Beloved Beast

Chapter Twenty-Three

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Vivid green eyes, much like the lush grasslands that comprised England, skewered him with flagrant hostility. Thick, auburn waves fell in an undulating sheen of red and gold accents, emphasized by the shuddering firelight; fencing a face carved of high cheekbones and a sharp, prominent nose dusted with freckles. Garbed heavily in a cotton cloak, nothing could be made of her indistinct shape, save for her remarkable height that cast a lean silhouette against the wall.

If not for that intensely cold and wounding gaze, she would have otherwise struck a genteel and comely vision, but those compelling eyes with their disturbing light, rendered them unseemly, and all but ... misplaced, amid such captivating features.

With a cursory sweep of the cavernous room, "Where are your men?" Don demanded, displeasure steeling his tone as his eyes swung back around to clash with hers.

The woman offered a passable grin that failed to reach her enigmatic eyes. "I have dismissed my hounds for the time being."

Eyes narrowing, Don regarded the woman with mounting unease. "Hounds?"

Wry, emerald humor glittered back at him, "You need not worry about them. They are under strict command to be on their best behavior – lest I instruct otherwise."

Casting sidelong glances about the room, half expecting her "hounds" to slink from the shadows, he queried in a cynical tone, "And who are you?"

Braced at the end of the sturdy and lengthy table, her dark eyes canvassed his person, and although he stood fully robed with his hood upright, he felt as though that uncanny gaze could see every unsightly and gruesome feature in their unhurried perusal of him.

Amid her unsettling scrutiny, the air seemed to grow thicker, the shadows more ominous as they wedged closer to the occupants in the room, particularly his mysterious and unwanted guest.

"I'll not ask again." Don warned.

Wine-colored lips drew into a self-assured sneer and something akin to sardonic pleasure flickered in the shrewd green of her stare, the gesture all but alluding to the cunning mind behind those knowing eyes, before it was fleetly replaced by a far more dark and unfathomable emotion.

Raising a slender hand between them, Don observed in soaring fractions of alarm and incredulity as the table began to quiver. The emptied mugs from the night before clattered and rolled to the floor, and the slab of wood that served as a surface groaned in splintering grievance before cracking down the middle. A gentle teetering sounded a caveat before the adjoining chairs were wrenched from their rightful places, crashing against their adjacent walls.

A bone-chilling sensation filched the breath from his lungs and his heart did a tremulous pitch. The intangible power fashioned from those slender hands was an energy he was only too familiar with, and it sent a touch of dread to crawl down his spine – for he was in every way convinced, despite the strange and unfamiliar face, that he shared the air with a de Ceville witch.