Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1)

by Rachel L. Demeter

  “Of course. If that’s what you wish.”

  “It’s what Papa would have wanted, anyway. Thank you, Adam.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  The atmosphere shifted between them. He outstretched his hand and gently cupped her chin, turning her face from the cross and forcing her gaze to meet his own. A smile curved her lips, and something primitive stirred to life inside him. He studied the lush shape of her mouth... those sensual curves, the deep, exotic hue...

  She was pure temptation. Unlike anything he’d known before. And her loyalty to her family unnerved him far more than her beauty. It forced him to glance inward, to witness the full measure of the beast he’d become.

  Half of him yearned to send her away, while the other half ached to hold her close. Never had he felt so torn, so inferior—and all because of a slip of a girl. Resentment curdled inside him, morphing his apprehension into a cold, silent despair.

  Non, she’s far from a slip of a girl, you fool. She’s strong. Courageous. Beautiful, inside and out. And loyal to her core. Aside from the East Tower, she’s never even tried to escape me.

  Adam wrenched his hand away and silently cursed himself. He brushed unsteady fingers through his hairline and forced his thoughts into another territory.

  That was when it hit him. Sébastien would be arriving this afternoon, should the fool stick to their arrangement.

  “There’s a village not so far from here. It’s small but has all the basic necessities.” His eyes fixed on her mouth again before sliding down her body. “You can purchase your own clothing there... whatever other things you may require. It’s quite close—not over half an hour on horseback if you know the path. You can ride?” She silently nodded. “I figured as much.” Adam imagined Isabelle unleashing her adventurous spirit—riding through a field of flowers and swaying grass. Her long curls would wave behind her like a banner while her robust laughter floated on the breeze...

  Snapping out of his fantasy, he withdrew a handful of francs from inside his cloak. He pressed them into her small, delicate palm, then curled her fingers closed.

  When he at last spoke, a painful longing filled his voice—one he no longer could hide. “Return to me, Isabelle.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The damnable brougham hadn’t budged a bit. Sébastien’s eyes fixed on its ice-locked wheels and emblazoned letters, then darted back to his own modest phaeton. Adjusting his satchel, he pounded on the castle’s monstrous wooden door and waited.

  And waited.

  No answer.

  That brougham had occupied his mind ever since his last visit—nagging at his thoughts with an unsettling intensity. The brougham, Adam’s beautiful lady guest (or perhaps hostage), and that gentleman’s top hat. They had become somewhat of an obsession, and in their wake, a hostility toward Adam took flight.

  That damnable brougham and top hat had sent him racing across the country. Indeed, he’d fled his comfortable apartment, which lay far enough from Ruillé not to bear its stain, yet close enough not to suffer the ghastly cost of the nearby provinces. Even the Dumonts lived quite near to him in Laché, Demrov—less than a brisk carriage ride away.

  He’d known Adam since he was a green lad—but did he truly know the man he’d become? After all, a person could only endure so much for so long...

  Another knock; more silence.

  Living in such a filthy, drafty castle in complete solitude for so many years... it could drive even the sanest man to desperation. It was a true wonder Adam hadn’t snapped before now, especially with that scalding temper of his. But then again, he’d never encountered anything quite like that beauty...

  Sébastien found it quite unbelievable she’d ever stay of her own volition. She’d have to be mad. Or threatened. Something had to be keeping her here. There was no other explanation. And Sébastien had a feeling that something was Adam.

  Shoving away the torrential thoughts, he smoothed down his coat and slammed his fist against the door again. The banging echoed inside the castle like a beast’s deep bellow. He adjusted the overstuffed satchel and cursed Adam for making him wait so damn long.

  Minutes later, the door wrenched open, and Sébastien found himself staring into Adam’s naked face. It was a darkly tragic sight, to be sure, and some of Sébastien’s hostility evaporated. Twenty-five years did little to soften the uneven ridges of his skin. He donned no hood, no cloak. The sight only nursed the uneasy feeling in his gut. Adam almost always wore that hideous cloak—oftentimes even in his wretched solitude.

  What, in God’s teeth, has lured him out from his rock?

  Adam turned away, clearly bothered by Sébastien’s long perusal.

  “You don’t have to scowl at me,” he said as he pushed past Adam’s towering form. “You’re already unsightly enough without twisting your face like that.”

  “Let’s make our meeting quick this time, shall we?” His face contorted even more, and Sébastien couldn’t help but turn away.

  “Ah, you wound me, mon ami.” Adam tried to hide his grin but failed miserably. It was a welcomed sight, and Sébastien felt his mood brighten.

  Stranger greeted him with a low, friendly bark. He ran his palm over the dog’s bristly coat and gently patted his bad leg, then followed him and his master inside the castle.

  Even the atmosphere felt somehow different, less oppressive. Cleaner, too. Once again, a fire burned low in the hearth, and a fresh pot of tea sat on the chipped end table. Two cups had been poured, Sébastien took note.

  Who is he entertaining?

  His beauty?

  It was all very peculiar and unlike Adam. Red flags shot into place while his suspicions grew.

  “Ah. Your lady friend is still with us, I suspect?” Sébastien asked, gesturing toward one of the empty teacups. Silently Adam stood in front of the hearth and stared into the flames with a vacant expression. Sébastien’s chest constricted as the memories surfaced on his scarred face. Indeed, he’d never stop reliving that fateful night. Even Sébastien often awoke in a sweat, those tragic images blazing through his mind like a wild inferno.

  And that’s precisely why Adam is such a danger—and in many ways unknowable.

  “She comes and goes,” he finally replied, breaking the heavy silence.

  Sébastien couldn’t restrain his laughter. He’d spoken those words with such a casual tone. For a moment, Sébastien might have mistaken Adam for any other suitor... or even the boy he used to be. But alas, he knew better.

  Adam Delacroix was far from an ordinary man.

  Adam’s face whipped toward his laughter. Sébastien instantly fell silent. Then he shrugged his shoulders and poured a cup of tea. “I don’t claim it’s impossible for you to have a female companion. Quite honestly, this whole affair—the lit fire, the carriage, the hat—”

  “Would you forget about the damn hat? Mon Dieu, you are obsessed!”

  “—they all stink of shit, of foul play.” Sébastien sighed before he downed a sip of the tea. Nodding his head in appreciation, he murmured, “It’s quite good. You harvested the leaves from your gardens?”

  Adam mutely nodded, then rubbed behind Stranger’s long ears. The dog had shoved his massive skull under his palm, demanding his master’s affection.

  “I ask you again, Adam, as your friend. Is the woman still here? Every sign indicates that she is indeed. And likely her father, as well. Although, I imagine that would be a bit awkward—her father staggering about—”

  “Yes, yes, she is still here,” Adam spat. Sébastien knew he’d only come clean to shut him up. And he’d made no mention of the girl’s father. A gust of wind wailed and wriggled its way through the castle’s cracks. Sébastien shivered at the draft and tightened the fastenings on his coat. That quiet grew until he could hardly stand the silence.

  Then Adam whirled toward him and locked on to his gaze. The intensity in his blue eyes gave him a start, nearly causing him to spill his tea. “I’m ready for you to fulfill that
favor. It’s to the girl’s benefit.”

  Nausea infected his body. He straightened his posture and latched on to his friend’s penetrating glare. “I see. Fine, then, mon ami. I shall do what you ask—for the girl’s sake and hers alone. But consider this the final time and my last favor. I shan’t return again.”

  How wonderful it felt to be one with the world again. The snowfall had mostly cleared, though a heavy frost still encapsulated Demrov. Isabelle inhaled the cool air as Spirit cantered down the simple dirt pathway and returned her to the castle. Various odds and ends made her riding saddlebag burst at the seams. Her trip to Hartville’s marketplace, however, had left her feeling empty and homesick for Ruillé. She had missed Monsieur Lafitte’s cheerful greetings and warm bread rolls; she’d yearned for the dusty bookshop and its humble collection. And she’d missed strolling down the bustling walkways with Papa... though it had been years since his health had permitted trips to their modest village.

  Soon, Hartville’s marketplace fell out of sight, and the trees thickened into a dense forest. With each step the mare took, hesitation crept into Isabelle’s heart and chipped at her resolve.

  Her mind grew quiet and still. She tugged on the reins, bringing Spirit to a sudden halt. Peering inward to relive the past fortnight, Isabelle observed as her breaths shone in the air. What was she doing?

  Have I gone mad, returning to Adam’s castle in a sort of trance? She gazed at the winding dirt path that lay ahead—a true crossroad.

  This is my chance to leave this behind. My chance for freedom... to start a new life, away from Raphael and this nightmare.

  But had her time with Adam truly been a nightmare?

  Her heartbeat was a manic staccato. The urge to turn back to the village and flee Demrov overwhelmed her... as did the desire to see Adam again. It was madness. Insanity. He’d imprisoned her beloved father, had likely frightened him half to death...

  And he’d held me in my hour of darkness. Stood by my bedside for three nights straight. He cooled my brow, fed me soup, and whispered comforting words into my ear.

  Adam’s broken plea echoed in her mind.

  I am here with you, ma belle. And I shan’t let you go.

  Something about Adam touched her deeply. It couldn’t be put into words. It lacked reason and logic. Isabelle gripped the reins tighter until the leather cut into her fingers.

  Turn away, her mind screamed.

  Return to Adam, her heart chimed with its characteristic stubbornness. Last time she’d listened to her heart, things had ended in disaster.

  Strangely enough, the garden flashed through her thoughts and solidified her tenacity: beautiful, immaculate, and untouched by winter’s grasp.

  You grow stronger. You move forward as best you can. And you learn to endure.

  Yes, she stood at a true crossroad—yet she didn’t think twice as she edged into the forest and lost herself in the great copse of trees. Indeed, with each step, a singular thought rang in her mind, as clear and as powerful as Notre Dame’s eternal bells: Home.

  Adam answered her knock almost at once. His face was bare, the brutal scarring fully exposed. But what took her breath away were his eyes. They softened and overflowed with emotion at the mere sight of her.

  He thought I wasn’t going to return.

  Worry etched his thick brows; he looked a bit panicked... like he had something important to say but couldn’t quite find the words.

  He took the saddlebag from her clutches, then gracefully stepped aside. She silently followed him through the rooms until they reached the main hearth.

  A man sat in Adam’s favored wingback chair. His muddy boots were propped on a footstool as he lazily ran a gloved hand down Stranger’s back. Isabelle threw Adam a questioning look. Before he could respond, however, the man’s voice echoed in the large drawing room. “Ah, glad to see you finally on your feet again, mademoiselle.” A light humor laced the words together.

  The man rose from the chair, stepped in front of the hearth, and rubbed his hands. The flames shone in his wavy red locks and enhanced the mischievous glint in his eyes. She instantly took a liking to him. And Isabelle knew, without a doubt, that Adam’s hands were full with this one.

  Whoever he is.

  “Good to meet you, monsieur. And you are...?” She found herself tongue-tied, completely taken off guard.

  Adam does have a connection to the outside world.

  Stranger followed alongside the man’s heels as he crossed the room in three swift strides. “Name’s Sébastien.” Dipping into a bow, he collected Isabelle’s hand and kissed her knuckles. From the corner of her eye, she noticed that Adam tensed and threw Sébastien something along the lines of a warning glance.

  “I believe you were just leaving,” Adam cut in while he gently seized hold of Isabelle’s elbow. “Come.”

  “Ah, mon ami, I was just acquainting myself with your lovely lady friend. Pray tell, what’s your name?”

  Isabelle returned his smile and shooed away Adam’s insistent groping. “Isabelle. Isabelle Rose.”

  “Fitting. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

  “Merci. You’re too kind. Before—you said you were ‘glad to see me on my feet again.’ You were here while I was ill?”

  “I was indeed. Didn’t Adam tell you about me?” He turned away from Adam, then leaned against a hulking chair.

  “No,” she replied, throwing Adam an accusatory glance. “He said nothing.”

  “Ah, you mustn’t be offended, mademoiselle. He’s said very little about you. But that must be quite a story, how you came to be in Adam’s caretaking. You were traveling with your father, were you not?”

  Adam’s fingers returned to Isabelle’s elbow again; she nodded, though the color flushed from her cheeks at the mention of her father, and the dagger in her heart gave a painful twist.

  “Is he here now?” Sébastien asked in a careful tone.

  Isabelle staggered back. She wrung her hands while everything welled up inside her at once. She swallowed deeply as the words escaped her. “No. No, he’s not, monsieur. He’s no longer here.” Emotion constricted her words into a heavy silence. “Forgive me. I’m quite tired.” Was it just her, or did her voice sound breathless? “I think... I think I’ll rest before lunch. It was a pleasure to meet you, Sébastien.” And without another word or backward glance, Isabelle wheeled away and rushed for her private quarters.

  Sébastien returned Adam’s glare as Isabelle paced out of the room. Her cordial demeanor did little to smooth his feathers or ease his mind. Adam’s intervention waved like a stark-red flag, and he’d likely commanded her silence and obedience with a single word. Even still, she hadn’t been able to conceal her anxiety or grief. How she’d reacted to the simple mention of her father was evidence enough. And in Sébastien’s mind, that spoke volumes. Not to mention, he’d recognized that gown—a garment he’d rescued from the Delacroix ruins... one Adam’s mother had worn decades ago...

  The very thought shook him to the core and fortified his resolve. That sweet girl—that Isabelle Rose—didn’t belong here, trapped in the shadow of Adam’s unfortunate past.

  Sébastien shook his head while silence infected the air. Once the girl had vanished completely, he strode over to Adam until they stood less than a meter apart. He said in a low warning voice, “I’ll ask you once and only more. What became of that girl’s father?” Nothing. Not a single utterance. Come now, Adam, he silently pleaded. “Your silence says everything.”

  Adam hooked both hands behind his back and paced the length of the drawing room. Only the sound of his boots hitting the floor shattered the quiet. Sébastien stole a glance at the flaming hearth and felt those red flags raised into place once more.

  “He died,” Adam finally whispered, his gaze also fixed on the fire. “In the dungeon.” He raked unsteady fingers through his hairline—a clear telltale of his discomfort. Sébastien caught a glimpse of the signet ring; he glared into the fire again, unable to bea
r the sight. “He was very ill—”

  The dungeon. Mon Dieu...

  “A suitable coincidence, wouldn’t you agree? Him dying so shortly after their arrival?”

  Not to mention the shattered teacup and strewn top hat—evidence of a struggle.

  Another silence took hold. Adam stopped pacing the room, stepped in front of him, and met his unwavering gaze. Sébastien fought to detect a trace of softness or remorse in those eyes, but only an embittered spirit radiated.

  “Are you implying that I murdered him?” Adam’s tone dropped several octaves, and a shudder raced down Sébastien’s spine. “To keep the girl for myself?”

  “You said the words, not I.”

  Adam’s eyes darkened. “You call me ‘friend,’ yet you regard me as little more than a savage beast. It’s because of people like you that I’ve shut myself away.”

  “It’s because of me that you even breathe the air, you ungrateful fool. Perhaps I’ve done the world a great disservice, dragging your wretched skin from your parents’ chamber. Yes, I should have risen up with the other servants—I should have watched your home and family burn—”

  It happened in a flash. Adam lunged forward and grabbed Sébastien’s cravat. Thwap! Air whooshed from his lungs as Adam slammed his back, full force, against the wall. Adam’s face contorted, transformed—morphing into something truly frightening to behold. Even the handsome side lost its beauty. He stared daggers, his blue eyes flashing fire, the raven waves of his hair wildly tousled. He grasped the material of Sébastien’s frock coat with steel fists and actually lifted him off the ground a few centimeters.

  Adam’s violent outburst had confirmed the inevitable.

  He is mad—he’s truly become a monster.

  “You might not have killed him directly. I’ll allow you that—but you caused his death all the same. Didn’t you, Adam?”