by Sasha Byrne
To Dare a Dark Prince
Sasha Byrne
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
About Sasha Byrne
Other Sasha Byrne Kindle Unlimited Titles
To Dare a Dark Prince
Copyright © 2018 by Sasha Byrne
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the
author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design by Dark City Designs: [email protected]
Chapter 1
A purple mist snaked its way through the deep, dark forest. The malevolent moon cast an ominous glow on the barren earth below. The unsettling scream of a raven could be heard high above the crippled and twisted tree branches.
Her breath came in tortured gasps as her slippered feet slid and tripped along the slick, frozen ground. Reaching out blindly in the darkness, she fell against a tree trunk. The sharp edges of the bark pressed against her soft cheek and the palms of her hands. Heedless of the bite of pain, she withered to the cold ground. Her rich, velvet gown pooled about her like a death shroud. Casting large anxious eyes about, desperate to see through the gloom, she searched the shadows.
Is it gone?
Did she lose it in the mist?
The sickening sound of splintering wood cracked like a whip through the unnaturally silent forest. A heavy thunderous tread rolled closer and closer still. The rattle and crunch of crushed underbrush were punctuated by guttural snorts and grunts.
Forcing her stiff and cold limbs into motion, she grasped the roughened tree trunk, using it to pull herself upright.
She must keep running.
It was getting closer.
Her skirts felt wet and heavy with frosted dew, chilling her fingers as she fisted large swaths high above her ankles. Willing herself on, she ran deeper into the forest.
Her mouth opened on a startled scream as her body was wrenched forward, then ruthlessly back by a heavy weight on her skirt train. Desperately pulling on the fabric, she looked down to see it pinned under one large, black paw.
Screeching in terror, she fell to the ground. Twisting her body till she was on her back, her fingers dug into the frigid dirt as she tried to claw her way backwards. Her feet helplessly kicked through her skirts, trying to dislodge her attacker.
There was a low, feral snarl.
She stilled.
A second paw pressed against her hip. Through the mist, the beast, covered in sleek, ebony fur, slowly came into focus, shifting its massive weight to hover over her slight form. The first paw moved, stepping on her thick curls as they fell in waves about her, forcing her to remain prone and still. A thick obsidian mane framed a long, powerful snout and startlingly bright green eyes. It was the beast’s eyes which mesmerized her. Captured her. She forgot to scream. Forgot to breathe as she fell under their spell. Filled with almost human emotion, she could read their primal intent.
“Please,” she begged.
The beast cocked its head to the side, as if it understood her plea. Its muscles bunched and shifted as it leaned forward on its paws. Its strong chest bore down on her breast. Pinning her under its weight, his snout pressed against her neck. The beast was learning her scent. Reflexively, she inhaled. It smelled of moss, cedarwood and honeycomb. Her brow wrinkled, confused. She had expected the sick, acrid scent of blood.
The warmth radiating from the creature’s body spread over her own, banishing the night’s chill. The silken strands of its mane brushed her cheek as its snout moved downward. Her body trembled with an unnatural response as the tip of the beast’s tongue lapped along the ridge of her exposed collarbone. Alarmed, she tried to get away. Rising on her elbows, she ignored the sting of pain as her hair trapped under his paw pulled and tugged.
The beast’s mouth opened on a low growl, exposing long, white teeth. The points were so thin and sharp they appeared almost transparent. With a whimper, she sank back to the ground, lying helpless under its restraining weight.
Watching its captured prey intently, the beast lowered its snout to trail between her breasts, down her middle. Again, reading an almost human response in the evergreen depths of its eyes, her breath grew ragged and uneven. As its powerful body prowled closer to her hidden core, fear of both it and her own response overcame all else.
Springing upward, she latched onto its mane, filling her small hands with its silken weight. The beast reared back with a roar, pulling her with it. On its hind legs, it towered over her petite frame. Her slippered toes barely skimmed the icy peaks of grass that covered the earth. Her body was forced flush against the beast’s powerful chest as it dangled, held aloft only by her faltering grip on the beast’s fur.
As the beast’s head tipped back on a deafening bellow, the ebony fur morphed into red, moth-eaten rags. The sharp teeth became blackened and blunted. Its majestic snout shortened to a broad, flat nose. The beautiful emerald green eyes became a colorless, watery gray. His deep throated roar shifted into a high-pitched cackle.
It was the beggar woman from the fair two summers ago.
Loosening her grip, she fell to the ground, staring at the shriveled woman in horror.
Pointing one gnarled hand towards her, the beggar woman spat out, “I curse you! You, who are arrogant, who hold yourself above all those around you. Your beauty is your curse. You shall only know happiness through pain, will only find love through supplication to the beast. Be forced to yield to the hand of your master or face your destiny alone!”
Beatrice awoke with a start, her legs tangled in the heavy, velvet bed covers. Her breath was visible in the frigid bed chamber. It was a dream, she told herself. Just a dream.
Chapter 2
That dreadful beggar woman had invaded her dreams more than once over the last two years, always repeating the same nasty curse. Beatrice had encountered the tattered woman at a fair on her father’s property. The beggar had been shuffling about trying to sell trinkets which were stolen no doubt and begging for food. When the beggar woman approached Beatrice, beseeching for coin to buy bread, she had her thrown off the grounds. As she was being dragged away, the beggar had shouted the obscene curse at Beatrice.
At first Beatrice dismissed it as bothersome dribble from an old foolish woman, but as the days stretched into months then years, a small doubt began to invade her waking thoughts and nightly dreams. Since the curse, she had failed to find any happiness with any suitor who crossed her path. One by one they fell away. Slowly, she was hardening to the idea of marriage. Slowly, her heart was turning cold to the thought of finding affection. Slowly marching towards the lonesome destiny the beggar foretold.
It was all nonsense of course, thought Beatrice with a shake of her head. If she was alone, it was of her own choosing not some silly curse. She would kneel before no man. Accept no one as her master, never to be dominated. The thought brought to mind the far more disturbing aspect of her dream.
The beast.
Never before had she dreamed of such a creature. The recollection sent a shiver through her body. The beast in her dream was so powerful, so strong, and so masculine… as if it were more man than beast. The way it chased her down. Holding her against her will under the weight of its body. She vividly recalled the sensation of feeling the beast’s warmth pressing down on her as if it were real and not a dream. The scent of cedarwood and moss
from the forest lingered in her mind as if it wafted through the very air of her bedchamber. Beatrice closed her eyes and tilted her head back, remembering the feel of his rough tongue as it caressed along her collarbone. The heat of his breath against her neck. Her trepidation as it nuzzled against her stomach… and lower. The overwhelming sense of fear and, yes… something close to desire for the forceful man-like beast.
As she brought to mind the strikingly real scene from her dream, Beatrice’s hand glided between her breasts. Raising her knees, her silk gown slid to bunch at the top of her thighs. Her fingers shifted further along her body, just skimming her hidden curls. As the barest tip of her fingertip slipped deeper, teasing her sensitive bud, there was a clamor at her bedchamber door.
A chambermaid walked in carrying an iron scuttle and small broom.
“You incompetent dolt,” screeched Beatrice as she grabbed one of the many small pillows which graced her bed and threw it at the poor girl’s head, angry at being interrupted at such an intimate moment.
The girl grimaced, bowing into an awkward curtsy as she dodged yet another pillow. “Sorry, miss!”
“Where the hell have you been? It is freezing in here! You should never have let the fire go out!” raged Beatrice.
“Yes, miss. Sorry, miss. It won’t ever happen again,” whined the girl as she fell to her knees before the fire grate, quickly sweeping up the spent ashes.
“I will make certain of it,” warned Beatrice, making a mental note to have the girl removed from her household chores and assigned the much harsher task of laundry duty.
Beatrice rose from her bed, crossing the polished evergreen marble floor as she slung a lush, purple brocade robe over her shoulders. She moved towards the large glass doors which led to a massive stone balcony. Sweeping past the billowing gauze curtain, she stepped into the chilled morning air and sunshine. Preferring to sleep with the door open to the warm night breeze, it had grown cold in the late evening from a northern wind. It was probably why the fire had gone out, not that Beatrice was going to let the little chambermaid off the hook for her negligence in seeing to her mistress.
Beatrice Victoria Arbot de Villeneuve was the very privileged, wealthy daughter of Frederick de Villeneuve, Europe’s most sought-after perfumer. Her father’s estate was nestled in a fertile valley in the South of France. Beatrice’s gaze swept over rolling hills filled with roses and lavender. At the end of the valley, just beyond the ridge, there were narcissus, osmanthus and violets. Behind a large copse of trees, there was a small plot filled with sage, coriander, caraway and anise. All exceptional ingredients for making the most revered perfumes in Europe, coveted by the rich and royalty alike.
Beatrice breathed in deep. The air always had a scent of spicy, sweet decay from the perfumery located down the road from the main house. Its stores were filled with dried flowers, fruits, leaves, resins, seeds and even stacks of various types of wood like birch, juniper and cedar. Despite all the luxurious aromas, the heady, rich scent of the luscious rose was still her favorite. Sparing a final look to see if the workers were in the fields pruning the bushes and harvesting the buds, Beatrice returned to her room.
“Is my father awake?” she asked the cowering maid.
The chambermaid choked out a barely audible, “Yes, miss.”
“Speak up, you ninny! Do not presume upon my time by making me repeat myself,” snapped Beatrice.
“Yes, miss,” she squeaked only slightly louder.
“Fetch my maid… whats-her-name,” commanded Beatrice. She never bothered to learn the names of her lady’s maids. They never stayed in her employ for very long.
The chambermaid scurried out of the room, leaving a trail of dusty footprints. Beatrice gnashed her teeth in frustration. Moments later a harried looking woman of middling years rushed into the room.
“It is about time you decided to see to your duties. I have been waiting for ages!” complained Beatrice as she took a seat before her vanity.
“How would you like to wear your hair today, miss?” asked whats-her-name, who was also called Dolores by her friends, family and people who bothered to learn her name.
Beatrice surveyed her reflection for a moment. She was blessed with very striking, almost feline features. Her long, narrow face was given presence and character by a pair of high cheekbones and full lips. While her lips and cheekbones were attractive, by far her best feature was her eyes. Large and almond shaped, they were a truly unique shade of bright amber surrounded by a thick fringe of long, black lashes. Although despite their golden glow, there was a creeping coldness behind their depths, a growing bitterness.
Sweeping her heavy, tawny locks off her neck and above her ears, Beatrice turned her face from side to side looking at her reflection in the mirror. “Swept up into a chignon. I’m going riding later.”
“Yes, miss.”
“I will wear the green taffeta now. Lay out my purple riding habit for later,” instructed Beatrice as she pulled the silver top off an elaborate porcelain jar. Using a small sterling silver spoon, she placed a tiny amount of powdered dried elderberry and hibiscus flowers onto a silver platter. Opening another jar, she spooned out a dab of beeswax before blending the ingredients together to create a bright red paste. Using her fingertips, she smoothed the mixture onto her nails, rubbing in small circles till they were stained the perfect shade of crimson. She then buffed them till they shone.
Holding out her arm to admire her vermilion, claw-length nails, Beatrice snapped, “And hurry up! I have no intention of spending the rest of my day cloistered in my bedroom with you!”
Careful to be sure she was not within view of the mirrored reflection, Dolores rolled her eyes before sighing a resigned, “Yes, miss.”
Over an hour later, Beatrice swept into the morning room just as her father was finishing his breakfast.
“Morning, Papa,” she intoned sweetly as she kissed his bald head. “I thought you might join me later for some riding?”
Her father did not look up from the various ledgers and papers scattered among the empty plates and saucers.
“Papa?”
“What is it?” he asked gruffly without raising his eyes.
“I thought we could go riding together. It’s been ages.”
Her father rose as he wiped his mouth with his napkin, and straightening his waistcoat, he absently returned, “Couldn’t possibly. I leave for Florence within the hour.”
“Florence?” asked a crestfallen Beatrice. “But you only just returned from Brussels. You were gone for six months.”
“Don’t whimper like a petulant child,” scolded her father. “I have to tend to business.”
Hiding her brief flash of disappointment behind a mask of indifference, Beatrice flounced over to her seat and sat with a huff. Ever since her mother passed away three years ago, her father, never a very affectionate or attentive man in the first place, had grown increasingly more distant. With his staying away from the estate for months at a time, she barely existed to him anymore. Even her rather childish and pathetic attempts to grab his attention with temper tantrums and disobedience had failed.
In fact, the only time he ever spoke to her was to give instructions for the perfumery or to…
“Beatrice, we must discuss your marriage,” he huffed as he dug in his waistcoat pocket, pulling out a gold watch as if to ensure he spent not a moment longer than necessary on the subject.
…to discuss her marriage prospects.
“My marriage?” she rejoined, with forced brightness. “I believe one must first find a bridegroom before discussing marriage.”
“Don’t play smart with me, girl,” he snorted. “I have had enough of your sass and stubbornness. Your maiden state is an embarrassment to this family, and I will stand for it no longer.”
Beatrice stirred some honey into her tea as she perused the pastries before selecting a warm, buttery croissant. She had heard this speech so many times she could recite it by heart. Every time he returne
d from one of his trips, it was with some suitor in tow. Whether it was the wealthy son of some fellow merchant, the second son of a nobleman or even on one occasion an English duke, the result was always the same. She sent them away with their tails tucked firmly between their legs. With only the barest of interest, she wondered where her father had the latest victim hidden away.
“The marriage contracts have already been agreed upon. There is no use arguing with me.”
Wait. What? Beatrice sat up straighter in her chair, gripping the handle of her bread knife. “Sorry, Father. Did you just say the marriage contracts?”
“Yes, I did, Daughter,” he responded with conviction. “You didn’t think I would let you ruin a proposal from the King of Dessin Animé on behalf of his son, did you? You are beautiful for a reason… to make me rich through your marriage.”
Beatrice slowly rose, still holding the knife. Her lips felt bloodless, as she breathed, “I refuse.”
Working his jaw, her father nodded. “That is precisely why I didn’t bother to ask you.”
“Father—”
Raising a hand in warning, he stated flatly, “It is far past time you married. I will not discuss it. Dammit, Beatrice, you will be a princess! If not for yourself, think of what that will do for the family’s prospects. Why, our perfumes will be the most distinguished in all of Europe! We will be rich beyond imagining.”
Their perfume was already the most distinguished in all of Europe and they already had more wealth than any family deserved. Not that she was complaining about her privileged position, she just never thought her father would sell off his only daughter for even more wealth and power… and to a man who couldn’t even be bothered to meet her before arranging a marriage. Did her father care so little for her?
