Beast Page 2

  Chapter 1

  Fifteen years later

  “Prince has raised the tax,” Destin grumbled.

  Leona raised her head. “Raised it?” she asked incredulously. “Not again!”

  Destin nodded dismally. “Yes, again. Don’t know what the hell for. Little staff, no wars, and you’ve seen the palace; it’s a mess!”

  Leona sighed. She stopped scrubbing for a moment, and stared at the suds foaming around her wrists. “What does it mean, Destin?” she asked numbly. She was still staring into the soapy water. She felt his fingers lift her chin to look into his eyes.

  “You know what it means,” he said.

  Her eyes started to water. “Bust Destin you can’t,” she pleaded. “I need the money!”

  Destin frowned. “I know you do. So do I.”

  She sniffed, and wiped at a tear with her wet hand. She looked around the pub with blurry eyes. She’d been working as a barmaid at Destin’s family inn for years now. The oak walls, the stained tables, the dusty fireplace were all such friends to her. When she was little, she remembered coming in and sitting for lunch; when she got older, she would stay for dinner. The inn was like a second home to her. She’d never known anywhere else.

  She laughed a little. “Mother will be so pleased,” she said bitterly.

  Destin winced. Leona’s mother was the poorest, most morally righteous woman in town. Leona had never been able to miss church, just as she’d never been able to miss a lecture after she came back from Sunday brunch at the inn. Her mother considered such a place a whore’s heaven and a man’s quick road to hell. Leona couldn’t blame her; once, her mother’s family had been rich. They’d sat with the King and Queen for Sunday brunch, back then; of course, that was before her grandfather had died. After that, Leona’s mother had been left to try and handle the finances by herself. That was when she had married Leona’s father, a man who had died in a gunfight two years after the marriage.

  Where had all the money gone? According to Leona’s mother, nowhere. According to the account books Leona tended, to the men her father had gambled with.

  Destin sighed and settled back in his chair. His account books were spread before him, glasses on. He was looking intently at Leona. “I can’t afford to keep you on. Not with the way the taxes have been raised now. Leona…you know there are options.”

  Leona laughed harshly and took her hands out of the water, wiping them on her apron. “Destin, I would. But mother-”

  He rose abruptly. “Is on her deathbed! What would you care of her convictions if she wouldn’t even be around to-”

  “Oh, she’d be around. She’d haunt me, I know it.” She sat down at the kitchen table across from Destin.

  He reached across and took her hand. “Marry me, Leona. Please. I could take care of you; even your mother has to see that!”

  Leona shook her head. “I can’t,” she whispered. She laughed a little. “She sees nothing but the white horse the Prince is supposed to ride when he comes to ask for my hand.”

  Destin scowled. “That damn woman.”

  Leona looked away. She couldn’t damn her mother. Not when she knew that her mother was just an excuse. If Leona really wanted to marry Destin, she could. Her mother couldn’t walk, could barely breathe. Her mother was not the large obstacle Leona made her out to be. The truth was, Leona wanted a prince. Well, perhaps not the Prince, but a man who would be her prince. She wanted to fall in love. Her mother’s silly stories had all but poisoned her mind; all the years of lectures on how she was so beautiful, how she came from such good lineage, how she deserved better had just about made her believe so.

  Just about.

  Leona wasn’t stupid; she looked no better than the barmaid she was. Her hair, kept messy under the cap she wore, the hair her mother claimed was as fine as corn silk, was no more than yellow straw. Her eyes weren’t a mysterious blue or green; they were brown, like dirt. Her figure she supposed was all right, although no man of reputable birth would ever possibly want to marry her because of it. In her short dress, dirty black boots, and too-tight bodice she looked like the whore her mother had called her when she had admitted to working at Destin’s inn.

  “Please,” she looked back at Destin, “couldn’t you keep me? Just for a little while, until I find a new job?”

  Destin shook his head. He tilted the glasses back on his nose and glanced at the books. He sighed and then looked up. “No. The truth is, I can’t keep doing this. I’m tempted to turn you out cold until you come to your senses and marry me.”

  Leona widened her eyes. “What?”

  He scowled. “Leona, I should have let you go months ago. I was just…waiting for you to make up your bloody mind! I’ll lay it out now, though; I just can’t take it! It’s either her, or me.” He shrugged.

  Leona couldn’t believe her ears. “Destin you can’t- you can’t possibly-”

  “Oh yes, Leona, I can.”

  Leona stared at him, at his hard, unwilling eyes. Then she stood angrily. “I’ve known you since I was yet three years old, Destin! How you can- how you could be so- so coldhearted…” she let her words falter in her anger. She untied her apron and laid it on the table, letting it serve as her answer. She walked out of the kitchen, grabbing her shawl at the door, and out of the inn.

  She stood in the snow for a moment, staring down at the sludge beneath her feet. She had very little saved. She could last perhaps three days on what she had, and she doubted she would find anyone else willing to take her in, even for charity’s sake. She screamed and kicked the sludge. She would not be bullied into this. Desperation was not what would force her to finally wed.

  She sniffed, feeling the bitter cold start to bite her cheeks. She started walking home, shivering, trying her best to use her threadbare shawl to her advantage.

  Her small cottage was at the end of town, far beyond the flattened streets and light posts, deep into the heavily forested mountain. She blew out her breath as she started to climb, thankful that the walk would warm her. She trudged up slowly, mirroring her earlier tracks; she was the only one who ever went this way. She kept her head down, trying to ignore the icy wind that sneaked under her shawl and up through her dress. Her boots were wet, making her toes numb. She felt her nose turn raw. She lifted one foot after the other, at first not noticing that she was no longer stepping in unmarked snow.

  Feeling a chill that had naught to do with the cold run down her spine, she finally spied the other trail, two marks made by wagon wheels, running straight up along the faint footprints she had left earlier.

  She gulped, fear entering her mind, and looked up. She started running, not bothering to worry that she could barely feel her body move as she did so. She saw the carriage parked in front of her cottage and stopped dead. Outlined in gold on the polished black of the carriage was the emblem of a phoenix carrying a holly leaf.

  “No,” she whispered. They couldn’t! How could they- not so soon! Steeling herself, she walked up the steps and through the door.

  Two men looked up as she entered. She stared at them for a moment, and then shut the door. She hung her shawl on a peg, not wanting to turn around and face them.

  “Miss Winters?”

  Leona took a breath, and turned. Her mother was seated in her usual chair close to the fire, blanket wrapped firmly about her, white cap drowning her aging face. The two men were gathered around her, both wearing the same uniform of polished black boots, tucked-in white inexpressibles, and blue overcoats with gold buttons. Each still wore their gloves, as if afraid to touch anything in the small cottage.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said smoothly, and walked to stand in front of them. She checked again to make sure her mother was all right, then faced the two men. “I-” she cleared her throat. “I just recently learned of the tax raise.”

  One of the men, named Mr. Bradley, she knew, raised an eyebrow briefly. His associate, Mr. Green, rarely ever spoke. He could barely e
ver look at her. “Yes, it was posted this afternoon. We’ve come to collect the five owed, plus the additional six added earlier.”

  Leona felt her mind start to spin a little. She looked away briefly, and then laughed a little when she looked back. “Eleven,” she said faintly. “I…I haven’t got the money.”

  Her mother coughed, and Leona rushed to the pitcher by her side to pour her water.

  “As you can see, my mother is sick, and I’ve just…well, I haven’t at the moment got employment so-”

  “We can’t let this go again, Miss Winters. This is the third time we have delayed in collecting the tax. You know what the penalty is for not paying.”

  Leona dropped the pitcher with a thud, her mind going blank. “No,” she whispered, her eyes wide, begging. Her hand gripped the back of her mother’s chair for dear life. “You can’t,” she pleaded. “My mother- who will-”

  “I’m sorry Miss Winters, that’s none of our-”

  “Damned if it isn’t!” She cried, her body shaking.

  The men rose. “You’ll be coming with us,” Mr. Bradley said deadly.

  Leona shook her head violently. “No- you don’t understand- I-”

  “Either you come quietly or we take your mother,” Mr. Bradley threatened.

  Leona looked at her mother. Mrs. Winters probably had very little idea of what was going on. She sat still in her chair, staring into the fire, hands clasped tightly together. Leona ignored the men and knelt by her chair. She took her mother’s hands, and brought them to her lips. They were so cold. There was no way in hell her mother could survive in the Palace jail. The thought of her mother lying, cold, coughing…

  “Mama,” she whispered. Her mother looked at her. Leona felt a hard ache in her chest. “Mama, I’m going to have to go away for a little while. You won’t see me for…a few days.” Her mother just stared at her. “I’ll be back,” she whispered. “But…you’re going to have to- to pour your own water and…” She looked at the men. “Please. Let me at least get soup going to last her for…a few days.”

  Mr. Bradley hesitated. Then Mr. Green spoke. “We are in no hurry.”

  She felt a surge of warmth and gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  One hour later she walked out the front door mutely, wrapping her shawl around her against not only the cold of the night but the cold of the men. She got into their icy carriage, sitting in the far corner, staring out the window as the cottage rocked slowly away from her home.

  The ride wasn’t long. They entered the large, iron Palace gates in under a half hour. Her breath came rapidly as the door was abruptly opened, her arm grabbed, her body forced out of the carriage by large, rough hands. She stood in the courtyard, shivering, eyes wide with fear. She had only heard stories of what they did to people in the dungeons; she’d never imagined that she would be one of them.

  The courtyard was still largely abandoned; only recently, as the taxes had gotten higher and higher, had the dungeons started to be in use again. Mr. Green and Mr. Bradley were still in the carriage; Mr. Green glanced at her briefly before the door was slammed in her face. The carriage rolled away, and with it, the only kindness in the courtyard.

  Shaking, she turned to face the large man that stood behind her. He smiled roughly.

  “Haven’ had a woman in residence in a long, long time.”

  Her spine chilled. “Please,” she whispered. “How- how long do you think-”

  He laughed. Her words were drowned by his loud, rough laughter. He pulled out a set of chains, and her words died as he clinked them around her wrists. Her body froze, still shaking with cold, her toes numb, her nose red, cap askew. She stared at the metal. She couldn’t cry. She was in shock. She hadn’t really realized until those heavy links connected her to the man standing in front of her how much trouble she was in.

  Her knees felt weak, and her stomach grumbled.

  The man heard, and cocked an eyebrow. “Hungry, now are you?” he laughed again, only this time, he picked up a loose end of her chain, and started leading her forward.

  Her feet stumbled a moment, and then she followed. She might have been too young to remember where she was, but she knew exactly where she was going. Her heartbeat quickened when she saw the corridor.

  “No,” she whispered. She tried to pull on her chains. “No!”

  The man turned around, no humor in his eyes. He was furious. She cowered as he stalked up to her, and, with no concern for her whatsoever, yanked her over his shoulder. He walked down to the single cell, opened it, and tossed her to the ground. He grunted as she scrambled quickly to a corner, huddled, knees drawn to her chest.

  She couldn’t see anything. It was almost pitch black in the cell, freezing, the floor covered in dirt and a few strands of hay. Her breathing was noisy, her eyes wide, as she tried desperately to adjust to the darkness. The man walked away, and she felt terror fill her as she realized that she was alone with the darkness, and…it. She tried to listen for movement, yet she heard none.

  She covered her mouth with her hand to still her breathing. She looked around. And she realized that she was alone.

  Gasping, relief flooding through her, she pulled her knees closer and felt tears rise. She was alone. She was hungry. She was cold. And her mother would die if she were left in the cell any longer.

  Blinking, cheeks stinging with the warmth her tears brought, she lowered her face to her knees, and gave in to exhaustion.