Riven: A Merged Fairy Tale of Beauty and the Beast & Sleeping Beauty (The Enchanted Rose Trilogy: Book 3)

by R. M. ArceJaeger

  Chase leaned against the doorframe, content for the moment just to watch him work. She loved the way his muscles flexed under his tunic as he forged the iron, and how his short, black hair shone with sweat in the firelight. He was strong—stronger than any of the other young men in the village—and so tall that she felt sheltered just by being near him. His copper-brown skin glowed red from the heat, and his mouth tensed in a small frown of concentration. He struck a final blow to the iron and picked up the horseshoe he had formed with a pair of tongs, moving to cool it in a bucket of water. As he turned, he saw her and startled, but managed to keep a firm grip on the tongs.

  “Good morning, Gareth,” she called blithely.

  He nodded in greeting and continued his task, dipping the hot horseshoe into the water. Steam billowed up all around him, yet his gaze never left her face. His eyes were a deep, forget-me-not blue, and every time Chase looked into them, she felt captivated by their intensity and beauty.

  “Our spade has rusted. Again,” she said, holding it out to him. One of his eyebrows quirked, and Chase felt her heart flutter with the delicious fear that he might have realized her spate of misfortunes was not due to carelessness like her family thought, but rather deliberation. He did not say anything, however—he rarely did—just simply set the horseshoe aside and took the spade from her hands.

  Sometimes, Chase worried that Gareth’s silence meant he was indifferent to her—yet she could not truly believe that, not when his azure eyes followed her every move and seemed to blaze at times with as much heat as his forge . . . the way they were blazing now. She met Gareth’s scorching gaze and had to look away again, feeling slightly dizzy—but a moment later, she had glancing back again, the warmth in her cheeks matching that of the fire.

  Yet Chase knew better than to trust such flirtation—she had learned the hard way the fickle affections of men. In the past, many fellows had courted her favor, and Chase—loving the attention—had flirted and flaunted and toyed with their hearts—but they had all deserted after what happened to her sister, Rose. No one wanted to court a girl whose family seemed to be cursed.

  Fools, Chase thought with undiminished ire, clenching her hands unconsciously against her skirts. I am glad to be rid of them.

  Gareth, though, had never shunned her, nor treated with condemnation or pity. On the days she had accompanied her father to the blacksmith’s shop, Gareth’s quiet compassion had made her feel stronger somehow, and she had soon found herself volunteering to convey any work to the shop that her father needed to have done. When not enough remained for Gareth to make or to mend, Chase had created some problems of her own.

  She remembered the first time she had deliberately damaged her spade against a stone, striking it again and again until the metal broke. She had felt guilty and afraid then, but when she was not caught that time or the next, the thrill of seeing Gareth again soon conquered her trepidation.

  Then came that memorable day last summer when she realized she had no coin left to repay her damages.

  “I cannot give you money,” she had confessed nervously, attempting to mitigate the offense with a smile. “How else might I reward your service?”

  Gareth had paused, and a spark had gleamed in his eye as he replied, “With a kiss.”

  Chase, surprised and a little flustered, had coyly exclaimed, “My, but you are quite the bold fellow!” Still, she had complied as ardently as she knew how.

  That night, Chase had scarcely been able to sleep, her thoughts joyous for the first time since her sister had sacrificed herself to the Beast. Yet to her surprise, Gareth had not approached her father to ask his permission to court her, nor had he brought up the kiss to Chase nor made any attempt to repeat it, even though she had purposefully lacked for coin on several of her visits since. Had their kiss been nothing more than a fleeting passion—a whim he had quickly acted upon and dismissed?

  No, I do not believe that, she asserted to herself. Gareth is not that kind of man. Still, the idea disturbed her, and Chase sought to distract herself by looking around his shop.

  She knew Gareth’s workplace intimately well, having spent so much time there over the last few years. As she meandered through the room, she passed a hand over the various equipment, admiring as she always did how neat the place was—and quite clean, too, despite the grime inherent in a blacksmith’s work. She could see Gareth watching her out of the corner of his eye even as he worked to mend her spade, and glowed happily at his attention.

  Then her hand paused as it encountered a cloth out of place on a shelf and felt a small object concealed underneath.

  “What is this?” she asked, lifting off the piece of material. A ring lay underneath, made of two strips of metal twisted together and polished to a silver sheen. Hope and fear flared inside Chase as she picked it up.

  “Did you make this?” she asked, turning to show it to Gareth.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “For whom?”

  He stared at her. “My wife.”

  “Oh,” Chase said, turning away for a moment so he wouldn’t see the tears that had sprung into her eyes. She blinked them away angrily.

  So, he is betrothed. That explains why he never . . . . I should have known. His kiss really was just a fling after all.

  She felt his hand settle on her shoulder and she stiffened, but she reluctantly allowed him to turn her around. Gareth gazed down at her earnestly.

  “It is for you. If you choose to accept it, that is.”

  “For me?” Chase’s mind seemed to be moving as slowly as molasses. Gareth took the ring from her hand.

  “Of course it is, silly. Who else?”

  “But you never—you never said anything about—you never asked—”

  He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it slowly, speaking to her with his lips still touching her skin.

  “Before this, I was only an apprentice, and I was not free to bind myself to you. Even once I became master of my own shop, I still had to do much to prepare a place for you. Now, I am well established in this village and able to give you the life you deserve. So yes, Chase, I am asking—will you consent to be my wife?”

  Chase stared at him, wide-eyed, for once too shocked to even begin to construct an answer.

  * * * * *

  “How could you DO THAT?! Have you no common sense?”

  Mercer, about to enter the house, froze with his hand halfway to the front door. That was Adara’s voice—Adara, who rarely change her tone and almost never shouted. What could have happened to make her lose her composure so completely?

  He quickly pushed open the door.

  “Father!” she cried, catching sight of him. “Just wait until you hear what Chase has done!”

  “I am engaged,” Chase announced proudly, holding her chin up high.

  Mercer looked from one of his daughters to the other, utterly puzzled by their behavior. “Yes, I know. Gareth has just been to see me. I have given him my consent.”

  “You—you have?” Adara stuttered. “But she has no dowry!”

  “My fiancé is a blacksmith and can give me all that I need—a smith is always in demand. Even if he were not and were dirt poor, I would still marry him. You are just jealous!”

  “Jealous? That is absurd,” Adara objected, her color high.

  “Oh, really? I wonder if Jon would think so. Shall I go get him? He is probably out lurking by the stables again, hoping to steal another kiss with you when you should be out doing your chores.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about!” Adara protested fiercely, cutting Mercer off just when he was about to speak.

  Chase shook her head of flaming hair in disgust. “You are so naïve, Adara! Did you really think no one would not notice? Jon has been courting you for years now! It is time you got off your high horse and married him—then maybe you could finally be happy for me for a change!”

  “I cannot marry him because WE HAVE NO DOWRY!” Adara shouted, clearly close to tears.
“A blacksmith might be able to support you, but Jon’s family has no money. How can we ever hope to—to build a life together—when we—when he—you need more than love to make a marriage work, Chase!”

  “That is true,” Mercer interrupted at last. “My dear girls, why do you think our family has been scrimping so much on expenses? I knew Jon had asked for your hand, Adara, and that you refused him—and why. Did you think I would let you give up your future simply for lack of funds? Your aunt and I have been building a dowry for both of you for a long time now.”

  “You—you have? But you never mentioned it,” Adara exclaimed.

  “Well, you never brought up Jon on your own, either,” he replied, his eyes twinkling.

  “See, Adara? Now we can both get married!” Chase laughed.

  For a moment, Adara’s eyes lit up at the prospect, but then her expression fell again. “It sounds wonderful, Father, but you need us here to help with the planting and the harvest. Besides, who would take care of you and Aunt Tess if we left?”

  “We can take care of ourselves well enough, thank you,” he reassured her. His demeanor grew solemn. “I have gotten to enjoy more years with you than any parent has a right to expect. I am grateful for that. But it is time for you to pursue your own happiness now.”

  “But what about—”

  “Oh, stop dithering Adara and go tell Jon you accept!” Chase grinned.

  Adara’s mouth opened and then shut again, and as she looked at Mercer, happiness flooded her features as she finally seemed to realize he was sincere.

  Mercer chuckled. “Though be sure to tell the lad I still expect him to come and ask for you properly. He and I have much to discuss. Now be off with you—we have much to do if you want to have a double wedding by spring.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rose relished the sound of crinkling parchment as she carefully turned the page.

  “‘So,’ he said lightly, breaking her out of her thoughts, ‘am I to be let live?’ His fase—faci—”

  “Facetious,” the Beast supplied, peering over Rose’s shoulder.

  “His facetious question made her mouth quirk up in a small smile. ‘I would hardly feed you otherwise.’”

  Rose paused and set down her book to take a sip of wine. She had been reading aloud for the last hour and had only stumbled on a word twice. She beamed at the Beast, proud to have done so well.

  He beamed back. “You have gotten very good.”

  “Only because I had a good teacher,” Rose returned.

  The Beast arched a heavy eyebrow. “Is that so? Merely a good teacher?”

  “Yes, and a humble one, too,” she replied, hiding her smirk behind another sip of wine. The vintage was rich and buttery, and she sighed with satisfaction as she offered the cup to the Beast. He took the goblet deftly from her hands, able to clasp it firmly in one paw thanks to the odd, thumb-like digit he possessed. Instead of sipping the liquid, however, the Beast took a deep draught from the cup, completely draining its contents.

  “Purely medicinally,” he said in response to Rose’s sharp look. “This cold I have is a nuisance.”

  “You seem fit enough to me,” she retorted.

  The Beast gave a grave sigh. “I know. I try not to speak of my suffering.”

  Rose snorted in disbelief. “I doubt you are sick at all, other than having a stuffed nose—or perhaps I should say, a stuffed head. I am afraid it appears quite swollen.”

  “Nonsense! My head is as big as it ever was, but the state of my nose is another matter. How am I supposed to hunt when I cannot smell?”

  Rose quirked a smile. “Surely a hunter as skilled as you are does not need to rely on scent alone to find its prey.”

  The Beast shook his head, his expression serious. “It is a severe disadvantage.”

  “Really?” Rose’s smile broadened as an idea occurred to her, and her eyes gleamed with mischievous glee. “Shall we see just how severe? There is a game we used to play in the village called Seek-and-Find. In it, you—”

  “I know the game,” the Beast interrupted, his tone amused.

  “You do?” For a moment, Rose was distracted by this improbable revelation. How had a beast—however magical—become familiar with a children’s game? Had he read about it in a book?

  “I take it you want to play?” the Beast continued, reclaiming Rose’s attention.

  She nodded. “It would certainly prove what kind of a tracker you really are.”

  The Beast winked at Rose. “Then prepare to be hunted, my lady.”

  * * * * *

  Ari waited for Rose in the entrance hall, scarcely able to subdue his growing excitement. There was something so . . . so stimulating . . . about the thought of pursuing her through the woods. And it had been her idea . . . .

  The pattering of footsteps made him look up—Rose was prancing down the staircase in a heavy winter cloak, boots, and thick fur gloves. Her cheeks were bright and her eyes danced as she led the way out of doors.

  “Now remember, the point is to track me, not follow me, so you must count to 100 at the very least—that way I have time to get beyond range of your senses,” she instructed.

  “Of course,” he agreed, “but in return, you must take these with you.” Ari gestured toward a hunting horn and a sword that were hovering near the front steps.

  “Why?”

  The Beast cocked his head. “In case you encounter something dangerous. I know it is winter and most creatures will be in their burrows, but I want you to make sure you are protected nonetheless. Should trouble find you, the horn will sound and the sword will defend you until I can get there. Otherwise, they will simply follow behind you as you go.”

  Rose nodded. “All right then.” Drawing her hood close around her face, she gave him a broad grin and darted into the trees.

  Ari crouched low to the ground and closed his eyes. The cold air bit at his nose, but it also seemed to accentuate his hearing. There were few creatures abroad, and he could clearly discern the sounds Rose was making as she scampered through the forest. The frozen ground echoed with the vibrations of her feet, and Ari—striving to hear them over the swift susurration of his heart—bit back his impatience and settled down to wait. Only when he could no longer sense Rose at all did he finally begin to count.

  * * * * *

  Rose bounded over fallen branches and ducked under low-hanging limbs, her breath billowing out before her in quick, frosty pants. It was midday, but the sky was dark with heavy clouds, and where the trees were especially dense, it became difficult to see. Rose did not mind—with the hunting horn and sword following in her wake, she had little to fear . . . except for the Beast.

  Laughing inwardly, she ran until her side stitched and her breath came in gasps. Surely, the Beast would have begun his search by now. Espying a cluster of large-leaved ferns, she crouched low within them, trying to quiet her breathing. It was colder now that she had stopped running, and she hoped the Beast would not make her wait too long.

  If worst comes to worst, I can always sound the hunting horn to guide him to me, she decided. Of course, I will never let him forget that he failed to find me on his own—

  “Argh!” she yelped as she was suddenly lifted into the air.

  “Look what I found,” the Beast chuckled. “Are you my dinner? You look pretty tasty.”

  “Beast! Put me down,” Rose giggled.

  “Finders keepers,” he said, but he set her on her feet.

  “That was pretty fast,” she admitted.

  “Of course it was,” he beamed. “Do you want to try it again, or are you satisfied as to my mastery?”

  “Hardly, Beast—we are just getting started!” Rose began to back away. “Count longer this time.”

  “Do you expect that will help?”

  She did not answer, just turned around and ran.

  * * * * *

  Darren trudged through the forest, doggedly dragging his sled of fresh timber behind him. Only half a day’s journey
more, and he would be back in the village. Back at home.

  The thought brought a smile to his wind-chilled lips. In recent years, no other villager had dared to venture more than a few feet into the forest—not even the women who went to gather roots, who clung only to its verge. Sometimes, children would dare each other to see how far they would go inside, but as soon as the sunlight began to dim and the undergrowth to thicken, they would dash back out again. Darren, though, had practically been raised beneath its boughs, spending more time felling trees with his father than he had spent in his family’s house. The forest held no fear for him—not even in the dead of winter.

  Darren cast a quick look at his haul, satisfied by the dark, gleaming timber he glimpsed underneath the canvas. It would have saved him much time and effort to simply cut down a tree near the forest’s edge, but for this—this most precious, special gift—he had wanted the finest wood he could acquire. The grove he had journeyed to had been a full day’s travel into the forest, but even though that meant he had needed to spend the night within its chilly embrace, the result had been well worth his discomfort.

  There was another reason, though, that Darren relished his time in the forest, for it was here that Rose had sacrificed herself in order to satisfy the demands of a dreadful beast. While others avoided the place for fear of meeting a similar fate, he alone wandered its paths—at first frantically, searching for any trace of his love, then bitterly, grieving for her loss, and finally peacefully, letting go of his anger and heartache and embracing instead the sense of her presence whenever he ventured therein.

  As if echoing his thoughts, a light touch, like a ghostly fingertip, alighted on his cheek. Darren’s breath caught in surprise before he realized what it was. Glancing up, he had time to glimpse a falling snowflake before it settled on his lashes.

  With a sigh, Darren quickened his pace. As much as he loved the woods, the last thing he wanted to do was to be caught in a snowstorm out of doors.