Beauty and Her Beastly Love (Passion-Filled Fairy Tales Book 2) (2 page)

Pierre set out the next morning, the air freezing. He wondered if they should have just put off their negotiations until spring. He knew he’d get to keep his beloved daughter, the only remnant of the family he’d once had, through winter, but he hated setting off now to promise her to another. A day’s ride wasn’t a bad trip in the grand scheme of things, but he wished he could’ve found his daughter a suitor in town. Only the men in town didn’t have what Pierre needed, which was money.

He had borrowed and borrowed to support their meager existence, and now it was all coming due. Too quickly, he had been told they would take his home and throw him and Beauty out on the street if he didn’t settle his debts. Only, how could he settle debts in the winter when the grapes didn’t grow, when he could barely make wine. Perhaps he should have had Beauty help, but he couldn’t. Not after the twins had died that way. A sickness they’d caught in the fields, the doctor had said. He couldn’t lose another child that way.

But, it seemed he was willing to lose a child this way. Willing to sell his daughter to pay his debts. He had met Monsieur Dumas at Giselle’s shop. Giselle was a friend of Celine and had a portrait of Celine and Beauty that had been painted a few months before Celine’s death. It hung in the corner of the shop, and Beauty was just six, but she still was beautiful. M. Dumas had remarked how beautiful the woman and girl were, and Pierre had said that the girl was even more beautiful now. Dumas had asked if Pierre knew the girl, and Pierre had admitted it was his daughter. Dumas said he was a lumber man from nearby and he was looking for a wife. He thought Beauty might make a good match. Pierre laughed, but M. Dumas did not. Giselle had come out with the man’s book, and seemed cool to him. When M. Dumas told Giselle of his suggestion to marry Beauty, the kind woman had simply said, “No, you need an older girl, one who can handle you better.”

The man left, and Pierre had thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t. M. Dumas came to the cottage one day. He had learned of Pierre’s debts and said he could clear them all if Pierre would let him marry Beauty. Pierre had told Dumas he needed to think about it. That same day, Giselle had come by to deliver more books to Beauty and pick up the old ones. When he asked Giselle about Dumas, she admitted the rumors said he was cruel and that Pierre should not let Beauty marry him. Pierre was stunned, as Giselle almost never said a bad word about anyone.

When Dumas returned a few days later, Pierre had turned down his betrothal request. That’s when Dumas had said Pierre had no choice. Beauty would become Dumas’ wife, or Pierre and Beauty would spend the winter in the frozen snow. Dumas had paid all of Pierre’s debts and now held the liens. If Pierre did not come sign the betrothal agreement within the next week, Dumas would foreclose on the property and put Pierre and Beauty out on the streets. But, if Pierre did sign them today, Pierre could keep Beauty until spring, and the marriage would take place then

Pierre felt guilty for lying to Beauty about her suitor. But, he knew nothing else to do. He couldn’t tell her he’d promised her to an awful man so they wouldn’t die in the harsh winter. He’d have to figure out something over the winter, some way to keep Beauty away from Dumas. But he needed to sign the agreement today. He was sure he could determine a better solution if he gave himself this extra time. Beauty didn’t have to go anywhere until the spring. That was the saving grace, Pierre told himself as he rode down the path. His hands shook as he held the reins. It was too damn cold. He shivered as he approached the fork in the road. He would take it left, and onward to see Dumas.

And that’s when it happened. Everything went white. A blizzard, seemingly from out of nowhere. He couldn’t see anything, not even a few inches in front of him. He prodded the horse to go on, though it seemed it didn’t want to go in any normal pattern. It trotted this way, then that, and then in a circle. Pierre didn’t dare dismount though. Wherever this horse was taking him in the sea of white, he would get there quicker and more reliably on those four legs than his own two.

Pierre’s face hurt with cold, his lips cracking, and his hands numb, as he tried to hold on to the horse. Finally, the wind stopped howling and the snow stopped swirling around them. He’d been out there for hours, and it was dark. The only light, from the moon, shone down on a wrought iron gate that encompassed a large manor. Pierre dismounted his horse and pushed on the gate. It opened. He guided the horse through and closed the gate. He found a stable that had stalls and fresh water. Thankful, Pierre settled his horse there, tying him to a hitching post and handing him a carrot. No, it wasn’t Pierre’s home, but surely under the circumstance, even a true brute would understand the need to water and feed a horse after such a journey.

Pierre left the stable and wandered around to the main house. He went up to the front door and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, and this time the door opened a crack. “Hello,” Pierre said. No response. He pushed the door open wider and went in. He saw no one. He closed the door and found himself in an entryway that was completely dark. Around the corner, he could see light emanating from another room. So, he headed toward it and was immediately struck by the warmth coming from the area. The room was a large entertaining room with a giant fireplace. There were fancy sitting chairs, a piano in the corner and two chaises. Next to one of the chairs, on an end table, was a plate filled with food. There was cheese, fruit, warm bread, hot pheasant, and a carafe of wine.

“Hello. Is anyone here?” Pierre called. No answer again. Pierre sat and ate, feeling certain the food and wine had been placed there for him. Before he knew it, he was fast asleep.

When he woke in the morning, the fire was still burning, the room was still warm, and he looked around for a sign of someone else. He saw no one, but he knew the fire, as warm as it was, as high as the wood was piled, had to have been tended to overnight. He was also covered in a blanket. Someone had put it on him and taken away the remnants of food.

Or maybe it hadn’t been someone. Maybe this was an enchanted home. He chuckled to himself. Enchanted home? It sounded like the type of thing Celine would have said. She always believed in that type of thing — old magic, fairytales, sorcerers, and enchanted palaces.

Hmmm, maybe. It made sense, a little. It would explain why he saw no one. It would explain why the things he wanted just appeared.

Whether the house was enchanted or not, he thought he should write a note to tell the owner or enchanter he appreciated the hospitality. He wandered from room to room until he found what appeared to be a study. There were papers, quills and an ink bottle. He took a quill and wrote, “Thank you. Your hospitality to this weary traveler has been remarkable.” Then he signed his name and smiled. As he set the note on the desk for the home’s master or mistress to find, he noticed something else.

It was a small book with the imprint of a rose on it. It was like the ones Beauty read. He hadn’t read them himself. Pierre found the thought of reading anything other than farmer’s almanacs a waste of time and logic. But, he knew Beauty enjoyed them. She always smiled when Mme. Giselle brought the volumes. It was definitely the same type of book, only this one looked newer. The leather-bound books Mme. Giselle brought were dark and worn with age. This was lighter toned and in good condition. He opened the flap and saw it was published this year. Oh my, how Beauty would love this.

Pierre decided at that moment that his deceased wife had been right to believe in enchantments. This house was enchanted. It knew what he wanted and provided it to him. Just a moment before, he had wished he had something for Beauty, and then he saw this book. It hadn’t been there before; he was sure now. Just as he was setting the note down, he’d thought, “Oh, if only I had something of this experience to show Beauty.”

He decided he’d do one last test. I want money, a bag of gold so that I don’t have to sell my daughter to that M. Dumas. He closed his eyes, opened them again. Nothing.

Perhaps the house wasn’t enchanted after all. He was ready to turn and leave when he glanced out the study’s window and saw the garden below. His mouth fell open. Pierre blinked, not sure he could believe what he saw. He closed his eyes and opened them once more. He stepped around the desk, walked right up to the window, pressing his face against the cold window. Yes, down below him was a garden of gold. A garden of solid gold flowers. He was sure of it. He grabbed the book from the desk. This place was enchanted, and he would take the book and some flowers back to his daughter.

Pierre found his way outside to the garden, and when he got there, he confirmed what he’d seen from the window: the flowers were gold. Solid gold. He touched one in awe, and it felt soft, like a flower, yet it was gold. He cut two branches of gold roses and stuck them in his bag. Surely this would pay off his debt to Dumas and keep his daughter safe with him. She wouldn’t have to leave him.

He smiled and ran toward the stable, the heft of the gold flowers weighing him down less than it should have because his heart was now light.

He untied the horse from the post and bade it to come on. “We are rich,” he said to the horse. That is when Pierre felt a crushing pain on his shoulder. He turned and first saw the hairy hand clutching him tight. He heard the voice next. It sounded like the growl of a bear, but it was speaking words. “Thief,” the voice said, and the furry hand — er, now it looked to him more like a claw — shoved Pierre to the ground.

Pierre turned and looked up. Standing over him was a creature on two legs, dressed in clothes, but covered in fur, like an animal. Its fur was jet black, it had claw-like fingers and sharp teeth. “Thief,” it said again. “I give you hospitality, and you steal from me. My book. My flowers.”

“No,” Pierre was saying, shaking his head. “No. I didn’t know,” he said. He tried to look the creature in the eye, but it frightened him too much.

“You will die for your crime,” the beast said.

The beast’s massive, furry hands grabbed hold of Pierre’s arm and dragged him away. Pierre tried to loosen the beast’s grip, but nothing could pry this thing off of him. “Please, wait, no I have a daughter. I have a daughter,” Pierre begged. The beast didn’t seem to care. He dragged Pierre toward a stump, and next to the stump lay an axe. This was a simpler setup than a guillotine, but Pierre knew what was coming next. With no other choice, he said if the beast killed him, his daughter would be married off to a cruel tyrant. That he had to go home. The beast stopped, let go of Pierre. “Tell me everything,” the beast said.

Pierre knew this was his only hope, so he confessed to everything — his debt, the cruelness of M. Dumas, how he had promised his daughter to this man, how the gold would help him stop this man, how his daughter had been reading these books and loved them. How he had only taken them because he thought it would hurt no one, that it was an enchanted manor for the weary traveler lucky enough to find it.

The beast listened and finally said, “You are free to go.”

The relief surged through Pierre. He couldn’t believe it. “Really?”

“Yes,” he said. “Take the flowers and pay your debt. You may take more if you feel the need. Take the book to your daughter, and tell her that in one week I will send a carriage for her. She will come live with me forever.”

Pierre gasped. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t say that. I’m not giving you my daughter.”

The beast laughed in a snarl. “You were going to give her to a tyrant, but you won’t give her to me, a creature who shares her interests, and who can provide well for her here?”

Pierre just stared. Yes, this was a nice place, but he couldn’t give his daughter to this … this … thing. “I,” he started. “You can’t have her.”

The beast grabbed Pierre by the shoulder and shoved him onto the chopping block. “Very well,” said the beast. “I shall kill you and go find her anyway.” The beast picked up the axe and lifted it over his head.

“No,” Pierre said. “No, you can have her. I agree to the deal. Please don’t kill me.”

The beast stepped back from the chopping block and dropped the axe to the ground. “You are right. This house is enchanted,” the beast said. “So am I. I will send for your daughter in a week’s time. Do not think you can run or hide from me. If you try to run, I will find you. Then, I will kill you and take the girl anyway. Do you understand me?”

Pierre nodded, and he knew in his heart what the beast was saying was true.

“Go now,” the beast said. Then, he turned and started walking toward the manor. Pierre got on his horse to ride home. How ever was he going to explain this to Beauty?

Pierre thought the entire ride home. He let the horse find its way back to their little cottage, while he determined exactly how he would tell Beauty what he had done. When Pierre arrived, Beauty was surprised to see him. Pierre sat her in the chair again, and this time he told her the truth. He left nothing out. He told her about his debt, Dumas’ cruelty, his plan to try to figure it out later, his encounter with the beast, and his promise to give Beauty to the beast.

The girl’s face was red with fury, and in that instant, she looked more like her mother than he had ever recalled.

“So, you’ve traded me from one beast to another?” she asked, her voice filled with hurt. “Father, how could you?”

He cast his eyes down. “I’m sorry, Beauty,” he said. “I wouldn’t have done it if he weren’t going to kill me.”

Beauty took a deep breath and nodded. She tried not to cry. This vile creature who had almost killed her father was to be the man — no the thing — she would spend the rest of her days with. She wasn’t sure she could breathe. Dumas’ cruelty, so far, had been confined to his business dealings. Perhaps his cruelty was limited to that. But this beast, that was something else altogether. The beast had tried to kill her father and now he wanted her to be with him.

She closed her eyes and lay her head back on the chair’s soft cushioned headrest. She felt like crying, but that wouldn’t help. She had been lucky growing up, lucky that her father had prized her company and had not forced her to work in the fields. He had her educated with books and encouraged her curiosity. He had done all this at great expense to himself, and was now in debt because of it. So, maybe it was only fair that she was responsible for fixing it.

She took a deep breath, opened her eyes and looked at the book in her lap. “He had this book in his study?” she asked her father. She was repeating the question. She’d asked it before. Normally, she wouldn’t question her father, but today she’d learned he was a liar. He’d lied to her about Dumas, and now she felt the need to have him repeat his answers just to see if they held true. She watched his face as he prepared to answer, looking for any signs that he was lying about this.

“Yes,” Pierre said, nodding. “I found it in the study. But, I don’t know if it is his,” he said, looking at the book. “I told you I thought the house was enchanted, that it knew my desires and would make them come true. So, I wished that I had something to bring you. That’s when the book appeared.”

She frowned. The book probably wasn’t even the creature’s. The book had appeared because her father wanted a gift for her. Beauty did want to cry now. This beast was probably as monstrous on the inside as he looked on the outside. She looked down at the book, almost hating it now. It had given her ideas, ideas that she knew were wrong, ideas about sins of the flesh and just how pleasurable they could be. She had a Bible, and she and her father went to church once a month for mass. She’d heard the sermons against carnal sins, but she’d ignored them, assuming that something that felt so right when she read it couldn’t be wrong. But now she realized she had been fooled. This was her punishment for enjoying these books, for wanting to feel the way the women in these books felt, for touching herself and wanting to be touched that way. Her punishment was life shackled in marriage to a beast.