Page 2 of Beauty and the Lyon
Blake didn’t argue. He would make himself squeeze through no matter what. He crawled into the bushes after her, coming out on the other side and dashing to another hedge, pushing through another spot, and darted after her to a large tree with thick, low hanging branches.
“Climb up. We will be safe there.”
“How do you know?” he whispered.
“Trust me,” she whispered back.
She scrambled up the tree with a nimbleness that shocked him. How many times had she done this before?
“How do you know this place?”
The girl paused in her climb to look down at him. “I am an explorer.”
Blake stared after her, all sorts of doubt filling his mind. An explorer? But she’d said it with such confidence that he couldn’t find the words to question her claim or why she would risk herself to save him.
He followed her up, his longer limbs making the climb more awkward, but he soon reached the higher branches, settling into a sheltered nook across from her. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant, slurred shouts of the duke. Through the branches, Blake could see the lights from the manor, but despite the orange glow, there was no warmth to be found there. He also found no glimpse of his father, and his drunken mutterings grew fainter as each moment passed.
The girl shifted, and Blake turned his gaze back to her, watching as she craned her neck for a better view over the garden. There was something almost mesmerizing about her unshaken calm, her quiet composure that made her a bright beacon in the darkness. Gratitude filled him, and in that moment, he gathered strength not just from her boldness, but also from the small victory of their escape. Her eyes suddenly found his.
Overhead, a cloud parted and moonlit pierced through the branches. He blinked. “You’re...”
She smiled, a finger lifting to hover over her lips. His breath caught for the second time that night, and this time it was not laced with the painful burn of fear.
So pretty.
Like an angel.
A miracle. A dream. A fantasy.
He couldn’t quite explain the daze, or perhaps the clarity that befell him then, but he did see one thing exceedingly clear at the moment. The man stumbling, cursing, and ready to hurt the child he sired... that man...
He no longer considered that man his father.
But his enemy.
Chapter One
Eighteen Years Later
Her brother hadgambled away everything.
Lady Rosilee Fairchild stood in front of her family’s estate, the wind tugging at her bonnet and the hem of her muslin dress while she waited for the arrival of the man she wished she could hurl into the Avon River. The manor loomed behind her; its beloved walls now shadowed by an overwhelming sense of dread. The news had arrived like a thunderclap—a single letter delivering the cruel blow of her brother’s idiocy.
Darnation!
She crunched the parchment in her gloved hands, the inked scrawl burning into her memory.My dearest Rosilee, I have failed you.So few words, but they carried the weight of ruin. Everything was gone—the house, the land, and the last of the dignity their family name held. All lost in a single reckless wager with that scoundrel Baston. And that ghastly rogue was treating her brother as a “special” guest until she handed the deed over to him.
The nerve!
She swallowed hard, refusing to allow any emotion to prick at her eyes. Tears wouldn’t help her. They never had. She had grown accustomed to the disappointments that life inflicted upon her family and had always faced any stumbling blocks with her chin held high. But this... this was beyond anything she could have imagined.
This was their home.
They didn’t have another.
Their income came from this land. Without it, they would have to rely on her brother’s ability to sell and publish his peculiar short stories, which meant they would be doomed. She turned back to the manor. But most importantly, its walls held years of memories—both cherished and painful.
Would she lose her books, too?
