Beauty and the Beast (Timeless Fairy Tales #1)

Thoroughly chastised, Elle made her way to a stone bench not five feet from the prince.

Severin did not acknowledge the movement and kept weeding.

Elle watched and Jock growled twice more at Severin before he retired to the shade of the rosebush to snarl at the illegitimate royal in comfort. “Why does Jock dislike you so?” Elle asked.

“Who?”

“Jock, the dog.”

Severin stopped digging and turned to stare at Elle.

“It’s a perfectly nice name,” she said.

Severin returned to his weeding task.

“You have failed to answer my question, so I shall pose it to you again. Why does Jock dislike you?”

“I find it unreasonable that you haven’t put this together on your own. Hasn’t it occurred to you that he may not like the way I look?” Severin said, ripping a deep rooted weed out of the ground before he moved over a foot.

“Oh, it’s because you resemble a cat,” Elle said.

“He hates me because I’m an unnatural beast, Intruder.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Your Highness,” Elle said.

Severin briefly pinched the skin between his eyes. “Is there anything you need help with, Intruder?”

“No.”

“Then why do you remain here?”

“Because I don’t think I’m going to get another chance to see Loire’s commanding general weeding and gardening,” Elle said.

Severin growled.

“I’m curious about the roses. I haven’t seen roses in so many different colors and sizes before.”

“I was not aware that Belvenes had many roses to begin with.”

“It doesn’t, but I work at Noyers. I’ve seen the palace gardens, and they cannot compare to this.”

“Thank you,” Severin grudgingly said, savagely ripping out another weed.

Elle fell silent and watched the prince work, sunning herself in the light. After a few minutes Severin finished weeding. He stood, brushed himself off, and picked up his tools. He started to leave before he stopped, turned to Elle, and bowed. He left just as the sun hid behind a cloud.

Elle watched him go, glancing at Oliver when the boy slithered up to her now that the danger had passed. “He is a puzzle,” Elle said, nodding at the retreating prince.

Oliver’s handwriting was awful, but earnest. He’s my hero.

Elle smiled sadly as she recalled Emele’s words about the stable boy. “How very virtuous,” she said, placing an affectionate hand on the boy’s head. “Shall we move indoors? I could use a snack. Would you join me?”

Yes!

“Emele, I am not amused. If this is another one of your plans to make me run into the prince I will thwart it,” Elle said, standing in the doorway of the library.

Emele, holding an oil lamp in the darkness of the room, shook her head and beckoned for Elle to come closer.

Outside the wind howled and rain thrashed against the windows, giving the evening a spooky air.

Elle sighed and swung her crutches, following Emele as the ladies maid walked the perimeter of the library. Emele looked at each portrait, her face upturned at the life-size paintings of long dead nobility. In all of the portraits the men and women were elegantly dressed, usually holding something of worth—a crown, the bridle of a hot blooded Arabian horse, a lapdog, or jewels. Although the hairstyles and manners of dress changed with each portrait, the expressions were the same. They always had pale skin, pinched faces, and usually their heads were tilted up, looking down at viewers with the air of superiority.

Lightning cracked outside, briefly lighting up the library before thunder rumbled in the distance.

Light from Emele’s lamp fell on the portrait of a tall, thin man Elle recognized as the current king of Loire. Next to him, capturing the prince’s puffed pride rather well, was a portrait of Crown Prince Lucien. Just beyond the prince was a portrait of a young man.

Emele stopped and placed the oil lamp on a small table that was tucked against the wall. His Highness, Prince Severin, she wrote.

The portrait was smaller than the others, and the frame was less ornate. It must have been completed some years ago, for Severin was gangly and fresh faced. He couldn’t have been older than 16.

Unlike his father and brother—who had fine blonde hair—Severin had charcoal black hair. A thatch of it hung down over his face, covering his left eye. The rest of it was tied off at the base of his neck. Severin’s skin was tan, and he held a sword, but it was his expression that Elle found remarkable. He looked…haunted. Even as a teenager he had dark circles under his eyes.

I know you do not care much for him, Elle, Emele wrote. I don’t know why, and I know better than to ask. But please, I am asking you as a friend, please help milord.

Elle studied her maid with a calculating expression. “Emele, I am here because I broke my leg falling through your roof. I am not the quality of lady that a noble such as Severin would take note of, much less search for companionship in.”