The Witch and the Beast Read online

  The Witch and the Beast

  By

  H.G. Lynch

  Before Belle, there was the witch who made him a Beast.

  I am that Witch.

  This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ©Text Copyright 2019 H.G. Lynch

  Edited by

  Swaggin’ Author Services

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  Dedication:

  This one is for my Prince, my Gentleman, my Soul-mate. Christopher.

  Other Books by HG Lynch

  The Caged Trilogy

  Run

  Fight

  Howl

  The Reaper Born Trilogy

  Red Dagger

  Black Blade (Coming Feb 2019)

  Chapter One

  It was a brisk, autumn morning the first time I saw him.

  Standing in a shaft of pale sunlight, bronze leaves sticking to the cobbles at his feet, he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. A crimson satin ribbon bound his shoulder-length auburn locks, his smart overcoat the same shade of red. The brass buttons on his shirt gleamed, and the watery sunlight glinted off a thick, golden ring on his left hand.

  Every inch of him shouted wealth, from the tips of his shiny black riding boots, to the royal straightness of his nose. Even without that, though, I would have known who he was. Prince Adam.

  I had heard he would sometimes come into the village, but I had not dared dream that I might one day see him. The Prince was the most desired bachelor in France, and was known for being somewhat of a cad with women.

  As I stared at him, gently handling a fine piece of emerald cloth at a seller’s stall, I could swear his eyes flashed in my direction, just for a moment. A tiny, private smile touched the corner of his mouth as he laid the cloth down, and I imagined it was aimed at me – like a beautiful secret.

  Clang. The deep bell on the neck of a passing milk cow, towed by a cheery-looking farmer, startled me. I let out an impolite squeal, swiftly ducking behind the curtain of the vegetable stall I’d been peeking around.

  After a few seconds, praying he hadn’t seen me, I pulled back the curtain just a crack. I saw the cloth seller’s stall, but the Prince was no longer there. I searched the market quickly, my gaze darting between flat-capped heads and frill-hemmed skirts. His distinct auburn waves were nowhere among the crowd.

  I let out a sigh of disappointment. Perhaps I should have used my time near him more wisely – perhaps I should have introduced myself to him, instead of eyeing him from afar, daydreaming of what could be. Then again, who was I to think he would have any interest in me? After all, he was the Prince. He could have any woman he wanted. I was just a lowly clairvoyant’s daughter, dressed in rough fabrics of last year’s fashions.

  At least, that was what the village folk thought. They could not know that I had the powers of a witch. If it was ever discovered, they would surely hang me.

  Remembering the bag of fresh apples in my arms, I realised Mama would be waiting impatiently for my return. I was in such a hurry stepping out from behind the vegetable stall that I walked right into someone else.

  As I bumped into a man’s chest, my clumsy hands slipped on the bag. It fell to the cobbles, a scarlet apple rolling free. I began to apologise, bending swiftly to grab the apples. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there, and I-”

  “Relax, Madmoiselle. The fault is mine.”

  The voice was deep and melodic, lilting with a hint of amusement. Blinking, still facing the ground, I realised that next to the apple I was about to pick up, were a pair of shiny black boots. Boots I’d been admiring just a moment ago, on the...

  “Prince,” I breathed, lifting my head.

  Up close, he was yet more beautiful than from afar. His strong brow shielded eyes the colour of a summer’s sky, his teeth white as pearls in his smile. “It appears you know who I am,” he remarked jovially. “Might I ask who you are?”

  “Me?” I squeaked. He raised his eyebrows, and my heart fluttered. Giving myself a mental kick, I managed to compose myself, tucking the bag of apples under one arm. “My name is, uh, Agatha, Your Majesty.” With my free hand, I lifted the hem of my skirt ever so slightly, ducking my head in as graceful a curtsy as I could manage.

  “Well, Agatha, let me help you with those,” Prince Adam said, reaching out for the bag of apples I carried.

  “Oh! No, that really isn’t necessary, Your Majesty.” I was shocked by his offer. Someone of his royal blood, offering to carry a commoner’s apples?

  “Please, it would be the least I could do. After all, it was my fault you dropped them.”

  It seemed rude to argue with a Prince. Reluctantly, I handed over the paper bag. The Prince settled it under his right arm, and then held out his left to me, his elbow crooked. “I shall walk you home. I enjoy a good stroll, now and then. And what better company than a beautiful woman?”

  Heat swept up my face, and I laid a cool hand to my cheek. The Prince had just called me beautiful. Speechless, I led him along the narrow streets of Ribauville, and across the arched bridge that spanned the small river.

  We’d been walking for only a few minutes when the Prince asked me, “What is it you do, Agatha?”

  I stared at my thin hand tucked in the corner of his elbow. The red cotton of his overcoat felt lovely and soft. Embarrassed to tell him, I said quietly, “I’m just the clairvoyant’s daughter, Your Majesty.”

  “Just?” he repeated, incredulity in his voice. “I have heard great things of your mother, Agatha. A Duke of mine once called upon her services, and I hear she warned him of an English spy in his circle. It turned out to be true, and the Duke had the spy hanged. Were it not for your Mother’s skill, we might never have known!” His laugh sent a small chill down my spine, but I forced my smile to stay in place. Then his eyes landed on me, and I felt my pulse spike in my throat.

  “To be the daughter of such talent...I’m sure you must have a talent, too, no?” His voice was low and intimate, as if he were lulling me into telling him a secret.

  I swallowed hard. “No, Your Majesty. My mother often says that my only talent is causing trouble.”

  He laughed loudly at that, throwing his head back. His teeth glimmered. “My father often used to say something similar of me,” he said reminiscently. “I suppose he was often right.”

  His grin was shameless, and I felt myself relax. He was so charismatic, so charming. Not at all the intimidating rogue I had heard about.

  We talked the entire walk back to my small cottage, and for a while, I had almost forgotten that he was the Prince. For a while, it had been like talking to a good friend...only, I didn’t have this feeling in my chest when I was looking at an old friend. I didn’t get butterflies when they looked back.

  “This is where I live,” I said, stopping at the poorly-painted door to my cottage. I reached out for my apples, and the Prince dropped the bag into my arms. Then he hesitated.

  “Mademoiselle Agatha,” Prince Adam said softly, his hand coming up to touch the end of one of my black curls. “Come to dinner with me tomorrow night. At the palace. I’d like to speak with you some more.”

  My stomach tightened with excitement. “I...of course, Yo
ur Majesty. I would be honoured, Your Majesty.”

  He wrapped my curl around his finger, and then crushed it in his fist. “And Agatha?”

  “Yes?” I whispered, barely breathing.

  “Call me Adam.”

  “Yes, Your Ma-...Adam.”

  His returning smile was a lovely reward for my obedience. “Good. A coach will pick you up at four pm sharp. Until then, Mademoiselle Agatha.” Gently, he lowered his hand, releasing my crumpled curl, and took mine. He lifted the back of my hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against my skin.

  The shiver that swept through me had nothing to do with cold. In fact, I had never been so warm. I felt almost as if I had a fever.

  With one last lingering smile, Adam turned and loped away gracefully back toward the market, the heels of his boots clicking distinctly on the cobbles.

  After he was out of sight, I took a moment to compose myself at the front door. I didn’t want Mama asking why I looked so flushed. I didn’t want to tell anyone about my walk with the Prince, and his offer of dinner. It was my arousing little secret.

  As I’d expected, Mama was in the kitchen, her hands knuckle-deep in pie dough. “Finally,” she cried as I came in. “About time you came back with those apples, Agatha. Grab that knife there and peel them for me, will you?”

  I sighed as I set the bag of apples down beside the sink. “Yes, Mama. Just let me go wash my hands.”

  I hurried out of the kitchen and into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I stood in front of the small, cloudy mirror and examined myself for signs of this apparent beauty Prince Adam had remarked about. But I could only see what I had always seen: neat black curls under a yellow lace bonnet, a round face with almond-shaped hazel eyes, slightly pouty pink lips. I was not ugly, I knew that. I also was not remarkably beautiful.

  Shaking away my self-doubt, I washed my hands quickly and thoroughly with the bar of lavender soap, and straightened my skirt before returning to the kitchen to peel apples for Mama.

  When four in the afternoon came around the next day, I was standing at the window, peering out impatiently. I’d dressed in my finest dress, emerald satin with white lace trimmings. I’d polished my good shoes right down to the glass buttons.

  Too poor for the expensive make-up of the higher classes, I used a little crushed rose to add colour to my cheeks, and pinned my curls back with a filigreed, silver brooch.

  When a shiny, black coach pulled up outside, pulled by two massive white geldings, I was glad Mama had gone to bed early. She’d been with a client all morning and Seeing always exhausted her. She wouldn’t wake until tomorrow morning.

  As I shut the front door behind me, a footman clad in fine livery stepped down to open the carriage door for me. I thanked him profusely as I got in, overwhelmed to be treated with such reference.

  The footman hopped back up on the front of the carriage and snapped the reins. I focused on the steady sound of the horse’s hooves clip clopping to calm my unsteady stomach and heart.

  I tried to imagine what awaited me in the dinner hall of the Prince. Would he sit near me, or at the head of a great dining table? Would we be served exotic things like duck and spiced sausages, or a whole roasted pig with a ripe apple between its jaws? How many spoons and forks would there be, and could I use each one as etiquette intended, or would I embarrass myself and show my hand as nothing but lowly commoner? Or worse, would I do something that showed me to be a witch? What if I lost control of my power, as I had done dozens of times before? It was difficult to control when I was emotional, and being in the presence of the Prince would be certain to make me emotional.

  Before I could linger too long on my worries, the coach came to a halt and the footman again opened my door. He held out his arm to steady me as I descended the step to the ground. With a grateful nod, I thanked him.

  The footman tipped his hat, but just a second, in the shadow of his hat brim, I swore he grimaced as if he were in pain. I started to reach out to him, but he turned and walked away swiftly.

  Alone, I turned my attention to the mansion in front of me. It was a beautiful, towering work of art in typical French renaissance style. Made of golden stone the colour of butter, with black, slate-topped spires. Lush, green ivy climbed the walls and around the wooden shutters. High, arched windows sat on either side of a set of massive, ornately carved doors.

  As I stood there, something took my eye. Above the doors, jutting from the wall, was a sculpture. The stone it was made from seemed darker than the stones around it, as if it were stained somehow. The sculpture was of the head of a gargoyle, with long tusks protruding upward from the lower jaw, and wolf-like pointed ears.

  A sharp gust of chilled air blew against my cheeks, pulling me away from the beast’s entrancing, hollow stare. Bracing myself, I lifted a cotton-gloved hand to knock on the large door, but it opened under the slightest pressure of my knuckles. The door swung wide, opening up the grand lobby, with pale marbled floors and elegant, night-blue wallpaper. Sconces with flickering flames lit the semi-circle lobby, outlining the sweeping staircases on either wall. Fine, dark blue runners covered the long, mahogany staircases.

  There were three hallways branching off from the lobby, one of either side and one directly in front, between the staircases. I had expected some footman to be standing behind the door, ready to take my coat or show me to the Prince. But there was nobody.

  “Bonjour?” I called, my voice a little shaky.

  A deep laugh echoed from the balcony where the two staircases met, one floor above. I looked up to see Prince Adam step up to the railings, gripping the only barrier between him and a dangerously long fall.

  He looked down at me, dressed in a velvet dining coat in the same dark blue as the walls. Strands of red-gold hair fell around his eyes as he smiled down at me. “Agatha, Madmoiselle,” he remarked as if he were surprised to see me.

  “Yes, Your...I mean, Adam.” I bowed my head, uncertain if a curtsy was warranted when you’d been asked to dinner.

  “Hmm,” he murmured as he descended the left staircase languorously. He moved with an elegance borne of an easy life. Almost cat-like in his casual gait. A lion, feasting his eyes upon me.

  A blush heated my face. Never had a man looked at me with such intensity, such hunger. It was far from proper and polite, but the eager look on his face had started a fire low in my belly. I could imagine him looking at me that way while he undid the laces of my under-corset.

  I banished the thought, lest it show in the redness of my face. The Prince approached me with his hands wide. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said warmly, taking my gloved fingers in his hands. His palms were warm, his finger strong as they captured mine, bringing my knuckles to his mouth. He pecked a kiss on each knuckle before straightening. “Come, the dining room is this way, and dinner should be ready very soon.”

  He ushered me along the hallway to the right, which opened up into an incredibly long room, with a high, beamed ceiling. Scones and art works adorned the walls, and one piece caught my attention. It was a stained glass triptych, mounted inside a glass case. The triptych pictured the life of a rose.

  The first pane showed just a sprout, a short stem with a single leaf. The second pane showed, in clean, bright colours, a single crimson rose in full bloom. The third and final pane showed, in hues of brown and bronze, a withered and dried old rose, all of its petals shrivelled at its base.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Adam’s voice came from right behind me, and I jumped in surprise. He caught me with a steadying hand on my elbow.

  So close, it was impossible not to look at his mouth, on level with my eyes. Full, nicely-shaped lips over straight, white teeth. The flash of his canines made him look wolfish. “I keep it there to remind me that life is fleeting. You should make the most of it while you’re young and beautiful.”

  He lifted one finger to the point of my chin, barely touching me. Unintentionally, I took a half-step back, bumping my shoulder against the gl
ass case. Trapped between the case and his broad body, I felt small and feminine, entirely at his mercy.

  My breath quivered as I exhaled. His hand slid up to cup my cheek, toying with a loose curl that rested there. His blue eyes lingered on my mouth, and I thought for the briefest moment that would kiss me.

  The sound of a door opening at the back of the room startled me, but Adam just turned coolly and said, “Dinner’s ready, I suppose. Let me get your seat.”

  A girl in fine kitchen garb presented a large silver tray of steaming rolls. She laid it down swiftly on the dining table, and turned to go back through what I now saw were a set of swinging half-doors made of wood. Evidently, the kitchen was through there, because as the first girl went in, another girl in the same plain dress came out, carrying another tray. This one held a pile of dark green asparagus bathed in what appeared to be butter.

  My stomach growled at the sight, and my mouth watered. The room smelled like warm bread.

  I took a seat as elegantly as possible in the high-backed chair that Adam had pulled out for me. Another kitchen girl placed an oval china plate in front of me, and laid out several eating implements besides. More and more trays of food arrived from the kitchen, from golden roasted potatoes to what appeared to be an entire chicken basted in a creamy sauce.

  Adam watched me as every tray arrived, his elbows propped on the table, fingers steepled under his chin. He seemed to be enjoying my awe at the magnificent feast before me. “Go ahead, eat,” he urged.

  Suddenly starving, I filled my plate from the various trays. A half dozen potatoes roasted in goose fat, a few sticks of asparagus, a pile of carrots and parsnips baked in honey, and finally, a chunk of juicy lamb broiled in some rich, wine sauce. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever eaten, almost melting in my mouth.

  “It has been a while,” Adam started, his eyes on his utensils as he deftly cut a small chunk out of the lamb on his plate. “...since I met someone who interested me.”