Beautiful Beasts

3. Musc

LEFOU

His arrival changed everything.

When he walked into the tavern that November afternoon, there was a moment in which I believed the regulars were gasping and crying out because they, too, thought he was the most beautiful creature they had ever seen. That they were as startled--frightened even--as I was by the immediate effect this man had upon them.

But no. Once my heart resumed its beating, I understood. It was because he had announced his name shamelessly as he strutted through the door, and in that instant, word...gossip...scandal...had become flesh.

And what flesh. Sun-kissed flesh covering the most gloriously-proportioned physique I had ever seen. He was at least six feet tall, with a mane of black hair and piercing blue eyes. I can't go into details about the structure of his face, his brows, the cleft chin, the sharp jawline. The pattern of his five o'clock shadow, though it was 3:45 when he came in to ask about a room at our inn. He had strong hands, impossibly broad shoulders, and a smile that made my breath hitch the first time it was wielded against me.

My hands shook as I unlocked the door to his room upstairs. "Dinner is at five," was all I could manage, and I fled down the steps.

My father eyed me sharply as I darted around the room, listening, under the guise of collecting empty mugs.

"Looks just like him."

"It's uncanny."

"When did The Beast die?"

"A week ago, I believe."

"What's he doing here, I wonder? Shouldn't he be in mourning?"

"No more than we are," someone wisecracked, and the table erupted into laughter and the clinking of glasses. Customers had been toasting the dead Duke in jest all week.

My stomach twisted. What if Gaston heard these drunks at dinner? They were only getting started. What if someone said something impertinent right to his flawless face?

I approached my father cautiously. He was wiping out mugs with his usual sternness.

"Father, do you think we should offer our guest dinner in his room? Perhaps we ought to spare him the questions and remarks of this crowd tonight. It's his first night in town."

He nodded. "Bring it up to him ten minutes early and see if he needs anything else for the evening. I need you back here by five to help serve."

"Yes, sir." I turned on my heel before I could blush. See if he needs anything else. Father was comical without meaning to be.

The next hour passed strangely, both too quickly and too slowly. I arranged his tray with extra care and ascended the stairs with a hammering heart.

I knocked softly and he answered the door in a state of partial undress. The tray wobbled in my hands. I managed to not drop it.

"I thought you might prefer a quiet meal."

"That's kind of you. Thank you, I'll take that. What's your name?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but the sound died in my throat when we heard the uproar downstairs.

"Marauders!" someone shouted.

Another man yelled "Portuguese!"

We locked eyes. "Weapons?" he growled. It was both a question and a command.

I flew down the stairs, past the shouting crowd, into our storage room. I flung open Father's case of flintlocks and grabbed my Charleville first, then reached for two more muskets. By the time I returned to the common room, Gaston was already there, blunderbuss in one hand, bow in the other, with arrows bristling in a quiver on his back.