Page 3 of Beauty's Beast

“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

Iam 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.

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