Bride of The Beast. Adrienne Basso

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      “But my lord, we need these men to move the stones,” the captain protested.

      “I culled out the larger men for that job. They will carry the stones and begin building. The rest can be eliminated.”

      The captain frowned. “Moving the stones is an enormous task. All these men are needed.”

      “If you need more workers, then press more of the villeins into service.”

      The captain frowned. “We have already recruited every able-bodied man on the estate. There are none left who are strong enough to do the work. Grumblings have started among the people because there are no fit men to till the fields and plant the spring crops.”

      “I do not give a damn about the peasants’ complaints!” De Bellemare dragged his hand through his hair and cursed loudly. “I will grant you this day to complete the moving of the stones. Tomorrow morning I want those men killed.”

      The gasp of shock and horror that Bethan had struggled to contain burst forth and squealed from her throat. At the sound, the men turned toward her. The gleam of annoyance in de Bellemare’s eyes was unmistakable. The unsettling feeling prickling in Bethan’s belly deepened, but she did not lower her gaze.

      She could not allow this to happen. She could not! Helplessly, Bethan cast her eyes beseechingly toward the captain of the guard, hoping for support, a voice of reason to state an objection. He cleared his throat, then lowered his eyes, avoiding her imploring gaze.

      She next turned to her mother. Lady Caryn’s eyes were wide with distress, her hand lowered to hover protectively over her swollen belly. She licked her lips in obvious distress, yet remained silent.

      “Please, my lord, I beg of you to show mercy. You cannot possibly kill all these men,” Bethan cried, fearing her protests would fall upon deaf ears, yet unable to stop herself. “’Tis unthinkable.”

      “These men are prisoners, captured after I defeated them in battle,” de Bellemare snorted, clearly unfazed by her reaction. “Their fate is in my hands.”

      “But they are innocent of any crime. You have no right to slaughter them.”

      “Innocent? They are my enemies. They are your enemies. You would hardly call them innocent if they pulled you from your warm bed in the dead of night and raped you repeatedly before gutting you through with a knife from belly to neck, now, would you, little Bethan?”

      Dismissively, he turned and stepped around her, stalking away. Fear and revulsion coiled in Bethan’s belly at the image of such a brutal act against her, yet she would not be deterred. True, warfare existed between the Welsh tribes. And those living along the border fought long and hard against the Normans and their English allies, defiantly resisting invasion. But even those captured warriors were not treated with the kind of savagery her stepfather intended.

      Bethan had not missed the tension surrounding de Bellemare’s features, the annoyance at her interference. Common sense told her to let the matter drop. And yet her feet propelled her forward.

      “Please, please, my lord, you must reconsider,” she begged. Racing ahead, she slumped to her knees in front of him. Tamping down the fear that rose to choke the breath from her lungs, she forced herself to confront him. “’Tis a grave sin to shed so much blood in such a fashion. I fear this atrocity will bring us all great suffering.”

      “Thor save me from feebleminded women and their meddling ways,” de Bellemare growled.

      Bethan ignored the mockery in his tone. Lifting her chin, she stared at his face, schooling herself not to react as his pale, soulless eyes pierced her own. Inexplicably she remembered the first time she had seen him. He had been sitting atop an enormous horse, leading his soldiers through the gates of Lampeter, a broad-shouldered knight with wind-tousled, overlong hair that gleamed as dark and glossy as the richest fur.

      The women around her had sighed and giggled, exclaiming over his handsome face with its strong dark brow, blade-sharp cheeks, and stern jaw. But for some unknown reason the sight of him had sent a shiver of distress through her entire body.

      “My father would never have ordered such a barbaric act.” Bethan spat the words at him without thinking, desperation clearly overtaking reason.

      The light blue of de Bellemare’s eyes first flashed with astonishment, then darkened with anger. “Your father is no longer here to make these decisions. The last time I recall seeing him, he was lying on a battlefield in a puddle of his own blood, a lance planted squarely in the middle of his chest.”

      Bethan remained perfectly still as she absorbed his goading comment. She thought herself used to his ever-growing cruelty, yet he so often proved he still possessed the power to wound. But she refused to allow him to see he had upset her. Instead of tears, she permitted the indignity she felt to flair within her.

      How dare he speak so ill of her beloved father? De Bellemare was not fit to wipe his boots. She rose to her feet, squaring her shoulders in a pose of confidence she was far from feeling. “My father was a great warrior. He labored hard to keep this land, and his people, prosperous and safe, secure in times of trouble. He inspired love from his family and loyalty and admiration from his people. A feat few men can claim, especially you, my lord.”

      At that instant lightning flashed and thunder cracked. The menace in de Bellemare’s eyes glowed red hot. She saw his gloved hand reach for the gleaming hilt of his sheathed broadsword and Bethan knew she had pushed him too far. Thinking he might strike her, she braced for the blow. But it never came.

      She realized then that her mother had stepped forward, placing herself between them. Lady Caryn’s face was pale as whey, save for the dark patches beneath her eyes. “Forgive her wicked tongue, my lord. She is but a young, tenderhearted female who knows nothing of the ways of the world, understands nothing of the business of men. We all know ’tis you who keep us safe, you who provide us with all that we need, and we are all most grateful.”

      “Your daughter’s opinion is of no consequence to me,” de Bellemare proclaimed, yet Bethan believed her barb had stung him more than he wanted to credit. “But her insolence is something I will not tolerate. If you know what is good for you both, keep her from my sight.”

      His eyes burned into Bethan and she felt her knees begin to tremble. In anger, de Bellemare was a menacing expanse of muscle and ruthless power. Her breath quickened as she struggled to stay calm and expressionless, knowing her stepfather would take great amusement in her fear.

      “You are needed on the practice field, my lord,” the captain of the guard interrupted.

      Lord Bellemare grunted his acknowledgment of the message. Throwing her a final dark scowl, the knight turned and stormed away.

      “Whoreson,” Bethan cursed under her breath, the moment he was beyond her hearing.

      “Bethan!” Lady Caryn pulled frantically at her daughter’s arm, fearful her words might have carried on the wind. “Saints preserve us, would you anger him further? You put us all at grave risk with your wicked tongue.”

      Bethan’s answer was an embarrassed silence. Her mother was right; ’twas sheer madness to provoke her stepfather, especially when his ire had already been pricked.

      Hanging her head, Bethan meekly followed her mother. The rain had steadily increased, so it was no surprise Lady Caryn elected СКАЧАТЬ