Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1) Page 12

  But no rest was to be found. And certainly no peace or contentment.

  Adam exhaled a long-suffering sigh and climbed to his feet. He tossed on his cloak, which rested beside him on the long bench. Then he blew out the lantern, well accustomed to the darkness, and deftly searched for any trace of that damnable beauty.

  Women were too curious by far. And Adam had a strong feeling his hands would be full with this one.

  The light scuffle of her boots echoed through the halls and cathedral ceilings, leading him straight to her location. Secretly observing her, he stayed close to the walls and stuck to the shadows.

  She hugged her arms about her slender body, visibly shivering, as she paced through the castle’s vast rooms and countless halls. Indeed, this fortress was a wilderness of stone—one she’d easily become lost in.

  Labyrinth-like corridors. Slim flights of stairs twisting into blackness. More rooms than one could keep track of. The castle was a wild beast that would swallow her whole at the slightest provocation. Pulsating shadows slid along the walls and ceiling as her lantern swayed in midair. First, she ventured mindlessly into the kitchens. An erratic turn to the left took her into the scullery, then the servants’ quarter, which was, of course, empty.

  Appearing on the verge of exhaustion, she wandered back into the halls and found herself in one of the dusty parlors. Gothic, demon-like figures were carved into the black stone walls. She raised her lantern and spun in place, her disorientation and fear visibly growing. Rusted suits of armor lined the corridor; they lurked within the clotted shadows like silent sentries. A look of desperation knotted her brow, and a palpable despair eclipsed her eyes.

  Where is she going so urgently? She still appeared weak from the illness and fever, even a bit delirious; every few steps, she’d stop to catch her breath. Finally she made her way past the central drawing room and inside the main hall.

  Adam’s heart ground to a dead stop as she eased open the heavy door and wandered into the dark night.

  Is she daring to run away? Anger and hurt blazed through him; she was clearly using this opportunity to sneak out of the castle, to escape the monster who held her prisoner. But in the piercing cold, that foolish chit? His heart thudding, he descended the entry stairs and paused beneath the Gothic archway, following Isabelle’s figure and the eerie sway of her lantern with his gaze. Streams of moonlight trickled through the surrounding trees; the illumination shimmered in her curls and set the fabric of her dress aglow.

  Her beauty hit him straight in the gut. Stunning. A beacon of light. He was mesmerized. Barely able to draw breath. She resembled a flesh-and-blood angel, her pale complexion alive with the moonlight, her chocolate curls falling enticingly just past the curve of her pert bottom.

  No wonder she thinks you’re a monster, imagining such lustful thoughts.

  A bang resounded, muffled by the snow-covered ground as she set down the lantern. She turned her face to the sky, and the illumination washed over her grief-stricken features. Something remarkable stirred inside his chest. He leaned against the archway, lost in the sight of her, lost in her unearthly beauty.

  What I wouldn’t give to be worthy of you...

  She looked brokenhearted, overcome with despair, disjointed. Adam fought the urge to sweep her into his arms. He’d run his fingers through her curls, gently rock her back and forth, whisper that she had no reason to be frightened—and that he’d never let harm come to her again.

  But alas, she perceives me as a monster. A murderer.

  The snowfall had lightened a bit, though the chill in the air was unshakable. Adam silently followed after her. Isabelle tightened her grasp on her night robe and wandered through the untamed maze of trees and bushes. Branches cradled wedges of ice in their skeletal arms and shuddered in the cold. Her breaths misted the air while her gaze ran across the castle’s overgrown courtyard, desperately searching for something. Nearby, the front gate rattled and moaned, manipulated by a powerful gust of wind.

  It hit him—and the revelation knocked the remaining breath from his lungs. He knew what she was searching for.

  She came to a stop, her eyes fixed on the snowy ground with an unwavering intensity.

  Her father’s grave, which sat beneath the branches of a black ash tree.

  Blood drained from her cheeks. She clasped her chest, the heartache visible in her eyes. The wind tossed her dark curls about her pale cheeks and unblinking gaze; she stood in front of her father’s resting place, silent and still, resembling a porcelain doll. Then she slowly edged forward and knelt before the pile of stones.

  Isabelle...

  She heard her father’s voice in the wind, felt his presence in the air. She gazed at the courtyard’s snow-covered ground, studying the raised dirt and pile of stones that marked his resting spot.

  Papa, you should not be here...

  She reached out and grazed the cairn, caressing his memory. Her heart pounded, and the frigid wind numbed her all over.

  My little Isabelle... ma petite...

  “Papa... I’m so sorry...” Her words choked off. She clasped her chest, relieving the unseen ache. She felt lightheaded. Defeated. Lost. The initial despair had left her heartbroken, and the grief had exhausted her to the point of sickness. Now, that raw, shattered feeling gave way to anger and resentment.

  “Sometimes, it hurts just to breathe. I don’t know how I can go on without you. And he stole you from me. He—” Her words shattered into a choked sob.

  Non. I’m mainly to blame.

  She pressed her fist against her mouth while deep shudders wracked her body.

  “Isabelle...”

  That time, it was not her father’s voice. Instead, a deep baritone shook the night, and she felt body heat radiating beside her. Adam knelt on the snowy ground, a riot of emotions etched into his irregular features.

  “He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to die in such a cold, dark place.” Isabelle lifted her face into the biting wind as snow struck her cheeks. “Before he’d fallen ill, Papa had been an adventurer, a free spirit. He does not belong here, imprisoned by these desolate walls.” She felt the sting of tears, but she harnessed them back.

  Adam gazed down at her, his long, dark lashes sweeping over his eyes, the material of his cloak fluttering like wings. “You are right.” He exhaled a sigh, which misted against the air and unfurled in white coils. “He didn’t deserve such a fate. Yet from what little I saw... I know he lived a life of love and warmth. And that’s the most any of us can hope for.” Cynicism imbued his words but also a sincere empathy and compassion.

  “What do you know of how he lived? How can you say he ‘led a life of love and warmth’?”

  “He had you.”

  Isabelle icily nodded, then glanced at the front gate and swaying trees, whose long branches were naked of foliage and shivering in the night. She inhaled a steadying breath, allowing the winter air to fill her lungs. She stole another glance of Adam and ran her gaze over his formidable length—but all she could see was the terror in her father’s glassy eyes, the terrible image of him clinging on to those iron bars...

  “You shouldn’t be out here, alone and in the cold.”

  No, I should not, she silently agreed, her resentment building as she glanced at the cairn. We should not be here at all.

  Adam unclasped his cloak and swept it off his shoulders. Closing the distance between them, he draped the material over her body, then smoothed it down with gentle hands.

  Heat from his slender, scarred fingers penetrated the fabric and helped ease the chill. His shirtsleeves fluttered against the hard planes of his chest, whipping with the audacity of a high-flying flag. She swallowed deeply and cast a final glance at the pile of stones. How lonely they looked. So very lonely and disconnected from the world.

  Adam climbed to his feet and stood before her. He held out his hand, the wind whipping jet-black strands over his eyes and ruffling the crème-colored shirt. Isabelle had thought his eyes were da
rk before; now they resembled the color of nightmares.

  “You are still quite weak,” he said, almost by way of explanation for his outheld hand. The memory of his enchanting music came rushing back; for a moment, the courtyard didn’t seem so silent and still. She nodded and stared down at his mangled skin. The flesh was a light red, puckered, raised, bearing the same texture as the left side of his face. “Come back inside, ma belle. Have something warm to eat. I’ll prepare you a plate of food, a hot cup of tea. Let this be your home.”

  Isabelle numbed herself to Adam, to the pile of stones that lay at her side... to everything. Detachment was her only chance for survival.

  She took hold of his outstretched hand and followed him inside the castle.

  My new home.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, Isabelle surprised herself and awoke with a new energy. Morning’s light pried through the high, curved windows and set Adam’s exquisite bedchamber aglow.

  The room was beautiful, rich, robust. Dark panels and burgundy drapes covered the long walls, making the chamber seem unexpectedly cozy despite its size. Leather armchairs sat beside a black hearth, and a mahogany writing desk and mirrorless vanity lined the walls. A pile of parchment, books, musical compositions, and ink in glass-cut bottles cluttered the desk’s surface.

  Isabelle couldn’t stifle her smile; the desk contained enough pigeonholes to appease even the most enthusiastic of scholars. On the opposite side of the chamber, arched windows reached up to the high ceiling, their panes touching a luxurious, velvet gold-and-burgundy seat.

  A loud whine captured her attention. Isabelle glanced over the side of her canopied bed, where a large pair of soulful, almond-shaped eyes stared at her. Startled, she sat up and clutched a hand to her breast. Stranger—was that the beast’s name?—barked, as if in greeting, then plopped his huge head onto the mattress. His tail whipped back and forth, smacking the end table, nearly causing a pitcher and plate of food to fly off the surface. Isabelle had never owned a pet—she and Papa had traveled far too much for that—and she couldn’t help but feel threatened.

  “You seem to have forgotten,” she warily murmured, arching a fine brow, “that you growled at me and flashed your teeth when we first met.” Isabelle shrunk farther against the headboard as a wet tongue swept across her knuckles. Laughter burst from her lips in spite of the circumstances. “Oh, now you want to make nice, do you?”

  The creature responded with an insistent toss of his muzzle, urging her attention. “Guess we’re no longer strangers, then, Stranger.” His lithe body came alive at the sound of his name; his bottom wagged from side to side, smacking against the edge of her mattress. More laughter erupted from her lips; the sensation felt foreign. Thrilling. She recited his name several more times, delighting in the shimmy of his backside, then scratched the scruff below his chin. His pale, speckled tongue rolled out, spilling across the mattress like a royal carpet. He tilted his head on its side while his good hind leg thumped up and down.

  The wooden planks boomed beneath the assault and seemed to make the entire bedchamber vibrate. Isabelle’s eyes darted back to the end table, where the ceramic plate overflowed with fresh fruits and nuts. She shot Stranger a suspicious glance, then snatched a handful of nuts and popped two in her mouth. “Ah-ha. You like me just for the food, don’t you? You simply—”

  Something caught her eye and stilled her words. Papa’s top hat—sitting on an ottoman beside the mirrorless vanity.

  Adam must have placed it there overnight.

  Isabelle stumbled from the bed as her gut grew heavy. Grasping the rim of Papa’s hat, she ran her fingers over the smooth, faded fabric with reverence. She edged onto the mattress again while her heart constricted into a tight ball. A thousand memories came rushing back, and tears stung her eyes. She lifted the brim to her nose, inhaling the scents that would forever permeate the well-loved material. Behind her shut eyes, she saw the colorful booths at the Merchants’ Fair, heard the mingled chatter of princes and paupers as they admired his wares and negotiated offers—

  Isabelle felt his very presence; lowering the top hat, she opened her eyes and mentally returned to the bedchamber.

  Adam’s broad form graced the doorway. Strong, wide shoulders tapered off to his slender waist, which flowed into legs that appeared to go on forever. Flakes of sleet and snow clashed against his wavy, thick hair, and a handsome pair of kidskin gloves covered his large hands. She drank him in for several moments of silence, in awe of his formidable presence. A ruddy, endearing flush darkened his good cheek. He’d obviously ventured outside to labor. He wasn’t wearing the cloak, leaving his disfigurement and strong stature in full view, though he kept his face turned at a precise angle, so the good-looking side remained in her sight.

  The contrast of his handsome features and disfigured half struck her hard. Tousled by fingers of light, streaks of blue-black flashed within his silky hair and tugged at her imagination. She took an unexpected pleasure in every detail, every line, every imperfection...

  Commanding. Regal. Proud yet unsure.

  Stranger clambered to his feet with an old man’s groan. Bellowing a low whine, he unceremoniously dragged his back left foot across the floorboards as he crossed the bedchamber. Arthritis had clearly weakened the hind leg; Isabelle’s heart reached out to the poor creature. Adam knelt and ran long, graceful fingers over Stranger’s coat. Studying those hands, she recalled how he’d seduced melodies from the pianoforte as if by magic... as if pulling sensual moans and cries from a lover’s trembling depths. She eyed his caress while a strange, heavy sensation pooled in her stomach. Her fascination mixed with an underlying fear and uncertainty. Shifting against the headboard, her eyes ran over the broad curve of Adam’s back; suddenly she felt like she was encaged with a poorly restrained beast.

  Adam’s gaze flickered over her, hotter than coals. “My apologies for... this,” he said, motioning to his bare face. “The cloak becomes tiresome.”

  “You... you have every right to be comfortable in your own home.”

  Isabelle battled the resentment and anxiety in her belly, inhaled a calming breath, and forced a smile to her lips. The simple motion pained her. But it was time to pull herself up and move forward. I must do it for Papa, if not for myself. That thought consoled her and acted as a guiding light.

  “We were just getting acquainted,” she went on, gesturing to Stranger. “I’ve never seen anything quite like him before.” The creature padded over to her with an amiable bark. At first, the sound startled her—but then he licked the back of her knuckles, and her fear evaporated.

  “I’m not surprised. Wolfhounds are rare in Demrov.”

  “Is it arthritis?” she asked, gesturing to the dog’s crumpled hind leg.

  “Only in part. I found him in a bear trap several years ago. His leg hasn’t been the same since, and old age certainly has not made it easier.”

  “It never does.”

  Adam’s lips quirked. An amused glint heated his blue eyes. Isabelle felt herself relax; the sight of his smile softened his rugged appearance and helped subdue her apprehension.

  “He’s quite gentle,” she said, her tone cautious. “The first time I saw him… Well, I thought he’d tear my throat out.”

  “He’s protective of his master. A loyal beast. And a good friend.” The words weren’t spoken, but Isabelle heard them all the same. My only friend.

  He pulled his hand away from Stranger and marched toward her, reaching her position in a few swift strides. All of Isabelle’s senses went on high alert. Suddenly trembling, needing to be away from the bed, she leapt to her feet as Adam towered above her. She swayed from the sudden movement. Indeed, she still felt woozy and sick with despair—and this man’s formidable presence didn’t help. He laid a hand on her shoulder to help stabilize her body. His fingers lingered for several seconds before he thrust his hand away. Then he curled his fingers into a tight ball, and she watched as he flexed them once, twice, three
times...

  Shifting backward, he glanced at Stranger again and rewarded his companion with a solid pat. “Come, Isabelle. I’ll show you around the castle.”

  Adam’s heart somersaulted as he and Isabelle slipped down the twisting stairwell. He’d opened many of the draperies, flooding the castle with a rare light. Stranger plopped onto his stomach and promptly fell asleep in a golden patch. Typically Adam only opened one or two windows, so he was unused to such brightness.

  Sunrays streamed through the arched windows and baroque stained glass, tangling in Isabelle’s chocolate tresses and illuminating her complexion. Tearing his eyes away, he squinted against those dancing prisms and glanced out-of-doors. Beyond the large panes, snow descended from a bruised sky and encased Hartville in an icy shell. Every so often, a blast of wind shook the castle and infused the walls with a frigid draft.

  The worst of the storm has yet to come.

  Adam chanced a look at Isabelle and felt his soul clench at the hostility and fear in her eyes. She was attempting to be cordial, though he knew it was nothing more than a pretty act.

  “This way.” He signaled as they arrived at the stairwell’s landing. Fractured rays of light seeped through the baroque stained glass window; the design’s vibrant mosaic pattern drew colorful prisms along the flagstones. He’d cleaned up what he could manage, though the castle was still quite dirty. A nagging guilt churned in his gut; Isabelle didn’t deserve to live in such ruin.

  Minutes later, Adam entered a darkened room and pulled the heavy drapes aside, permitting the light to enter. He turned to Isabelle and watched as her hostile expression transformed into one of awe and naked appreciation.

  Indeed. His music room was one of the most beautiful spaces in the castle. An ornate grand pianoforte functioned as the centerpiece. A golden harp and stringed instruments sat in the corner. Beside them lurked a gilded easel; it resided in front of the large curved window and overlooked the castle’s lush gardens—Adam’s other pride and joy. The canvas was blank, unloved, neglected, and slightly curled at the corners. The domed, vaulted ceiling loomed proudly overhead, allowing the music to amplify itself and swell the walls. A chandelier hung in the heart of the room; its evocative silhouette cast over the medallion flooring.