by Jessica Loft
“Yer an angel, lass,” Beaste sighed after finishing his third bowl and the last of the entire loaf of bread. She laughed at him as she handed him a towel for his hands and face. Suddenly he realized how oafish he must have seemed, devouring all of that food the way he did.
“Don’t even think it,” Lizbeth said, as if reading his thoughts. She pulled the kettle out of the fire and poured the boiling water into two cups. “Ye were starvin’ when I found ye. I suspect I wouldn’t be much with manners either if it were me in yer condition.” She handed him a cup of the hot water. At the top were several herbs, changing the color of the water from crystal clear to a deep green.
“What’s this?” He asked.
“Herbs te finish fightin’ te infection,” Lizbeth explained. “It’ll help ye get ye strength back. It’s a wee bitter, but I sweetened it with honey for ye.” She bit back a laugh as she watched Beaste grimace at the taste of it, and when he looked over at her she pretended to be incredibly interested in her own cup of tea.
“Have I thanked ye yet?” Beaste asked, his voice low and gravelly.
Lizbeth looked up from her tea with a soft smile on her face. “Ye needn’t to, Beaste.”
“Aye, but I do,” he countered, setting down his cup. The mood in the dwelling suddenly grew somber. He reached over the table, wincing at the slight pain at his side as he did so, but he didn’t stop until his fingers reached Lizbeth’s once again. “If it weren’t ye lass, I wouldn’t have survived the night. I’ve spent a lot of years fighting and being beside dying men so don’t try te tell me otherwise. I knew what was happening to me body. How close the infection was to spreading over every part of me. So please, accept me thanks for your great service. I’m forever in ye debt.”
Lizbeth tightened her fingers around his, deciding not to argue. “Well then, Beaste, ye are quite welcome.”
Warmth spread deliciously through Lizbeth as she looked into Beaste’s deep brown eyes and felt his tender touch. For a warrior he was quite gentle- a trait not often found in those that went to war for a living. A feeling of trust seeped into her, and she went with it. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t here to hurt her.
It was nearly a full minute later that she realized that the room had grown dark, with only the light of the fire illuminating it. Sighing, she let go of Beaste’s hand. Her mother would worry if she was late again.
“I have to go,” she said softly. Standing up, she moved over to fire to throw more logs on. “I washed te blankets on te bed for ye so ye can sleep in that tonight, I’m sure it’ll be more comfortable. And I’ll leave te bottle of whiskey with ye as well to help ye sleep.”
“Bless ye lass,” Beaste rasped, his eyes still on her. “Ye’ll be back in te mornin’?”
“As soon as I can,” Lizbeth promised, tying her cloak around her. “Try te make as little noise as possible out here. I haven’t told anyone I found ye yet. In this time of war, people have grown very suspicious of traitors. I wouldn’t want anyone te think ye were one.”
Beaste’s heart sank as he heard her words. He would have to tell her. A power drew him to do so. But in doing so he would be pushing away someone who already meant so much to him.
~
As soon as Lizbeth left, Beaste got up to take a look around the dwelling. It was basic in every sense of the word. Far different from the castle he grew up in. But it was warm, and dry, and far better than the cold hard ground he’d slept on while looking for help. Lizbeth had left the remnants of the stew, nearly half a pot, on the iron hook swiveled away from the fire. He ladled another bowl out for himself and ate while he sat as close the fire as he could with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
He thought of the battle. It had been a vicious one with a surprising end. The clan, his men, and the English soldiers they fought were fierce and well prepared; not at all like the normal villagers they usually defeated. In his gut, he felt a deep pleasure knowing that some of his kinsmen out there were still defending the land that was rightfully theirs. He hated his father for betraying their country the way he did. It was not at all the way Beaste wanted to live his own life.
“Maybe this is my second chance,” Beaste whispered aloud. After all, if his father thought he was dead then there would be no search party. He could start over. Castle and riches or not, he didn’t care. He was ready to be away from a life of fighting his own people for greed and sport.
After a while he let his mind wonder away from politics and more to the pleasant thoughts of Lizbeth. The woman that saved his life. She was strong, he could tell. She had to be in order to drag his arse into the dwelling and heft him onto the table. She couldn’t have been afraid of blood or guts either because she seemed to have no trouble washing and stitching his wound. A woman with as delicate features as hers was often kept inside the house, made busy with sewing or cooking or cleaning. But obviously this woman was different.
From the dirt around her fingernails he could tell that she was a hard worker. He recalled the arrow she’d had aimed straight at his chest and he knew by that she was a hunter as well. They’d barely spoken, but he already liked her tremendously. He took a swig of the whiskey and enjoyed the way it burned from his mouth all the way to his belly. After getting up, he took another swig for good measure and made his way to the bed. The faster he went to sleep, he thought, the faster he would wake up and see her again.
CHAPTER 7
Beaste quickly decided that he couldn’t tell Lizbeth the truth of who he was. He had wanted to, desperately, but their conversations often pulled him from the subject time and time again. When she could sneak away, Lizbeth came to him with stories and food, and together they began to talk and laugh and argue about life and all that it meant. Never in their lives had either had such a connection with another human being, and it was all very new and exciting.
“So ye’ve really never kissed a man before?” Beaste teased as he carved out a handle for Lizbeth’s shovel blade. He felt a slap to his arm and he couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Nay, have you ever kissed a man before?” Lizbeth shot back.
“Oh aye,” Beaste said seriously. “My friend Angus and I kiss another all te time. It’s just what men do.”
“Ye can’t be serious!” Lizbeth gasped, her eyes wide.
Beaste erupted with laughter, his chuckle low and deep, like his voice. “Nay, we’ve a brotherly love, Angus and I, and sure we kiss another’s cheek time and again, but we don’t kiss another like ye kiss a woman. That right there is a very special kind of kiss.”
Lizbeth pretended not to feel the blush rising up in her cheeks, and she turned her eyes down to the potatoes she was peeling. “How so?” She asked.
“How so what?”
Lizbeth tisked and rolled her eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed that Beaste was making her explain her question just so he could see her squirm. “I mean, how is the kiss special?”
“Och, that. Well. Ye see, women by nature are soft creatures. Now don’t get up in a twist about it, ye tough for a lass for sure. But in general, they have a softness about them that men just don’t have. Ye have te hold her, let her feel ye strength as ye wrap arms around her waist and pull her close, but ye also have te be gentle so ye don’t frighten her. Then, when ye lips press against hers ye have to draw back just enough so that she has to move to accept ye kiss. That’s when ye know te lass really wants te be in ye arms.”
Lizbeth licked her bottom lip, suddenly parched. She imagined herself wrapped in Beaste’s arms, with his lips balanced just above hers. A gush of warmth spread between her thighs and she suddenly crossed her legs, squeezing them tight. Suddenly she felt overly hot and slightly irritated.
“Sounds like ye’ve kissed a lot of lass’s in ye day,” she shot back, her voice holding more malice than she intended.
Beaste looked over at her, loving the way her blush had bloomed like rosebuds on her cheeks. She was jealous, or at least he thought she was. The idea of it made him smile.
/> “I’ve kissed a lass or two in me day,” he replied honestly. “None of them were the right ones though.”
“What ye mean?” Lizbeth asked.
“Well if te kiss isn’t right then nothin’ else works,” Beaste explained. “Te kiss has te make ye shiver, or nothing else will.”
Lizbeth was confused. She wasn’t sure how or why kisses were supposed to make you shiver. Did they make you cold? Still she didn’t want to ask. Instead she just nodded her head, as if she understood perfectly what he was talking about. Her mind wondered back to the idea of Beaste’s arms wrapping around, and before she knew it she was smiling as she continued peeling the potatoes.
“What’s that?” Beaste asked.
“What’s what?” Lizbeth asked, looking around for what he was talking about.
“That smile.” His own grew wide across his face. “Ye were thinkin’ about me kissin’ ye, weren’t ye?”
“No!” Lizbeth exclaimed, the lie sound odd in her mouth. “Of course not.” Her sharp little nose rose into the air and she sniffed, as if insulted.
Beaste’s smile grew wider as he watched her struggle to look abashed. Leaning on the half carved out handle he hoisted himself up to his feet and took a step towards Lizbeth.
“What are ye doin’?” She asked, her eyes wide.
Beaste said nothing, but took more steps towards her until he was right in front of her. Her eyes held fear with a hint of excitement, as if she felt wrong about wanting what he was offering. He reached out slowly, giving her plenty of time to back away from his touch if that was what she wished, but she didn’t move.
Lizbeth let out a soft sigh as she felt Beaste’s arms wrap around her waist. He was warm and gentle, but she could also feel the strength of muscles wrapping around her like a great snake. A shiver travelled up her spine, and she fought the urge to close her eyes to the delicious sensation. She’d been hugged by her father many times, and even by the younger boys of the clan from time to time, but none of their embraces had ever felt like Beaste’s.
His dark eyes held her bright ones captive as fingers massaged gently into her back, releasing her tension. It was then that she noticed his lips. The beautiful curve of them in a cupid’s bow. They looked etched into stone, those lips, but she knew somehow that they were soft. When he dipped his head closer to hers she felt her arms wrap around him in return and she lifted her chin up to taste his lips.
She sighed in pleasure as she finally tasted him. Somehow she had known that he would taste exactly this way. Wild and fresh, like the forest itself. She heard a low growl around them and it took her a moment to realize that the sound had come from Beaste, deep in his chest. Simultaneously they pulled one another closer, their tongues dipping sweetly into another’s mouth as their passion heightened.
CHAPTER 8
“Lizbeth! Watch what ye doin’, lass!” Merida yelled at her daughter, who was one second away from chopping off her right fingers.
Lizbeth blinked in surprise and looked down at the cutting board. There were no onions left to chop and she was ready to slice the sharp blade of the knife down on her top knuckles. Gasping, she put the knife down and began to scoop up the onions to put into the skillet.
“What te hell’s been wrong wit’ ye, lass?” Her mother asked, eyeing her suspiciously. She was nearly over her sickness, and was able to help more and more around the house every day. That gave Lizbeth more time to spend with Beaste, who was nearly recovered, but it also had her mother venturing out to find her. It was getting harder and harder to hide the handsome young man, and Lizbeth wondered often how long he would stay once he was fully healed. Though they talked for hours on end nearly every day, he had still told her very little about his family or where he came from.
“Nothin’, mum,” Lizbeth lied, adding more lard to the pan. “I just miss Da is all.” It wasn’t the truth but it wasn’t a lie either. It had been nearly two months now since he’d left for battle. They would get letters from time to time from falcons, letting them know he was alive. But still, with the Christmas Day approaching, they missed him now more than ever. Merida softened, and put a calming hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
“I miss him too,” she said softly. “But he is alive, and for that we should be thankful.”
She was thankful. Extremely so. Every few days or so there seemed to be a letter arriving about another soul lost to the aimless battle against King James and the cluster of rogue clans that had betrayed their own kind for the riches that England had to offer.
Lizbeth knew her father would be proud of her though for the way she’d kept her family going without him. Since he’d left they’d only lost one chicken to a fox, which she found and killed, and skinned to make a nice pair of mittens for her mum, and no rebels had yet to come to the clan. The forest had been very giving, and she’d had no trouble hunting for either her mum or Beaste. They were lucky, but for how long they would be so, no one was for sure.
After dinner Lizbeth pulled her cloak on. With all the talk about the rebels and wars, she felt suddenly vulnerable and afraid. There was only one thing that could chase those thoughts away, and it involved being in Beaste’s arms.
“Where ye goin’ at this hour?” Merida asked, looking up from her stitching.
“I need a walk, mum. All this talk-I just need te get out of me head.”
Merida nodded her head, understanding. She told her daughter to be careful and requested she be back in with the next hour or so. As soon as she was out the door Lizbeth all but ran to dwelling in the woods. By the time she reached it she was out of breath from running and fear, and nearly fell into Beaste’s arms.
“What is it lass?” He asked concern filling his voice. He pulled her tightly into his arms. She was trembling, and he was sure it wasn’t just the cold that made her do so. His lips sprinkled kisses in her hair as he held her, trying his best to soothe her tortured soul.
“I hate this war,” she gasped at last, tears sliding down her cheeks. “I hate that it took so many good men, I hate that it hurt ye, I hate that it’s turned clans against clans. I hate it all!”
“Shhh,” Beaste soothed, his hand going up to cradle her head. Lizbeth sank into his arms, immediately feeling better. She loved the way he could do that. Just instantly make her feel relaxed with just his touch. It was pure magic, she was sure of it. Lifting her head up, she met his lips in a passionate kiss.
~
Beaste’s body grew warm and hard at the feel of Lizbeth’s lips pressed so needingly into his own. She was his. He felt that ever since he awoke nearly two weeks ago. She was strong and fierce, but right then she was vulnerable and in need of someone to lean on. He was beyond happy that she came directly to him.
With their arms and mouths locked around one another they began walking backwards, bumping into the table and shelves until the back of his legs came in contact with the side of the bed. He brought them both down onto the soft feather mattress and with one hand began to untie her cloak. It slid from her shoulders easily and she moaned in acceptance of the extra piece of clothing being gone.
They had kissed before. Every day for the past four and they had lost hours in the joy of the act. But neither had kissed like this. They were going farther, deeper in their trust with one another and they both knew it. Already between his legs he felt his shaft grow to an aching hardness.
“Wait,” Beaste said, breaking the kiss. He had to stop, catch his breath and think. She was no brothel lass, but a virgin. Of this he was sure.
“What? What’s wrong?” She asked. Beaste stared at her heavy bosom, the exposed creamy flesh rising and falling with the passion of the moment. Lord how he wanted her.
“Nothin,” he rasped, giving in to the moment. His lips met with hers again and this time he pressed further in her body with his own. Whatever happened next it would be something they both wanted, of that he was sure.
CHAPTER 9
Lizbeth had never a fire like the one that was raging ins
ide of her. Since she’d rescued Beaste her mind and senses had been filled with nothing but him, and now she knew why. She was meant to be his, and he was meant to be hers. Boldly she let her fingers slip underneath his shirt and she moaned as she felt the warm flesh of his back and abdomen. Yes, she had felt him before as she cleansed and stitched his wounds, but this was different, much different than that.
As their lips stayed locked with one anothers, their hands began to tug and pull at each other’s clothing, both wanting to be as close as possible. When Beaste’s mouth closed over her exposed left nipple she moaned deeply and arched her back. Nothing could ever feel as good as that, at least until his fingers parted her legs and slipped between her mons. The wetness that coated her thighs made it easy for him to slide his middle finger inside, making her gasp and moan and beg for more.
Every inch of her body felt on fire as she felt his hand began to move between her legs. Feeling emboldened, she drifted her hand to his erect shaft, and slowly began to massage it. She loved the way Beaste growled as she did so, and continued more with her exploration.