Five Enchanted Roses: A Collection of Beauty and the Beast Stories

by Kaycee Browning

  “Milord,” she said quickly before he could bow and exit the room, “if I saw you at times during . . . during the day, I mean . . . it would not bother me.”

  His strange face seemed perplexed, and she wished she could better explain. Explain that she dreaded another day alone with her thoughts and fears far more than she dreaded his company. For in his presence she found the wulver far less intimidating than he was in her mind.

  Perhaps he read some of her meaning in her face. “I’ll be in the garden then,” he said. Was that hope she heard in his growl? “If ye wish to join me later, I’d be glad of yer company.”

  In that moment Bonnie realized that the wulver was lonely. Maybe this was why he had demanded her presence at his castle? A strange way to find a companion, and it did not incline her to forgive him. But she might begin to understand him a little.

  Chapter 10

  FOLLOWING HER MEAL, Bonnie returned to her room and, after some consideration, opened the wardrobe once more. Her frock was dirty and rumpled, and she could not well live in it the rest of . . . of her stay here, however long that may be. If the wulver protested her wearing gowns stored in her own room, well, she’d apologize and make do. Otherwise, she decided she must wear them.

  The blue dress fit her well, though it felt odd and uncomfortable. The undergarments were strange to her, and the skirt was intended to be worn with panniers. When she discarded these as too uncomfortable for daily living, the mounds of skirt fabric and petticoats hung oddly from her waist. Still, it was a fresh gown.

  She moved to the little table beneath the mirror she had seen the day before and discovered there a hairbrush. As she brushed her hair before the glass, she frowned suddenly, tilting her head. The mirror’s frame was engraved with an inscription she had not noticed before:

  TRUST YE NOT THINE EYES

  APPEARANCES ARE NOT WHAT THEY SEEM

  “An odd sentiment for a mirror,” she whispered. With a curious shake of her head, she replaced the hairbrush and, holding the heavy skirts of the new gown up so as not to trip upon them, made her way out of the room and down the stairs.

  The castle was large and rambling, and it seemed that no matter how far she wandered, there was always some new passage or chamber she had not yet discovered. Sometimes it seemed to her as though the winding halls were rather too like the dream she had experienced the night before, and once she caught herself listening for the sound of a child’s weeping. But no. This was no dream. And there was no child.

  She took a turn and found herself in a large, elegant hallway filled with portraits. Some were very old, all were dusty, and Bonnie had a feeling that this was a part of the castle even her captor avoided. She had seen no pictures in any of the other rooms, and this was the first hint she had found that anyone else had ever lived there.

  One painting in particular caught her eye. It was of a fair-haired gentleman, handsome and dressed in the fashion of a century past, with huge sleeves and a tall, stiff collar trimmed in lace. He had a face Bonnie deemed extremely likable, and she wondered what had happened to him—what had happened to all the faces gracing either side of the hall.

  Next to the gentleman’s portrait was another painting. At the sight of it Bonnie gasped, for this was a face she knew, though it took her a moment to realize why. It was the portrait of a little girl who shared the man’s blond curls and blue eyes, clearly related to him somehow.

  She was the child from Bonnie’s dream last night.

  Bonnie took a step back, her eyes still on the painting. Once more she caught herself straining for some sound of a child’s voice, the familiar pleading she had heard these last five years. Only silence lingered in the halls of the castle, however.

  She moved on, eager to escape the soulful gaze of the girl in the portrait. There were more paintings—one she especially noticed was of a beautiful, kind-looking woman with dark hair and a sweet smile. But Bonnie did not like to linger here any longer and hurried out of the hall as swiftly as she could.

  She progressed to the end of a dim hall, pushed aside the heavy curtains draping a tall window, and looked out into the gardens. Oh yes! The wulver had told her that she might find him there. Very well. Join him she would.

  She found a door with little difficulty, as though the castle itself offered her a way out once it knew her intention. Her gown was of thick fabric, and she was only slightly cold as she walked through the garden, which was bare and brown from winter frost. Its stark appearance contrasted with the only blooming plant—the large rosebush covered in yellow blooms, which Bonnie recognized at once and without surprise. After all, she had known it must be here.

  And beyond the rosebush stood the wulver, just lifting his head to see her approach. His expression was difficult to read, but she thought she glimpsed delighted surprise flash through his eyes.

  “Good day, Beast,” Bonnie said, drawing near.

  “Guid day, Miss Bonnie,” he replied. His claw-tipped fingers gently tested the leaves and stems of the rose, as though he searched it for some sign of blight or rot. But though he feigned busyness, she saw how his wolf’s ears twitched toward her more often than not.

  Uncertain what to say now that she had found him, Bonnie maintained her silence. She admired the rose. Indeed, it was very beautiful. In her dreams she had never taken the time to notice or appreciate its beauty. She remembered the sight of the little child curled up in this very spot in her nightmare of the night before, but shook this away and tried to focus on the moment at hand.

  “Ye said ye were called Bonnie,” the beast said suddenly without looking at her. “Whit be yer Christian name?”

  “Seònaid,” she answered. “After an aunt of my mother.”

  “Seònaid. A true Gaelic name,” said he.

  Bonnie nodded. After a moment, she asked, “Do you have a name? A real name, I mean?”

  The beast’s movements stopped, and Bonnie regretted her question. “I did once,” was all he said, and then he returned to his work.

  Feeling as though she had intruded upon his privacy, Bonnie searched for something else to say. “The blooms are lovely,” she said.

  “Aye, they are.”

  “You tend them very well. I’ve never heard of a rose that would bloom in winter.”

  The beast glanced her way, uncertainty in his strangely human eyes. “Are ye well tended, Miss Seònaid? Do ye have everything ye need?”

  Bonnie offered something close to a smile, the first she had managed since setting out from her family’s cottage. “Everything but company,” she said. A small stone bench stood nearby, and she brushed a layer of snow from it and sat, her ample skirts spread about her.

  The beast grunted at her words, obviously ill at ease. “I dinnae ken if ye’d want my company,” he said, and shook his head.

  This surprised Bonnie as much as anything else she’d experienced since coming to this strange place. After all, she was his captive, was she not? Why would it matter to him what she wanted? Why would he send for her in the first place if, once she came, she might decide for herself whether or not to be in his presence? Was she or was she not a prisoner?

  And why did she find herself, when given the choice, preferring to seek out the companionship of her monstrous host? Was she truly that lonely or did she actually enjoy his quiet, gracious, oddly elegant demeanor? No, that certainly could not be! He was a beast, and she his captive.

  Determined not to think more closely on these questions, she turned to another possible conversation. “How old is this castle?”

  The beast’s eyes narrowed as he looked up at the high towers and walls around them. “Several hundred years, I expect,” he said, and his voice held deep sorrow and longing, neither of which Bonnie could begin to comprehend. She followed his gaze and saw how the stone of the castle had begun to crumble, how the glass in many of the gothic windows looked cracked or was missing altogether. Perhaps, Bonnie thought, the wulver remembered when the castle was as beautiful on the ou
tside as it was within.

  He continued, “’Twas taken over by a family from Norway in the early thirteenth century. They lived here for hundreds of years.”

  The unspoken question of what happened to the family hung in the air, though Bonnie didn’t dare ask it.

  “I don’t suppose you fish?” she asked impulsively to break the tension. The beast looked at her curiously. “Catch fish,” she continued. “In the old stories, wulvers would go fishing and leave their catch for the poor.”

  “I told ye I’m not a wulver.”

  Bonnie raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, I am, aye, but not a real one.”

  “Are you a ghost then?” Bonnie couldn’t say why she pushed; he obviously wasn’t given to easy conversation.

  But he seemed bemused, as though he didn’t quite believe her efforts at friendliness. “I’m no ghost. Have ye nothing better to talk about?”

  Hearing his growling tone, Bonnie felt the corners of her mouth turn up in another smile. “You sound like my sister Sorcha. She can be rather . . . difficult, when she chooses.”

  “Aye, I remind ye of the difficult one, then?”

  She laughed. This surprised her as much as anything. How long had it been since she laughed, truly laughed? Indeed, when she stopped to think about it, she could not remember. Not since before her father set out for Burntisland. Possibly not for some time before that.

  “Ye have other siblings?” the wulver asked, drawing her out of her reverie.

  Bonnie opened her mouth and suddenly found herself telling him about her siblings at home: Sorcha, Maisie, Calum. She told of Sorcha’s bossiness which scarcely disguised her giving heart. She told of Maisie, who concealed her frailty behind determined good cheer and smiles. She told of Calum, even of his scars, though she did not dwell on those. Mostly she told of his kind smile and the way he always did what he could to keep the family strong, even when their father sometimes lost himself in despair, reminiscing about the past.

  To all this the wulver listened quietly, no longer even moving to tend his rose. He simply stood, his head tilted to one side, drinking in every word. When Bonnie found her voice trailing away at last, a heavy silence followed.

  But this silence the wulver broke, saying, “Sometimes it is difficult for a man not to despair when he thinks upon the past.”

  Bonnie looked up at him sharply, meeting his eyes over his blooming roses. Were those . . . Heavens above! Were those tears she saw glistening there?

  The wulver blinked and passed an ugly hand over his face. Then, without another word he turned and strode away swiftly, as though he could not bear her presence another moment. Bonnie remained seated upon the cold bench, feeling the coldness of the winter air, which felt colder now that she was alone again.

  The wulver waited uneasily for his guest—he hated to use the word prisoner—to come down to the dining room. He did not doubt that she would come, but he worried that her face might display displeasure upon seeing him waiting for her. Perhaps he should leave before she arrived? Give the poor young lady peace . . .

  Finally he rose, prepared to hasten away. But before he could move, Bonnie appeared suddenly in the doorway and, with no greeting or acknowledgement or even a glance his way, hastened to her seat at the opposite end of the table. After a moment she took up her cutlery and began to serve herself a portion from the bounty spread before her.

  The wulver stood awkwardly, uncertain whether he should reclaim his seat or disappear as he had intended. Before he could quite make up his mind, however, he found himself fixed with Bonnie’s intense gaze.

  “Milord,” she said, clutching a spoon as though it were her one weapon of defense, “did I . . . did I anger you earlier today? By something I said?”

  Nonplussed, the beast shifted upon his feet. “Why would ye think so?”

  “In the garden, you left so quickly, and I . . . Are you upset with me?”

  Was that honest concern he saw in her face? Concern for him? No, certainly not! She must fear only the beast’s displeasure, must fear that his vicious wrath would fall upon her head. She certainly could have no other worry in her heart for one such as he.

  “I am sorry,” he said and, after an uncertain moment, took his seat. His social skills were sorely lacking; he hardly knew how to behave around young women anymore. “I dinnae think . . .”

  She sighed. Then in a small, timid voice, she said the last thing he would have expected or even hoped to hear from her: “I simply thought . . . I thought maybe we could . . . be friends.”

  The beast sat back in his chair. “Ye want to be friends? With me?” His voice rang with disbelief. “The one who stole ye from yer family and bullied yer da? Who locked ye in a tower room? Ye wish to be friends with a monster like me?”

  He hadn’t meant to raise his voice, but by the time he’d finished, his questions were echoing off the walls. Now ye’ve gone and frightened the lass, he scolded himself. But he couldn’t help butchering the conversation; he was too out of practice in understanding other human beings or their reactions. And now he’d sabotaged his only chance to right Morag’s wrongs, for Bonnie stared at him in startled terror.

  Before he could say more, he saw something flicker in the girl’s face. He could tell she had made some sort of decision. But just what the decision was, he did not know.

  She set her jaw, any trace of her earlier timidity gone. “I am trying to make the best of a wretched situation,” she said. “Yes, maybe you are horrid. You’ll get no argument from me on that score!” Her voice was calm, though a small tremble betrayed her following words. “Do you know what I feel for you? Pity. Pity because you’re a lonely old creature with no friends and nothing to love but an old rosebush. But I refuse to be frightened. I refuse! Do you hear me? I refuse!” Her eyes glimmered and, to the wulver’s consternation, tears began to trail down her face. This seemed to frustrate her all the more, and she dashed them away with angry swipes of both hands.

  The wulver rose and stumbled over to her. He carried no handkerchief, so he took one of the table napkins and handed it to her.

  She smacked away the napkin. “I don’t want that!” she said crossly.

  “Take it,” he said softly. The words came out in a growl.

  She stared up at him, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. Then she obeyed, snatching the napkin from his hand, and blew into it loudly. Embarrassed, the wulver backed away several paces, not yet returning to his seat but standing with his hands behind his back, his shoulders bowed. “I apologize for raisin’ me voice at ye,” he said as gently as he could. “Ye offered me the precious gift of yer friendship, and I threw it at ye with a vengeance, like an idiot of the worst kind.”

  Her silence was the only answer he received.

  “Might we start this conversation anew?” he asked.

  She swallowed, mangling the damp napkin in her hands. “I—I suppose.” She dashed at her face once more with her hand. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I apologize as well.”

  “Apology accepted,” said the beast. He bowed then, very elegantly, and extended a hand to her like a gentleman at a ball. “Will ye do me the honor of bein’ my friend, Miss Seònaid?”

  She nodded quickly and attempted a smile. Then, as though coming to a decision, she reached out her trembling hand and lightly rested her fingers in his palm for several moments before drawing back and folding both hands in her lap.

  The wulver straightened and returned to his place at the other end of the table. Taking his seat, he said, “Tell me more about yer life in the country with yer family. How did the lot of ye take to shepherding?”

  She began to talk again, speaking of lambings and shearings, of the struggles of learning a new and difficult trade. She spoke of her and Maisie’s joy when the first lamb was born, and of how Sorcha pretended hard-hearted indifference only to be caught holding the lamb and crooning lullabies to it when she thought no one was near. Bonnie spoke long and easily, her eyes alight with lov
e for the family she had left behind, and the wulver listened and asked occasional questions.

  All the while he clenched his hand tightly around the warm place in his palm where her fingers had so gently rested.

  Chapter 11

  SEVEN DAYS LATER, Bonnie relaxed after her evening meal before a crackling fire in a large sitting room. Much to her surprise, the wulver joined her, seating himself in a large chair. When he leaned back, his face was hidden. Though she wouldn’t have admitted it for fear of hurting his feelings, a part of Bonnie preferred that he remain in that attitude. Then she could simply listen to his voice and pretend that he looked like something—someone—else.

  And she did like the sound of the wulver’s voice—like a roll of thunder, dangerous and yet comforting all at once.

  “I haven’t been out in the world fer, well, a verra long time,” the wulver said as they sat together admiring the blaze. “I suppose ’tis too much to hope that our land is at peace?”

  Bonnie sniffed derisively. “I think you already know the answer to that question.” She grew somber. “There were talks of Jacobite uprisings when I left.” She played with the fabric of the bountiful blue skirt she wore, tracing the elegant lines of embroidery. Oh, how Sorcha and Maisie would have appreciated its beauty!

  “I hope my family is well,” she said softly. Seated in a chair so large that it swallowed her, she felt strangely safe here in this castle where she was a captive. She found she did not like to think of her loved ones out in the cold world beyond these sturdy walls.

  The wulver was silent for some while before changing the subject. “Yer speech is very English.” Bonnie heard him shift in his chair. “I take it ye are not native to the Highlands?”

  “No, but my mother was. Her family was Catholic, and they were furious when she turned Protestant to marry my father and move to the Lowlands.” Bonnie shrugged. “We attend a Protestant service at a small church just outside Inverness. We’re not the only ones, but it is a precarious position all the same.”