Page 34 of Of Curses and Beauty

“But Daric—”

“No buts,” her mother interjected. “I don’t know who this Daric fellow is, but you’ll hold your tongue in front of Lord Baxter. You’re lucky he’s been so loyal. Any other man would have found himself a different bride after so many weeks. Patience of a saint, that one.”

“I’ve only just awoken. Surely, this can wait for another day?”

“That’s enough of that. I’ve told you already, he’s been a patient man, but we don’t want today to be the day that patience runs out. I’m sure he knows you’re awake by now. It would be rude to keep him waiting.”

Her mother prattled on, but the words flew in one ear and out the other. Alaine was home. She had always been home. There was no witch, no cottage, and no Daric. She would marry Lord Baxter and save her family. And she would never again feel the joy she’d known in the moments before waking.

“I’m sorry.”

She meant the words that slipped from her mouth, but she wasn’t apologizing to her mother. She was sorry she’d let herself be swept away by some fever dream. Sorry that she’d unwittingly fallen in love with a figment of her imagination—a fictional hero she’d assembled from all her favorite characters. Sorry that she’d regained consciousness to find it had all been a lie when it had seemed so real.

She let her mother dress her like she was a child again. There was no time for a proper bath with Baxter waiting downstairs. Her mother pinned her hair back with quick efficiency, tucking most of it into a bonnet that she saidwould have to do. Alaine didn’t help. She let herself be trussed up like a prize chicken, even knowing she was about to be fed to the wolf.

The minutes ticked by too quickly and soon it was time to face the man who had hunted, threatened, and abused her. The man who would be her husband. And even though he wasn’t real, she regretted every second she’d taken for granted with Daric. She would treasure those moments lost in a dream world for the rest of her life and hope that she would return one day.

Chapter 31

Daric

Daricwoketoablinding headache and the cool sting of iron around his wrists. He tried opening his eyes and discovered one was swollen shut, the skin around it hot with fever. When he prodded it, his fingers met a thick layer of salve as though someone had thought to patch him up before clapping him in irons. He lay on a cold, unforgiving surface, his muscles and joints protesting as he rolled to his side. The icy floor was soothing to his inflamed face at least. From what he could tell through one eye in the low light, he guessed he was in a cellar of some sort. There appeared to be several crates and barrels stacked along the opposite wall, and a set of stairs leading up to his right.

He pushed himself upright, bracing his back against the wall as a wave of nausea hit him. Luckily, he hadn’t eaten recently, so there wasn’t much to come back up. However, he didn’t fancy the notion of smelling vomit for however long he was to be trapped here. He took several deep breaths until his stomach settled, knowing he would need all his strength if he stood any chance of escaping.

In the dark, he felt along each of the manacles, testing for weakness and finding none. They’d been looped around a support post and Daric didn’t trust the structure to stay standing if he tried to sever it. As a last resort, he could break his hand to be free, but he’d wait until he could learn if the door at the top of the stairs was unlocked. He would fight his way out if needed, though his injury might prove problematic.

The door opened above and a beam of light speared across the room. Daric noted there’d been no sound of a key turning, which likely meant an unlocked door. A figure stepped into the light, a man it seemed, but Daric could make out nothing against the blinding sunlight.

His hand stopped halfway to shielding his eyes, the action cut short by the chains he’d already forgotten.

The man left the door open behind him as he descended the stairs. The fool.

Daric was almost insulted at being captured by this careless man, but then he remembered he had been knocked unconscious by a horse. That would have made him considerably easier to apprehend.

Hoping to lean on the stranger’s apparent naivety, Daric let his head fall to one side, slackened his arms, and sprawled his legs apart to appear as helpless as possible.

“You’re not fooling me.” The voice resonating from the man was deep and confident as he reached the foot of the stairs.

The faint sound of flint on steel preceded a small flame lighting a lantern. He held it aloft, illuminating a face that appeared chiseled from stone. A proud nose and brow were complimented by full lips and kind eyes, all framed by a chiseled jaw and cheekbones. With a straight back and solid frame, he radiated humble confidence.

Daric refused to blink away from the flames reflecting in the man’s ebony eyes as he stalked closer.

He stopped just out of Daric’s reach and kicked at his booted foot.

“I told you, you’re not fooling me.” The man squatted so they were at eye level, holding the lantern up so Daric had to squint his good eye. “Daisy didn’t hit you nearly as hard as she could have.”

Daisy must have been the mare he’d tried to steal. If this man was half as clever as his horse—or as violent—Daric might have some trouble escaping after all.

He remained silent, curious why he’d been locked in a cellar rather than arrested on sight as most would have done.

“Don’t you speak?” the man asked. No cruelty laced his words, only mere curiosity.

Daric weighed his options. He could feign incomprehension, but then the man might call on the authorities. If he spoke, the man would want answers and, while he no longer felt the gag of the curse holding back, he didn’t know how much he should share with a complete stranger.

“Aye, I can speak.” His voice was hoarse, a mere whisper compared to the man across from him.

He raised a single eyebrow in response. “All right, I’m listening.” The man sat cross-legged just out of reach of Daric’s feet, as though he was settling in for a long story.

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