Deep aching sadness enveloped her and a dull buzzing began in her ears, cocooning her from the world and all of its horrors below. She laid there for several minutes, never giving another thought to the anxious Lord waiting for her.
It was after some time, once she began to imagine the wolf in agony, his howls filling the sky—his last words of her—that the bitter tears began. She was done. She was broken. There was nothing anyone could do to save her from this grief now.
It was over.
***
The prince had meant to go immediately to Cecelia and proclaim all, but when he was informed of the escaped convict, he spent the day scouring and searching for him. Every servant was on hand to look for Lord Bellemount—and several hired villagers as well.
At Bellemount Manor it was discovered he had been there and taken off with most of the family fortune and treasures. Alexander traced his trail as far as the village, and then to the docking yard. He felt a sigh of relief when many people had spotted him boarding a ship that was just about to set sail.
“Stop that ship!” he shouted loud enough to be heard over the noisy dock. “By order of the prince, I command you to halt that vessel and allow me onboard. You are harboring a prisoner of mine.”
It took several minutes for the crew to lower the anchor and situate the plank again. Once on the ship, Alexander wasted no time issuing orders for every available hand to search for his wayward cousin. His own men shouting and searching along with the crew as he went below, the smell of the sea was strong and seemed to permeate the polished wood as he walked along a narrow hallway and began to search several rooms.
“Yer Majesty! Yer Majesty!” hissed one of the shipmen beckoning to him as he walked out of yet another room bereft of his cousin, “I believe the man yer lookin’ fer is hiding in that there cupboard.” He pointed to a small door at the end of the hallway. “I saw him run in there with me own two eyes after the ship began dockin’ again.”
“Thank you.” He nodded to the man and rushed to the door, pounding sharply before swinging it wide open. Frederick was indeed inside, barely squeezed amongst the rags, brushes, buckets and lye soap stored around him. Without wasting another moment, he yanked on his cousin’s collar and hauled him out of the cupboard into the hallway with one swing of his arm.
“And where do you think you are going?”
“How did you find me?” Frederick’s voice shook as his hand clutched the handle of the knife behind his back. He may be frightened out of his wits but he was definitely not afraid to do something about it.
“I have my ways,” answered the prince as he began to drag him back toward the stairs.
As soon as Alexander had given him a clear opening, Frederick took his opportunity and lunged the hidden knife into the prince’s side.
Alexander went stiff from the shock. Then like an accordion he began to sway and stagger, folding into himself as one shoulder collided with the wall.
Lord Bellemount felt his throat tighten painfully as Alexander’s hand fisted around his collar, cutting off his air supply. The prince slowly slid down the wall taking his cousin with him. Frederick frantically clawed at the fabric and fingers trying to loosen and regain any fraction of air he could. Alexander’s fist was iron and could not be pried apart and the fabric was too tight to catch hold of.
Shouting could be heard off at a distance and Frederick could make out the short, painful gasps of the prince. As they slipped the last couple of feet, his head thunked against the floor and the world around him began to grow blurry. His last thought before disappearing into oblivion was that at least the prince would die with him.
Alexander’s side was on fire, the sticky wet ooze of blood seeped out of the wound making the floor too slippery to stand upon, or to regain proper footing. When he fell a moment ago, the knife lodged itself deeper into his side. He knew he had to remove the blade before it did any more damage, but his body was in such shock he could not force his fingers to release Frederick; they refused to open. His other arm was twisted painfully beneath him. Desperately he tried to twist himself to remove the weight of his body off the trapped arm. He winced at the sharp pain that shot through his frame as he irritated the wound more.
All at once the hallway began to darken as distressed faces peered down at him, he was surprised to see their mouths were moving as if they were shouting, but he could not hear a word they spoke.
Then everything went black.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CECELIA WAS A COMPLETE wreck. After several long bouts of weeping, she remembered the prince telling her that Lord Bellemount was not to be trusted. She also recollected the great feeling of unease and dread that had come over her when he insisted on speaking in the garden.
In a desperate need to prove to herself the wolf was surely gone, she wiped her swollen eyes and ran to the garden, collecting a single red rose, and carried it directly to the brook.
When she returned later, it seemed to radiate upon the stone, giving her a small measure of hope to cling to. She did not touch it, but curled up alongside the little stream and waited. The melody of the meandering water did much to calm her soul, but the absence of the beast weighed heavily in her heart.
She missed him more than she’d ever missed anyone.
He never came.
She knew then he was most certainly gone forever.
Miss Hammerstein-Smythe mourned her love against the soft dewy moss until morning broke through the fragile leaves and reminded her she needed to be home. Leaving the rose, she slowly climbed the little hill and began the long walk back to the house.
Later that morning her mother entered her room, took one look at her daughter, and seemed to know that now was not the time for questions. She shut the door quietly behind her as she thankfully left Cecelia in peace.
***
By the time the prince had made it home the following evening, he was exhausted. The ship’s surgeon had done a marvelous job stitching and caring for the deep cut. Thankfully Frederick had missed any vital organs. He stayed onboard the docked ship the first night, in the captain’s cabin. Against the wishes of the surgeon and his servants, he demanded to return home when he had awakened.
As he was waiting for the royal carriage to be brought from the palace—since riding home was out of the question—he was able to see his cousin’s body one last time before the crew bundled him up and tossed him overboard, where all traitors, thieves and tyrants go. He saw that his items were packed up and sent back with the castle guards to be taken to his family later. The shipmen said Frederick had died sometime during the night. The moment Alexander had become unconscious; his fingers had loosened their grip, allowing Frederick to breath. However, it was too late. After a few hours of ragged breathing, he passed away.
The prince thankfully walked into his quarters at the castle, his sides bandaged under his shirt. It was only around seven o’clock at night, but the weariness of his stress and healing, as well as the months of interrupted sleep as a wolf, seemed to all meld into one. He could finally, for the very first night, slumber in peace. After helping himself to supper, he dressed in his nightclothes and padded over to his bed, crashing upon its billowy softness until nearly ten the next morning.
When the prince awoke, his eyes rested upon the wearied collection of roses he had near his bed and he cursed his own folly at forgetting the sweet Miss Hammerstein-Smythe. In the confusion caused by his cousin, and the relief the villain could no longer harm anyone again, he’d quite forgotten all about the gel. Or the fact she had proclaimed her love to him and had been most likely anxiously waiting the wolf to make an appearance last night.
How could he have been so slow? Where was his brain?
Despite the fretting of his staff, he anxiously ate, shaved and dressed, eager to be out the door and make up for the time already wasted by his despicable cousin. Before he called to have his coach brought round to the front of the castle, he slipped a beautiful diamond-and-emerald
ring into the front inside pocket of his jacket. He would bedeck her in many more jewels than this ring once they were wed, but for the time being it was perfect.
The ring had belonged to his great-grandmother and had cost his grandfather a king’s ransom to create it for her. She too was a villager who had caught the prince’s heart. At the time when the intricate ring had been made, there had been nothing as striking in the entire kingdom. She wore it with great pride, though to the day she died she still proclaimed he could have fashioned a ring of mere string and she would have been happy.
Their love was something Alexander never believed truly existed until now. Until his own charming Cecelia opened his eyes to the possibility of a perfect union.
Climbing into the carriage, the coachman took off with a flash, arriving in all eagerness at Miss Hammerstein-Smythe’s home just before noon.
She would not see him.
Nothing her mother, the servants, or any letter he sent up to her room by way of a messenger would be responded to.
He must speak with her! He must unravel what was wrong so that he could have some way of fixing the tangled web they found themselves in. And yet, he could not believe she had even read a single one of his letters he had sent to her while he cooled his heels in the best parlor.
Prince Alexander was correct; Cecelia had burnt each missive she received from the servants into the fireplace of her room, before reading them. She would not go down; she would not speak to him ever again. She could not forgive, nor would she allow herself to pardon the man who had ruined every chance of happiness she had.
How dare he attempt to show up at her door now.
How dare he have the gumption to believe she would receive him.
Her wolf was gone, and he had no one but himself to blame. And yet, she should welcome him into her arms? Never. Never again would she so much as speak to the horrid man!
An hour or so later brought the same splattering sound against her window as the day before had. She opened it to find this time the prince himself below. “Go away!” she called down before shutting the window again.
“Cecelia!” he shouted, but the glass had been closed up and she pretended not to hear him. He stood below her room shouting up at the window for a good twenty minutes, demanding to speak to her, asking what was wrong, and drawing way too many eyes and ears in their direction for comfort.
She knew the neighbors would be having a heyday with this and the thought is what actually prompted her to open the window again. “Prince Alexander, be gone with you. I cannot stand to hear your hollering another moment. I do not wish to speak to you. I despise you and I never, ever want to see you again!”
Miss Hammerstein-Smythe watched in amazement as he shrugged his shoulders, smiled at something to the left of him, and said, “As you wish,” before sauntering off.
He left? She could not approve of how he could have gone so easily. Stepping away from the sill, she walked around her room for a few minutes. What had he wanted to say to her? Did he have a reason for killing the beast she was not aware of? Did he have more lies to spew or more mocking to commence on her behalf? She scowled and turned on her heel and then screamed at the sight of Prince Alexander leaning into her room.
“What are you doing here, sir?” she gasped exceedingly astonished. “How are you up here?”
Alexander grinned, ignoring the pain in his side. “It’s a ladder. Your stable boy lent it to me. And I am here because you will not listen to me or talk to me in any other way, and I must speak with you.”
Concluding she would never hear the end of it if she did not allow him to declare what he must, she said, “You have exactly a minute to say all you have to say, before I push you from the window myself.” She walked up to him. “And do not for one moment believe I am not livid enough to do so!”
He saw the deep-rooted pain in her red-rimmed eyes, the hollowed circles under them and deepening in her sunken cheeks. She was literally dying inside. “Don’t be sad, Cecelia, please. I have come to share a secret with you, one you may not understand or accept, but it is the truth.”
Her eyes closed, not caring one wit about anything he revealed. “What is that?”
“I am the beast.”
Cecelia’s eyes flew open and connected with his. “Liar. You killed him!”
“What?” Never in his wildest imaginings did he expect those words to come out of her mouth.
“You heard of my love for him and murdered the only creature who has ever made me truly happy.” She brought her face right up to his. “I hate you. I despise you. I loathe you!”
“No.” He shook his head. “No, Cecelia, my dear, whatever account you have heard, it is false. The wolf is not dead—indeed he has changed—he is forever a man now, the enchantment is broken, but he is not dead. I promise you, it is me. It has always been me. I was tricked by an old woman and put under a spell—”
“I do not want to hear another word!” Her face contorted with pain more stark than any he had ever seen before.
“Cecelia, please…”
“Stop calling me that! Only he calls me Cecelia.”
“I know,” he paused and answered quietly. “It is why I do.”
“Arrgh!” She pushed against him, but he held fast to the window, his side stinging from the exertion. “Go, leave me alone.”
“Cecelia…” he whispered, one arm sliding around her shoulders. “Cecelia, it is me. I promise you, it is I, your Apollo.”
She cried then. She did not believe one word he spoke, but she sobbed into his shoulder and closed her arms around him and clung as though her soul depended on it.
He mumbled a hundred words of endearment into her hair and she never made out one. Only the sound of his breathing and faint heartbeat found their way to her ears. She finally pushed away and would not allow her soul to hope and believe in a man she could not trust—a man who she had only ever known to be cruel until very recently.
What a twisted world she lived in. Nothing made sense. But she could not, simply could not accept he was her Apollo. It was too convenient. It was too confusing.
If he was, why would he not tell her before? Why leave her to die alone the last two evenings at the brook?
No, if he were indeed her wolf he would have known of the little stream and that she would have been waiting for him. He would have come to her. “Where were you?” She sniffled and rubbed her eyes. “If you are indeed Apollo, then where were you?” She refused to tell him of the meeting spot to see if he would tell her what she longed to hear.
His eyes searched hers, pleading to be understood and not wanting to alarm her. “I was detained.”
There was something more there, something he was not saying. “I do not believe you.”
“I’m sorry. I am so sorry to have left you alone like I did—when you clearly needed me most.”
She shook her head; she was so very tired of the diversions and amusements of the royalty. She was not a game to be played. She would not be made sport of again. “Please leave, I cannot see you. I cannot look upon you without my heart breaking. You have crushed me beyond recognition. I ask that you please leave and never come back.”
Alexander gasped. Her words sliced him more than any had before. He had nothing to do, but what she asked. He simply could not be the means of harming her more. She needed Apollo, and in her eyes he would never be the beast of her heart.
He took one long look at the only girl he had ever cherished, and whispered, “I love you,” before slowly making his way down the steps and onto the garden below. Within minutes, he was heading back to his castle to mourn the loss, a tragedy so great he felt as though his body were splitting in two. Vowing to never stray from the palace again, Alexander slammed his bedroom door closed and collapsed upon the stone floor, his wound burning.
It was all in vain. It was all too late.
He had learned to love, finally—but it was too late.
Alexander felt as though he were dying, and
the only thing that could save him was the one woman who could not see past the monster he once was to know of the great love within his heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY
AFTER THE PRINCE LEFT, Cecelia walked down to the brook. She found so much solace there, as if Apollo’s memory was living on. For a solid week she came back often. It was the only relief she felt—at her magical brook. However, it wasn’t until the seventh day that her world changed and the first glimmer of happiness began to peek through the darkened clouds.
The rose was still there, though much more withered. She had placed a rock upon it a few days earlier to guarantee the flower would not blow away as it continued to dry. Cecelia trailed her fingers over the wrinkled petals. It was almost the color of crimson, much darker than the bright red when she had picked it. The hue reminded her most of the necklace he had given her. Subconsciously she pulled the heart out of her bodice, and before she knew what she was doing, held it up to the sunshine.
If she had thought it beautiful in the moonlight, it was simply splendid in the daytime. She spun it slowly around and watched the way the sunbeams danced and sparkled and bounced their way off of it. It most definitely was one of the most remarkable gifts she had ever been given.
It was as she was examining the heart, and following the path of the gold rose as it wrapped itself around it, that she noticed a small hinge under one of the tiny golden leaves. Curious, she brought the pendant closer and examined it thoroughly.
There seemed to be a small clasp hidden within another leaf. As she pressed down upon it, the rose released and the heart opened up. Cecelia gasped as a tiny scrolled piece of paper fell out of the necklace and onto her lap. With shaky hands, she opened the note and read the following—
“If thou could but see thy crown! The land would forge ever onward, pressing gloriously within sight. For thee, my precious moonbeam, will yet prevail the fight.”
May you always remember I have seen the crown upon your head. Never doubt your worth, my dear, for you are greater than you think you are. And soon you will be flying.