The Lass Who Loved a Beast

by Lee, Caroline

  “Which ye werenae using otherwise,” Bonnie offered softly.

  “Aye. It was simple enough to help her set up a studio there, and while she was often cold in the winter, the servants made certain to keep the braziers warmed. I think she liked the fact, when she didnae want company, she could lock us all out.”

  It was the way he said it which hinted at the deeper pain.

  “And…did she often no’ want company?”

  Lyon lifted his cup but didn’t drink from it. His haunted eyes met hers over the rim. “I think she…changed. I loved her, I truly did, and I believe she loved me. But a few years into our marriage, after her second miscarriage, she…” He shook his head. “She wasnae the same.”

  Perhaps it was chemistry, or something within her brain. Bonnie had read about how trauma could affect women that way. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, sipping from her own coffee.

  “Aye, well, as she changed, so did her paintings. I could tell she was hurting, but I thought if I left her alone…” He sipped at the coffee, then immediately reared back. “Satan and all his little minions, what is this swill?”

  Her gaze jerked up. “Ye dinnae like coffee? Why did ye order it?”

  “Because ye did. This is really coffee?” He peered down into the dark depths of his cup. “I usually content myself with water or tea, although I had coffee infrequently at school. I dinnae remember it tasting quite so…”

  “Bitter? Hot?”

  “Foul.”

  She tried to hide her smile. “Perhaps some cream and sugar…?”

  “Perhaps I dinnae force myself to drink something I’d no’ force upon swine.” He raised his hand and gestured to the server. “Tea please.”

  The man nodded and hurried away, and Lyon turned back in time to catch Bonnie’s slight smile.

  “What?” he asked her.

  She shrugged. “I like ye dinnae do things ye dinnae want to do merely for polite society.”

  “So ye think me impolite for refusing to drink coffee just because that’s what ye’re drinking?”

  “Nay, Lyon. I think ye brave.”

  He snorted. “Drinking coffee is brave. No’ drinking it is basic self-preservation.”

  That wasn’t what she’d meant when she’d called him brave, but since he was focused on the server bringing him his tea, she didn’t explain it. Besides, if she knew him—and she was certain she did—the praise would make him uncomfortable.

  When he was settled with his tea and the offending coffee had been removed, Bonnie watched him sip and nod in satisfaction. When he placed the cup down, she leaned forward. “So Rose changed?” She wasn’t going to allow the topic to drop.

  His eyes flicked briefly to hers, then to the pastry on his plate. “I dinnae think I realized how much. She began to lock herself away with her paints and turpentine more and more frequently, and then, one late winter morning…”

  A muscle along the smooth side of his jaw jumped, and she longed to soothe him.

  His voice lowered. “Keith burst into the library to find me and tell me the stables were afire. When I reached the courtyard, it was already an inferno—the auld straw and all of her paints, I assume.”

  “She was inside?”

  His nod was jerky. “The door was locked. All I could think was that she was trapped in there, and I should’ve realized the danger it posed.”

  Slowly, his hands curled into fists on either side of the plate. “Keith tried to stop me, but I kenned I had to get her out.” His voice was curiously devoid of emotion. “The door was impassable of course, but by that time, the back half of the building—where she painted—was almost gone, so it was easy enough to break through the wall.”

  The thought of him throwing himself into danger that way for the woman he loved made Bonnie’s throat close up and her eyes filled with tears. Blindly, she groped for his hand, but ended up knocking against her cup and splashing dark coffee across the tablecloth.

  Neither seemed to notice, and his hand twisted under hers until he was gripping her just as tightly, his attention still on the uneaten pastry between them.

  His voice sounded mechanical as he told the rest of his story. “I remember the smoke and the heat from the flames. I ignored them all, pushing forward, shouting her name until the fire took my voice from me as well. Something fell from above—a beam, already aflame, they told me later—and landed across my shoulder. Keith was the one who’d dragged me out.”

  She could feel his pulse pounding against hers as their palms crushed into one another.

  “And Rose?” she whispered.

  His hazel eyes, haunted by loss, lifted to meet hers. He shook his head, and Bonnie exhaled.

  “I’ll never forgive myself, Bonnie.”

  “It wasnae yer fault.”

  His expression didn’t change. “Of course it was. It was my fault for no’ seeing how much pain Rose was in. It was my fault for not recognizing her intent that morning when she kissed me goodbye. It was my fault that stupid lock was there. And it was my fault for failing to reach her in time.”

  “Lyon, she locked ye out. She wasn’t locked in; she kenned what she was doing, and didnae want ye to stop her.”

  He swallowed; his expression stricken. “I should’ve…”

  She squeezed his hand. “It was her decision, Lyon.”

  “I…” When he closed his eyes, as if he couldn’t stand the thought of looking at the world—at her—any longer, the scars on the left side of his face seemed to fade into the foreground, suddenly dominating his face. “I dinnae want to believe it was on purpose.”

  Of course not. What kind of man wanted to believe his wife killed herself? Bonnie squeezed his hand again.

  “Then dinnae believe it. Ye kenned her better than anyone, Lyon, and even ye werenae able to understand the workings of Rose’s mind. Perhaps she was ill, or perhaps she had changed, or perhaps she was just careless that day. But nae human being can see inside the mind of another, if that other is truly determined to hide themselves from him.”

  Lyon opened his eyes, slowly focusing on her. “Ye… Do ye believe that?”

  “I dinnae have to.” She offered him a sad smile. “Because it is true.”

  “Do ye hide part of yerself from others?”

  The question was unexpected enough to make her blink, and she shifted her gaze down to her coffee.

  “I suppose no’. It was always my mother’s bane that I was so poor at pretending to be a proper lady. I felt as if…” She shrugged, trying to explain herself. “I like to read and like to learn new things. I didnae want to have to hide that part of me, which my mother abhorred. I didnae want to hide my dreams, or settle for something less, just because that’s what I was told was the proper thing.”

  “So ye dinnae hide yerself?”

  Understanding dawned, and she met his eyes once more, lifting one of her brows in challenge. “Do ye?”

  To her surprise, he immediately nodded. “I do. It wasnae on purpose, but after the fire, the doctors werenae sure I’d survive. My brothers were the ones who pulled Rose’s body from the ashes, and I was unconscious when she was interred in the family crypt. Keith was there with me, constantly, and he’s the reason I’m still alive. I can recall seeing myself in the mirror for the first time and understanding true horror.”

  “Oh, Lyon—” Her voice caught, and she squeezed his hand again. “The scars arenae so bad.”

  One side of his lips twitched ruefully. “Ye didnae see me then, Bonnie. I was hideous. I let my hair grow out, thinking that would help, but…” He shook his head. “I’ve always been abrupt, I ken it, but my temper was horrible then. The doctors told me I wouldnae be able to use my arm again, and I was determined to prove them wrong.”

  “The exercises and sparring with Keith?”

  “Aye, and more. I ken I was a beast to live with, and slowly, I drove away my servants and friends. Once I realized what was happening, I embraced it, kenning that’s what I deserved.”
<
br />   “Nay!” She leaned forward, trying to catch his attention and make him understand. “Ye do deserve love, Lyon, and companionship!”

  His smile still seemed sad. “Ye asked me if I hide myself, and the answer is aye. Obviously. Unequivocally. I am the Beast of the Oliphants, and I deserve the moniker.”

  He didn’t deserve any of this.

  Suddenly angry—not at him, but for him—Bonnie surged to her feet, pulling her hand from his and planting her palms against the coffee-stained cloth. “And ye asked if I hid myself,” she reminded him fiercely.

  He lifted a brow in question.

  “I have been hiding a verra important piece, Lyon. From my sisters, from ye, and perhaps even from myself.”

  Hurt crept into his eyes, but he blinked, and it was gone. “Ye’ve been hiding part of yerself from me?” he asked mildly, as if it didn’t matter.

  But it did matter. She could see it. She could hear it.

  And she could feel it.

  “Aye, I have been, but nae longer. I love ye, Lyon Prince, and I will no’ hide that part of my heart any longer.”

  Chapter 8

  “Well hell. That would’ve been the perfect time for him to tell Bonnie his feelings, eh?”

  “Don’t worry, Broca dear. Everything’s going quite well. Check your notes; when is he supposed to confess his love?”

  “I dinnae ken! I dinnae ken! I left that part out of the notes.”

  “Here, stop flipping around so willy-nilly. You’re looking frantic.”

  “I am frantic! When is he supposed to confess his love?”

  “Perhaps he doesnae yet ken he loves her?”

  “Brilliant, Willa! He just needs a little nudge. Broca, arrange a little nudge.”

  * * *

  Lyon never touched the pastry, but that was likely a good thing, because his stomach was a roiling mess that morning anyhow. After he’d swallowed down his pride and calmly—as calmly as possible at least—explained why he couldn’t offer Bonnie a future, she had to go and steal his very thoughts.

  She told him she loved him.

  She…loved him.

  He couldn’t do anything more than stare at her, and eventually, she’d huffed in irritation—at least, he assumed it was irritation—turned away from him, then began to struggle into her winter coat.

  Numbly, Lyon fumbled with his wallet, producing more than enough to take care of their bill, and jumped to help her. Neither spoke as they, properly girded against the winter, stepped out of the café.

  She slid her arm through his once more and turned them both to the right. He had to guess she was still leading him toward her publishing house, but he was incapable of any further rational thought at that moment.

  Bonnie Oliphant loved him.

  And in the moment she’d confessed it to him, he should’ve felt dread, irritation, anger that she didn’t understand.

  Instead, it felt as if his heart had flown.

  Beside him, she cleared her throat.

  “Ye ken, when one confesses one’s love for another, they generally expect some acknowledgement in return.”

  “Does one?” He was an idiot, wasn’t he?

  “Aye, one does.” She pulled him toward a building’s overhang so they were out of the main flow of foot traffic and tugged him to face her. “This one.” She placed one palm flat against her chest, then placed her other against his chest. “And that one.” Then she used the second hand to gesture between them, and Lyon missed the warmth which had blossomed between them.

  “Two?” he asked weakly, trying for a joke. “One and one?”

  “Aye, two. We two. Lyon and Bonnie, Bonnie and Lyon.”

  “A beauty and a beast”

  She jabbed him with a long finger. “Dinnae call yerself a beast again, Lyon Prince.”

  He exhaled. “Bonnie, ye dinnae understand what manner of man I—”

  Again, she jabbed him, cutting him off. “I do understand ye. Dinnae try to talk me out of loving ye, Lyon!” Her eyes sparked with fierceness as she tilted her head back to glare at him, her shoulders heaving with the force of her breaths. “Ye are an intelligent man, so do please cease imagining what happened in the past excludes ye from loving, or being loved, again.”

  “But Rose—“

  “Rose’s death was no’ yer fault. If ye would just think about it, ye’d ken that is the truth!”

  That’s what Keith had said. And Phineas and Roland, in their own ways. The doctors had said it as well, and Da and Raina, when he’d had the courage to speak with them about it.

  They’d all told him Rose’s death wasn’t his fault. So why hadn’t he believed them?

  And why did he want to believe Bonnie so fiercely?

  She shook her head almost sadly. “Lyon, I have a question for ye. If there was a way to ken if Rose’s actions of that day truly were her choice, would ye feel any different?”

  His mouth opened, but no sound came out. How could it? What she had just suggested was…

  He shook his head.

  She nodded.

  “If that is the truth—if Rose’s death was her own choice—then yer guilt, yer denial of the love ye’re owed, is taking agency from a woman who kenned her own mind.”

  “I…I dinnae understand,” he confessed, not sure he wanted to.

  “If Rose chose to die that day because her mind wasnae healthy, then ye fighting her decision, ye blaming yerself for it, makes her decision less worthy.”

  “Nay!” The cry ripped from him, and he dropped his head into his palms. His second, “Nay,” immerged muffled.

  Rose wouldn’t have made that choice…had she?

  Softly, Bonnie’s gloved hands came to rest on his cheeks, cradling the smooth and the scarred alike.

  “Lyon, I love ye. I would consider myself the luckiest woman alive to be able to spend my life with ye, and I would never want to leave. But if I did make that choice—to leave ye, because I thought it was for the best—I would hope ye would respect my decision.”

  He moved his hands, capturing hers against his skin, and stared into her beautiful blue eyes. “Even if it broke me?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, and he knew he wasn’t speaking about Rose’s death.

  But Bonnie nodded. “Even then. Because ye’d have to trust that I love ye and would do nothing to hurt ye unless it was absolutely necessary.”

  And then Lyon…remembered.

  He remembered how his wife’s personality had changed, slowly but surely, after the miscarriages. There’d been a third, only a week before her death, but she’d been abed recovering from it until the morning of her death. She’d spoken so often of her babies and their future, while Lyon had held her hand and mourned, that he’d thought her getting out of bed to paint had been a good sign.

  Had she been broken as well? Had she been so hurt, even his love couldn’t fix her?

  Had she made the choice to leave him, even knowing it would hurt him, because she just couldn’t stand living any longer?

  “Dear God,” he whispered harshly, his breath catching on a sob.

  Bonnie wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing herself against him and offering all of herself. All he could do was wrap his arms around her and crush her against him, his lips finding her temple, pressing a kiss against her skin.

  “Dear God,” he repeated, not sure what else to pray.

  And then, he didn’t have to.

  Because Bonnie had lifted herself up on her toes and captured his lips with hers, and she was kissing him with all the innocent desire and love he could stand. His blood fired once more, for an entirely different reason, and he was lost.

  Lost in her lips.

  Lost in her embrace.

  Lost in her love.

  This kiss wasn’t the same as the one they’d shared in the library. For one thing, they were standing in the middle of an Inverness street, and he was fairly certain there was slush seeping into one of his socks.

  But it was sweet, and perfect, and supp
ortive, and everything he’d been needing for so long.

  And when she finally pulled away, Lyon was fairly certain there were tears in his eyes.

  Tears of gratitude.

  She smiled sadly and pressed her cheek to his shoulder, offering him a hug. “I love ye, Lyon Prince,” she whispered against him, and he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed his eyes shut, not sure what he could possibly say in response.

  While considering it, he inhaled deeply, and when he did, he froze. There was a scent, the faintest whiff of…

  He inhaled again.

  Aye.

  Smoke!

  “Bonnie?” Another sniff, just to be certain. “I smell…burning paper.” It was a scent unlike a wood fire, or even a hay-and-paint-and-turpentine fire. “Do ye—”

  She shot upright, almost knocking his chin as she whirled about, inhaling deeply. “Aye—fire!” Her hand found his a moment before her gaze did. “Lyon, the publishing district!”

  And that was all she said before she gathered her skirts in her free hand and took off at a run. It was all she had to say.

  Holding her hand, he kept up with her easily, and soon took the lead, using his broad shoulders and harsh scowls to clear their way through the running crowds. Then he rounded a corner and realized what they were all running from.

  It was a row of buildings, all as old as Bonnie had said, the middle one bearing the remnants of a sign reading Grimm and Sons Publishing. Thick black smoke was billowing from it, and also from the two on the right, as workers frantically formed bucket brigades.

  When she tried to pass him, tried to reach the buildings, Lyon pulled her to a stop.

  “Bonnie, stay here. I’ll make sure the Fire Brigade—”

  “Nay, I cannae—” She cut herself off with a sob, as another pillar of smoke bloomed from the roof. “It was the paper. And the ink! The buildings were so auld…” She pulled her hand from his and edged closer to the commotion.