Chapter Thirteen

M y Bella…

A huge man stood in the doorway.

Not huge—he was a giant .

He towered over the vicar, his shoulders spanning the doorframe. She cast her gaze over his form—the chest over which a rough-spun shirt strained to fit, the thigh muscles discernible beneath his breeches, and thick boots that were scuffed and soiled.

With a mane of unkempt, dark blond hair, and a nose that bore a kink as if it had been broken, he looked like a Viking fresh from a bloody battle.

And he’d come for her .

Excitement—tinged by fear—curled in her belly, and she drew in a sharp breath as he entered the room.

He extended a hand—large enough to wield axes and snap necks—then uncurled it to reveal a calloused palm.

So uncouth, so rough…

More beast than man.

She met his gaze, and eyes the color of sharp steel regarded her with a hungry expression, as if he longed to devour her.

What might it be like—to be devoured ?

He stepped toward her.

“Get away!” she cried. “I don’t know you!”

“He knows you, miss,” the doctor replied. “He knows your name.”

She shook her head. “I-I’ve never seen this…”

She longed to say “peasant,” but something in the giant’s eyes sent a twist of fear through her. A Viking warrior would not take insults likely, unlike the weak-bellied doctor and his overly starched wife.

The Beast’s forehead crinkled into a frown. “Don’t you remember me, Bella? I’m your husband.”

“H-husband?” Her voice came out in a squeak. He took another step, and she let out a scream. “Don’t touch me!”

“That’s enough, love…” the Beast began.

“Do not address me with such familiarity—I don’t know you!”

“But he knows you ,” the doctor’s wife said.

“You’re only saying that because you want rid of me.”

“Well, seeing as you say as much, I—” the doctor’s wife began, but her husband raised his hand.

“That’s enough, Charlotte.”

“The young woman has a point,” the vicar said. “If she cannot remember this man, then he must prove his claim on her.”

Her gut twisted with fear. “What do you mean, his claim ? Am I to be handed over like chattel?”

“If you’re his wife, he has that right, given your vow of obedience,” the vicar said.

“Obedience?” The word left her lips in a squeak.

The giant watched the exchange, his gaze flicking between the occupants of the room, a curl of amusement on his lips. Then he resumed his attention on her.

“I’m your Lawrence,” he said.

“Lawrence!” she scoffed. “What kind of a name is that?”

“That name’s fallen from your lips on many occasions,” he said. “I’ve missed hearin’ you say it—in a soft whisper, in anger when you’re unable to control your temper, or”—he licked his lips, his eyes darkening—“screamed at night, when unable to control your—”

“Ahem!” the vicar said. “There’s ladies present, Mr. Baxter.”

Ignoring the thread of heat in her blood, she shrank further back.

“Your name is Baxter?” she asked.

“And you’re my Bella,” he said. “Bella Baxter. It’s time to stop this nonsense, now.” He grinned, and a sparkle of mischief glimmered in his eyes. “Or perhaps you’re teasin’ me in anticipation of punishment?”

“P-punishment?”

His grin broadened. “Oh, Bella, would you embarrass these good folk?”

“Nevertheless,” the vicar intervened, “we cannot, in all conscience, hand this young woman over until we’re certain. I must insist.”

Relief flooded through her. “Thank you, vicar,” she said. Then she lifted her chin and met the Beast’s gaze.

But rather than defeat, she saw determination.

Ye gods —what if she were his property?

The determination in his eyes turned to triumph. “I can prove she’s my wife.”

Her stomach clenched in apprehension.

He leaned toward the vicar, and though he spoke in a whisper, she caught his words.

“She has a series of scars on her right leg—from just above the knee, all the way up to her”—he hesitated and licked his lips—“the top of her thighs, near her”—he lowered his voice—“her intimate area .”

“Well, I never!” the doctor’s wife cried, her cheeks reddening.

But the doctor remained silent, turning to her with an expression in his eyes that could only be described as relief.

“Gerald, what is it?” the doctor’s wife asked.

Scars on my leg?

Four pairs of eyes stared at her skirts.

Very well. If the Beast wished to indulge in some ridiculous charade, then she’d expose his lies.

“Would you like some privacy, miss?” the doctor asked.

“No. I intend to put a stop to this nonsense with you all as witness. Then you can turn this person away.”

Summoning her dignity, she rose from the chaise longue, then approached a screen at the far corner of the parlor. Concealed behind it, she lifted her skirts. The skin of her lower legs was pale and smooth, with no sign of a blemish other than a yellowing bruise on her shin.

Then she saw it—the puckered skin just above her right knee. She raised her skirts further to reveal a scar that covered her leg from the knee to the top of her thighs. She ran her fingertips over the marks, where the flesh was smooth and hard in places and roughened in others, a myriad of shades, from dark red—almost purple—to light pink, to white.

What in the name of heaven had happened to cause such an injury?

She closed her eyes, willing the memory to surface. Surely the sight of the marks of her history should elicit something! But other than the faint crackling sound, and the acrid smell of smoke in her nostrils, no memories came to the fore. Not even the memory of pain—she poked the scar, but there was nothing other than the faint sensation of touch.

Then she lowered her skirts, her hands trembling.

The Beast had spoken the truth. Which meant…

Sweet Lord! It meant that she belonged to him.

She stepped out from behind the screen.

The vicar nodded, satisfaction in his eyes. Beside him, the doctor and his wife grinned with joy.

As for the Beast…

He opened his arms and approached her in the manner of a powerful animal seizing its prey.

“Come to your husband.”