dark corner of her soul. “You may look down at me all you want. Your unimaginable capacity for cruelty doesn’t change the fact that Raphael preferred me over you. Even now, your engagement is nothing more than a hushed secret, a farce.” Vivian’s porcelain complexion grew even paler, if that was at all possible, and a riot of emotions flickered in her stare. “Neither does it—”
“Now, now, Isabelle...” Raphael’s slow drawl punctured Isabelle’s thoughts. “Is that any way to speak to your soon-to-be mistress?” She shivered in spite of herself; nights ago, Vivian’s husband had died in his sleep—yet Isabelle knew well Vivian had played a hand in the timely death. Now she and Raphael were secretly engaged—something that clearly rattled Vivian and for a good reason. Isabelle had overheard their argument—and the subsequent “lovemaking”—early that morning. Why must it be a secret, Raphael? Tell me why! What are you so ashamed of? It’s your wretched father again, the fucking comte! Or is because of that low-born whore?
Raphael drew closer. The clink of polished boots echoed through the hallway in an eerie requiem; each of his steps parroted Isabelle’s thundering heartbeat and ragged breaths. He sank to the crutch of his knees with a condescending smile, regarding Isabelle as if she were a naughty child. Then he licked the pad of his thumb and wiped away the stream of blood. It took every bit of her willpower not to seize his thumb and shatter the bone in two.
“What an enchanting couple the two of you make,” she spat, straightening her back so as not to be dwarfed by his presence. “You do your mother’s memory a great honor, Raphael.”
The flicker in his glare was unmistakable; his mute anger lashed out with the force of a whip.
Curb your tongue, foolish chit. Every word you utter only harms yourself and possibly Adam.
Calmly she waited, her eyes never leaving his own, preparing for the blow to her face.
It never came. Instead, he cupped her chin in a gesture of mock affection. Isabelle’s glare slid to Vivian, who had staggered back several meters. Her small, pale hands balled into fists, and her lips tightened into a somber line. Those blazing eyes hit Isabelle like a hurtled knife, daring her to speak.
Take him from me, Isabelle silently pleaded to the damnable woman. Take him and let me be.
Bile rose in her throat as Raphael’s caressing fingers ran through her curls in repetitive motions. Her eyes shuttered; within the sanctuary of her own thoughts, she saw Adam’s face, heard the husky, drugging baritone of his voice...
My heart is breaking without him.
Raphael yanked on her hair and snapped her back into dark reality.
“Don’t even think of it. There is no escaping, ma chérie. Not this time.”
Or so you believe.
Sébastien thrashed in his sleep as his mind was transported back to that tragic eve twenty-five years ago...
He raced through the Castle Delacroix’s corridors with one goal in mind. He had to find the crown prince and princess before it was too late.
I must set things right or at least die trying.
It was what his father would have done anyway.
He battled to shake away the images and sounds from only moments ago. Should he live to see a hundred years, he’d never forget the sight of the king and queen’s severed heads on spikes... how the mob had paraded them about the courtyard, the crowd cheering and waving their tricolored freedom flags. Those memories were forever burned into his thoughts, into his very being. An image of Adam and his parents running through the rose garden invaded his mind and further awakened his tenacity.
The castle rocked and swayed as more cannon fire assaulted the walls. The fortress wouldn’t hold much longer. Smoke crept through the halls and infected Sébastien’s lungs. Coughing, he held a handkerchief against his mouth and nose to block out those flames. Regardless, they seeped through the material and charred his insides into ash.
A massive crash shook the castle—and the impact nearly knocked Sébastien off his feet. A lightheaded sensation eclipsed his senses as he tracked through the smoky hallway; he clung to the wall, fought to retain his balance, to stay awake.
If I sleep, I shall never wake up again.
Keeping the handkerchief pressed against his nose and mouth, he slid the opposite hand along the wall and staggered toward the bedchambers. A mighty tapestry wavered at his touch; his eyes ran over the salamander and ignited shield, and he caught himself muttering the Delacroix words.
Sébastien’s heart violently plummeted as he stopped in front of the nursery. Fire set the hallway aglow, and sweltering heat wafted from the room.
Flames had devoured everything.
Sébastien prayed the prince was still alive, still hiding somewhere within the castle’s shadows.
Prince Adam was the last hope.
Minutes later, he found him tied to the king and queen’s four-poster bed. The drapes were on fire. Flames drifted toward Adam’s unconscious body. They were red-hot and blazing, like the devil’s own tongue.
“Adam! Mon Dieu...” His arms already bore brutal burns and welts. Smoke charred Sébastien’s lungs and eyes. He gazed through his stinging vision in dejected horror, staring down at the king and queen’s decapitated bodies. Blood oozed and pooled from the stumps of their necks, covering the parquet flooring.
Was Adam still alive? Was it even possible to survive such a thing?
Sébastien covered his mouth as vomit seethed from his lips and dampened the handkerchief. Whispering words to the prince, he worked as fast as his trembling hands allowed, untying the ropes that bound the boy’s wrists. Thick smoke rose into his face and clotted his lungs. Every breath was a battle... The pain was excruciating. Sébastien’s heart pounded, fighting to burst its way out of his chest. Blackness fringed his consciousness; he battled the haze and focused his attention on the knotted rope.
Then he pulled Adam’s unconscious body from the bedpost, cradling the prince like a newborn babe...
Like all other nights for the past few weeks, Sébastien found no sleep. No sleep and certainly no rest or peace of mind. He woke from the nightmare, drenched in his sweat and guilt. He tossed and turned for hours on end, punching his feather pillow into submission. Dejectedly he watched as moonlight shimmered through his chamber’s sole window and set his carved furniture aglow. Furniture he’d purchased with Adam’s generous salary. A fucking feather pillow he’d purchased with Adam’s salary.
It was inescapable. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Adam tied to his parents’ bedpost, saw those hungry flames wafting toward his motionless body, saw himself unfastening the binds and shouting words of reassurance over the roaring flames.
What have I done?
Guilt consumed Sébastien, tearing him asunder.
Every morning, he’d race to the newsstands and flip to the engagement announcements. And every morning, not a single mention of Vicomte Dumont and Isabelle Rose met his eyes.
He lied—played me for a fool.
He jolted upright, panting, both hands trembling. Stumbling from the bed, he tossed a wool coat about his shoulders and set off into the darkness.
Over an hour later, Sébastien parked his phaeton and stood in front of Isabelle’s humble cottage. The interior was blacker than pitch. They’re probably sleeping, you fool. Or possibly out on a social call. Yet the uneasy sensation expanded in his chest. The urge to shatter a window and search the home overwhelmed him. He moved closer to the peeling door, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. His breaths were sucked from his lungs as he edged nearer; a wooden plank boarded the front door.
Shadows shifted and moved, manipulated by the flickering street lanterns. He raced through the cold, curving walkways, suddenly needing to be away from here. He ached to return to Adam’s castle, to sit with him and Stranger beside the hearth and reminisce on past times. Better times. Just two old friends, more different than day and night, yet linked together by a dark stroke of fate. And a love for aged wine.
A young whore blocked his path. She bowed her face in shame; stick-straight hair draped over her body and hid her features like some secretive curtain. The ill-fitted bodice drooped from dangerously slim, birdlike shoulders in harsh and irregular folds, flaunting her deprivation rather than sensuality. Sébastien felt the compelling desire to sweep away those locks, to peer into eyes that were undoubtedly filled with sorrow, and reassure her that everything would be fine. Instead, he hustled past the creature without a second glance.
A tiny, trembling hand grasped his coat. Her fingers curled into the material in a desperate pull. When she finally spoke, the tremor in her voice overpowered all sensuality. “Bonsoir. Care to have your bed warmed on this lonely night, monsieur?”
A rigid breath escaped him.
In an attempt to flee, the young whore inhaled a strained breath and instantly pulled away. Sébastien gripped her shoulders and realigned their bodies. His gloved fingertips pushed against the curve of her chin, forcing her face up and back. He felt his eyes sharpen as they bore into her own. “Clarice! What—what are you thinking? What, in God’s teeth, have you done to yourself?”
When she refused to speak, he tossed the hood from her head, confirming the inevitable.
The girl shattered into tears. “It was the vicomte, the wretch! The government—they know Papa has died! Raphael Dumont... he had our property confiscated. Elizabeth and I had no choice!” Sébastien didn’t need to hear the rest; he already knew how this tragedy had played out. Women couldn’t own property. The two sisters had likely exhausted Adam’s funds in a matter of days, leaving them destitute and starving.
Just as Sébastien’s heart warmed to the creature, she sneered, “I pray Isabelle followed her father into the grave! It’s all her fault. Hers and the old man’s!”
Sébastien heaved a sigh, fished a hand inside his cloak, and deposited a sum of francs into the chit’s bony hand. And without another word or backward glance, he set off.
He’d found all the evidence he needed.
Adam’s hands trembled as he loaded his leather satchel with a small revolver. Another revolver went into his coat pocket, as well as a gem-studded dagger and extra shot. He tried to focus on the task at hand, but knowing Isabelle was in danger nearly broke him. He inhaled deeply. Fought to hold himself together. For her. Without the warmth of her body... the musical cadence of her voice... the simple feel of her fingers sliding against his own... he was so very lost. Lost, filled with a myriad of pain, and incomplete.
He withdrew the map with shaking fingers and paced toward the study’s conservatory window, urging the moonlight to illuminate its yellowed parchment. He knew the general location of the Dumont Chateau in Chassiers, Demrov—the journey would be long and tedious—and Adam prayed he wouldn’t arrive too late. The plan was very simple, his goal simpler yet. Once he stepped foot in Laché, he’d need to ask for directions. That thought sent a trickle of apprehension down his spine.
He hadn’t engaged with the world for over two decades. Adam braced his palms on the writing desk and fought to steady his breathing. The mere thought of Raphael Dumont’s hands on Isabelle left him trembling and blind with rage. Testing the cocking mechanism on his revolver, Adam muttered a halfhearted prayer and slipped the weapon inside his coat again. He gazed out the window to the shimmering night that lay beyond—and Adam knew, without question, that he’d brave any storm for Isabelle. She was all that mattered now, and he’d give everything to ensure her safety and happiness.
Even his own wretched life.
Adam stared into the wavering hearth, willing his courage to come forth. In that reflective moment, his entire fate seemed to travel full circle.
I must be brave. Just like Papa said I should...
Knocking ruptured the silence. Adam jolted from the blunt sound and jerked upright.
Isabelle?
Not sparing another thought, he sprinted across the drawing room and chased after the persistent knocking. The sound echoed and snaked through the castle’s stone walls, swelling the darkness with a frantic banging. The rhythm of the knock sounded desperate—almost like a cry for help. Adam hastened his steps, then wrenched open the hefty wooden door. The thing emitted a splintering groan as he pushed it open and met Sébastien’s panicked gaze.
Adam would have strangled him then and there, but the pain in Sébastien’s sea-green eyes rendered him momentarily immobile. Remorse. Regret and empathy. He appeared to have aged a good twenty years since Adam last saw him. Regardless, once he gathered his wits, Adam clasped Sébastien’s lapels, pulled him inside, and slammed his back against the wall.
“Adam, please. You must hear me out, mon ami. Isabelle’s life may very well—”
“Mon ami? Never call me that again,” Adam snarled as he rounded on Sébastien again. He pinned him against the wall with one hand firmly pressed against the man’s neck. Sébastien struggled against the pressure of his fingers, coughing, battling for air. “And never speak her name. You are not worthy of her name.” Adam felt his voice grow thin and wary. His anger warped into a painful despair and agony as he physically lifted Sébastien off the ground.
Then he swept back with a curse, dislodging his hand from Sébastien’s neck. He thrust his fingers through his hairline and paced back and forth. “Don’t deny it—that worthless vicomte has spirited her away because of you. Because of your treachery and betrayal.”
Sébastien audibly battled for the right words. Hearing him stammer and stutter, when he was usually so smooth and quick-witted, filled Adam with an unwanted empathy.
“Hear me out. I beg you—”
“I trusted you, Sébastien. I’d turned my back on society, learned to trust no one... yet I had believed in our friendship.” Adam’s voice turned soft, thoughtful, each syllable weighed down by a sudden heartache he didn’t dare comprehend. “You have thought ill of me for a long time now—perhaps you always have. You made it clear last time we talked that you regarded me as a monster.”
He locked on to Sébastien’s hazy eyes and swept forward, closing the space between them again. “I would have nothing left to believe in if it weren’t for Isabelle. And now, she’s been taken away because of you. I love her, Sébastien! I love her more than I’ve ever loved anything. Should any harm befall her, I—”
“I didn’t know, Adam! What was I supposed to think—you were so damn secretive... and she appeared trapped, so lost!”
Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1) Page 31
