Bronwyn and the Beast Prince Read online

  The old gypsy studied him speculatively. “And why would ye be wantin’ to?”

  A mixture of fear and fury filled Raathe—fear and anger that he would only succeed in convincing the old hag of his desperation—in which case he could rot in hell before she gave him what he wanted. He narrowed his eyes at the woman. “I want to fuck her some more, old hag!” he growled.

  The gypsy glared at him. “Take care! Grandson or not, there’s things I can do to ye that would make ye regret yer impertinence!”

  Raathe gave her a look of contempt. “Worse than what you’ve done already, hag? Worse than the curse you placed on me all those years ago?”

  Her face reddened. “I’ve told ye! I’d no notion that bitch was carrying my grandson when I cursed her and her get forever!”

  “Take care how you speak of my mother, old hag!”

  “It was her fault! If she hadn’t spread her legs fer my son, he’d be alive today! She did this! It was no more than a mother’s grief that made me curse her … and ye! I was crazed with grief. Can ye not see that? Forgive that?”

  Raathe shook his head. He was weary of the old argument, tired of pointing out that he was the only one that was guilty of nothing and he had suffered more than any of the players in the drama.

  He felt far more pity for his mother than hatred. If the King, her husband, had behaved as he had been honor bound to behave by virtue of his vows, if he had given his wife the affection and attention she craved, and deserved, none of what had transpired would have ever come to be.

  He didn’t know or care which man had actually fathered him.

  He didn’t know if the old hag was truly his grandmother or only believed it to be so because she wanted something of her son to hold on to.

  All that mattered to him was if the old witch could bring him what he desired with more desperation with each passing day.

  “The girl?” he prompted.

  The old hag shrugged. “She’ll come back herself if she’s the one.”

  Rage infused Raathe in a sickening wave. “There’s no breaking the damned curse, old hag! I’ve no expectation of it—or that she’ll decide to return of her own free will.” He looked away, glaring balefully at the far wall.

  Gretchen studied him for a long moment. “Ye might go into the village an’ ask about fer the lass. She was at the faire. She would be from these parts I’m thinkin’.”

  Raathe shot her a cold glare. “You have forgotten the curse, I must presume.”

  Gretchen shrugged. “If she be yer true love, ye’ll be able to leave the castle and search for her.”

  If she was—which was so damned unhelpful he felt like choking the old witch!

  “Be gone! I am sorry I summoned you. Go, gods damn you!”

  Gretchen left, but thoughtfully.

  She paused when she reached the edge of the woods, closed her eyes, and used the summoning spell. When she opened her eyes again a unicorn stood before her, studying her curiously.

  “Go. Find her. Appear to her as you did before and, if she will come to you, return her to the prince.”

  They studied one another for a long moment in silent communication and the gypsy shrugged. “I’m thinkin’ mayhap she’s the one who’ll teach him true love. If not … well there’s not much hope fer him, is there?”

  * * * *

  Bronwyn was too restless to sleep. At dawn her father was to walk her to the parish church where she would wed the man he had chosen for her.

  She sighed deeply.

  It was not as if the man was ill favored, or ancient, or cruel, or stupid.

  He seemed entirely average—which was to say there was nothing of any real note to be said about the man.

  Nothing to enthrall her and captivate her imagination.

  She felt … nothing when he kissed her and held her close, but mayhap that was to the good. Perhaps when she grew accustomed to him he would be able to stir her blood.

  She didn’t believe that, she realized. It was just another lie that she’d told herself in her efforts to convince herself she was about to begin a life of contentment if not joyousness.

  Contentment was not to be scorned, she chided herself, whipping the covers back impatiently and rising from her bed to pace her small room. It was happiness that could be maintained.

  She might never again know the heights of passion, feel the full gamut of emotions scouring her.

  But, the gods willing, she would know fulfillment. He would fill her belly with children and she would be able to give them her heart. She would be able to pour out all of the love inside her and she have it returned in full measure, bountifully.

  She would be able to respect her husband.

  In time, she was bound to feel affection for him—for the gift of love he would give her in the form of her children if nothing else.

  But, in truth, she anticipated finding many reasons to feel affection.

  She saw when she reached the window that the moon was full, illuminating the entire yard surrounding their home almost as if the new day was dawning already.

  It was the sense of dread that nearly overwhelmed her at that thought that forced her to face the fact that she was not happy in her father’s choice—no matter that the man would have been completely acceptable to her before.

  Her heart had yearned for him in her dreams for weeks without cease. Each night she lay her head on her pillow and composed herself for sleep, she tried hard to convince herself he would not visit her dreams.

  But he did.

  And she was nigh sick with yearning.

  She could scarcely eat or sleep.

  Fortunately, everyone seemed to think that it was bridal nerves, anticipation of her wedding day—and night.

  But she could feel nothing but dread, no matter how hard she worked to convince herself she shouldn’t, that there was nothing to fear. He would treat her well, take care of her.

  Dread.

  But it wasn’t fear of her husband-to-be. It wasn’t doubts about him. It wasn’t fear of the unknown as she faced the marriage bed—for she was convinced this time that there was little left to discover in coupling.

  It was fear that no man could give her the passion he had. She would never know it again.

  It was fear that she was about to walk into darkness and lose the demon lord forever.

  Movement caught her eye as she stood staring blankly out of the window, seeing nothing but the memories in her mind. It broke the spell and she peered hard at the edge of the woods that marched along the border of their yard, wondering if it was merely the wind ruffling the branches.

  But then the moving shadow stepped from the cover of darkness and was instantly blanketed in the glow from the moon.

  Bronwyn’s heart jerked in her chest. She sucked in a sharp breath.

  A unicorn?

  It couldn’t be! She was no maid! Not anymore.

  She blinked and looked again and her heart set up a clamor in her chest.

  It was the mare! The mare! The one that had stolen her away and taken her to the demon lord!

  It nodded—for all the world as if it had heard her thoughts!

  But that was nonsense, of course. She had to be imagining it! Just as she’d thought moments before that she’d seen a unicorn of legend—a fanciful creature that didn’t even exist!

  The mare seemed to study her for several moments, to consider what to do next.

  Finally, after it had looked all around the yard, it moved slowly closer until there was no doubt at all that it was not purely imagination or that it was the very mare that had taken her to the castle before.

  “He sent you for me?” she gasped, feeling a surge of such joy she felt dizzy with it.

  The mare seemed to hesitate. Finally, she nodded.

  “Wait! I’m coming!” Bronwyn gasped, refusing to even acknowledge the thoughts pinging around inside her head let alone to consider them.

  He’d sent for her! He did care! He hadn’t instantly forgot
ten her!

  She didn’t wait to dress. She merely grabbed a shawl, tossed what she needed down onto it, and tied it in a bundle.

  She debated, briefly, trying to sneak from the house, but sneaking through seemed far too fraught with the danger of getting caught. Instead, she moved to the window, opened it wide, and climbed out. The mare obligingly moved close enough that she landed on the horse’s back. She’d barely settled when the horse took off, running like the wind. She leaned low, clutching the mare’s neck and mane.

  Doubts swarmed her mind as the mare raced into the night, circling like crows above a corpse.

  Her father wouldn’t know what had happened to her.

  He would be shamed when she didn’t show for her wedding the following day, and so would her groom.

  What had she been thinking!

  She’d been thinking about herself, about her happiness.

  “I’m so sorry, Papa! Forgive me!” she whispered, knowing he couldn’t hear her but hopeful that he loved her enough he would understand her desperation, the driving need to follow her heart and damn the consequences.

  She was sorry about embarrassing her groom, as well, but she comforted herself with the thought that it was merely a transaction to him. He might be embarrassed and disappointed, but he would not be hurt by her perfidy. He would no doubt recover very quickly and find a more suitable bride to share his life with.

  Indeed! Far better that she flee now and not betray him with her mind, if not her body, because she was quite sure she would not be able to put the demon lord from her mind!

  She discovered, though, once she reached the castle and the demon lord emerged that her memories of him had faded.

  He was far more handsome than she remembered!

  Without a word—just as he had the first time—he stalked down the steps, scooped her from the mare’s back, and strode swiftly inside with her.

  Bronwyn was disappointed.

  She’d hoped to hear a profession of his love.

  Instead, to her utter delight, he professed his passion for her and she discovered those memories had grown indistinct with time, as well.

  Disrobing her the moment they reached his bedchamber and he’d stood her on her feet, he carried her to the bed, manacling her wrists on either side of her head with his hands and proceeded to ravish her with his mouth and teeth and tongue until she was near to fainting for lack of air and begging him to take her. He entered her then, impaling her deliciously on his thick shaft and then drove in and out of her until she’d climaxed three times and fallen into a half-faint from the intensity of rapture.

  Goosebumps erupted all over her when he uttered a deep throated growl of satisfaction and emptied his seed into her.

  Slowly, they regained their equilibrium and the sense of satisfaction began to dissipate.

  Bronwyn was surprised and gratified when he gathered her against his chest and began to slowly stroke her back.

  “I did not think you would come back to me,” he said finally, his voice a strangely hoarse croak.

  Bronwyn released a deep sigh of contentment, hesitant. And yet, what was the point of it all if she was too much of a coward to take the first step? “I would’ve come back at once if you’d asked me.”

  He shifted and finally caught her chin and tipped her head back so he could study her face. “I’m still an ugly beast,” he said finally, disappointment threading his voice. “This is not love, then.”

  Bronwyn smiled faintly, shaking her head. “You are not an ugly beast! You appeal to me … vastly!”

  Disconcerted, Raathe frowned, thinking that over. “Soooo … I am still ugly as sin. It is only that you love me that I am appealing?”

  Bronwyn blushed, but she laughed outright. “Mayhap it is love that deceives my eyes—or perhaps it is only that you saw something in yourself before that colored your vision?”

  He gave her a censorious glare. “Is that supposed to be a profession of love?”

  “I do not believe I have heard those words from your lips,” Bronwyn said pointedly.

  He laughed, gathering her tightly and squeezing. “I have lusted for you, my beauty, till I thought that I would lose my mind.”

  Bronwyn pushed away from him and met his gaze. “Then show me more of your desire, my lord, and I will give you more of my love. And perhaps, in time, you will see that one begets the other. Where there is love, there is passion beyond anything to be had without the love.

  The End.