It was like he was sixteen all over again. Fierce pain rushed into his scars. They burned as he grappled with the animal. It was all he could do to keep his face from being crushed a second time between a wild animal’s teeth. Maybe this time it will be the right side of my face and then I will at least be even, some inane voice in the back of Tristan’s mind said.
With a moment of luck and a huge burst of strength, he threw the monster off and scrambled to his feet. He turned to look at the Beast as it stood across the small clearing. It looked like a dog and yet it also looked like a wolf. It was a strange shade of red with a wicked black stripe down its back, all of the hair raised. It growled, lowering its head and whipping its tail back and forth, harder and harder. The pair of them stared at one another, sizing the other up and waiting for the other one to move first.
Tristan crouched low and pulled his small hunting knife while he braced himself for another attack. It wasn’t long in coming.
He was ready for it this time, so was able to sidestep the animal’s lunge. He attempted to thrust his knife into its side, but failed. The animal was incredibly fast and its hide seemed harder than the average animal’s. Tristan’s blade glanced off its skin, but maybe he’d just hit a rib. There really wasn’t much time to think it through too deeply.
The Beast was already after him again before he could turn to meet it fully. Once more, he was driven to the ground but this time Tristan didn’t get a hold on the creature before it had scored a shallow bite to Tristan’s shoulder. Fabric tore and a faint thread of blood crept down his skin. Pain lanced through to his back and he struck out with a fist, catching the Beast in the side of the muzzle. It yelped and turned its head away.
Tristan took the advantage and drove his knife at the animal’s side again, but the creature was squirming at the length of Tristan’s arm. It was only a shallow wound, but apparently that was enough. The Beast leaped away and rushed into the forest. Tristan threw himself to his feet to pursue but was winded. His scars still stung. His shoulder and arm felt weak. His mind’s eye kept flashing to another moment in another forest with another beast.
All he could do was stare into the shadows until the normal noises returned. The Beast had fled the forest. Tristan shouted incoherently at the pain, the futility, the failure, and the memories.
Chapter Nineteen
16 June 1767
Constance felt the days passing in a fog of indecision and uncertainty. She wanted to talk to Tristan, because she knew he would help her sort things out, but she wanted to give everyone some time to settle back into the usual domestic routine before she tried to get a letter to him, or arrange any sort of meeting. The waiting was unbearable, but she knew it was for the best and so she must hold firm.
Walking into the sitting room, she was startled to see the broad back of a man standing in the middle of it. She knew instantly that it wasn’t Tristan and she had a sneaking suspicion of whose dark hair that was. When he turned around, she knew she was right.
“Good day, Comte Morangis,” she greeted with a stiff curtsey. “I was just looking for my uncle.” It was sort of true. She had been planning to say good morning, because they had not breakfasted together, but now she found it would be her best excuse to escape. “I see that he’s not here, so I’ll look for him in the dining room.” She started to turn away.
“Constance,” he said and she stopped, turning back. He stepped forward and took her hand. Muscles tensed with the urge to tear it out of his grip, but she restrained both herself and the shudder threatening to escape as he kissed the back of her hand. It was impossible to miss how he didn’t let it go afterwards. “I am sorry that we have not had more time to spend together. It seems only natural for a man and his bride-to-be.”
She swallowed her stomach down. “I suppose so, but you are a busy man. There is no need to apologize.” The words came woodenly, like someone else’s voice was coming out of her mouth. “If you’ll excuse me...” She tried to escape again, but his hand was still wrapped around hers and tightened when she tried to pull away.
His smile was more intimidating than caring. “Your uncle will be returning shortly, so you might as well wait here.” At least he didn’t try to pull her in further. “I came to give him a bit of news on our mutual acquaintance Marquis du Lyon.” He paused and searched her eyes.
Constance kept her expression carefully blank, although only with a good deal of effort.
“Oh?” she asked blandly.
“Yes,” he went on. “He was taking a walk in the woods yesterday and was attacked, presumably by the Beast.”
Her eyes widened. Every nerve went cold, but she managed to not show any other sign of her inward reaction. “That’s terrible,” she said. It was only natural to show concern for a fellow human being, right? He wouldn’t be able to tell how upset she was... She hoped. “Is he all right?”
Morangis shrugged. “Aye, he is mostly just bruised and sore. I dare say his ego took a beating. He has a few wounds but nothing grievous. My surgeon wants him to remain in bed for a day or two to get some rest, but he should be well again soon enough.”
She thought he seemed to be waiting for something. He was watching her closer than usual. Did he suspect something between her and Tristan? If he did, he didn’t suspect it enough to tell anyone else because no one had talked to her, and they would have. But there was something strange going on in the way he studied her as he told her about Tristan’s injuries, and she was sure he was thinking something suspicious.
More than one kind of fear sang through her, but she managed to keep it all together and not flinch in front of Morangis. The last thing anyone needed was her giving something away and giving him cause to act on his suspicions.
“I am glad to hear that he will be well,” she said politely, finding strength in her restraint and in not giving Morangis what he wanted. “It would be a tragedy if the Beast claimed another life.”
“Yes, it would.”
She managed to pull her hand out of his grip. “Good day to you. Please convey my wishes for all due recovery to your guest.” She turned to leave, again.
He caught her as she stepped into the hall. “I thought that you were looking for your uncle.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she replied, “I will speak with him later. It was not a matter of any importance.” She walked as quickly as decorum would allow and returned to her room.
Once the door was shut, she was finally able to let herself collapse inward. Slumping back against the wood, her heart thudded and her breath strangled in her throat. Now she understood how Tristan had felt when she went for a walk, because laced around her terror and concern was the anger that he had put himself in that position in the first place! The Beast so rarely attacked men. What were the odds? Even so, she was still upset with him for it.
Morangis had said that Tristan was okay, but was there a chance he was lying? She wouldn’t put it past him, but there didn’t seem to be reason... unless he did suspect and was trying to work against her.
Still trying to get her breath, she rushed to the desk and began to write a letter.
When she had finished, she rang for Jeanne. Her maid appeared with alacrity and was pulled into Constance’s room, the door shut swiftly behind her.
“What’s wrong?” Jeanne was alarmed when she saw her mistress. Constance was apparently looking as poorly as she felt.
She pressed the letter into the maid’s hand. “I need you to do something for me,” she said, pleading in tone and expression. “I need you to get this to Tristan. I know it’s risky, but I heard that he’s been attacked by the Beast. I can’t go myself and I don’t know if I can trust anything Comte Morangis says. I need to know. If you bring the letter, perhaps you can find out his state from the servants and see that this gets into his hands. Can you do this for me?”
Jeanne held the letter and nodded. “I am friends with a servant of Morangis’,” she said solemnly, like swearing an oath. “I will find out ho
w he is and make sure that this gets to him. And if anyone sees me there, I can say I was paying a visit to my friend.”
Constance hugged Jeanne, catching them both by surprise but she didn’t care. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
Tristan,
I heard today that you were attacked while you were in the woods. I heard it from Comte Morangis and I worry as to how honest he was with me. He said that you were not badly injured and were resting, and that you would be better in a day or two. I hope he was telling the truth and you are not worse off. I don’t know I could survive if that were the case. Jeanne is bringing you this letter and I hope she can ascertain the truth of the matter.
And I hope that you are well so that I can be upset with you! You were angry with me for walking in my own gardens and yet you went into the woods alone? Being a man is not the sacred shield most of you men seem to think it is. I cannot lose you. Do not be so foolish again!
With that aside, I do now worry that Morangis knows something. I realize that it’s a risk even sending you this letter, but I must. It may be all I can do, but I must do it. When he told me about you, he had a strange demeanor. I can’t explain it. I try to pay as little attention to him as I can, but he seemed to be judging my reaction. I don’t understand how he could know, but I think that he is suspicious. Be careful, both in the house and out of it.
I love you,
Constance
Chapter Twenty
“Marquis du Lyon,” a voice said from the other side of the door.
Tristan was in bed under the surgeon’s orders, but this didn’t mean he was happy about it and the sound of any voice (except Morangis’) came as a relief. He would have expected it to be Gregoire, but he recognized it as one of the house’s servants. The man’s name escaped him, but he called for him to enter.
Silently, the older man walked in and shut the door behind him. “I have a letter for you, monsieur.” He handed the parchment to Tristan, whose heart leaped with the hope that it was from Constance, though he tempered it until he saw her handwriting and knew he had reason to rejoice. Then, though, worry struck him and he glanced up at the servant.
The man smiled. “I am a good friend of Jeanne,” he explained. Turning on a heel, he left Tristan to his letter. He tore it open and read the contents. It brought mixed reactions: surprise that Morangis had told the truth, tenderness over her concern, slight amusement and embarrassment at her anger, and agreement with her final assessment.
It was the final words that caught him the most. I love you. They hadn’t said it before, in those words, although it was true. He smiled.
There was a knock at the door. He startled and shoved the note under the blanket, crumbling it beneath his thigh as he looked at the door and called for them to enter.
It was Morangis.
“I came to see how you were doing, my friend.” He walked in and pulled a chair up to the bedside. He was planning to stay longer than Tristan would have liked. “The surgeon tells me that he will let you up and about again before long.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Tristan managed a smile. He tried not to think about the letter crammed under his leg, lest he do something to give away its existence. “I am little injured, thankfully. I suppose the Beast has been as smart as we believed him to be, in so infrequently attacking men, but it was a terrible creature. I am lucky to have fought it off without worse to show for it. I am just sorry I was not able to kill it.”
Morangis smiled. “Well, let us just be grateful that you survived.” Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his legs. “You really should be more careful, my friend. I would not want to develop a reputation for letting my guests be killed.”
His guest’s expression was wry. “It was hardly in my plan to get attacked. I had agreed with you that I had less reason to worry, given that in three years, the attacks have been horrific but predictable.”
“It certainly was a surprise,” Morangis agreed and yet, Tristan couldn’t help but think that Morangis didn’t look surprised. Were his suspicions so deep that he would actually want to see Tristan dead, or horribly injured? Now there was a terrible thought, as if there hadn’t been enough terrible thoughts to be had. He brushed dust that Tristan couldn’t see off of his breeches before changing subjects entirely. “I thought I saw that young woman, Constance’s maid, leaving on my way out.”
“Oh?” Tristan carefully schooled his features. He had hoped that Jeanne would have made it in and out without notice.
“Indeed,” Morangis went on. “I heard that she was particularly concerned with your well being. Did you come to know her well while you were staying with the Moncans?”
Even laid up in bed, Tristan wasn’t free from this razor’s edge feeling. He didn’t want to get Jeanne in any sort of trouble. She was a lovely woman, who had taken a risk in bringing the letter here. She obviously cared a great deal for Constance. He didn’t want to compromise either of them. The whole moment felt like it was coming down to what he said right now.
“I spoke with her a few times,” Tristan said carefully, choosing his words. “She seems like a very nice woman.”
“Well, if you want a dalliance while you’re in the province then that’s your business. I would simply caution you to be discrete, of course. I wouldn’t want you to have any trouble with your... reputation.”
There was a lot more to this than was being said. Tristan’s hair was practically standing on end and the paper was all but burning a hole into his leg. What else could he say, though, that wouldn’t just drag him down into a very deep pit? It was going to take some thought to figure out if Morangis was threatening him with what he just said.
“I will keep it in mind,” he replied slowly, “and your concern is appreciated, though do not feel any responsibility for my reputation. It is my business, after all, and not yours.” He wasn’t going to let Jean-François drag him any further into the conversation, but neither was he going to let the comte forget with whom he spoke. This was, at least, one area he could more easily assert his rank without offending his own family’s expectations or Constance’s wishes and standing.
Morangis nodded and got to his feet. “Of course, of course,” he said. “You get your rest now and you’ll be back on your feet in no time.” He saw himself out without any kind of dismissal from Tristan, like he had all the power on his side.
Perhaps he had much of it. For the moment.
Chapter Twenty-One
17 June 1767
Mornings where Constance walked through her home and found Morangis there instead of her family seemed to be growing frequent, familiar and tiresome. Where before she had felt fear and disgust, now she felt frustration and annoyance. The latter were preferable to the former, she realized, although none of them fixed the basic problem: that Comte Morangis was sitting in her house.
“Constance,” he said before she could slip away unnoticed. “It is agreeable to see you this morning. I was beginning to wonder if you’d be hiding in your room all day.”
“I was hardly hiding,” she replied with unexpected defiance. “No one told me to expect your arrival, so I doubt you are here for me. I will leave you to your business.”
He got to his feet and approached her. The familiar frisson of fear shook in her core, but she held tight to the strength she had found in these past weeks and stood her ground. She refused to let herself sink deeper within. “You don’t seem to want to spend much time with me before our wedding, Constance.” She hated the way he said her name. She met his eyes and forced herself to hold it, even though memories she long had stuffed back were creeping up. “I don’t believe that’s any way for a young bride to act, do you?”
Constance forced herself to take a deep breath before replying. She warred inwardly. “I wouldn’t know, Comte,” she said. “I have never been a young bride before. I act according to propriety.”
“Do you?” His brow arched. “I think we both know that your pious attitude here is but a façade. We bot
h know what you are and what I am to you. I own you already, Constance. This marriage will just make everyone else know it, too. So hide in your room all you want. It won’t change anything.”
Her hands trembled with an overwhelming desire to slap that sanctimonious look off his face and then slap whatever look came after it. But, she restrained herself to an angry look and clenched fists pinned to her sides. “You’re a bastard, Jean-François.”
Morangis laughed, like she had just said the most delightful thing. “You only make my point for me.” He returned to his seat and she turned to leave. “You cannot go yet, Constance.”
“You are not my husband yet, I can go where I like,” she said over her shoulder.
“A detail,” he replied. “But your aunt and uncle will be back shortly and I know that they want to speak with you. You should wait here for them or they may be cross that you have been avoiding them.”
She sighed and her shoulders sagged. Pivoting, again, she walked into the sitting room and found a seat. They lingered in unpleasant silence.
“My guest has developed quite the fondness for your maid.” His comment was so sudden and so off topic that she nearly gave him the reaction he was looking for. “I hope that it has not provided you with any hardship with a lacking of her services.”
“Jeanne is always exemplary,” Constance replied tightly. She knew that he was just trying to get a rise out of her. Jeanne was helping her, but she realized that Jeanne’s delivering the letters could look like a liaison. It was perhaps both good and bad. Maybe it would provide cover for Constance and Tristan, but it might compromise Jeanne. That was the last thing that she wanted, after Jeanne had been so good to her. “If she wishes a relationship with your guest, it is none of my business as long as her work is done. The servant class is freer in their choices than some of us.” Her look at Morangis was flat, but meaningful.
Beauty Page 9