Bronwyn and the Beast Prince

by Desiree Acuna

  Or if unseen, evil forces kept her on the mare’s back.

  Whatever the case, they left the tunnel through the woods and she heard the horse’s dainty hooves clattering across the timbers of the bridge and then they trotted through the open gates and right up to the door of the castle.

  Even as the horse, finally, at last, halted at the bottom of the stairs, the doors of the castle swung open and the Demon emerged.

  Bronwyn sucked in a horrified breath to scream when she saw him—a horned, winged creature of nightmares—but it froze in her throat as he descended the steps and reached for her.

  Darkness swarmed her mind, clouding her vision as she stared in horror at the talons he extended to pluck her from the horse. She felt them tighten at her waist and then the vision faded away as she floated downward into a comforting blanket of darkness.

  * * * *

  Bronwyn became aware of the sensation of being carried. She had no idea, at first, what was going on beyond the fact that she was being carried, not even who was carrying her.

  But it didn’t feel like her father.

  The man carrying her was far too large for one thing.

  And far too hard.

  There was nothing soft about this man! Every inch of the chest and arms holding her was bulging with hard muscle.

  It felt …. She discovered she didn’t quite know how she felt about it.

  Thrilled—which was somewhat baffling.

  She’d never had a man carry her except her father—and even that was a fading childhood memory—but then she’d been comforted by his touch, felt affection, felt his affection.

  She hadn’t felt … thrilled, dizzy. Hadn’t felt as if something … momentous was about to happen.

  She didn’t know why she felt that way now, but she couldn’t shake it.

  It took a great effort to pry her eyelids up to look at the man who’d carried her when he leaned down and she felt the softness of a mattress beneath her as he settled her on a bed.

  She was sorry she’d made the effort when she did, however.

  The illusion of being carried off by a rescuing knight vanished.

  The face hovering above hers was so nightmarish—harsh, angular—Beastly—that she sucked in a breath, screamed like a banshee, and fell into blessed darkness once more.

  Raathe stared down at the woman with shock—followed swiftly by a sense of despair and dismay, and then anger—frustration.

  He would never break the spell his father—his parents—had brought down upon him!

  Never!

  They had made him a monster!

  It might have been an old gypsy crone who’d cast the spell, but it was their selfishness, their self-serving actions that had brought hell down upon him.

  If his mother had not spread her legs for that spawn of the gypsies …!

  If his philandering father had paid more attention to his mother and not sent her seeking solace in another man’s arms …!

  Why should he pay, he wondered for perhaps the millionth time?

  He had done nothing!

  It was his father who’d set this in motion—choosing a beautiful but jealous natured woman as his queen, only to ignore her the moment another beautiful woman caught his eye.

  If he’d turned a blind eye to her attempts to amuse herself, this evil still wouldn’t have befallen them, but he’d been so outraged about her behaving as badly as he did, that he’d slain her gypsy lover and lost his own life in the process!

  His death had been swift! He had not suffered.

  His mother, cursed as he was, had suffered for her actions. She had spent the remainder of her days as horrible to look upon as she had once been beautiful.

  He had paid more than either of his parents, and he had done nothing!

  Shaking his head as if he could shake those dark thoughts and confine them to a place where they would not torment him, he glanced around, spied a jug of water on the washstand, and jerked it up, dashing the contents into the girl’s face to wake her from her swoon.

  Bronwyn came around with a jolt when the chilled water hit her face, sputtering, infuriated the moment it clicked in her mind that someone had thrown water in her face!

  Of all the outrageous, inconsiderate things to do to a woman in a faint!

  She opened her eyes, prepared to give the culprit a blistering set-down.

  The beast was hovering over her. “Boo!” he growled.

  Bronwyn’s heart jerked in her chest as if she’d been stabbed and darkness swarmed close again. But there was just enough lingering indignation that he’d thrown water in her face and resentment that he thought she was so poor spirited that all he had to do was say ‘boo’ and she would faint again that she managed to glare at him instead of passing out once more.

  “How dare you throw water in my face … you, you ….”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Monster?” he prompted.

  Dismay flickered through her, but she was still angry enough to ignore the fear. She narrowed her eyes back at him. “I was going to say cad—bastard. But monster certainly suits!”

  Raathe was surprised and disconcerted … briefly. “Because of the way I look?” he growled.

  Uneasiness flickered through Bronwyn again, but she turned her nose up at him haughtily. “My father always says ‘pretty is as pretty does’—and that was an ugly, mean thing to do! Throwing water in my face when I was feeling quite ill! So yes!”

  Raathe was more disconcerted and, briefly, distracted, prompted by his curiosity to examine her more thoroughly than he had before that moment.

  He’d certainly noticed that she was a tiny thing and beautifully formed the moment he’d lifted her from the saddle to carry her inside—soft, but not the soft of a lady who had never spent a day laboring beyond lifting a needle. It was merely feminine softness over a form that was firm with the labors of her life—a merchant class female if he was not mistaken—who knew what an honest day’s labor was even if her father was wealthy enough to afford servants.

  Her face, he saw, was beautiful in the sense of wholesome and healthy youth—not the delicate beauty of careful breeding.

  But there was no doubt her face was as pleasing to him as her form.

  Desire flooded him.

  And he was not surprised because it had been some time since he had been with a woman.

  But he was surprised at the power of it.

  “Why am I here? I want to go home!” Bronwyn said petulantly when she seemed to have taken the wind from his sails.

  “You are here because the mare that brought you is bespelled. She brought you here to break the spell the old gypsy cursed me with,” Raathe retorted somewhat distractedly as he examined her thoroughly with his gaze.

  Bronwyn gaped at him, stunned by the revelation. Then, slowly, indignation replaced her surprise and even, although she hated to admit it even to herself, pity for him that he’d been cursed. “Well! How am I supposed to do that? I have no magic! I can’t remove your spell. You should go to that hateful damned gypsy that owned the demon horse that brought me! Clearly, she has magic!

  “Not that I ever believed in such absurd things! But one can’t simply dismiss all of … this as mere coincidence!”

  Raathe didn’t bother trying to hide his annoyance. “I can’t.”

  Bronwyn blinked at him. “Can’t what?”

  “Take you anywhere. I am trapped within the castle walls—That’s part of the curse. I can never leave.”

  She gaped at him, horrified at the mere thought of being imprisoned—with no possibility of freeing oneself unless one managed to obtain the key. “Is looking like a monster the other part?” she guessed.

  He narrowed his eyes at her, seemed about to blast her with his temper and then to think better of it. “Of course,” he responded sarcastically. “I’m actually a beautiful creature trapped within the skin of this beast.”

  Bronwyn detected the sarcasm. “You are very rude! I’m not sure I believe that pa
rt—though I have to tell you I certainly do empathize with being trapped. Although, actually, I’m not sure I believe that either, but if it is true, then I sympathize because I often feel quite trapped myself. But I can’t help you. You’ll have to let me go and wait for someone with magic.”

  His expression hardened. “I will not! You are here and you will do just fine.”

  Bronwyn blinked at him. “You are hard of hearing? I cannot! I have no magic!”

  “I did not bring you for your magic. I need only make you desire me and the spell will be broken.”

  Bronwyn gaped again, trying to take that in. Anger flushed her—and embarrassment because he seemed to be suggesting that he meant to ravish her.

  Actually, there was just a hint of a thrill, as well, but she firmly and swiftly dismissed that completely unacceptable reaction.

  “You said the horse was bespelled! That you didn’t bring me here and now you are saying you had the horse run away with me so that you could … ravish me?”

  Raathe debated whether to admit his guilt about the horse or not and decided against it since it seemed to be a bone of contention that would not help his case. “I did not say that I would ravish you. You must desire me. That is the only way to break the spell.”

  Bronwyn sat up on the bed and plunked her hands on her hips. “You have stolen me away from my father. You are holding me captive and will not take me home or allow me to leave! You have threatened to ravish me and you believe you can make me desire you? I think not!”

  “I did not threaten to ravish you! I said I must make you desire me.”

  “Well! It is the same thing! You can’t make me desire you!”

  “I can and I will! You must break this spell. The mare chose you for a reason.”

  Anger surged through Bronwyn. “This is the problem with a liar! They can never keep their story straight! Now it is the mare who did this all on her own? And I cannot break the spell because I have no magic and I do not desire you and you can’t make me!

  “Not but what I must say you do not seem nearly as horrible as I first thought now that I’ve gotten a little accustomed to you, but that is subject to change very quickly if you try to ravish me!”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” he said sardonically.

  Bronwyn stared at him. “Flattery …? Oh! Well you would not believe me if I’d said you were handsome, now would you? You do not seem like a half-wit.”

  That comment didn’t seem to be particularly to his liking, although she was damned if she could see why. She’d pointed out that he wasn’t an idiot! And he must know he looked like a beast or he wouldn’t know that there was more to the curse than being imprisoned in the castle!

  Besides, she had a feeling there had been other hapless females before her that had been captured in his efforts to break the spell.

  Dread gripped her at that thought.

  What had become of them?

  Had he slain them when they couldn’t break the spell?

  Perhaps … even eaten them?

  She shook off that thought. He was not truly a beast regardless of what he looked like or he would’ve simply fallen upon her while she was insensible!

  Or since, instead of talking.

  Of course that did not mean he was above disposing of her if she was of no use to him!

  She was going to have to escape, she realized, if she was to save herself. No one would be coming. It would not occur to them that she was being held prisoner in the castle of the demon and even if it did, they would be too afraid to try to rescue her.

  And they would most likely fail even if they tried! He was a demon after all.

  Well, maybe not. Maybe that part of the story had arisen from his appearance—which was certainly very demon like.

  Be that as it may, she could not break his spell! And she wasn’t about to try if what he’d told her was true and that she had to desire him and make love to him to cure him!

  “Look! You may as well allow me to leave. I’m of no use to you. What you need is a woman who is … uh …?

  “Blind?”

  Bronwyn felt her face redden. “I was not going to say that!” she lied. “I was going to suggest … uh … mayhap a more mature woman who would … uh … understand your needs better! I am a maiden and I must preserve my virtue or my father will never manage to marry me off! You must understand that?”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “You are suggesting a whore would not mind tossing her skirts up for me?”

  Bronwyn felt her jaw drop and her face heat with discomfort. “I certainly was not! Although …”

  “A whore will not suit my purposes at all!” he roared. “I must have desire to break the spell! And a whore will only pretend!”

  “Well! I would only pretend,” she snapped angrily! “I do not want you! I want a husband and my father will not find one willing to wed me if I have allowed you to toss my skirts over my head! I do not desire you and you have not said anything to change my mind!”

  Raathe narrowed his eyes at her with a mixture of anger and speculation. “Well, if that is the case I suppose I will ravish you.”

  “Well! That will certainly not endear you to me!” Bronwyn snapped fearfully.

  He shrugged. “I can at least enjoy myself, however,” he snarled and turned and stalked across the room to the door, exiting the room, slamming the door and locking it behind him.

  Chapter Three

  Bronwyn was so relieved—and stunned—actually felt a little deflated—when he left without even trying to ravish her, she had to fight the urge to burst into tears.

  She sat rocking herself for comfort for a few moments, trying to empty her mind of the desire to indulge in self-pity or hysterics. When she’d managed to get her emotions under control, she considered what she’d thought about earlier—that she would have to rescue herself.

  She couldn’t see any flaw in her reasoning … unfortunately.

  She really, really just wanted to curl into a ball and hide under the covers and wait for someone to come for her to save her.

  But she was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen and trying to hide under the covers like a child certainly wasn’t going to save her!

  Getting off the bed, she looked around the room for anything that she could use as a weapon or tool to save herself.

  Unfortunately, the room was very sparsely furnished. Aside from the bed the demon had lain her on, there was only a washstand. She supposed both the heavy looking basin and the pitcher could be launched at the demon’s head, but she was doubtful they would be very effective weapons in defending her virtue.

  They might be heavy enough that, if thrown correctly, could either briefly incapacitate him or kill him, but she thought it was way more likely that it would only infuriate him.

  She didn’t actually want to anger him.

  Moving to the door, she stood with her ear pressed against it for some time, trying to decide whether she could hear movements or not. Finally, she decided he must have gone far enough he wouldn’t be able to hear her if she was very quiet and she tried the door.

  As she’d suspected, it was locked.

  Getting to her knees, she peered through the keyhole to see if he’d left the key.

  He hadn’t.

  Anger flickered through her.

  After several moments furious thinking, she began searching her hair for a pin. It was no surprise to discover her careful coif was entirely undone and her hair hanging every which way. Fortunately, she did manage to find a pin still tangled in her ruined hairdo.

  She picked at the lock enthusiastically for all of ten minutes and then with mounting frustration for a very long time afterwards. Finally, when her knees were pounding from kneeling on the hard floor and her back, shoulders, and arms aching from remaining in such an unnatural position for so long, she gave up.

  Clearly, she was not going to be able to pick the lock and escape that way!

  She sat down by the door, battling tears
once more, struggling to keep her head and think.

  Not that anything came to her! Not that she could see there was anything at all that she could do beyond resign herself to her fate!

  She’d been staring out of the window for quite some time when it occurred to her that it was an opening she might possibly escape through.

  It might be nailed shut.

  It could be enchanted and refuse to open.

  But where was the harm in trying?

  It seemed to be permanently sealed—by man, beast, or magic, but Bronwyn persisted, prying and tugging and pushing until, when she’d just begun to consider taking the water pitcher and busting it out, she felt the window yield in the casement. Heartened by progress, cooled from her heated labors by the gust of fresh air from outside, Bronwyn tugged until she thought she had a wide enough sliver she might be able to squeeze out.

  She stopped to rest, to consider what she might use to help her get to the ground.

  She was scary high and she didn’t think she could convince herself to simply leap and let fate decide whether she lived, died, or spent the remainder of her life twisted and broken.

  Dragging the quilt from the bed, she tied a corner to the washstand and stuffed the rest through the thin opening, then pushed her head and shoulders through to look down.

  The ground still seemed a very long way from the end of the quilt.

  Frowning, she considered the situation.

  The bed linens, she decided, offered a more practical solution.

  Dragging the sheet off, she shredded it using her teeth to start the tear and then her hands to finish, then she quickly tied the pieces together, twisting three strips together for each segment. When she finally had her rope made, she tied one end to the bed—which was closer and also seemed more substantial, and then tossed the free end out.

  That time, it seemed to her that the ‘rope’ went all the way to the ground.

  It seemed to.

  Although it was growing dark outside and the end of the rope was now in deep shadow.