[fic] Beast and Beastliness: Ch. 7
Wow - has it really been three years since I posted any of this?! Hopefully I'll do better, and hopefully there's still somebody who wants to keep reading! Links to the previous chapters are below, and as a reminder of where we were when I stopped off, this takes place right after Isabelle (Belle) wanders into Lord Maitland's (the Beast's) forbidden rose garden (exactly what it sounds like).
Fandom: Disney's Beauty and the Beast
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance (in every sense of the word!)
Warnings: Highly unrealistic fantasy highwaymen with nasty intentions towards our heroine
Disclaimer: Disney owns the characters and storyline for their version of Beauty and the Beast. I am making no money off of this; it is an affectionate homage to one of my favorite films of all time.
Isabelle ran until she found herself back at the front entrance to the manor, where she paused, breathless and dismayed, to gather her thoughts.
"Bargain or no," she said aloud, "I cannot remain here another minute! And yet, how may I depart? Surely Lord Maitland will never permit such a thing."
Still, she was determined to leave, will he or no, so once she had recovered both her breath and her scattered wits, she gathered up her courage and set off in search of a stables, making sure to keep far from the rose garden. At length she found the stables, and vanished into the dim-hay-scented depths. Most of the stalls were populated by huge, fiery beasts who flung their heads about as she passed, but one--a smaller, stockier fellow with a brown coat and a straw-colored mane and tail--seemed quiet and biddable enough. The stables were, by luck, entirely empty of people, so there was no one to see or protest as Isabelle opened the brown horse's stall and led him out. Heedless of the fact that her light day-dress was wholly inadequate as a riding-habit, she flung herself onto his back, not even pausing to saddle the beast first.
A flick of the reins and they were trotting away. Isabelle wobbled a bit, unaccustomed to riding bareback, but she managed to keep her seat quite admirably as the horse bore her into the forest and the grey gloom melted into darkest night.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness and her body to the horse's motion, Isabelle gradually became aware of certain unsettling elements in the surrounding wood: strange rustling noises, branches and shrubs that bent in ways they ought not to have done. Out of the corner of her eye, Isabelle caught quick glints of light--were they the eyes of beasts, or bright metal wielded by ruffians? Neither possibility was particularly comforting; and for the first time in her life Isabelle despised her lively fancy, as it built gruesome, richly-embroidered tales around each glint of light until she very nearly turned the horse's head back toward Maitland Manor. But the memory of Lord Maitland shouting and brandishing the garden shears rose up behind her eyes; steeling herself, she pressed on.
And then there was a great rustling sound all about, and the hints of movement became a ring of horsemen bursting out of the woods to surround her; and the glints of light became their pistols and rapiers, all pointed menacingly at Isabelle.
"Halt! Stand and deliver!" growled their leader, an intidy man in a faded grey coat, with unfashionably long hair pulled back in a messy queue. Isabelle blinked bemusedly down the length of the saber he held at her chin.
"Well, that settles that," she remarked.
"Shut yer gob!" the ruffian snarled. "Now, hand it over."
Isabelle, who found her fear entirely vanished now that she knew precisely what she was facing, smiled merrily and handed the highwayman her reticule. "I trust you will not be too dismayed."
The highwayman dumped the small bag's contents into a large, grimy hand, and scowled. "What's this rubbish?"
"It's a writing-box," Isabelle explained helpfully, "with a quill and ink-bottle, and sharpening-knife. But never fear--it's far too dull to be of any use in a daring escape. Oh, and I believe those things are my smelling-salts."
"Rubbish! Let's have your ear-bobs, then."
"As you say. I should tell you, though, that they're paste. Quite worthless."
A discontented muttering arose from the men, who were clearly not enjoying the encounter as much as Isabelle was.
"Well, we can take the horse, at least, but what's to be done about the miss?"
"I say we kill 'er, and string 'er body up as a warning to anyone who'd trespass our roads without carryin' enough gold."
"Your roads? Well, I quite like that," Isabelle retorted. "I do believe Lord Maitland would have something to say about that."
"And what would a chit like you know about 'is Lordship?"
"Far more than pleases me. In truth, I have just quit his company."
More muttering, but speculative this time.
"She's clearly a bird of some quality--what if we hold her for ransom?"
"Aye--she may not have any gold herself, but I'll wager his Lordship'll pay a pretty pence for this bit o'muslin."
There was a considerable rumbling of consensus. Isabelle opened her lips to prick a hole in this plan, but found a dirty rag stuffed between them and a rough sack thrust over her head and tied into place, rendering her blind and speechless. Hands gripped her arms--and, after she kicked savagely at her unseen captors, her legs as well--and despite her struggles, bound them tightly. Someone kicked her horse, who whinnied shrilly in protest, and they lurched ahead, presumably to the highwaymen's lair.
After a time, they halted, and Isabelle was lifted non-too-gently off her horse and was marched along a meandering path, then finally forced down onto a wobbly, backless stool. The air was close and breathlessly warm; it reeked of stale sweat and leather, and staler beer. Just as Isabelle feared she would smother beneath her sack, it was yanked off, and she had her first look at her new surroundings.
She was unsurprised to find herself in a small rustic cabin, with walls of rough-hewn wood. Candles flared and guttered in the drafty room. It was bare, save for a crude table, a handful of stools similar to the one onto which she had been unceremoniously dumped, and a scattering of crates and sacks flung about in the corner. Isabelle took all this in with a brief glance, then the leering visage of the highwayman who had taken her captive leaned in.
"Now, missy," the man hissed. "You just sit here quiet-like while we send a message to 'is Lordship. And you'd best hope he answers to our likin', and quickly, too."
Isabelle felt some of her excitement drain away at the sight of her gloomy surroundings; nevertheless, the sensation of being in an adventure still remained. "You may send all the messages you like, it shall not matter a whit. Lord Maitland will not be moved."
"You'd best be wrong, impertinent miss. If he don't pay, we've no further use for ye."
"Say, chief, not so hasty," one other rogues broke in. His eyes raked over Isabelle until she felt quite unclothed. "Shame to waste such a fine bit of flesh, eh?"
"What do you mean to do with me?" Isabelle said, the last of her excitement fading quite into cinders. "Surely you don't mean to ravish me!"
"Well, aren't you just the clever miss!" the lead highwayman hissed. "We'll be gettin' our ransom, be it from your fine lord's purse or from your pretty white hide."
Isabelle's heart plummeted like an icy stone straight to her shoes. This was not a grand adventure--this was a very real danger to her virtue and her very life. Frantically she cast about for a solution from any of her beloved stories, but came up empty-handed. She was bound and weaponless, and her training in the gentle, womanly arts offered no defense against a roomful of desperate scoundrels. Bitterly now did she repent flying from Lord Maitland, and antagonizing the only one who might have helped her.
The highwayman grinned, showing a mouthful of broken and yellowed teeth. "In fact, since ye seem so sure that Lord Maitland will not pay, I see no need to wait on his pleasure."
"Hold!" Isabelle cried out, inspired, as he reached for her. "Ravish me, and you shall never hear the most wonderful tale I carry in my head!"
The highwayman froze, his leer sliding into a perplexed gawp. "How's that again? A tale? You know of some gold ye've been holdin' out on?"
"No, no...nothing of the sort," Isabelle declared with a heartiness that belied her inner turmoil. "Already, her mind was whirling, selecting elements from her most beloved books and poems, and attempting to tack them together into a tale that might captivate her rough audience. "it's a thrilling romance, set in exotic lands...with daring swordfights...a prince in disguise..."
"Shut yer babbling!" the lead highwayman bellowed. Behind him, his fellows nodded grimly--though Isabelle fancied one or two of them looked disappointed that no romance was forthcoming. "None of us care a fig for any of that rot! We're all out of the nursery, you stupid wench! If it don't put food in our bellies or gold in our purse, we've no need of it!"
"The more fool you," came a familiar voice from the doorway.
Author's Note: Bit o' muslin is a Regency term for a lady of ill repute.
Links to previous chapters:
Chapter 1: The Bluestocking
Chapter 2: The Beast
Chapter 3: London
Chapter 4: The Ball
Chapter 5: The Fateful Decision
Interlude
Chapter 6: The Lion's Den
Fandom: Disney's Beauty and the Beast
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance (in every sense of the word!)
Warnings: Highly unrealistic fantasy highwaymen with nasty intentions towards our heroine
Disclaimer: Disney owns the characters and storyline for their version of Beauty and the Beast. I am making no money off of this; it is an affectionate homage to one of my favorite films of all time.
Isabelle ran until she found herself back at the front entrance to the manor, where she paused, breathless and dismayed, to gather her thoughts.
"Bargain or no," she said aloud, "I cannot remain here another minute! And yet, how may I depart? Surely Lord Maitland will never permit such a thing."
Still, she was determined to leave, will he or no, so once she had recovered both her breath and her scattered wits, she gathered up her courage and set off in search of a stables, making sure to keep far from the rose garden. At length she found the stables, and vanished into the dim-hay-scented depths. Most of the stalls were populated by huge, fiery beasts who flung their heads about as she passed, but one--a smaller, stockier fellow with a brown coat and a straw-colored mane and tail--seemed quiet and biddable enough. The stables were, by luck, entirely empty of people, so there was no one to see or protest as Isabelle opened the brown horse's stall and led him out. Heedless of the fact that her light day-dress was wholly inadequate as a riding-habit, she flung herself onto his back, not even pausing to saddle the beast first.
A flick of the reins and they were trotting away. Isabelle wobbled a bit, unaccustomed to riding bareback, but she managed to keep her seat quite admirably as the horse bore her into the forest and the grey gloom melted into darkest night.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness and her body to the horse's motion, Isabelle gradually became aware of certain unsettling elements in the surrounding wood: strange rustling noises, branches and shrubs that bent in ways they ought not to have done. Out of the corner of her eye, Isabelle caught quick glints of light--were they the eyes of beasts, or bright metal wielded by ruffians? Neither possibility was particularly comforting; and for the first time in her life Isabelle despised her lively fancy, as it built gruesome, richly-embroidered tales around each glint of light until she very nearly turned the horse's head back toward Maitland Manor. But the memory of Lord Maitland shouting and brandishing the garden shears rose up behind her eyes; steeling herself, she pressed on.
And then there was a great rustling sound all about, and the hints of movement became a ring of horsemen bursting out of the woods to surround her; and the glints of light became their pistols and rapiers, all pointed menacingly at Isabelle.
"Halt! Stand and deliver!" growled their leader, an intidy man in a faded grey coat, with unfashionably long hair pulled back in a messy queue. Isabelle blinked bemusedly down the length of the saber he held at her chin.
"Well, that settles that," she remarked.
"Shut yer gob!" the ruffian snarled. "Now, hand it over."
Isabelle, who found her fear entirely vanished now that she knew precisely what she was facing, smiled merrily and handed the highwayman her reticule. "I trust you will not be too dismayed."
The highwayman dumped the small bag's contents into a large, grimy hand, and scowled. "What's this rubbish?"
"It's a writing-box," Isabelle explained helpfully, "with a quill and ink-bottle, and sharpening-knife. But never fear--it's far too dull to be of any use in a daring escape. Oh, and I believe those things are my smelling-salts."
"Rubbish! Let's have your ear-bobs, then."
"As you say. I should tell you, though, that they're paste. Quite worthless."
A discontented muttering arose from the men, who were clearly not enjoying the encounter as much as Isabelle was.
"Well, we can take the horse, at least, but what's to be done about the miss?"
"I say we kill 'er, and string 'er body up as a warning to anyone who'd trespass our roads without carryin' enough gold."
"Your roads? Well, I quite like that," Isabelle retorted. "I do believe Lord Maitland would have something to say about that."
"And what would a chit like you know about 'is Lordship?"
"Far more than pleases me. In truth, I have just quit his company."
More muttering, but speculative this time.
"She's clearly a bird of some quality--what if we hold her for ransom?"
"Aye--she may not have any gold herself, but I'll wager his Lordship'll pay a pretty pence for this bit o'muslin."
There was a considerable rumbling of consensus. Isabelle opened her lips to prick a hole in this plan, but found a dirty rag stuffed between them and a rough sack thrust over her head and tied into place, rendering her blind and speechless. Hands gripped her arms--and, after she kicked savagely at her unseen captors, her legs as well--and despite her struggles, bound them tightly. Someone kicked her horse, who whinnied shrilly in protest, and they lurched ahead, presumably to the highwaymen's lair.
After a time, they halted, and Isabelle was lifted non-too-gently off her horse and was marched along a meandering path, then finally forced down onto a wobbly, backless stool. The air was close and breathlessly warm; it reeked of stale sweat and leather, and staler beer. Just as Isabelle feared she would smother beneath her sack, it was yanked off, and she had her first look at her new surroundings.
She was unsurprised to find herself in a small rustic cabin, with walls of rough-hewn wood. Candles flared and guttered in the drafty room. It was bare, save for a crude table, a handful of stools similar to the one onto which she had been unceremoniously dumped, and a scattering of crates and sacks flung about in the corner. Isabelle took all this in with a brief glance, then the leering visage of the highwayman who had taken her captive leaned in.
"Now, missy," the man hissed. "You just sit here quiet-like while we send a message to 'is Lordship. And you'd best hope he answers to our likin', and quickly, too."
Isabelle felt some of her excitement drain away at the sight of her gloomy surroundings; nevertheless, the sensation of being in an adventure still remained. "You may send all the messages you like, it shall not matter a whit. Lord Maitland will not be moved."
"You'd best be wrong, impertinent miss. If he don't pay, we've no further use for ye."
"Say, chief, not so hasty," one other rogues broke in. His eyes raked over Isabelle until she felt quite unclothed. "Shame to waste such a fine bit of flesh, eh?"
"What do you mean to do with me?" Isabelle said, the last of her excitement fading quite into cinders. "Surely you don't mean to ravish me!"
"Well, aren't you just the clever miss!" the lead highwayman hissed. "We'll be gettin' our ransom, be it from your fine lord's purse or from your pretty white hide."
Isabelle's heart plummeted like an icy stone straight to her shoes. This was not a grand adventure--this was a very real danger to her virtue and her very life. Frantically she cast about for a solution from any of her beloved stories, but came up empty-handed. She was bound and weaponless, and her training in the gentle, womanly arts offered no defense against a roomful of desperate scoundrels. Bitterly now did she repent flying from Lord Maitland, and antagonizing the only one who might have helped her.
The highwayman grinned, showing a mouthful of broken and yellowed teeth. "In fact, since ye seem so sure that Lord Maitland will not pay, I see no need to wait on his pleasure."
"Hold!" Isabelle cried out, inspired, as he reached for her. "Ravish me, and you shall never hear the most wonderful tale I carry in my head!"
The highwayman froze, his leer sliding into a perplexed gawp. "How's that again? A tale? You know of some gold ye've been holdin' out on?"
"No, no...nothing of the sort," Isabelle declared with a heartiness that belied her inner turmoil. "Already, her mind was whirling, selecting elements from her most beloved books and poems, and attempting to tack them together into a tale that might captivate her rough audience. "it's a thrilling romance, set in exotic lands...with daring swordfights...a prince in disguise..."
"Shut yer babbling!" the lead highwayman bellowed. Behind him, his fellows nodded grimly--though Isabelle fancied one or two of them looked disappointed that no romance was forthcoming. "None of us care a fig for any of that rot! We're all out of the nursery, you stupid wench! If it don't put food in our bellies or gold in our purse, we've no need of it!"
"The more fool you," came a familiar voice from the doorway.
Author's Note: Bit o' muslin is a Regency term for a lady of ill repute.
Links to previous chapters:
Chapter 1: The Bluestocking
Chapter 2: The Beast
Chapter 3: London
Chapter 4: The Ball
Chapter 5: The Fateful Decision
Interlude
Chapter 6: The Lion's Den