Bride of The Beast. Adrienne Basso

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      Haydn ran through the clearing toward the thick grove of trees. He pushed himself until the burning in his lungs became a constant, unbearable pain, but he did not slow until the tall trees and dense thickets had swallowed him. Still keeping a steady speed, he glanced over his shoulder, relieved to see no one.

      The scent of spicy pine drifted around him, normally a comforting scent but the tension inside him seemed to crackle in the air. Panting, his breath coming in deep gasps, Haydn allowed himself a moment of rest. He strained, listening for the sound of horses’s hooves, the baying of dogs, the thundering rhythm of marching men in hot pursuit. But he heard nothing. Only the groaning of the trees as they fought the wind and in the distance, the hooting of an owl.

      He picked up the pace, his leather boots slipping on the wet pine needles that carpeted the forest floor. Rain fell in torrents, splattering Haydn’s face, making it difficult to see. He lowered his head and thrust himself forward, determined to make progress, knowing if he reached the outer edge of the forest it was but a short sprint to the base of the rugged hills.

      He ran for hours, until every muscle in his body ached, every bone jarred. Blinking against the pelting drops, he lifted his head. Lightning forked in the sky and thunder boomed through the forest, illuminating the mantle of darkness. And then he saw them. The stark, bare, stone hills.

      Freedom.

      Rain lashed from the sky, pummeling the ground. But Haydn barely felt it. With renewed strength, he pushed his wet hair from his eyes. For the first time since he had been captured two long months ago, he smiled.

      They would not be able to track him once he began to climb, even if de Bellemare led his soldiers on the hunt. He remembered the earnest expression on Bethan’s face as she told him she would pray for sunshine so her stepfather would not pursue him.

      As for Haydn, well, he would pray for light rain and a dense fog. Bethan knew only that de Bellemare was reluctant to be in the sunlight, freely admitting she was unaware of the reason.

      But Haydn knew. He knew that once bathed in sunlight de Bellemare would burst into flames and burn until he was consumed. He knew de Bellemare was cursed. He was not alive, nor was he dead. He was undead. He could breathe, his heart beat, he ate, drank, slept, but most importantly he could not easily die.

      De Bellemare was a vampire. He could live forever, with his amazing strength and cruel, evil countenance, as long as he had blood. Human blood.

      Haydn knew that de Bellemare could go mad with bloodlust, killing humans as well as other vampires. Haydn believed that was what had happened to his parents—de Bellemare had gone on a rampage, had broken a taboo held for centuries among his kind and slaughtered every creature that drew breath within Haydn’s family manor.

      Haydn knew this, understood this, because he too was a creature of darkness, a vampire. A twist of fate had saved him from sharing the same gruesome end as his family. He had been away from the manor at the time of the attack. He had tracked those responsible for the carnage and been caught and imprisoned.

      The need to avenge this evil wrong, to destroy his sworn enemy was the force that drove Haydn. Much as he wanted to, he knew it was madness to challenge de Bellemare now. Haydn was young, his abilities not yet fully developed. Therefore he knew he must wait, he must build his strength, harness his powers, and in due time, gain his revenge.

      Thanks to young Bethan of Lampeter’s courage, he would have that chance.

      Two

      Ten years later, early spring

      “I have decided that you shall marry within the month, Bethan,” Sir Agnarr de Bellemare decreed. “I am done with your paltry excuses and maidenly foolishness.”

      The self-proclaimed Lord of Lampeter made his announcement as the evening meal was being served. The hall bustled with activity, people, and noise, but Bethan felt several pairs of eyes turn to her. She imagined her stepfather had raised his voice intending to be overheard, intending to demonstrate yet again that he, and he alone, ruled this land and all who resided within it.

      Bethan clutched her hands together in her lap so no one, especially de Bellemare, would see them tremble.

      “Precisely who am I to marry, my lord?” she asked cautiously, trying to force a light, uncaring note into her voice. “’Tis over a year since any acceptable men have presented themselves to me as potential suitors.”

      “The fault for your lack of suitors does not lie with me,” he spat out.

      To her dismay, Bethan flinched. His words had struck a chord. At three-and-twenty she was well beyond the age when most women married. As she matured, there had been some interest, but any man that she was willing to consider quickly changed his mind when he tried to negotiate a bridal contract with her stepfather.

      In the end, Bethan had not been too despondent, for she knew the one characteristic she required in a husband, above all others, was his ability to stand up to the Lord of Lampeter. Unfortunately, that man had yet to be found.

      “I have been far too lenient about this matter,” de Bellemare announced. “I will select the groom myself and you will be pleased with my choice.”

      “Your choice?” Bethan said in a clear voice that easily reached the end of the hall. “I agreed to an arranged marriage, my lord. Not a forced one.”

      “Damn your insolent hide!” Lord Lampeter slammed his fist upon the trestle table so hard his goblet of wine shuddered, tipped, and fell over. The rich red liquid ran like a river to the edge, then trickled over the side.

      Bethan straightened her shoulders. “Three years ago you agreed, sir, that I would have the final choice as to which man becomes my husband. Surely, you do not mean to break your promise to me, an oath sworn before God and our people?”

      He glowered at her and Bethan felt a rising fear. ’Twas not prudent, or safe, to push his temper beyond a certain point, but she had to reestablish her rights in this process in front of witnesses. It was her only chance.

      “You know your stepfather is a man of his word,” Lady Caryn said quietly. “He would never dishonor himself in such a fashion by breaking his promise.”

      Bethan turned to her mother in gratitude, grateful for the support. The answering smile of encouragement she received nearly broke her heart. The once lovely Lady Caryn was thin to the point of gauntness, her complexion pale, bloodless. She was in so many ways a shadow of her former self, but her instinct to protect her daughter remained strong.

      “I need no defense from you, lady wife,” de Bellemare grunted in disgust. “If you had given me a son, a proper heir, this matter would not be of such grave importance.”

      Cowed, Lady Caryn bowed her head. The Lord of Lampeter never missed an opportunity to berate his wife over her failure to produce the requisite heir. Bethan felt it was especially СКАЧАТЬ