by E J Kitchens
Starting now anyway.
Beast cleared his throat and looked away. “It’s comforting to know there are brains behind your beauty.”
The sarcasm of his tone wasn’t lost in its deep rumbling, but Belinda didn’t honor it with a response.
Both she and Beast turned their attention to the meal and didn’t speak again until the servants came to clear away the food.
Though too angry to give him a full inspection, Belinda suspected Lyndon, wisely silent across the table, was trying not to smile.
Belinda’s anger, like her energy, waned by the end of dinner, as her pain and exhaustion waxed. Through Lyndon’s kind insistence, and his arm for support, she found herself joining him and Beast in the library instead of slipping away to her room.
“Do you enjoy dramatic readings, Miss Lambton?” Beast asked politely as they entered the bright, warm library. Lyndon left her at the door and went to arrange chairs by the fire.
The blood fled Belinda’s face. “Um … ah … I don’t have much experience with them.” Not good experience anyway. Those with difficulty reading didn’t like such games, which were often played at their expense.
“A neglect we should remedy.” Beast plucked a book from a library shelf, his back to her.
Feeling Lyndon’s intent gaze, and fearing her face gave away too much, Belinda turned away and sought her little desk in its quiet nook.
“There’s a comfortable chair by the fire for each of us, Miss Lambton.” Beast gave her a curious glance as he made his way to his enormous wingback chair.
She opened her mouth to claim she was tired and needed to return to her room, but found she couldn’t. You’ve a reading spell now. Stop cowering.
But would her tongue, unaccustomed to the swift passage of her eyes over words, be able to follow? Swallowing back painful memories, Belinda joined Beast and Lyndon by the fire, uncomfortable in a comfortable chair. You’d prefer Beast propose in whatever respectably sneaky way he has planned rather than be forced to creep into your room and ask you while you’re sleeping, wouldn’t you? she reminded herself.
“Take your time to read over it.” Beast passed her a gold-embossed copy of Jane Eyre. She clutched the book with sudden gratitude—not only did she love the story but was familiar with it from her father reading it to her.
“Perhaps Miss Lambton does not care for reading aloud,” Lyndon said as he took a tray of tea and cocoa from the air.
“I’ve never known Miss Lambton to be at a loss for words,” Beast said with an amused gleam in his eyes as he gave her a sideways glance, “so I doubt reading aloud would be an unpleasant experience for her. But if she does not wish to read with us, she may merely sit and enjoy. If I do say so myself, Lyndon and I are superior performers.”
Piqued, Belinda leaned back in the wide, well-cushioned mate to Beast’s giant wingback and forcibly dispersed all signs of nervousness. “In that case, I shall have to join you, if only to allow you, by having a comparison, to be superior.”
“As I said, she is never at a loss for words, however incongruent they might be with my meaning.” Accepting a sturdy mug of tea from Lyndon, Beast eased into his chair. “Will you begin, Miss Lambton, when you are ready, with the first passage marked by a ribbon?”
Belinda opened the volume to the indicated passage, and after a moment’s perusal, read aloud of poor Jane’s terror in the red room. Too piqued to be more than mildly nervous, she did a passing fair job, infusing as much passion and horror into her untrained voice as she could, and trying to repress her joy at being able to read so well aloud. As Lyndon read superbly of Mr. Rochester in his guise as the old fortune teller, Belinda conceded that Beast’s boast of Lyndon was not a faulty one.
As Lyndon finished, Beast took up the volume with an air of confidence Belinda envied. And made note of: Beast, in his former life as a man, had been trained in performance or speaking, or both.
His voice was rich and deep, and whether it was his voice or the effect of a warm fire, hot cocoa, and having at last found a position that did not aggravate her injuries, sleep made a determined fight for Belinda and was near to winning. She just noticed between blinks that Beast looked often between her and Lyndon, like a well-trained speaker making eye contact. Her lips twitched and waited for the particular passage where Beast would make certain to, very briefly, make eye contact with her alone.
“And your will shall decide your destiny,” he proclaimed, a hint of tightness to his voice. His gaze, warily, met hers. “I offer you my heart, my hand, and a share of all my possessions.”
Forcing herself to momentary alertness, Belinda caught his eye, fluttered her eyelashes, smiled sweetly in return, and opened her mouth.
“You play at a farce,” he continued hastily, his falsetto voice for Jane even higher than before, “which I merely laugh at.”
Oh, I never joke about such things. Belinda let her head rest in the cushioned corner between the chair wing and the back, content now to listen. Sleep renewed its attack on her and was only kept at bay by a reluctant acknowledgement of the rudeness of falling asleep during Beast’s excellent performance.
At last, the great chestnut tree was struck by lightning, a fitting omen to Mr. Rochester’s proposal, and Beast put away the book.
“Poor Jane,” Belinda said sleepily as Beast took up his tea again. “And poor Mr. Rochester. He should have known his secret would come out in time. They always do.”
“His secret should have come out,” Beast said, lowering his teacup to gaze at her, a strange intentness to his expression. “For he was doing wrong and was wronging another. But must secrets always come out? Has a man no right to keep any?”
Or a beast no right? “Does a secret never wrong another?” said Belinda, snuggling a little deeper into the corner of the cushioned chair, her eyes drifting shut.
“It will always affect another, but whether another is wronged depends on the secret. But let us consider the right of the secret bearer. If the secret is his alone, surely he has as much right to guard it as a man does his corporeal property.”
Not meaning an answer by it, Belinda huffed. Beast must really want to keep his anonymity. As if Lady Violetta would let her figure it out anyway.
Beast took the huff as a challenge. “Are not a man’s thoughts, his plans, hopes and dreams, even his name, his own to hold?” he pressed.
Belinda’s lips curved in a lazy smile of confirmation.
“Just as much as a lady’s location?” He countered that smile.
One eye cracked open to tell Beast exactly what she thought of that underhanded blow. But her eyelid soon drifted down again, and whether the message had been properly delivered or not, Belinda found she didn’t really care. A warm fire, lingering pain, and deep, soft voices had too great a somnolent effect. “I concede,” she said softly.
There was a heavy pause, as if Beast had words ready he suddenly didn’t know what to do with.
Belinda’s breathing had just reached the rhythm fit for sinking beneath the crest of consciousness into the realm of sleep, when Beast’s voice, an unwanted preserver of consciousness, buoyed her.
“Surely you’re not going to sleep there?”
“It’s comfortable,” she managed, with more of an effort to not wake fully than otherwise. “You said so yourself.”
“I said my chair was comfortable.”
“This is its mate.”
“But it’s still not mine.”
“Did you steal it?”
“Miss Lambton …”
“Why do you care so where I sleep? I’m not moving.” Her lips curling automatically at Lyndon’s chuckle, she ignored Beast’s sighing mutter about a crick in the neck and her having enough injuries as it was. He lapsed into silence, and her breathing readied for a dive.
“Fine,” Beast said at last. “I’ll move you.”
But Belinda didn’t hear him.
The next day was much the same as the last. Pain and gray chill and sleep durin
g the day, broken with bits of light from her dream of Beast and visits from Lyndon.
“Are you in pain, Miss Lambton?”
It took several blinks for Belinda to recognize the change in scenery from the misty castle gate to her bedroom, from Beast’s hunted look to Lyndon’s paternal expression of concern.
“Um … not too much if I don’t move,” she answered sleepily, pushing herself up against her pillows. An open book toppled from her lap as she did.
“Are you awake enough to tell?”
“Yes.” She grimaced as she propped herself up against her pillows. Settled, she smiled up at him, and his narrowed eyes relaxed. “Why? Was I crying out in my sleep?” Did she say aloud the things she was thinking about Beast and that horrible woman?
Lyndon picked up the book and straightened a folded page. He rubbed his thumb thoughtfully along the book’s brown leather spine before answering. “Your expression was fretful, almost angry at times.” He cocked his head to look at her fully, as if expecting a full answer. Why did Belinda not want to give it?
Despite the uncomfortable twisting of her stomach and the flush of her cheeks, or because of them, Belinda smiled brightly. “I’m not angry at you or Beast. You needn’t worry.”
Lyndon’s face fell expressionless, but he wore the same air Belinda felt she had: that of one whose attention was entirely focused on sound. Footsteps, heavy but athletic despite that, passed quickly along the hallway. The door to Beast’s room opened.
Lyndon glanced at the clock on the mantle, then turned his attention back to her. “Was it pain or a nightmare, Miss Lambton?”
Belinda started at his tone, serious and almost cold, and so much nearer than the hallway she’d been focused on. “Neither. More of a …” What exactly was it? After learning about the rotating villages, “dream” seemed too close to a lie for her to be comfortable with. “Vision” was possibly too close to the truth. “Something like a strange dream.” She added hurriedly, “Have you been here long? I do hope I wasn’t snoring.”
He regarded her a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “As to the first, yes. I thought I would join you while Beast was occupied. You were asleep, and so obviously dreaming, I stayed to make sure you weren’t lapsing into a fever or in need of someone to wake you from a nightmare.”
“That was kind of you.”
“You have a curious sleep schedule, Miss Lambton. I looked in on you yesterday while Beast was occupied, and you were sleeping then.”
A ridiculous, guilty flush blazed across Belinda’s cheeks. “I’ve noticed insomnia is not a problem in this castle.”
He arched an eyebrow, and Belinda’s hand fisted around her comforter. What if she did dream of Beast? She didn’t ask for them, and they affected no one—by rights, by Beast’s own admission, it was her secret to keep.
Lyndon’s gaze swept from her face to her hand, contemplatively, then he relaxed in his chair. “Would you like to play a game of chess?”
An hour later, Lyndon took his leave. He paused at the door, a serious expression falling over him again as he turned to her. “As to your fear of snoring, you do not snore … but you do talk. Miss Lambton, I am to return to Beast’s family in a few days. If there is anything regarding my master’s safety you know, you must tell me. Please tell me.”
Belinda nodded and lowered her gaze, and he left. Her thoughts drifted back to her dream.
The lady called to Beast. She’d almost stopped doing that, as if finally realizing that wouldn’t halt him. Yet today’s calls were clear, guiding in reverse. Her cry came from the left. Beast darted right. Further along his path, two burly men crouched in the rhododendrons.
“Look out! She’s herding you. Use your nose like a proper beast!” Belinda had thought. Like the lady, Beast had been growing wiser too, more scent, more sound to aid in his role of fox in the morning chase. “Careful, Beast!”
Beast sniffed the air, doubled back, and sheltered among the cedar boughs until the woman passed and left with the men.
Sighing, Belinda collapsed against her pillows. If her dreams really were real, then she had nothing to tell Lyndon Beast couldn’t tell him himself.
Speaking of tell, the next time she saw that enchantress, she’d have a thing or two to say about her hijacking Belinda’s dreams without her consent. And heaven forbid Beast know she was dreaming about him. He might be a beast, but she had little doubt he’d lost his masculine ego.
Lunch was served shortly, which did a great deal toward disentangling the twists of defensiveness and confusion in her chest that Lyndon’s questions had evoked.
Only after lunch was put away did she realize Lyndon had left her a book: the copy of Jane Eyre. A passage toward the end was marked for her: “It is time some one undertook to rehumanize you,” I said, parting his thick and long uncut locks; “for I see you are being metamorphosed into a lion, or something of that sort. You have a faux air of Nebuchadnezzar in the fields about you, that is certain: your hair reminds me of eagles’ feathers; whether your nails are grown like bird’s claws or not, I have not yet noticed.”
Belinda huffed a laugh as she read it. If Lyndon had hopes of her undoing Beast’s metamorphosis, he would be sadly disappointed. As would the enchantress. There was more than one way to skin a beast down to its human hide, but she didn’t know any of them.
And yet …
She was not a woman to give in to gray.
Belinda tapped the book to her chin. She’d inadvertently roused the protector in Beast once before. Perhaps she could do it again—in a manner less uncomfortable to herself—and in doing so, clear away some of those eagles’ feathers from other areas as well.
At dinner, they talked of the weather, which Belinda discovered to be a more stirring topic than she anticipated. A storm was brewing and was sure to burst upon them in the next few days. To her further surprise, she ascertained that Beast found the flash of deadly bolts of electricity and the deafening cracks of thunder exciting. She wasn’t quite sure if that had anything to do with a change of heart, but she stored the information away as a possible sign of courage for non-life-threatening events and proof of his not total lack of interest in activities more exciting than turning pages. Out of curiosity, she let slip, with a slight exaggeration, her own dislike of storms. Beast perked up ever so slightly, and a contemplative light crept into his eyes. Belinda smiled to herself.
After dinner, when Beast pulled from some hidden location a copy of Much Ado About Nothing, she was very nearly affronted. Did he think she would abscond with every book containing a proposal?
It wasn’t a bad idea actually.
But she couldn’t find a pillowcase that large.
So she chose to take the high road instead. “I’ll take the part of the fair Beatrice, shall I?” she said before Beast could give his usual commands in that regard. “Lyndon, you should be Benedick. You have just the right voice for the part.”
“I’m pleased you think so, Miss Lambton,” Lyndon said with admirable nonchalance. “His is a most entertaining role.”
Beast merely passed them each a worn copy of the play, and said firmly and without concern, “Benedick’s part is mine. You may have Claudio, Lyndon. Miss Lambton will also read for Hero.”
Despite losing the privilege of frustrating Beast, Belinda found herself enjoying the reading, and surprised as Lyndon and Beast paused in their reading to indulge in laughter, playing both characters and themselves as audience.
Belinda joined in their merriment, nearly forgetting the play’s purpose until its end. That dialogue was for Benedick and Beatrice alone, and Beast had proven he could play the part with all the delightful spirit Benedick deserved. She would give Beatrice equal life. For once, Belinda thought as she remembered the mortification of Gaspard’s declarations of intending to marry her, she could enjoy a proposal.
“Soft and fair, friar,” Beast said, leaning forward in his seat and looking at her. “Which is Beatrice?”
Belinda stra
ightened her shoulders proudly, and flourished her hand before her face, mimicking the removal of a mask. “I answer to that name. What is your will?”
“Do you not love me?”
She cocked her head and raised her chin, as if she could look down on the towering Beast. “Why no; no more than reason.”
Beast’s teeth showed in a slight, ghastly smile before he banished it. “Why, then our uncle and the prince and Claudio have been deceived: they swore you did.”
“Do you not love me?”
“Troth, no; no more than reason.”
“Why, then my cousin Margaret and Ursula are much deceived; for they did swear you did.”
“They swore that you were almost sick for me.”
“They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.”
“’Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?”
“No, truly, but in friendly recompense.”
“Come, cousin,” Lyndon said, a surprising interruption to their banter, “I am sure you love the gentleman.” Changing voices, he added, “And I’ll be sworn upon’t that he loves her; for here’s a paper written in his hand.” Leaning forward, he pulled a folded square of paper from his pocket and handed it to Belinda, who dutifully read it, her brow creasing as she did, for it was Beast’s next line. “A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, fashion’d to Beatrice,” Lyndon continued, then shifted to a third tone, “And here’s another writ in my cousin’s hand, stolen from her pocket, containing her affection unto Benedick.”
“A miracle! Here’s our own hands against our hearts,” Beast said, one hand nearly swallowing up a steaming cup on a newly placed tray beside them. The aroma of warm chocolate called to Belinda, but she wouldn’t let it distract her. Glancing between her and the cup, Beast continued with the most important line of the night, to his mind anyway, Belinda thought.
Beast settled his blue eyes on her, his manner entirely too confident for Lady Violetta to be pleased. “Come,” he said, “I will have thee: but, by this light, I take thee for pity.”