Beauty’s Beast(2)
Author: Amanda Ashley

She didn’t want to die. She had nothing to live for, but she didn’t want to die.

Her head jerked up when the door opened again.

Was it time already?

Only it wasn’t a guard who entered her cell, but a kind-faced nun bearing a wooden tray laden with a plate of broiled chicken, fresh vegetables, and a loaf of bread still warm and soft instead of hard and stale and crawling with worms. There was a glass of warm sweet wine, as well.

“For me?” After weeks of watered gruel, moldy bread, and tepid water, it seemed a feast indeed.

The elderly nun nodded.

Kristine wept with gratitude as she savored each bite of tender chicken, each morsel of the warm, yeasty bread.

The nun didn’t speak, only smiled sympathetically as she patted Kristine’s arm, then carried the dirty dishes away.

Later, full for the first time in weeks, Kristine curled up on the thin pallet in the corner. Seeking oblivion in sleep, she was too steeped in despair to give heed to the skinny, long-tailed rats that scurried across the stones in search of some small scrap of food. No need to worry about being bitten now, she thought glumly. What difference did it make if she caught the plague?

The rattle of the guard’s keys roused her from a troubled sleep. She bolted upright, fearing that it was morning and they had come to take her to the block. Stomach churning with fear, she stared at the guard, blinking against the light of the lamp.

“That’s her,” the guard said. He stepped into the cell and lifted the lamp higher. “Stand up, girl. His lordship wants to see yer face.”

She had learned long ago to do as she was told, and to do it quickly. Hardly daring to breathe, she scrambled to her feet.

It was then that she saw him, a dark shape that looked like death itself shrouded in a long black woolen cloak. The garment fell in deep folds from his broad shoulders to brush the tops of his black leather boots. The hood of the cloak was pulled low, hiding his face from her view. Black kidskin gloves covered his hands. He stood there, tall, regal, and frightening.

“Her name’s Kristine,” the guard remarked. “Don’t recall her family name.”

The hooded man nodded and made a circling motion with his forefinger.

“Turn around, girl,” the guard demanded brusquely.

She did as the guard asked, her cheeks flushing with shame as she felt the hooded man’s gaze move over her. She was barefoot and filthy. What was left of her hair was dirty and crawling with lice. Her dress, once the color of fresh cream, was badly stained, the hem torn. And worst of all, she smelled bad.

She heard a faint noise, like the rustle of dry paper, and realized the stranger had asked the guard a question.

“Just turned seventeen,” the guard replied with a leer.

She heard the rasp of the hooded man’s voice again and then he turned away, melting into the shadows beyond her cell.

The guard followed him, pausing at the door to look back over his shoulder. “This be yer lucky day, girl. Seems his lordship has taken a fancy to ye.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He just bought yer freedom.”

Kristine staggered back, overcome by a wave of dizzying relief. She wasn’t going to die.

“He’ll be comin’ by to fetch ye tomorrow night.”

Coming for her. Tomorrow night. Relief turned to trepidation. “What . . . what does he want with me?”

The guard threw back his head and barked a laugh. “He says he’s going ta marry ye.”

“Marry me!” Kristine stared at the guard in shock.

“Aye.”

“But . . . he doesn’t even know me.”

The guard shrugged. “What does it matter?”

Why would a stranger want to marry her? And why did she care, if it would get her out of this terrible place with her head still on her shoulders? “Can you tell me his name?”

“Why, don’t you know? That’s his lordship, Erik Trevayne.”

Stunned, Kristine stared at the guard. She would rather lose her head that very night than become the wife of the infamous Lord Trevayne. A beheading, at least, would be swiftly and mercifully over. “And he wants to marry me? Are you sure?”

“Aye, girl. It seems a fittin’ match. A murderin’ wench bein’ wed to the Demon Lord of Hawksbridge Castle.”

Chapter Two

I am to be the bride of Erik Trevayne, Demon Lord of Hawksbridge Castle.

It was the first thought that crossed Kristine’s mind upon waking in the morning. And hard upon that thought came every rumor she had ever heard of the man, every bit of idle country gossip, every lurid tale.

He was a monster who hadn’t been seen in public since his wife died.

He had killed his first wife and child with his bare hands.

He had been cursed by the devil himself.

He was half man, half beast.

He was old, ugly, deformed, cruel, the seventh son of Satan.

He had been beset by some rare plague that left him horribly disfigured.

Kristine huddled under her thin blanket, shivering uncontrollably. Why did he want to marry her? What manner of man took a condemned murderess for a wife? She fought back a wave of hysterical laughter. She had murdered a man. The lord of Hawksbridge Castle had murdered his wife. As the guard had said, it did, indeed, seem to be a fitting match.

Never had the hours passed so quickly. Why, she wondered, did time seem to limp along when one waited for a happy occasion, and run on eager feet for an event one dreaded?

She tried to pray for strength, for courage, but words failed her and all she could do was murmur, “Please, please, please,” over and over again.

At dusk, two plump women clad in identical gray woolen gowns entered the cell. One carried a small box, the other carried a large bag.

A short time later, one of the guards dragged a small wooden tub into the cell. Two other guards followed and filled the tub with buckets of hot water, shuffling out when the task was complete. One of the women added several drops of fragrant oil to the water.

Kristine stood against the far wall, watching, wondering. Who were these women? What were they doing there? Were they also nuns? It seemed doubtful, considering the way they were dressed. Both had dark brown hair and eyes.

She looked longingly at the tub. She had not been allowed to bathe in the five and a half weeks she had been imprisoned. One needed money to procure a bath, a decent meal, a change of clothing. She had no funds of her own, nor anyone she might appeal to for aid.

She hesitated when the taller of the two women gestured for her to step into the tub. Surely they didn’t expect her to undress and bathe in their presence?