“Alyse,” I tell him. “It is your sister’s ghost. Here.” I point to a long white marble coffin. “This is her tomb.”
Beast reaches out for my hand. In spite of his size, in spite of all the courage I know he possesses, he looks achingly vulnerable.
I take his offered hand; I cannot do otherwise.
I know I should look away, let him grieve in private, but I cannot. The sweet girl that I knew only briefly is the key to this gentle beast who has captured my heart. Besides, to look away smacks of cowardice, for I must bear witness to the misery my family has wrought.
When he is next to the coffin, he lets go of my hand, bows his great head, and closes his eyes, a spasm of grief distorting his face, his hands clenching into fists. I can feel the surge of his rage pound through his veins. He drops to his knees, and, unable to help myself, I go to him, but tentatively, afraid that after what my family has done to his, he will reject me.
But he does not. He grasps my hand in his and pulls me close until his head rests against my stomach. We stay like that a long time. How long, I do not know. But long enough for his heart to quiet and settle into a slow, steady rhythm, like a funeral drum. When he finally pulls away, I see he has found some measure of peace. But even so, the panic thrumming through my veins does not diminish.
At last he gets to his feet and brushes the dirt from his knees. Then he stops, his gaze falling on the tiny tomb to the right of Alyse’s. He turns to me with a stricken look. “Did Alyse have a second babe?”
Slowly, with every muscle in my body screaming at me to stop, I force myself to turn my own gaze to the small tomb. The beating of my heart grows so fast I fear it will burst out of my chest. Fiercely locked-away memories come rushing up from deep inside. Like water through a dam that has broken, they roar in my ears as I read the name engraved on the stone. “No,” I say with a voice I hardly recognize as my own. “That babe is mine.”
Chapter Forty-Five
I REMEMBER THE SCREAMING...
It was as if someone opened her mouth and all the anguish of hell came pouring out. It wasn’t until my father clouted me across the face—hard—that the sound stopped and I realized it was me.
And blood. I remember the blood. It was as if the bed had been dipped in a wide swath of dark crimson.
That has been all that I could remember of that day. But now, it all comes rushing back, a great black tide of despair and heartbreak.
My baby. Child of my womb. I have few memories of her, but they too have been locked behind this door.
“She stopped crying the moment they placed her in my arms. I remember her tiny hands, the even tinier fingernails, as she clutched my thumb in a surprisingly strong grip.” Her pink rosebud lips rooted around, eager to suckle and draw the warmth of mother’s milk into her tiny body.
We had but a hand span of moments together, my babe and I.
“I do not know how—from some unearthly power?—d’Albret heard her birthing cry and made his way to my chamber door. I looked up at his glowering form and bristling black beard and knew that if he let me keep this babe, I would do anything he asked of me. But even as I opened my mouth to tell him that, to give him my complete and unconditional surrender, he strode forward and grabbed the babe from my breast.
“She was so small, he could fit her head in one hand and it terrified me how carelessly he held her, but I said nothing for fear of antagonizing him. He carried her to the window, where he examined her small, dainty features in the light. I held my breath, hoping he was as bewitched by her perfect rosebud lips, her tiny little nose, and her dark blue eyes as I was.
“He lifted his eyes from the babe and turned them on me. ‘I had hoped the whelp was Julian’s.’
“In that moment, I saw what he meant to do. I struggled to get out of bed. ‘Stop him!’ I cried, but of course, none of the servants would dare cross him.” I look up into Beast’s stricken face. “Only Alyse. She was the only one who moved to save my baby. She threw herself at him, trying to grab the baby from his hands, but he struck her, knocking her to the ground, where she hit her head on the leg of the heavy wooden chair. I did not know until days later that she had died from the blow.
“Then he put his thick fingers around my baby’s frail neck and broke it. When he was done, he tossed the baby to the floor, and left the room.”
That was when the screaming started. And the blood, although I did not learn until later that it was my own birthing blood.