Beast Lord: (Beauty and the Beast) (Tangled Tales Book 3) Read Free Page B

Lord Wickhambreaux would enable her to find love like the dream written about in the book that she now cradled in her arms. Truth was, she didn’t want to get married. Marriage frightened her – or at least marriage to a man she didn’t know. She planned on talking her father out of this betrothal and convincing him to let her decide for herself whom she would marry, all in good time.
    “We’ll be there soon, my lady,” said the dockman who was serving as her driver. “But are you sure you want to go to Breckenridge Castle?”
    “Of course I’m sure. It’s my father’s castle. My home. Why wouldn’t I want to go there?”
    “When is the last time you visited?”
    “It’s been eight years. Why do you ask?”
    “Things have changed in the past eight years, and the castle might not seem . . . quite the way you remember it.”
    “What are you saying? I’m sure it’s just as grand as it was when I left.”
    “Don’t be so sure,” the man mumbled under his breath, making Bonnibel feel uncomfortable.
    “Please hurry, and I advise you to hold your tongue. If you say anything else like that about my home, I shall have my father flog you for such insolence.”
    “Yes, my lady.” The driver whipped the horse and the cart jerked forward and she almost fell backwards off the seat. The guard reached out and grabbed her arm to steady her.
    “My lady, be careful,” said the guard. “You don’t want anything to happen to you – especially right before the wedding.”
    The driver drove like he was possessed, and rain poured down upon them. A jagged bolt of lightning split the sky, followed by a crash of thunder that shook her to her very soul. Something was wrong, she could feel it in the air. And the closer they got to Breckenridge, the more she wished she had stayed in France.
     
    * * *
     
     
    “Ow, that stings like a bloody wasp, now give me some more whiskey.” Stefan gritted his teeth as his squire, Trumble, pulled the needle through his skin and knotted and broke off the thread. They were crowded into the great hall along with Stefan’s brothers, father, and the wounded soldiers.
    “All done,” said Trumble, surmising his handiwork and nodding his head.
    “I don’t know why you had to be the one to stick me with needles.” Stefan took the bottle of whiskey MacKay handed him and downed a good portion. The burning path of fire to his belly helped to counteract the throbbing pain in his head and the constant burning sensation of his arms.
    “I’ll go back to Tavistock and get my healer,” suggested Lucio.
    “Nay!” Stefan took another swig of whiskey, swallowed it down, and shook his head. “I’ll be fine. Besides, I don’t need anyone else seeing me looking like this.”
    “What do you mean?” asked Lucio.
    “Tell me, father, how do I look?” Stefan gently raised his burned arm laden down with ointment, and used his fingers to test the swelling of his face. He still couldn’t see out of his eye, and had ordered Trumble to cover it with a patch. His face and head were full of stitches, and one side of his face felt like it was swollen twice the size of the other half.
    “You look –”
    “Frightening,” Arnon answered for him.
    “I would have gone with ugly as a buzzard,” said Wolf with a chuckle.
    “I think saying you look like a beast pretty much sums it up,” added MacKay, only making him feel worse.
    Stefan groaned. He wanted to die, and almost wished he would. But his anger for the man with the gold ring with the blue stone was what kept him alive. Revenge. Hatred. Anger. All the things that drove a person forward. Or insane.
    “You look like a strong, brave warrior that just came from battle,” said his father.
    “I’ll never look handsome again,” said Stefan, too miserable and insecure to look in a mirror.
    “You never looked handsome to begin with,” said Arnon.
    “I wouldn’t talk,” snapped Stefan. “At least I don’t have green skin and warts!”
    Wolf