The Beast of Belladora Read online

  “Wait.” She despised the begging in her tone, but she felt fear pounding in her ears. “Please, I will not run away. All I ask is that you keep me prisoner somewhere else and allow me to tend to my horse.”

  The man stood quietly for a moment then turned back toward her. “How can I trust you won’t run away?”

  “I suppose you can’t, but I’ll give you my word as a gypsy. Please,” she whispered, holding his eyes.

  “The word of a gypsy means nothing to an Englishman,” he replied, looking away.

  “But it means everything to a gypsy. And it’s all I have,” she pressed, hating to be so indebted, but fearing the spirits of the dark more.

  She could see the hesitation on his face and truthfully, she couldn’t blame him. So she stood there and waited for his verdict.

  “Very well,” he agreed finally, withdrawing a key and opening her prison; he stepped inside to unlock her shackles.

  She kept her head down as he approached her. Shame burned inside her to have to beg; she didn’t think she could summon it within her to brave his superior look. Though she held her hands as far as she could from her body, when he approached, she could still smell him. It was as if he had bathed in the scent of sandalwood, though there was something else in it… pure manly musk. She tried to breathe through her mouth, feeling heady. However, it wasn’t until he touched her that she thought she’d fall apart. His one hand held her arm above the shackle, just grazing the thin line of exposed skin. His callouses abrading her smooth arm.

  When he switched to her other shackle, she made the mistake of looking into his face. He was closer than she thought. They were separated by only a few inches. His lips were slightly parted like he too was breathing through his mouth. She had the full force of his eyes and she felt the world spin around her as she could finally decipher their color—gold. She had never seen such enchanting eyes before.

  Abruptly breaking her thoughts, he jerked the last shackle from her wrist, stepping away. “Do not make me regret this,” he growled, moving into the dark abyss.

  Breathing finally, she chased after him. She felt unbelievably warm, despite the dampness of the dungeon. Frowning at her captor’s back, she blamed him. Still, she was happy to be leaving this eery prison.

  The staircase was almost pitch black and it made her throat close in panic, but she followed the sounds of his steps and shortly after, they emerged into a sunlit hallway. While smelling of dust, the hall was devoid of fire marks so she assumed they were somewhere on the east side of the manor. She didn’t dare ask and her silent captor led her without comment.

  They entered the foyer—she was right about being on the east side—and began climbing the stairs. At the top, the man paused and then turned right, a slight hesitation in his first step. He led her to the farthest end of the east hallway and opened the last door.

  “This is where you’ll be confined until the authorities can come collect you.” His scarred arm gestured for her to go inside.

  Belle paused, remaining in the hallway. “And what of my horse?”

  “I’ll have my stable boy see to your horse.”

  “Your stable boy? You don’t even have any horses!” The gypsy shook her head. “That was not our deal. I said I would be your willing prisoner if I could see to my horse. I—Me!” She jabbed a long, delicate finger at her bosom.

  His golden—yes, the light of day confirmed it—eyes flickered briefly to where her finger was pointing, making her skin flush with color. She dropped her hand, standing straighter, trying to ignore the excitement this man could flare within her with a passing glance.

  “I will see to your horse for now. If you behave yourself today, perhaps tomorrow I will allow you to go and see it.” He arched an eyebrow and gestured with his head toward the door.

  “Not ‘it.’ Her,” she replied scathingly and marched into her chamber, slamming the door in his face.

  ***

  Belle pushed away from the window just in time. She doubted he had seen her watching. Her feet paced to the door and then back to the window, back and forth. She had a perfect view of the stables from her window. Evidently, he had re-shoed Peony for he had led her out of the stables shortly after entering. It bothered her to see him with Peony. Clearly, the man was an expert horseman and even Peony obeyed his touch.

  That irked her the most.

  Well, that and knowing that her belongings were still inside the stable. And if he found them, he would have the proof he was looking for that she was in fact a thieving gypsy. Finding her stolen goods would destroy any chance of her pleading innocent.

  She sighed and continued pacing. She had no choice now; escape was her only option. If he turned her in with the stolen jewels, well… the English had a particular dislike for gypsies. What she needed was a plan.

  Belle returned to the window and looked out, chewing her lip thoughtfully. Things were slightly more complicated since she was a prisoner on the second level with nothing helpful outside her window to climb down. She turned back to her sparse room.

  The condition of this room was by far the best of the house that she had seen. Though dusty and stale smelling, nothing in this room was burnt or torn. Much of the room was still shrouded in white cloths. She went to the nearest piece of furniture and pulled the white cloth off. A painted china table. She ripped off another sheet: a winged chair. Another: a vintage, carved mirror hung to the wall. It was a very expensively decorated room. Like a room you’d have if you were Mistress of the manor…

  That’s precisely where he must have put her, she decided. If she was in the mistress chamber, she should have access to the chamber next to hers. Secret passageways like these were common in old family homes, conveniently included so masters could seek out their mistresses without having to exit into the hall. Perfectly tailored secret passageways for lovers to meet in stealth and discretion.

  She tried to think back, to remember what sort of things disguised these passageways. Persian rug hangings, trick bookcases, mirrors... The vintage carved mirror. Her hands ran along the frame, feeling for even a minute difference in the distressed wood. Aha! An intricate rosebud gave way slightly, near the top corner. She pressed it and the glass emitted a small “pop,” swinging inward. She smiled. She had her escape route. Now all she had to do was wait for the cover of night.

  The funny thing about the word of a gypsy… It was only good until a better opportunity arose.

  ***

  A few hours later, her captor returned. He gave no warning but the sound of the key sliding into the lock. She had been sitting on the bed reading a novel she had found. His handsome face settled on her as he entered with a tray. She tried to still the trembling of her hands and the fluttering in her stomach.

  “That horse is a wonderful creature,” he intoned softly, setting down the tray and leaning against the back of the winged chair.

  His perfection bothered her. Even though the white cambric shirt he wore was thinning from wear and his black brocade breeches fraying at the ends, he was the wonderful creature to her. In the light of day, he was almost too intoxicating to gaze upon. His legs, casually crossed at the ankles, had strong calves. From where his shirt was falling open at his chest, she could see the definition of strong shoulders and chest. Even his neck appealed to her, tawny, tanned like the rest of him. He also had the fierce jawline that she had always been weak to. And his eyes were the strangest, yet most fascinating thing about him; golden, like a setting sun. They made her want to run into his arms, to fall into his embrace, to scorch her fingers through his untidy dark blonde hair. The resemblance to the portrait downstairs struck her suddenly—his father perhaps?

  “Her name is Peony,” she replied, not as forcefully as she would’ve liked, so she returned to her book, hoping to project snide indifference at his presence.

  “And she is yours?”

  Irritation ran through her, fiery, thick. “Of course,” she snapped.

  “I suppose gypsies do have
a talent for breeding fine horses.”

  “Far better talent than Englishmen,” she added, smiling tightly over the top of her book.

  His golden eyes sharpened. “What is your name?”

  She felt pleasure at making him annoyed, only fair if he was driving her wild. She pondered his impulsive question, deciding eventually that there was no harm in telling him. It would matter little to the hanging post the true identity of a thief, assuming that she couldn’t get away. Which, of course, she would.

  She slid the book back up, hiding her face, “Belle.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a gypsy name.” When she made no comment, he continued, “It suits you.”

  Belle dropped the book down a little to peer at him suspiciously. Why would he compliment her?

  He had moved closer when she covered her face with the book. Now the Grast was at the edge of the bed, hardly a foot from her. She edged herself away from him, feeling a rising tension between them. Normally, she wouldn’t shy away at intimidation, but this was different--it was beguiling.

  His hand moved and she stilled, not from fear but from anticipation. She wondered vaguely if he meant to touch her, caress her. He did neither; instead his long fingers snatched the book from her hands. It took her a minute to register what he had just done.

  “You can read?” his asked, tone insultingly condescending.

  “Yes,” she growled, annoyed at him, but also at the ridiculous way her heart had sped up in her chest in that wild moment when she thought he meant to touch her.

  “Fairy tales?” he smirked up at her, and for an instant, he looked younger, carefree, not unlike a teasing suitor. Belle didn’t want to meditate on that too much. “Where did you find this?” He leafed through a few pages.

  “I didn’t steal it,” she snarled defensively.

  Her captor looked up at her with wide-eyed surprise. “I didn’t think you did.” He paused and then smiled mischievously, “You aren’t a thief, right? Just a lost traveler?”

  The Grast was mocking her. She cursed, launching herself across the bed and taking the book from him. Her triumph was sweet but fleeting because in the following instant, he had her arms pinned to her side; the book dropped from her fingers. They were nearly nose to nose. His heady scent rose between them: woodsy, musky, and sinful. She could feel the heat of him through her layers.

  His hands trembled a bit, bringing her closer to him. She sucked air in through her mouth, nervous and confused. His eyes hooded slightly and his face dropped closer. Belle nearly sighed. Closing her eyes, she gave in to whatever was going to come.

  She waited.

  She didn’t feel the pressure of his lips, the caress of a tongue. Her eyes opened and she saw him staring at her, dark eyebrows furrowed. His hands uncurled around her arms. The Grast stepped back.

  “Dinner is at eight o’clock sharp,” he rasped, moving toward the door.

  “Dinner?” the gypsy whispered, dazedly.

  He didn’t turn around as he paused at the door, “You’re to be there or you do not eat at all.”

  The door shut and locked behind him.

  ***

  Belle stared down at the package opened on her bed. It had arrived only moments ago, a knock at the door but there was no one there when she answered. Escape was only a fleeting thought when she discovered her chamber door unlocked. She knew better than to escape now. No, she needed to wait, so she had picked up the parcel and brought it inside.

  It was a lovely gown, simple and perhaps a touch outdated, blue. Lying on top of it was a pair of evening slippers and silk undergarments. Why must she change for dinner? She hadn’t even decided if she was going or not. There was a prikasa—dark spirit—about him. Made her nervous, on edge, excited… That was the only way to explain her fatal attraction to him.

  Belle shook her head, trying to clear her mind for the question at hand. Should she go? But even as she mentally debated it, she couldn’t stop her fingers from grazing the shoes lovingly. How long had it been since she had last worn such beautiful shoes? As a girl? Perhaps whilst playing dress up?

  Snatching up the articles, she decided the least she could do was try them on, even if she didn’t make it down to dinner—for old times’ sake.

  She slipped out of her peasant shirt and skirts, and picked up the chemise and drawers that were inside the parcel as well. A thoughtful touch. A light blush touched her cheeks thinking of the Grast picking out these fine silk undergarments. She pulled them on, loving the caress of the cool threads against her skin. It was quite decadent. She left the stockings hanging on the back of the winged chair.

  For a moment, she stood in front of the mirror, gazing at herself in her undergarments. She could almost see an upper-class Englishwoman—almost. There was still the gypsy wildness about her that gave her ancestry away. Her hair for one, the pride of her mother, was long and her curls were a nest of unruly chaos, cascading to her mid-back. And her skin was hard in places and as tanned as her gypsy ancestors. But more than her looks, she was not a naïve debutante coming out for her first season. Belle was worldly, cautious, brave. A woman who could take care of herself and one that certainly didn’t need frivolous things like ball gowns and silk drawers.

  She hastily picked up the blue gown, tugging it on without the reverence she had used with the undergarments. The muslin gown gracefully fell down the length of her body, fitting her perfectly. How had he known?

  Reaching behind her, she struggled to button the gown. Finally, breathless yet dressed, she stepped into the evening slippers. Walking in the evening slippers took a step or two for her to master, but she made it to the mirror again and sighed at her reflection. The gown was almost completely blue except for the white lace trim at the empire bodice and capping the sleeves. Blue had always been her favorite color. She looked beautiful. However, she knew too well that looking the part, and even acting the part, plainly weren’t enough sometimes.

  Now was the time to decide her course of action. Her gypsy nature was telling her to not go. What did she care if she missed a meal? If all went to plan, by this time tomorrow, she’d be halfway to Scotland. But then she’d have to take off this dress… Her hands smoothed over the gown tenderly. Then again, what was the harm in one meal? In pretending for one night?

  She glanced at the clock: a quarter ‘til. Belle had just enough time to comb her hair.

  ***

  Belle’s slippered feet made soft clicks as she walked down the grand staircase. The chandelier in the foyer was lit; candles appeared to be set up as guides, leading her toward the hallway. She paused, however, to look in the direction of the demolished west wing. In the soft glow of the room, the wreckage looked sadder with the flickering flames playing menacing shadows across the debris, like a bad mirage of the day it burned.

  After following the candles down the hallway, she was led through a drawing room to the dining room. Her heart suddenly leapt in her chest. She had almost forgotten why she was down here. She was to dine with the Grast.

  Taking a deep breath, she entered the dining room. Before her, a white clothed table was already set, candles serving as the main source of light. At the far end of it, she saw her captor standing by a chair. He was dressed in complete formal attire; a superb blue dinner jacket, fresh cravat, clean shirt, new black breeches and white stockings. He had even tied his dark blonde locks back into a neat ribbon at the nape of his neck. Not only did his complete transformation surprise her, but it pleased her. She felt herself grow warm and suddenly, she was feeling very shy. He looked the part of Lord of the Manor. Where had the crazed man from before gone?

  He slid back her chair. “Belle.”

  Following his hypnotic eyes, she went to him and took her seat. He leaned over her as he pushed her chair in; she felt his warm breath dust her exposed shoulders and neck. She berated herself for falling under his charm. This man was handsome, but he wasn’t a suitor. He was her doom, she must remind herself.

  As he saunter
ed to the other end of the long table, she cast her eyes around the room. The place was clean, so clean in fact that it gleamed. Had he cleaned it especially for tonight? It didn’t even carry the smell of fire like the rest of the house.

  “You are truly a vision in blue,” his deep voice startled her, as did his comment.

  She tried to still her rapidly beating heart. With bravado she didn’t feel, she raised her chin regally, but didn’t response.

  He merely raised an eyebrow, his smirk tugged at the scar on his cheek. He appeared rather amused. “I am hoping to make amends for my previous behavior,” the Grast continued.

  At that moment, Belle was astonished to see an elderly man hobble in carrying a tray with covered dishes. The Grast had servants, or at least the one.

  The man was pouchy and exceeding middle-age by her estimation. He kept his eyes downcast, inclining his head enough for her to see that the top was balding while the sides were still thick with white hair. He went to his master first, placing his dish and wine before him. Her captor said nothing but kept his keen golden eyes focused on her the entire time; his gaze made her squirm uncomfortably. The old man finally made it over to her and her surprise continued further when she noticed the quality of his uniform was quite new, impeccable in fact. He said nothing as he placed her dish and wine down as well.