The Beast of Belladora
Scarlett Earnshaw
Once upon a time, there was a young and handsome duke. They said his hair was a mane of enviable dark blonde, and his golden eyes rivaled the brilliance of the setting sun. All around him, people vied for his attention and good graces, for he was also a very rich and powerful man. His name was Adam.
Though for all his wealth and all his beauty, his heart was as dark as a dying rose.
The day of his inheritance, the day on which his father was buried, Adam shut himself inside his father’s study to brood over his vast entitlements. He cared naught for weeping women and sentimental musings on the dead. He cared for material possessions, namely the Rose of Belladora. The ornately carved ruby was the perfect replication of a blossoming rose, and possibly the most valuable item his family owned.
When his fireplace had burned low, and his eyes blinked back sleep, there was a gentle knock at the door. He bid whoever was interrupting him to leave. Instead his grandmother, his father’s mother, entered and beseeched him to say goodnight to his grieving mother. After all, he was her only family left.
Wanting the meddlesome woman gone, he agreed he would. However, after his grandmother left, he forgot all about his promise to say goodnight to his mother. Instead, he reverently placed the Rose of Belladora back into his safe and went off to bed.
Some say a jilted lover set fire to Belladora Manor. Others say an unhappy servant. Worst yet, is the speculation that the grieving Duchess of Belladora did it. Either way, a horrible fire erupted in the West Wing of the manor, quickly demolishing most of the house. Adam awoke to smoke filling his room and dashed to his study. The only thing on his mind was the Rose.
Around him the manor began collapsing, but until his fingers closed around the precious stone, he cared naught for his burns and lacerations. The fire had cornered him into his study and his only way out was through the window.
It wasn’t until the fat raindrops from outside hit his face that he heard the screaming. His mother and numerous servants were still inside. He could do nothing but clutch the Rose to his chest and wait for the rain to put out the flames.
No one saw the Duke after that. The chandeliers of Belladora were never lit again. Though, when the children are feeling brave enough, and crave adventure, they sometimes dare one another to enter the abandoned manor.
None have succeeded, for when they get close they can hear the howls of a monster inside. They call it “The Beast of Belladora.”
***
Belle leaned low over the neck of Peony, her trusted mare. “Sherp,” she whispered. Go, my beautiful creature…
It had been sometime since she had heard the shouts of her pursuers, but she wasn’t about to risk it and ease up now. No, she had too much at stake. With the heirlooms she had just stolen, she would be able to eat for months, possibly longer. Her stomach growled in agreement.
The woods were growing darker and if she didn’t stop soon, she wouldn’t be able to see where she was going. Unless, she made it to a lane. Her pursuers wouldn’t assume she’d be dumb enough to run out in the open, would they? She smirked. After the brilliant and creatively elaborate scheme she just pulled, they’d think her too intelligent for that.
She kicked into Peony’s sides, guiding her out of the forest and onto a small, one carriage lane road. Much better, for the rising moon made the dirt road before them glow luminously in its beams. They could travel for hours yet.
Up ahead she could see a fork in the road, one path narrower than the other. That one would do nicely.
The racing pair veered to the right. The moonlight was more muted here. The trees were taller and hung over the road more. Patterns of still leaves dance over them. The road also seemed rougher; Peony slowed.
There was a building up ahead, looming and dark, still partially obscured by the surrounding trees. Belle wondered if she should steer her mare back into the woods when Peony’s front leg jerked suddenly and she skidded to a halt, almost throwing Belle from her back.
Her horse whined and danced, but would move no further. Cursing, Belle dismounted and held her mare’s nose, stroking her soothingly.
“What is the matter, my love?” she cooed, inspecting the black horse.
The horse whined again and bent its front knee. Belle leaned forward, running a hand down to her hoof. She cursed again. Peony had lost a shoe. She turned back to the road ahead, eyeing the house.
Patting Peony’s nose once more, she grabbed her reins and began steering her onward. “Just as well. We could use a little rest. Shall we see if anyone is home up ahead?”
Slipping off the main path, the two skirted the forest on their approach of the estate. Between tree trunks and branches, Belle looked for signs of life or use. There didn’t seem to be any and the unkempt lawn stretching in front of the magnificent manor signaled to her that it was hers for the taking.
“We shall sleep well tonight," Belle mused happily.
Reaching the estate, Belle was happy to see a disused stable around the back. Watching the ground carefully for anything that might injure Peony, she led them into the large, damp stable.
She found a dusty lantern hanging just inside the door and lit it. The stable looked as if it hadn’t been used in years. Perfect. In fact, the place smelled strongly of smoke. She wondered if there had been a fire at the estate somewhere. If there had been, it hadn’t reached here. The wood of the walls, while musty and moldy, was intact.
She led Peony into one of the stalls and began unsaddling her. Taking a brush from her bag, she began combing her mare out lovingly, humming softly. Her eyes drifted to the walls while she brushed, and saw a number of iron instruments. What good fortune. Perhaps there will be an extra horseshoe laying around, she hoped.
Having finished seeing to Peony’s comfort, she backed out of the stall, leaving her belongings behind. “I’ll be back, my love. I’m going to rummage through the old manor before we settle into bed.”
Flicking her unruly chocolate hair behind her shoulders and hiking up her long peasant skirts, she exited the stable with the lantern. She picked her way up the cobblestone path that led to the manor. At the back door, typically used for servants, she paused to make sure no noise could be heard from within. Again, the acrid smell of smoke and mold filled her nose.
She tried the door knob but found it locked. She stepped back to survey the house better. The first floor windows on the back side were all still intact. However, a little ways down she saw what looked like a cellar entrance. Her bare feet made their way over to it, tickled by the dewy, overgrown grass.
Indeed it was a cellar. She placed her lantern on the ground. Her hands grasped the iron handles and pulled—they creaked open. Picking up the lantern again, she stepped down into the cellar, the cool wood steps groaning beneath her weight.
It was a vast wine room, larger than any she had seen before. And, low and behold, well stocked. She grinned, already planning on nipping a few bottles on her way out. Across the way was the next staircase that would surely lead her into the manor.
A few of these steps were rotted away and took more time to navigate. However, when she reached the door at the top, it swung open easily.
She took her first step into the old manor and found herself in the kitchen. A great family must have lived here, she mused. A vast array of bronze cookware hung from the walls and there were several long tables that would have seated many servants.
Belle exited the kitchen and entered a short hallway. Walking quietly out of habit, she finally made her way into the grand foyer. She gasped. The ceiling was vaulted here, with a beautiful banister leading from the marble staircase all the way along the upper floors, complete wi
th the most exquisite chandelier. She sighed, a small part of her heart aching at the elegance.
Despite the grandeur, she could definitely tell this was where the worst of the fire had taken place. Part of the banister was burned away and wreckage from the second floor was almost obscuring her path to the right. Though, she was surprised to realize, to the right was where she wanted to go. Call it her gypsy intuition, but something was persuading her forward, leading her into the heart of the destruction.
Holding her skirts in one hand and the lantern in the other, she carefully maneuvered herself over and around wooden beams and various debris. She had been concentrating on the obstacles around her so intently, she almost missed it—a room nearly completely hidden beneath two unhinged double doors. If not for the small bit of moonlight drifting through them, she wouldn’t have seen it at all.
She ducked under a fallen beam and had to turn sideways in order to shimmy into the room. It was cold in there. To her right a large, paned window was smashed, that whole side of the room black from fire. The center of the room was nearly unscathed. A sofa in the middle had a sheet over it, protecting it from dust and disuse. It seemed frivolous to her.
The left side of the wall was burnt as well, though curiously the scorch marks stopped just beside a large hanging portrait. Despite the large gash running diagonally through the picture, she could tell it was of a man. He was probably about fifty, with thick brown eyebrows and reddish blonde hair, the temples streaked with grey. Contrary to the frown he wore, he looked like a very amiable man, handsome too.
Her hand reached out to touch the sooty canvas. Nobility were rarely creative in their hiding places and they usually stashed their valuables behind expensive portraits such as these.
Her fingers grasped the gilded frame and tugged. She smiled when it swung away from the wall. Curiously, she noted the door to the safe was open. She frowned. Someone must have already looted the goods. Still, she opened it a little further.
The breath she was holding left her. There amidst the blackness of the safe was a large, glowing jewel sitting on a cushion of velvet. Fascination gripped her and her hand reached out to touch the precious red stone.
“Don’t move another inch,” a ferocious voice suddenly growled.
Startled, she jumped back, hitting a small table and losing the grip on her lantern. It went out immediately. Her brown eyes darted around the room, but despite the silver light of the moon, she couldn’t see the source of the voice.
Instinct kicked in and she sputtered out her least threatening voice, “Please, pardon me. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was only seeking refuge.” Her eyes darted about, determining the best escape route. Until then, it was always in one’s best interest in these situations to appear scared and innocent, especially when caught by a male.
“Seeking refuge?” There was a deep chuckle, cool and cynical. “Looks to me that you were acting the common thief instead.”
She couldn’t pin the location of the voice. He must be somewhere in the shadows. How had he snuck up on her so quietly? Since she didn’t know where he might be, escaping was foolish. She’d have to play the helpless victim a little longer until she could discern his location.
“I’m not a thief. I meant no harm… I’m very sorry. I’ll leave immediately,” she said, infusing meekness into her voice.
“I don’t think so,” the voice growled—this time right behind her.
Fear speared through her, swift. She did her best to calm down. Gypsies are stronger than this. She had been in these situations before. Breathing deeply, she turned slowly, careful to keep her features soft and non-threatening.
The man towering over her was half cast in shadow. Silver light showed only the left side of his face and body. He was tall and wearing clothes that while clean, were impossibly threadbare and ragged. Most shockingly, he wore no stockings. Her chin raised a bit more, taking in his strong torso, exposed neck and chin. His hair appeared to be medium in color and fell in a disheveled mess to his shoulders. Her heart beat against her chest at the chiseled pane that was his cheek. Finally, his eyes, she strained in the moonlight to tell their color, but she couldn’t discern it. All she could tell was that they were light and utterly mesmerizing.
“How did you get into this room so quietly?” she asked before she knew the words were coming out of her mouth.
“I didn’t,” his mouth smirked on the moonlit side. “I was in here the whole time.” Her eyes darted over his shoulder; everything behind him was in darkness. “I found it intriguing to watch you. I was wondering why you weren’t enjoying yourself with the others,” he took a step closer, she took one back.
The others? she wondered, What others?
“Now, I know. You were here to steal from me all along. What? The party not grand enough for you? Needed something a little more?” he rasped, taking another predatory step forward.
Certainly, predatory. There’s something dangerous about this man… deranged, she thought, fear and excitement still coursing through her blood.
As his bare feet hit the patch of moonlight from the broken window, the rest of his body became visible. She gasped taking him in. The right side of his cheek had a ragged scar extending across it and his hand on the right side was spotted with silver—burns. She could only assume, the rest of that arm, perhaps his entire body, must be covered in them too. She wondered what they would feel like beneath her fingers.
“Atch,” Belle whispered in her Romani tongue, trying to rid her mind of that unsettling thought.
Her feet carried her backward away from this madman who spoke of parties and people that she knew nothing about. If she could only get a little closer to the doors then she could risk an escape. She didn’t want this situation to come to violence, but...
“I have a special place for thieves—my dungeon.” His hands jutted out, grabbing her upper arms.
“Release me!” she screeched, thrashing in his hold and trying to kick her captor.
She wouldn’t go without a fight. He pulled her closer to his body. In her desperation to break free, she threw her head back, which collided with something hard. Faint stars flickered before her eyes only an instant before she saw nothing at all.
***
Belle woke with a feeble groan; her head was pounding. Reaching up to touch the tender spot, the sound of clinking metal made her eyes snap open. For a moment, everything was dark then slowly, as her eyes adjusted, she noted she was lying in a small dungeon cell. Her wrists were in shackles. There was a single lantern on the other side of her prison bars; her only light source.
She sat up, drawing her legs beneath her. Images flashed in her mind’s eye; an abandoned estate, fire debris, a precious stone and a handsome, yet scarred face. She shivered, remembering her captor. He was a dangerous man; she had no place finding him attractive or fascinating. He was the reason she was locked down here. Alone. Cold. Scared.
Aye, she was aware of her body trembling from the cool dampness of her prison. Her eyes flickered to the dark abyss that the lantern couldn’t reach… fear gripped her. What lurked in those hauntingly silent shadows?
“I’ve brought you some food,” her captor’s voice rasped suddenly; his body emerged carrying a tray.
Belle hid her startlement by hastily getting to her feet. And this way, she’d be on more even ground with him. His towering height already made her feel acutely feminine, weak, nervous—feelings gypsies weren’t accustomed to experiencing--without her giving him the advantage of her sitting. His eyes gazed over her and she lifted her chin defiantly. It seemed to amuse him.
“Just how long will you be keeping me prisoner?” she demanded without ceremony.
He stooped, putting the tray next to the cell bars. When he stood, he crossed his arms over his chest. The thin material of his shirt pulled tight over his arms. The man was powerfully built much to her displeasure.
“Just as long as it takes to summon the authorities,” he drawled in that deep, rasping
voice of his.
“The authorities? I’ve committed no crime,” she replied archly.
“No crime? I think trespassing satisfies as a crime, as well as, attempted robbery.” The bastard was enjoying himself. Even in the dim lighting of the dungeon she could see the cocky smirk tugging at his scarred cheek.
“Trespassing? This manor looks abandoned. How was I to know otherwise? I was lost in the woods and only seeking shelter. And I didn’t attempt to steal anything from you.”
His eyes flashed and narrowed. “Somehow I don’t think anyone would believe my manor is ‘abandoned.’ Besides, just because you haven’t stolen from me, doesn’t mean you haven’t stolen from someone else.”
“So you’re going to turn me in because you think I’m guilty? Grast,” she hissed, losing her temper.
Her captor shrugged and turned away, taking a step into the shadows. He’d leave her in the dark alone. Her gypsy blood whispered about ghosts and evil spirits. Her skin crawled and she ran forward, pulling at her chains.
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