Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1)

by Rachel L. Demeter

  His gaze shot to the end table; the lantern had fallen over, and a small fire blazed several meters from his bed. The drapes, which fell around the window in thick folds, were aflame.

  Panic seized him. The room physically spun and undulated. Not thinking, unable to draw breaths, he stumbled away from those flames and rolled off the opposite side of the mattress.

  Thwap.

  The back of his head slammed against the wall, knocking the breaths from his lungs and causing blackness to fringe his consciousness.

  He felt himself slipping away—felt the memories crashing down in a brutal avalanche.

  Non, sire. A revolution.

  That deep, dark voice hissed inside his skull with the cruelty of a serpent; twenty-five years had dulled neither the menacing tone nor the horror it summoned in Adam’s mind and body.

  Darkness and fear enveloped him. His heart reached a breakneck speed. His hands grew hot and clammy. Pain speared through his chest and weighed heavily on his straining lungs. The scent of the smoke burned his nostrils and caused bile to climb into his throat. All logic faded from his thoughts; he cried out and grasped either side of his head, blocking out the diabolic crackle of the flames. Alas, he was eleven years old again—and the horrors of that eve returned at full force. His pulse thundered in his temples and violently beat against his palms...

  Now... you watch Maman and Papa die...

  The thick scent of the smoke continued to drift toward him, swelling his lungs. Rosemary’s cries blasted in his mind until he perceived nothing else. He pushed his palms harder against his ears, fought to muffle her sobs, struggled to cave inside the barricade of his shuddering body...

  Nutrisco et extinguo.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw the blade slicing at the air—cutting straight through Papa’s neck...

  “Adam?” He perceived Isabelle’s voice through a hazy filter; it seemed to emerge from many kilometers away. “Adam!”

  His eyes flashed open. Somehow he grabbed hold of the bed’s poster and pulled himself up. The entire chamber tilted and swayed as she yanked the cover off the mattress and suffocated those roaring flames.

  Her gaze captured his from across the bed, and Adam felt the shame twist inside his chest. Stranger stood at her heels; Isabelle grabbed the scruff of his neck, directing him away from the rising smoke.

  Adam’s entire body trembled. He wobbled onto his feet and shrank against the wall. Isabelle wheeled around the bed, a shared anguish etched into her fine brows. She covered her mouth and nose with her sleeve and coughed into the fabric.

  “I have to help her,” he rasped, lulling toward the rising cloud of smoke and shriveled drapes. “Can’t you hear her crying? She’s still alive—she’s suffering. Please...”

  Be brave, my dear boy. Endure and be strong...

  “Adam... You are safe.” Soft, gentle fingers grazed his shoulders. He watched beneath heavy lids as Isabelle blocked his pathway and gazed up at him. She applied a careful pressure to his arms and guided him onto the mattress. “Shh...” She sank down next to him, her body pressed against his own. Stranger also dropped to the floor a meter away from the bed; clearly affected by Adam’s anguish, he released a low whine and stared up at him with large, soulful eyes.

  Isabelle’s slim arms enclosed him, and Adam melted in her hold. Her hands tentatively rubbed his back in slow strokes, soothing his quaking limbs. His disjointed mind traveled back to their embrace in the library... to the tentative kiss he’d bestowed upon her brow.

  The soft whisper of her breath fanned against his sweaty cheeks. He tightened his hold on her slender body, welcoming her gentle curves, soaking in the warmth and comfort she freely offered. Then her calming voice was in his ear, chasing away the shadows and memories. “Adam... share with me. You are not alone anymore. Let me help you. Let me inside...”

  She scooted backward a centimeter or two, pulled away from his body, and captured his eyes with her own. Compassion swam in her gaze... one that stole his breath away and severed his defenses. “I’m here with you, here for you. And I shan’t let you go...”

  Isabelle’s heart clenched as she gathered Adam against her chest again. His body madly shook beneath her fingers, and his gaze held a distant, faraway look. He seemed to watch something terrible unfold inside his mind.

  The pounding of his heart slammed against her torso, echoing his despair and an unspoken torment. One of her hands glided up his nude, muscled back, tracing over the uneven flesh and raised welts. Her heartbeat picked up pace and tears stung the corner of her eyes. Her fingertips slid down and up his strong back as she attempted to relieve his fear in the only way she knew how.

  Her thoughts backtracked, and she recalled how Papa used to comfort her in this way.

  “I... I can still hear her...”

  “It’s only in your mind. Come back to me, Adam.” Laying a hand on the center of his chest, she applied a light pressure and massaged his thundering heart. Her fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles while his breathing returned to normal. A moment later, he completely surrendered to her touch; his head fell across her shoulder, and his steady breaths filled her eardrums. Strong, blemished arms snaked around her torso as he returned her embrace.

  They held each other for several minutes.

  Isabelle swayed back and forth and murmured reassuring words against his marred cheek. Wetness seeped through the fabric of her nightgown.

  Adam’s tears.

  “You are not alone. You don’t have to be afraid any longer.”

  Their gazes slammed together. He inhaled a fortifying breath, as if gathering the courage to speak.

  She lifted her fingers in midair, so they hung centimeters away from his face. Then she carefully traced the puckered skin. Adam’s chest rattled, and he sucked in a taut breath. She watched in awe as his eyes fell shut and he dipped into the gentle, featherlight caress of her fingers. Her palm cupped his scarred, tear-tracked cheek; he turned into her outstretched fingers and pressed a kiss against the center of her palm.

  Isabelle glanced over her shoulder and surveyed the crumpled, burned coverlet. She’d never encountered such fear in another person’s eyes. How lost he’d looked—almost like a young child amid disaster, abandoned and with no one to turn to. Once, when she had been a girl, she’d witnessed as a stable caught fire. She’d never forgotten the look of terror in the horses’ eyes as Papa had bravely guided them from the burning building.

  That same terror flamed in Adam’s gaze. He looked wild, unkempt, in a state of utter panic. His appearance and shattered composure were a stark contradiction to his demeanor in the music room. Every piece of her softened to him.

  “Your scars...” she began, her voice a tentative whisper. “Your burns. How—how did they happen?” Her fingers slipped away from his cheek and seized hold of his trembling hand. She smoothed her thumb over his knuckles, cherishing the simple feel of his skin. Despite the scarring, his hands were elegantly carved and masterful. They were the hands of an artist—hands that any musician would envy... a flesh-and-blood testament to an abstract, powerful beauty.

  She imagined how they’d feel against the planes of her body. Would he be rough? Would he force himself upon her as Raphael had done so many nights ago? Or would he be gentle, playing her body with the care of a well-loved instrument?

  “You don't have to suffer alone any more. Let me take away some of your pain.”

  When he gave no answers, Isabelle wrapped her arms around his body and simply held him again. She rocked him in the circle of her arms, humming beneath her breath, soaking up the anguish that radiated from his quivering muscles.

  She ached to lose herself in his tentative yet arresting touches... to crawl in his lap, hook both arms around his strong neck, and seize his mouth in a tender kiss. Instead, she nuzzled against his shoulder and inhaled the unique aroma of his skin. It swelled her senses and carried her back into the erotic throes of her dream...

  “I’m here with you, for y
ou. And I won’t let you go.”

  Isabelle kept true to her word. She stayed with him throughout the night, reciting fanciful stories to distract him, stroking the forelock from his eye, and reading from the pages of books. A dreamy haze settled over them; together, they fell asleep, heartbeat to heartbeat. And she remained that way until morning’s golden light trickled through the window and set his bedchamber aglow.

  As warm light bathed her features and awoke her like a lover’s caress, a single thought occupied her mind: It was the start of a new day.

  Sébastien hesitated outside the cottage’s peeling door and spared a moment to gather his thoughts.

  Stuck in an obsessive loop, his mind continually slid back to his final interaction with Adam. Only the night of the Delacroix siege compared to the anguish and unrest he felt; every time he reflected on Adam’s final words, his resolve slipped away, and he considered dropping this plan altogether. Then he’d remember the lonely pile of stones, the wooden cross, and the sight of Isabelle wearing that gown... Adam’s violent outburst replayed in his mind, and Sébastien’s tenacity sparked to life again.

  What kind of man would I be if I stood idly by, watching as that castle snuffs out the girl’s spirit?

  He’d fulfill Adam’s request—and he would get to the bottom of the mystery and the comte’s brougham.

  Clarice and Elizabeth. Clarice and Elizabeth. Elizabeth and Clarice. He inwardly repeated the names of the girl’s stepsisters, then banged against the cracked door panel with his fist. Several moments slipped by with no response. Sébastien sighed and turned back to the unpaved dirt pathway, which was encased in a light frost. Afternoon light shimmered through the rows of tight-knit homes and dabbled the ground with dancing prisms. The sun was halfway hidden by a blanket of low-hanging clouds. Ruillé’s province was small and its buildings equally so; nearly erected on top of one another, countless homes crowded the walkway, their walls splintered and windswept. Clotheslines and ropes of lanterns webbed the structures as one. From what he could make out, the streets appeared poorly tended.

  A whiny voice echoed from within the cottage and captured Sébastien’s focus. “What do you know, Elizabeth? I suppose they have returned, after all.”

  A heartbeat later, the front door cracked open. Sébastien peered inside, his gaze running over the girl’s severe expression. Her face appeared quite thin, her small eyes narrowed with suspicion, and a long, tightly plaited braid draped over one shoulder. She might have been pretty if she smiled. But she offered no smile—only a shrewd glance and a huffy greeting. Her reedy shoulders and collarbone reminded Sébastien of a bird’s. And that hawkish nose didn’t temper the likening.

  Stifling an inappropriate, chortled laugh, he bowed his chin and said, “Bonjour, mademoiselle. I’m looking for Clarice and Elizabeth.”

  A spark of interest flared in her eyes. Sébastien examined her unpleasant face for another moment, noting that she held little resemblance to Isabelle. It was rather apparent they didn’t share the same bloodline.

  “I am Clarice,” she finally said, edging the door open a fraction more. “And who, pray tell, are you?”

  A second girl crowded behind her and peeked past the chipped door. From what Sébastien could see, they looked quite similar; both women bore thin, angular faces, silver eyes, and wiry, stick-straight hair fastened into too-tight plaits. “Who is that? Oh, tell me now, Clarice, tell me straight away!”

  “Quiet,” Clarice snapped at her sister. Fixing her cool eyes on Sébastien again, she said, “What do you want?” Her gaze traveled down his fine walking coat, volleyed over his shoulder, then studied the parked phaeton before coming full circle again.

  “Glad to make your acquaintances, mademoiselles,” Sébastien replied with a small bow, ignoring her brashness. “I come on behalf of your sister Isabelle.”

  This caught the interest of both women. Clarice peered over her shoulder and met her sister’s wide eyes.

  “Might I come inside for a moment? I bring some important news.”

  Whispering ensued. The door emitted a creak as Clarice hesitantly pulled it open. Sébastien stepped inside the cottage, following the two women.

  Mon Dieu, the room was tiny—the walls seemed to physically close in on him. His eyes drew to a nearly black hearth and a pair of rocking chairs. A stack of books sat on the floor beside the mantel, towering halfway up the peeling hearth. A small fire burned and imbued the room with a pleasant warmth.

  The second sister swooped in front of him like the bird she so well resembled. “So what’s your purpose here? Isabelle and her father left us here almost a month ago, just like every other year!”

  “But why?” Sébastien asked, sensing jealousy and hurt in the girl’s tone.

  “That wretched Merchants’ Fair, of course!” She plopped down in one of the rocking chairs while her sister claimed the other. Affected by the chit’s dramatic flair, he was half tempted to run for some smelling salts.

  “Forgive my younger sister,” Clarice said with a huff and an air of importance. “She’s prone to melodrama like our mother was.”

  “I am not!”

  “Mademoiselle Isabelle never reached the fair,” Sébastien said in a slow, cautious tone, turning the conversation back to the reason for his visit.

  “Why? Where did she and Papa run off to?”

  Sébastien searched for the right words. Mention as little as you can, Adam had warned. See to the girls’ needs and whatever they might require—but disclose little more.

  “She is safe and well, I assure you.” He glanced around, struggling for a way to lighten the atmosphere. “I daresay she won’t be lacking for comfort in my master’s castle.”

  Silence swept over the cottage while the girls exchanged a look. “C-castle? Your master? What—”

  A sudden thought crossed Sébastien’s mind. “Do either of you two lovely ladies happen to know Vicomte Dumont?”

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened at the name, and he could have sworn a blush swept across her thin cheeks. “What, are you mad? Why, of course, we do! He used to call upon our home quite frequently.”

  Clarice, whom Adam pinned as the more level-headed of the two, tossed her hand in the air to silence her sister’s words. She gave Sébastien a small smile, then rose and moved toward the cramped kitchen nook. “Coffee, monsieur? It’s a rather cold afternoon.”

  “Ah, yes, merci. I’d be most grateful.”

  She shuffled with a rusted kettle and two ceramic cups. Then she rekindled the fire, hung said kettle in the hearth, and reclaimed her seat at the round table.

  “Yes,” Clarice continued, rewarding Sébastien with a small grin, “my sweet sister and her vicomte are quite besotted with each other.”

  “Oh, yes!” the younger sister chimed in. “He was very kind to her! Treated her like a true queen.” She covered her mouth with her palm and stifled a giggle. “Dear Isabelle used to sit at the window for hours at a time, just waiting for the vicomte’s return. Isn’t that right, sister?”

  Clarice’s smile grew as she gave a sharp nod. The hissing kettle broke the following silence. Clarice rose from her chair, wandered over to the hearth, and prepared Sébastien’s cup of coffee with stiff movements and a vacant stare.

  He nodded his gratitude as she slid the chipped cup across the table and into his hand. Then she reached across the surface and laid her palm on top of Sébastien’s. “Isabelle was on the cusp of a bright new life... one full of love and fortune. Why, the vicomte was so kind, he intended to aid all of us,” she said, lifting her hands and gesturing to the room for emphasis. She heaved a deep sigh and stared into her coffee’s black depths. Tangible sorrow lined her deep-set eyes. Sébastien felt himself soften to both girls. “Now who knows what shall become of us...” She hid her face behind her palms and expelled another sigh. “I’m so sorry, monsieur. It’s selfish and weak of me to cry. Why, all that matters now is Isabelle’s happiness... not our own.”

  “On that first not
e,” Sébastien said, pulling a handsome sum of bank notes from his coat’s pocket. “This should ensure your comfort for a while.”

  Elizabeth burst across the table and grabbed for the notes; Clarice swatted her hand away, hissing something incoherent in her sister’s ear.

  “When shall we be seeing more?” Clarice asked, pocketing the notes as quickly as he’d retrieved them.

  “Next month, most likely. I believe that’s Adam’s plan.”

  “Adam? Who is—” Elizabeth began—but Clarice set her hand upon her sister’s shoulder, urging her to hush in a matronly gesture.

  The realization slammed into Sébastien, and unstoppable pity swelled his chest.

  They are really just children... abandoned, orphaned children, who are all alone in this world. Indeed, they may be simple and prone to dramatics—but what young ladies are not?

  Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Clarice shook her head. “It’s so very tragic. I know Raphael would do everything in his power to have his little Isabelle back in his arms.”

  Sébastien’s insides clenched. He absently cracked his knuckles, then downed a generous sip of his coffee. “Well. I’m certainly not one to tear apart two lovers.”

  “We know where he lives! We went once to his beautiful chateau—oh, it’s simply charming!” Elizabeth sprang to her feet and waltzed about the small room with a dreamy expression.

  “Please, monsieur. Allow us to help you and our darling sister,” Clarice murmured as she sipped her drink.

  No more backward glances. Now, I shall set things right.

  Sébastien inhaled a fortifying breath. Then he nodded his agreement.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Here is my secret. It is very simple: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

  Antoine de Saint-Exupéry