Beauty in the Beast

Beauty in the Beast
By Christine Danse

Journeying by steam-powered sled to London’s Frost Fair to perform, Tara and three friends are trapped in a blizzard in the woods. A gruff, handsome stranger offers them shelter—and wants one thing in return. Stories.

The travellers are glad to oblige. Their host, Rolph, is especially captivated by Tara’s story of an orphaned girl raised by the Fae in the world of the spirits. Equally intrigued by Rolph, and aware of an electric pull between them, Tara encourages him to share a story of his own. When Rolph weaves a tale of a man who is doomed by his own folly to turn into a wolf at the full moon, Tara suspects there is more than a grain of truth in his words.

When the veil between the mortal and spiritual worlds is parted, and danger threatens, will Tara make the ultimate sacrifice to save Rolph?

29,000 words

Dear Reader,

It’s hard to get excited about the month of March. The weather in this part of the world isn’t quite spring, and if it’s still cold, can make a long winter feel even longer. There are no fun holidays to look forward to except the green beer, corned beef and cabbage of St. Patrick’s Day, and the school season is at a point where the kids are starting to whine about having to wake up in the morning and go.

That’s why I’m excited about our 2012 March releases at Carina Press. The variety and excellence of the stories give us a reason to anticipate and enjoy the month of March! The rich diversity of these books promises a fantastic reading month at Carina.

Kicking off the month is mystery author Shirley Wells, returning with her popular Dylan Scott Mystery series. Joining her book
Silent Witness
at the beginning of March is BDSM erotic romance
Forbidden Fantasies
by Jodie Griffin; Christine Danse’s paranormal romance
Beauty in the Beast;
and a romantic steampunk gothic horror that’s like no steampunk you’ve ever read,
Heart of Perdition
by Selah March.

Later in the month, fans of Cindy Spencer Pape will be glad to see her return with another paranormal romance installment,
Motor City Mage,
while Janis Susan May returns with another creepy gothic mystery,
Inheritance of Shadows.
Historical romance lovers will be more than pleased with
A Kiss in the Wind,
Jennifer Bray-Weber’s inaugural Carina Press release.

I expect new Carina Press authors Joan Kilby, Gillian Archer and Nicole Luiken will gain faithful followings with their books:
Gentlemen Prefer Nerds,
an entertaining contemporary romance;
Wicked Weekend,
a sexy and sweet BDSM erotic romance; and
Gate to Kandrith,
the first of a fantasy duology that features wonderful world-building. Meanwhile, returning Carina authors Robert Appleton and Carol Stephenson do what they do best: continue to capture readers’ imaginations. Grab a copy of science-fiction space opera
Alien Velocity
and hot romantic suspense
Her Dark Protector.

Rounding out the month, we have an entire week of releases from some of today’s hottest authors in m/m romance, as well as some newcomers to the genre. Ava March kicks off her entertaining and hot m/m historical romance trilogy with
Brook Street: Thief
. Look for the other two books in the trilogy,
Brook Street: Fortune Hunter
and
Brook Street: Rogue,
in April and May 2012. Erastes, who can always be counted on to deliver a compelling, well-researched historical, gives us m/m paranormal historical romance
A Brush with Darkness,
and science-fiction author Kim Knox makes her debut in the m/m genre with her sci-fi romance
Bitter Harvest.
KC Burn gives us the stunning m/m contemporary romance
First Time, Forever.
Joining them are new Carina Press authors Dev Bentham, with a sweet, heartfelt m/m romance,
Moving in Rhythm,
and Larry Benjamin with his terrific debut novel, m/m romance
What Binds Us.

As you can see, March comes in like a lion but will not go out like a lamb. All month long we offer powerful stories from our talented authors. I hope you enjoy them as much as we have!

We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

Happy reading!

~Angela James

Executive Editor, Carina Press

www.carinapress.com

www.twitter.com/carinapress

www.facebook.com/carinapress

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

About the Author

On good days, I hated my goggles. They pinched the tender skin around my eyes and squeezed my head till it ached. Only on nights like these did I appreciate them, when the air was so thick with snow I could hardly see my outstretched hands and I feared my eyes would freeze tight in their sockets without the shielding glass.

I huddled like a pigeon against Elizabeth as the sled jostled and shuddered beneath us. We had nothing but faith that it was truly moving, for we could see nothing of the landscape. The single gas lamp above us illuminated only an angry flurry of swirling white snow. For all we knew, we were sitting still in an embankment, and the movement we felt was no more than the wind buffeting us.

Without the guidance of the stars we also had to keep faith that we were heading west toward London. We did not dare stop because we feared that the stomper pulling us would freeze up, leaving us stranded here. Somewhere just ahead of us and out of our view, Miles—the unofficial leader of our small outfit—sat atop the stomper, staring avidly at the path to assure we didn’t crash.

Bitter, bitter, bitter cold
, I chanted in my mind, unable to imagine how my companions felt, less resistant to frigid weather than I. Beth and I rocked against each other, as if to assure each other we were both still conscious. Still alive. Frederick sat against Beth’s other side, a large warm body but a poor replacement for her husband. I knew she worried for Miles, though admittedly his was the warmest seat of all—just beside the boiler that fed the stomper’s steam engine belly.

Under the high, constant roar of the storm I occasionally heard a low sound that sent shivers dancing under my skin. Frederick singing, voice muffled by his scarf.

“Frederick.” I leaned forward, humid breath warming my nose. “Frederick, hush. I hear something.” I could barely make out my own strained voice over the roaring wind. I reached over Beth’s lap and pushed against what I guessed was Fred’s knee, padded by layers of clothing. He leaned forward to peer at me, and I placed a gloved finger to the scarf over my mouth.

Fred hadn’t the energy to protest. He fell silent and I pricked my ears, sure I could sense something else out there in the night. My stomach tightened and I cast my gaze out over the rail of the sled, hugging my arms tighter around my middle. Often on harsh nights like these, I sensed dark presences. Like sharks circling a ship as they waited for it to sink, they circled just out of view. Sometimes they smelled of fallen leaves and bayed like dogs in distant howling voices. Other times they were little more than phantoms. Scentless, soundless…just waking dreams. They waited for me, but I was not theirs. Not yet. But if we could not find reprieve from the storm, I could do only one thing to try and save my friends, a thing that would take me into their waiting jaws. I wondered if they could read my thoughts, and anticipated me.

I tugged the scarf from my nose, and the cold stung my nares. But I could sense the thing now. It was a smell—a low, gritty tang that laced the air, too acrid to be the smell of rotting leaves.

“Smoke!” I cried hoarsely, the words instantly snatched away by the swirling wind. I leaned my mouth to Beth’s ear. “Stay here!” I dropped from the sled to the ground below with Beth’s shout of alarm chasing after me. I sank into snow up to my knees, and immediately the wet chill pierced my skin through the pant legs. I thanked all that was good and holy in the world that I’d had the foresight to don my only pair of men’s trousers that morning instead of a skirt.

Blessedly, the stomper was moving slowly as I struggled into a run. We dared not travel any faster than a swift walk—just fast enough to keep the stomper moving, to keep the metal warm so that it wouldn’t crack. I stumbled and tripped, but soon I passed the sled. Although I could not see the junction where the sled met the stomper, I could hear the heavy chains clank as they swung and the metal joints groan from the cold.

The roar of the stomper grew louder as I approached, rivaling the roar of the blizzard. Waves of heat radiated from its metal skin. I dodged a leg as it stomped through the snow. I knew its passing only by the tightening of my skin.

“Miles!” I dodged another leg and darted toward the boarding ladder. I pounded on the stomper’s side—a dull banging that carried as my voice could not. Miles’s dark form appeared, leaning over the rail. He proffered a gloved hand, nearly pulling my arm from its socket as he hauled me up.

“What’s wrong?” he shouted in my ear as I wheezed for breath. His arms steadied me. The piloting deck was built for one, and every shudder of the stomper threatened to pitch me back over its side.

“Smoke!” I clung to his shoulders. Although I stood inappropriately close to Beth’s husband, it hardly seemed intimate through the layers of clothing and the unbreachable distance the blizzard cleft between us. Warmth, sound, smell and even touch were nearly lost across the divide.

Miles did not immediately respond. Up here, so close to the boiler, crying “smoke!” seemed inane. The heat from the engine roiled just beside us, its coal fumes strong in my nose. Had I simply smelled the steam engine’s smoke wafting back to the sled? No, what I’d noticed had a different quality and came with a special feeling—an internal quickening, a familiar sense of
significance
that something was about to happen.

“Turn off the lights!” I reached for the knob just past his waist and cranked off the forward beams, then turned off the switch to the pilot’s lamp. We clung together in the disorienting darkness.

I peered ahead, searching hard for a peek through the flurries.

There: a smudge of amber light, more ethereal than a star winking weakly in the night sky. To me, it was a lighthouse beacon.

I pointed. “There! It was wood smoke!”

Miles crushed me to him in a hug. “That’s my girl!”

He turned to the controls, leaving me to grasp for a handhold. I looked dubiously over the edge of the stomper and though I could not see the swinging legs, I knew they were there, waiting to crush me should I drop to the ground. I couldn’t imagine dashing back to the sled through the snow, though I was sure Beth and Fred must be worried about me. But they were used to these spontaneous acts of mine. “It’s just Tara,” they often said, as if that explained everything about me and the strange things I did. Although they shook their heads, they knew by now to heed my “queer feelings” and “crazy ideas.”

The smudge of light became more distinct as we approached, and when we were close enough that the light shone steadily, Miles flipped on the forward beams. They highlighted the swirls of snow ahead of us. Slowly a large shape formed from the chaos and became a long, low cabin, its window glowing warmly.

Miles brought the stomper to a shuddering halt, engine rumbling as it idled. “I’ll keep her warm,” he said, hands resting on the levers. “If they offer us shelter, we’ll have to risk leaving her out in the cold.”

I nodded and dropped to the snow. Beth leaned over the rail of the sled, peering at me curiously as I slogged toward her. “A house!” I took her outstretched hand in mine, wool clasping wool. “Come down! Let’s ask if they will give us shelter!”

Frederick dropped down and took Beth’s other hand in his. We swung her to the ground between us and then waded through the wind and snow, hugging our chests. Although the bulk of the stomper and the house offered some cover from the worst of the storm, the wind curled at our backs, chasing us to the door.

I braced myself, knocked and stepped back. The knock sounded muffled and insignificant under the howl of the storm. I hooked my arm through Beth’s and squeezed it to me. A shadow moved in the window, and a long moment later, the door cracked open. I stepped forward to see the eye that peered out at us. A scruff of beard darkened the chin beneath.

“Good evening, sir.” I pulled my goggles from my eyes to dangle at my neck. “Please, we’re trapped in the storm. Have you room in your home to shelter four strangers?” I held Beth’s arm like a vise, holding her close to my side with the hope he would see both of our faces illuminated in the slice of light that spilled out—two innocent young women, outside in a blizzard. I tugged the scarf from my mouth and pushed the rim of my cap up, revealing my face, probably ruddy with cold. Beth tugged down her scarf and rubbed her hands together.

The eye slid from me to Beth, taking us both in, and the door squeezed closed to a sliver. “Who are you? Why are you out in a storm?”

“Please, sir. We’re entertainers. Storytellers, puppeteers and musicians. Four of us. Two women, two men. We are traveling to London for the Frost Fair, to make music and tell stories on the frozen surface of the Thames. We left early this morning believing we could beat the storm, but instead it’s beating us.”

My attempt at humor fell flat. We suffered a long pause before the door opened to reveal a slender, strong male face and a brush of grizzled brown hair. Heavy lines bunched at the corners of his eyes. Dourly, he took in the scene—me and Beth huddled before him like birds, Fred behind us unwrapping the scarf from his face, the idling stomper, and Miles’s dark shape hunched atop the piloting platform.

Smells wafted from behind him—potent wood smoke and the unmistakable savory scent of cooking meat. Warmth reached out toward us, weak but promising.

I fumbled through my pockets to produce my passport and a crumpled copy of one of our small flyers. “Here.”

He took the documents with a ropy hand that could have swallowed mine.
Tara Cooper
read my card. It sported a miniature daguerreotype of me, a solemn shot that made my pale eyes look colorless and my black hair dark enough to be an inkblot on the card. The flyer sported an illustration of the four of us—Beth kneeling on the floor with a puppet on each hand, me sitting on a chair with an open book on my lap, Fred with his lute and Miles with one hand extended, a skull resting on the open palm (the artist had apparently mistaken us for a Shakespearean troop).

The man handed them back and looked over us again. Shadows moved across his face. Finally, he said, “Come in. But only until the storm ends.”

“Oh,
thank
—”

He looked past me to Miles waiting on the stomper. “Tell your friend to drive that thing around the back of the house. There’s more shelter there.”

Beth squeezed my hand while Frederick loped to the stomper’s side and shouted the message up to Miles. A moment later, the machine clanked to life. We watched the stomper and sled go until the stranger said, “Come in, if that’s what you’re doing.”

We entered and found ourselves in a depressed entryway made of packed dirt. We closed the door quickly. Blessed warmth wrapped around us.

“Bring your shoes to the hearth,” said the man. “And leave your coats on that table there.”

I shucked my layers gratefully. Sweat bubbled on my forehead, and heat burned into my hands.

“Ow ow ow.” Beth picked off her gloves and splayed her hands.

Gently, I took her hands in mine and inspected them. No signs of frostbite, just ruddy. I rubbed her fingers between my palms.

“Ow!” Beth snatched her hand back and glared as if I’d stung her.

I smiled and smoothed her rumpled hair. Without the bulk of clothing, she looked terribly slight. She looked at me with puffy eyes and reddened nose. “How bad do I look?”

My smile turned wry. “Like you just came in from a blizzard.”

I looked up to find the man watching our exchange from the hearthside. Our gazes locked, and the firelight caught in his eyes, casting them a startling amber. I had never seen such a color in human eyes, like tiger-eye stone lit by sunlight. A chill shot through my core and turned to warmth in my belly. Heat flushed my cheeks—heat that had nothing to with the fire.

The door opened then, depositing Fred behind us. The stranger looked away, and the glowing amber eyes winked to brown. Squatting, he darted a hand into the fireplace and adjusted a log. Sparks flew.

“Thank you for your kindness,” said Fred, wrestling the boots from his feet.

I leaned against the wall and busied myself with my own boots in an effort not to stare at the man, grimacing as my arms brushed my damp pant legs. “Yes, thank you kindly.”

The man stirred the contents of a large pot over the fire. He looked up briefly. “You’ll find me blunt and retiring. I don’t normally entertain guests.”

That was all right. I didn’t need to be entertained. What I wanted was another glimpse of his eyes, but he stood with his back to us, stirring intently. I smelled gamey meat, winter roots and thyme.
Hush now
, I told my stomach.

I rolled off my socks and scratched my itching ankles furiously. The cold of the packed dirt seeped through my soles. Beyond the lip of the entryway, overlapping furs carpeted the floor in patches of white and black and tan and brown. I stepped up and buried my feet in the soft, warm curls of a sheep pelt.

The large living room was cozy and rustic, built entirely of wood and stone. Saws, guns and other tools lined the walls, mounted on pegs. Soft pelts hung between them. Besides the wood smoke and meat, the room smelled of animal skins, wet dog and a peculiar harsh, bitter stink.

Beth squealed. I followed her gaze to the bodies of two tiny fawns, fur slick as if wet, frozen in a standing pose. Dozens of tiny needles stuck from their bodies. Knives, scissors and bits of broken plaster littered the table around them.

The stranger looked up. “Mounts. I’m stuffing them.”

“That’s…horrible.” Beth drew back, folding her arms close to herself as if the creatures would reach out and touch her.

Frederick leaned close to peer at them. “Yes, certainly dead.” As if there was any question.

Beth clucked her tongue and smacked his arm.

I looked at the stranger. “You’re a hunter.”

“Trapper.” He clanged the stir stick against the edge of the pot.

A knock sounded at the cabin’s back door, and the man opened it, revealing a bundled Miles. Cold air rushed in with him. As he unwrapped his layers, Beth slid her arms around his waist.

He smiled. “Hello, love.” He lifted his arms over her to uncurl his scarf, then lowered them onto her shoulders and kissed her forehead. To the stranger, he said, “We owe you a debt of gratitude.”