Page 59 of Beauty's Beast

She had a four-day head start on him. That was all Erik could think about as he raced back to Hawksbridge Castle. He wanted to hurry toward Charmion’s dark castle, but instead he swung by Hawksbridge, hoping, praying that he would find Kristine there, but it was not to be.

He stayed just long enough to change his clothes and arm himself, though he feared his weapons would be little protection against Charmion’s witchcraft.

Mrs. Grainger pressed a burlap bag into his hands as he went out the kitchen door. “She’ll be fine, I know she will.”

With a curt nod, he took the sack of foodstuffs and ran toward the stable.

Brandt and Gilbert had replaced Raven’s sweaty saddle blanket with a dry one. The stallion had been brushed, his hooves cleaned. Erik stuffed a bag of oats into one of his saddlebags, the sack of food into the other.

“We’ll be praying for her, my lord,” Brandt said as he handed Erik the reins. “All of us.”

Gilbert’s head bobbed up and down in agreement. “Godspeed, my lord.”

With a nod, Erik swung into the saddle. Kristine had won all their hearts, he mused as he rode out of the yard. Heaven knew she had his.

Leaving the manor grounds, Erik urged Raven northward, ever northward, his heart burning with a cold and bitter rage.

“Please, please, please … ” Just that one word, repeating over and over again.

Please don’t let me be too late.

Please don’t let Charmion take her hatred for me out on Kristine and the babe.

If anything happened to Kristine, he would never forgive himself.

He lifted his left hand, the long black claws hidden beneath a leather glove. If anything had happened to Kristine, he would rip Charmion’s heart from her body.

As the morning wore on, dark clouds gathered overhead, blanketing the sun. Lightning slashed through the lowering skies. He heard the low roar of distant thunder.

Raven snorted and tossed his head.

A blinding flash of lightning sizzled across the skies, unleashing a torrent of icy rain. Erik huddled deeper into his heavy cloak. Driven by an ever-growing sense of urgency, he bypassed the shelter of a small town he passed along the way.

An hour later, he reined the stallion to a halt, giving the big horse a much-needed rest.

Dismounting, Erik patted the weary horse on the neck, then paced back and forth for a few minutes to stretch his legs. Taking shelter under a tree, he braced one shoulder against the trunk and closed his eyes.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself surrounded by a half dozen men brandishing weapons. They wore the drab clothes of peasants.

“We’re here fer yer money, yer lordship,” said the man standing directly in front of Erik. He wore a ragged cloak, a dingy white shirt, breeches in need of mending, and a black top hat cocked at a rakish angle. It added a rather incongruous note to the rest of his attire.

“And yer horse,” added a tall, skinny lad with a mouthful of rotten teeth. “‘Tis as fine a piece of horseflesh as ever I’ve seen.”

Pushing away from the tree, Erik lowered the hood of his cloak. The men gaped at him when they saw the mask.

“Looks like he’s one of us!” exclaimed a short, stocky man wearing a tattered jacket, and a stocking cap.

A few of the men laughed nervously.

“Why the mask?” Rotten Teeth asked.

“That’s my business.”

“I’m afraid not, yer lordship,” Top Hat replied. “Take it off.”

Erik shook his head. “No.” He tensed as the man in front of him cocked his pistol. The other men did likewise.

“Take it off.”

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