Bride of the Beast

by Adrienne Basso

Genres: Paranormal Romance

Synopsis

When Haydn of Gwynedd first met Bethan of Lampeter, she was a brave and fearless young girl, risking her life to save his. Now Bethan has grown into a striking, courageous woman who needs Haydn’s help to defeat her tyrannical stepfather. Haydn’s dark gift compels him to offer marriage in name only, but he cannot deny the passion that sears them both. . . Previously published in Nature of the Beast

Release date: May 9, 2017

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 314

Sample

Lampeter, Wales, spring 1220

The swirl of wind was steady, yet not too strong. The light mist of rain that had been falling for the past week had finally stopped, but even at this early hour of the morning the clouds hung dark, low, and heavy. Thirteen-year-old Bethan of Lampeter stood on the highest rampart on the south edge of the timber castle, her mother at her side, her eyes pinned to the scene below.

The view down to the fortified bailey was unobstructed and Bethan watched with growing puzzlement as her stepfather, Sir Agnarr de Bellemare, walked among the hundreds of prisoners, barking out orders and separating them into groupings.

“Whatever is he doing?” Bethan questioned, leaning forward to get a closer look.

“I suppose he is arranging them into new squads of workers,” her mother speculated. She pulled the windblown veil away from her face and tucked a lock of honey-colored hair beneath it. “He told me yesterday the foundation of the new castle has finally been completed, so the stones must be moved in order to begin construction on the lower half.”

“All he thinks about is building his wretched castle,” Bethan grumbled. She looked beyond the wall that surrounded the village and the dwellings protected within those walls to the acres of cleared land stretching between the forest and the manor. “A portion of those men should be working the soil. We are already weeks behind. The fields need to be plowed and planted now or else we shall all go hungry this winter.”

“There are some furrows awaiting seed,” her mother replied, pointing to a small section where mounds of dirt sported neatly dug rows.

“’Tis a pittance,” Bethan countered. “I see but one oxen straining mightily to pull a single plow and less than a dozen villeins toiling behind. If this does not change soon, we shall once again be racing against time and weather to harvest whatever meager crops reach maturity.”

“Goodness, Bethan, such gloomy thoughts. When I was a girl of your age I thought only of my needlework, my prayers, and my future husband.”

“I have not that luxury, Mother,” Bethan replied with honesty. “Nor would I wish for it. I want only to see our people safe and prosperous.”

“As do I,” her mother whispered, a tremble of emotion in her words.

Guilt instantly washed over Bethan and she silently cursed her wicked tongue. She had not meant her remarks as a criticism. She knew there were many within the walls of Lampeter who blamed her mother for inflicting de Bellemare and his iron-fisted rule upon them all. Life, while never easy in this harsh, rugged climate and wild countryside of Wales, had been good for nearly everyone when Bethan’s father had been alive.

To the surprise of many, within days of her husband’s death Lady Caryn had married Sir Agnarr de Bellemare, a man who spoke the Norman French of England’s noble class, yet fought with the ferocity of his Viking given name. For the past three years, discord, discontent, and fear were the predominate emotions among those who lived within these walls.

The soldiers, tradesmen, even some of the peasants thought Lady Caryn a weak female, frail in figure, spirit, and mind. In their eyes she did little to stop her husband from his often abusive behavior toward them.

But others knew the truth, including Bethan. Lady Caryn had no choice in the matter. If she had not accepted de Bellemare he would have laid siege to the castle and taken it by force. Many would have died; all would have suffered horribly.

“Come, Mother. Let us walk out to the fields and see what crops are being sowed today. The fresh air will do you good.”

Taking hold of her mother’s arm, Bethan led her slowly down the winding staircase. Lady Caryn’s thin frame seemed more frail and fragile this morning, the burden of her swollen belly almost too much for her to carry. The constant sickness she had experienced since first quickening with child had weakened her previously strong constitution. Each day she seemed to wilt more and more.

Bethan worried about her mother, resenting this unborn child for myriad reasons. The very last thing she wanted was a blood tie to a whelp of de Bellemare. Still, Bethan was astute enough to realize there were times when it was only the promise of the child her mother carried within her body that kept them safe from the worst of her stepfather’s wrath. The knight had made no secret of his desire to have a son and heir, regardless of the toll it took upon his wife’s health.

When Lady Caryn had miscarried two other infants, de Bellemare’s anger had been felt throughout the castle, but he saved the majority of his displeasure for his wife. Though she never spoke of it, Bethan knew her mother feared what would happen if she could not successfully deliver the son her husband demanded.

As they strode through the large wooden front doors of the keep, Bethan saw her stepfather heading in their direction, the captain of the garrison at his side. She quickly steered her mother out of his line of view, hoping to escape an encounter.

Unfortunately, de Bellemare stopped before entering the keep. Bethan braced herself for his comments, but he apparently did not take notice of them, for he turned his back and spoke directly to the captain.

“Kill them,” he commanded in a deep, emotionless tone. “Start with the group on the left and finish with those I have placed in the center. I want them all dead and buried by tonight.”

“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. . .