by Zoe Blake
Gonsalvus met Rhys’ disapproving look with an unblinking stare of his own.
“Ahem…as I was saying, with all due respect, I think your father’s spies got a few things wrong,” he continued.
Rhys was not surprised. It was the very reason why he was here in disguise. He knew better than to rely on his father’s courtiers for such an important decision as who would be his wife and future queen. For one thing, it was almost certain they would be biased against a merchant’s daughter, even a vastly wealthy one. “Such as,” he asked Gonsalvus.
“Well, to be sure, her moniker among some of the villagers, is Beatrice the Beastly but I have found that is only among those who are fairly recent to the area. There are a great number of villagers who recall her demeanor before her mother’s death as being sweet and obliging. They remember her as an intelligent girl who was genuinely concerned for the welfare of the people on her father’s estate.”
“Is that so?”
“As it so happens, there is proof of her continued patronage throughout the glen. A new library for the school, repaired roofs on many of the homesteads, and one tale of her giving up the coin to replace a farmer’s entire flock when it was lost to a fever last summer. It is generally assumed these are done without her father’s knowledge or approval.”
“So why the Beastly moniker?” wondered Rhys aloud.
“Well…according to the kindly man who oversees the library, she is…ahem…considered a beautiful but funny girl…a bit of a peculiar one. She never quite fit into their small provincial life. Always with her nose in a book when she was younger. Only to grow up and essentially take over her father’s business. As it so happens, the men at the perfumery resent her masculine ways. They think she should be more concerned about finding a husband and having children.”
“So for that she is called Beastly?”
“Ahem…well…the moniker is not totally undeserved,” hemmed Gonsalvus.
“Go on,” urged Rhys.
“It seems your father’s spies did get something correct. Your intended…ahem…is known for having a…small…tiny…almost insignificant…”
“Out with it, Gonsalvus,” barked Rhys.
“Temper!” he burst out with a slightly petulant look at his own employer’s display of the same emotion.
Rhys brushed his knuckles over the scratches on his cheek. He was well aware of her temper. It was one of the things that drew him to her. A beautiful woman with spirit.
“If that will be all, your highness, I will return to my duties,” offered Gonsalvus with mock formal civility.
“By that I can only assume you mean the baker’s pretty daughter?” teased Rhys.
Gonsalvus gave an unapologetic shrug. “Ah, when duty calls, who am I to question the hows and whys? Plus she is very free with her tongue.”
“So she is your main source of information on Beatrice?”
“Ahem…sure, that too. Good evening, your highness,” said Gonsalvus with a bow before leaving the stable. The sound of Rhys’ laughter ringing about him.
Rhys strolled up the dark lane leading back to the estate. Even a swim in the chilly waters of the river which bordered the property could not quell his heated blood. The prince in him knew it would have been wrong to take his intended earlier that evening. She was his future queen. She deserved better than a fast rutting in a field. The man in him disagreed. The moment he saw the defiant fire in those large amber eyes. The arrogant twist to those full lips. The insolent way she gripped that riding crop as if she was just bold enough to try to use it on him. Something roared to life inside of him that just kept shouting…mine…take…claim. It was all he could do not to release his cock and bury it deep within her making sure she fully understood who her master was now. Keeping a tight rein on his urges, it had to be enough to discipline her for her risky actions. She would have to learn quickly he would not tolerate such dangerous behavior from this point forward. Granted that lesson would be far easier for her to accept from the prince her future husband as opposed to her servant stable master but he still had no intention of revealing his true identity just yet.
Gazing up at the large manor house, his eyes were drawn to the only light shining through a pair of large glass doors. The slim silhouette of a figure was visible against the candlelight. The gently sloping shoulders. The narrow, tucked in waist. The generous swell of hip. He would know that form from anywhere. His step faltered as she walked out onto the balcony. Dressed in a pale blue dressing gown so silky sheer it might as well have been gossamer. Her beautiful locks, brushed to a bright gold, fell in waves down her back. Staring out over the dark valley, she looked like a lioness surveying her domain. Proud. Beautiful.
Her head dipped as she shifted her gaze to the gardens directly below her balcony…where Rhys now stood. He found himself holding his breath. Could she sense his presence? Did she know her mate was near? The transfixing moment was broken by the sound of footfalls and low chatter coming from the workmen’s quarter. Rhys watched as Beatrice’s eyes flew to the sound before turning to flee to the safety of her rooms, leaving the glass doors open. The curtains billowing in the gentle night breeze.
The workmen continued to approach. No one noticed Rhys in the shadows.
“Quit your staring, Gaston. She’s gone in. Let’s get to the pub,” groused one workman.
“Like you’d ever have a prayer with the likes of her,” piped up another one.
“I heard her pa’s all but married her off to some fancy prince,” chimed in a third.
“Shut your traps,” ordered Gaston. “I don’t care what her pa’s plans are for the uppity chit. I plan to have my taste.”
“Well you better hurry it up. I heard that fancy prince will be here within a fortnight,” taunted the first workman.
“Oh, I’ll get into her honey trap soon. Won’t that be sweet? Some limp dick prince will be dipping his cock in my seconds,” said Gaston with a disturbing laugh.
There was a low growl from deep within the garden. All the men turned, uneasily staring into the darkness.
“Let’s get out of here. I got a beer and a barmaid waiting on me,” boasted Gaston.
Rhys watched them leave with clenched fists. He would take care of them later, especially the one called, Gaston. No one presumed to take what was his. The prince in him be damned. He was a man first. A man about to claim what was his.
Rhys dropped his boots, linen shirt and leather jerkin on the ground. Dressed only in breeches, he tested the weight of a trellis of rose vines leading up to her window. Ignoring the pricks and stings of the thorns, he determinedly made his way up the manor wall. Hand over hand, with only one goal in sight. Reaching the thick stone balustrade of the balcony, he swung one leg over, before silently landing on both feet.
The curtain still floated through the open doorway. Rhys gritted his teeth. The damn little fool. Knowing how effortless it was for him to reach her open window just emphasized how that buffoon Gaston could have handily gotten to her as well. A great many things were about to change for his fierce feline he thought.
Pushing the curtain aside, Rhys stalked into her bedroom.
Chapter Six
Beatrice sensed his presence behind her before she saw him. There was no sound. No warning. Just the subtle scent of cedarwood and a sudden charge to the air.
Sitting at her vanity, careful to keep her eyes downcast and away from the mirror so as not to alert him to her awareness, she slowly moved her hand to grasp her crystal perfume diffuser. The sharp cut edges pressed against her palm as she lifted its heavy weight. Raising her eyes to the mirror, amber clashed with anger-darkened emerald.
Rhys stood framed in the balcony doorway. Beatrice had seen many shirtless men working in the fields over her lifetime, but nothing compared to the powerful sight of her stable master. Broad shoulders topped a defined, bronzed chest lightly dusted with dark hair. Black breeches were slung low and partially unlaced over his narrow hips and flat stomach. He w
as all taut muscle as you would expect from a man who made his way in the world through hard labor. His thick black hair was wet. Unfashionably long, it was slightly curling at the ends, framing the savage look etched across his face, from the hardened jaw to his narrowed eyes.
Beatrice looked down at his clenched fists. Having only been touched by his leather gloves, Beatrice wondered if his hands would feel rough against her soft skin. She gave herself a mental shake. She would never know because he was leaving her bedroom this instant precisely the way he came.
Spinning on her small upholstered stool, Beatrice flung the heavy object at his head before dashing for the door. She heard the high pitched sound of shattering crystal just as her fingertips grazed the cold, brass handle of her bedchamber door.
A heavy weight settled around her middle, Beatrice looked down to see one tanned, sinewed arm. Yanked off her feet, her back made contact with a warm wall of unrelenting muscle.
Rhys leaned down and whispered harshly into her ear, “I need another taste.”
Beatrice sucked in a full breath preparing to scream.
Rhys wrapped his lips around the soft skin of her earlobe before gently biting down on the sensitive flesh with his teeth, as a warning. “You already know what my hand on your bottom feels like, scream and your sweet unprotected cunny will get the same treatment.”
Beatrice’s breath hitched as she swallowed her cry for help. She hated the flutter in her stomach his harsh words caused. It was against her nature her heart railed. She shouldn’t feel anything but anger at his attempts to control and master her.
“Good girl,” mouthed Rhys as he ran his tongue down the slim column of her throat, tasting as much as inhaling the rich scent of rose on her skin.
“What do you want?” asked Beatrice through clenched teeth even though she could feel the answer burn through the thin fabric of her dressing gown at her lower back.
Tightening his hold on her waist, he murmured, “I want the same thing you do.”
“Your head on a spike? Watching you be drawn and quartered? Chased out of the village at the end of a pitchfork?” railed Beatrice with false sweetness.
Rhys moved his large hand up her body till he cupped her unbound breast. Lifting the breast up as if to test its weight, he could feel the ridge of her erect nipple press against the center of his palm. Pressing his fingertips deeper into her flesh, he lightly squeezed. More than enough to fill a man’s hand, he thought bemused.
Beatrice fisted the folds of her dressing gown as she swayed slightly on her feet. Had he been watching her from the balcony during her bath? Had he been observing her far before she sensed his nearness? How else would he have known she longed to know the feel of his hand on her breast, that she had touched her own body while envisioning it was his strong, work-roughened hands?
“We both know that is not what you really want,” he knowingly chuckled.
Breaking free, Beatrice ran across the room. The cold, dark green marble floor chilling her feet through her silk slippers.
Frozen grass. Chilled feet. Just like in her dream. The curse.
As he slowly prowled after her, Rhys tossed a small wooden spindle chair out of his path. The delicately carved chair crashing against the wall, falling to pieces. Dipping his head low, his intent gaze focused on her, his prey.
The sound of splintering wood. Startling bright green eyes framed with thick obsidian hair. Just like in her dream. The beast.
Beatrice scrambled for something to throw at him. Reaching behind her, she tossed the contents of her vanity. Throwing a hairbrush, her pot of nail powder, another perfume bottle. All deflected. He kept coming.
Grabbing her raised arm, Rhys spun her around to once against plaster her back against his front. He dragged her over to the ornate floor length mirror which stood near her wardrobe cabinet.
Wrapping his arm around Beatrice’s small waist, Rhys grabbed a fistful of her hair and forced her to gaze at their reflection. “Deny it,” he growled. “Deny the truth in your own reflection.”
“Get your hands off me you…you brute…you…you stable master!”
Ignoring her outburst, Rhys’ voice cracked like a whip. “Your eyes are bright with desire. When you are excited, they glitter as if gilded. Your cheeks are tinged with rose. Your lips open. Your breath fast and uneven. Shall I go on, my fierce feline?” he seductively taunted.
Beatrice raised her hands, nails out as she tried to twist in his grasp.
Rhys effortlessly subdued her. “Put away your claws. Once was enough for me,” he laughed.
Twisting the elegant lace neckline of her dressing gown with his long fingers, Rhys ruthlessly pulled, rending the fabric in two down to her stomach. Beatrice cried out and tried to shield her body from both the glaring reflection and his piercing gaze.
Rhys knocked her hands away as he grasped her bared breasts from behind. The stark contrast of his strong, tanned hands lying next to her soft, creamy pale skin was both horrid and fascinating. His barbarous embrace sent a shock of pain through her body as he pressed and gripped the flesh he was claiming as his own.
“Tear the rest of your gown open,” he commanded. “I want to see the pretty cunny I was denied earlier.”
Beatrice had no words. She could only stare still mesmerized by the brutally beautiful sight.
Rhys eased his grip on her rounded curves only to roll her pert pink nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. With no warning, he pinched the delicate buds till they turned almost white.
Beatrice rolled her head back on his chest, her petite form too small to reach his shoulder, as she rose on her tip-toes, clawing at his wrists, trying to escape the sharp, agonizing pain.
“Stop! Stop! It hurts!”
“Obey me.”
Still Beatrice resisted. Rhys lightened the pressure on her nipples ever so slightly. The moment he felt rather than heard her exclaimed breath of relief, he gave them a vicious twist. Feeling her howl of response as it vibrated through her chest.
“Obey me,” he relentlessly repeated.
Beatrice fumbled to grasp the torn folds of her dressing gown. When she reached the end, she gave the fabric a sharp pull. Nothing.
“It…it won’t tear,” she whined, breathless from the pain in her nipples.
“Try harder,” he ground out.
Beatrice clawed at the silk that still covered her stomach. Digging her long, crimson nails into its softness, she tore it straight past the hem. Unlike most women of her stature who were soft and rounded from days of leisurely doing needlepoint or reading, Beatrice was toned and slim. Her days were filled with running the perfumery, riding and other active pursuits.
Rhys took in her trim waist, flat stomach and shapely thighs. Her beautiful cunny was sparsely covered by honey brown curls. They did nothing to hide the delicate lips from his heated gaze.
Rhys released her tortured nipples. Gliding his hands over her shoulders to sweep her thick mass of hair aside, he slid the edge of his teeth up the column of her neck, past the sensitive skin behind her earlobe. Giving the cute lobe a quick swipe with his tongue, he breathed dark and low, “Touch yourself.”
“I…I don’t know what you mean,” breathed Beatrice.
Rhys captured her gaze in the mirror. “Reach your hand down and caress your cunny for me.”
It would not be the first time Beatrice had explored the forbidden place between her thighs with her own fingers but she would be damned if she would do it in front of this man…at his command.
“Absolutely not,” she fumed, stubbornly raising her chin.
Without a word, Rhys placed his bare foot between her own, kicking her right foot out. It was only his timely grip around her waist that held her upright. With her legs spread wide at an unseemly angle, Rhys raised his hand high. With a quick flick of his wrist, he brought the flat of his fingers down sharply on her exposed cunny. Beatrice cried out, desperately trying to shield herself. Rhys easily captured her flailing arms in a strong g
rip. Pressing her secured wrists between her breasts, his arm still tightly wrapped around her side, Rhys trapped her against his hard body.
Rhys raised his hand a second time.
“Oh no! Please don’t! Please!” she begged.
His cold green eyes met her own over her reflection as he slowly raised his arm higher. Beatrice watched in horror as his hand swiftly hit its mark a second time.
It was a sharp sting of pain then a spreading warmth. As if she had gotten in a too hot bath. The water flowing over her vulnerable skin causing a burning pang before the skin warmed, adjusting to the heat.
Her cries only seemed to spur him on. Rhys continued to punish the tender skin till it glowed a dark pink through her golden curls.
This was nothing like his first spanking. She could feel the brush of his skin against her own with each punishing hit. The pain was sharper as it radiated over her already sensitive nub.
“Are you ready to be a good girl and obey me?”
Beatrice could only nod as her eyes filled with tears. They both knew they were not only from pain.
“Use your words, Beatrice,” he admonished.
Beatrice sniffed, the space between her thighs hot and pulsing. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’ll be good.”
“Touch yourself,” he darkly commanded.
Beatrice lowered a trembling hand over her stomach. With one last pleading look into his cold, emerald eyes, she shifted her long fingers lower.
Heat from the fervor of his punishment radiated in pulsing waves off her skin. The sensation startled Beatrice. She was used to her skin feeling soft and cool to the touch not feverish and sensitive. She closed her eyes as the sharp edge of her fingernail scraped the top of her hidden bud, sending a sharp pulse of pleasure tinged with pain.
“Keep your eyes open,” he ordered.
