In the event of her death?
They were going to kill her?!
Oh, how could she have been so stupid!
Belle was fighting tears as much as she was Lachlan. Before her very eyes, the people she had thought were to be her future had been revealed as villains. And the man she had thought was harming her had been her only defender!
Deciding that there was no longer a need to pretend the fine lady, Belle gave up on pulling at Lachlan's hold. Instead, she grabbed hold of his wrist, dived forward, and bit him!
As her teeth dug into the back of his hand, Lachlan released her with a cry of pain.
"Ow! What the hell! You little savage! Uncle, she—"
Not listening to him, Belle struck out with her foot. Her dress hindered the attack somewhat, but she still made hard contact with his knee, and Lachlan immediately went down.
"Ah! Damnit! You little witch!"
Ready to take up her skirts and run, Belle was only a pace from the door when hands clamped down upon her arms, and she was lifted clean off her feet.
"Put me down!" she screamed.
Her arms pinned, she could only swing her legs in the hope of catching his shin, but Murdock Hunter was wiser in the ways of brawls than his nephew. He kept her at arm’s length and held her in a pincer grip that was turning her fingers numb and tingly.
"That," Murdock Hunter sneered, "is not ladylike behavior, little girl."
"Oh, stick yer head in a hive, assface! Ah'll not be yer little lady!"
"And you won't have to be for much longer. As soon as the real lady of this house allows her husband to meet his maker, you'll be disposable. Until then, we'll keep you here, in this chamber; imprisoned in your own castle, Lady Arabella."
18
Belle had never seen the dungeon before. She hadn't even known the castle had one. But then, she supposed that had been deliberate.
See the kitchens, Lady Arabelle? Aren't they grand? What of the dining hall, Lady Arabelle? Isn't it decorative? The gardens are pretty also, don't you think, my lady?
“Here, come see the dungeons where we keep anyone who rebels against our authority” would have lacked the same level of persuasion.
Crouched in the corner of one of a dozen cells, Belle drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. The walls, the floor, the iron gates—every inch of the dungeons was blisteringly cold. Belle could not tell if her spot in the corner had gradually managed to turn warm or if she were simply too numb to feel the chill anymore. Either way, she did not dare to move.
At least she was not hungry.
She had been down in the cell for just over two days. By all rights, her belly should have been hankering for food, growling louder than a lion in the echoing chamber. Instead, her stomach had frozen solid, no longer able to wriggle and groan.
Resting her head upon her knees, Belle wrinkled her nose at the stink. Not only was the dungeon itself a disgusting feast for the nose, but she herself had begun to smell. Her hair was in ragged locks about her head, and her face was smeared with tears and grime.
In a moment of hysteria, Belle realized that she was probably now dirtier than she ever had been back home. And here, she was supposed to be a lady.
“Supposed to be” being the main point.
Sighing, Belle watched the skirts of her dress flutter over her middle. Freeing one of her hands, she began to draw letters upon the fabric, creating each shape as Henry had taught her. With every breath, the dress resettled, and she would start over with practicing the alphabet.
It was the best she could do for her own entertainment.
She had no prophetic knowledge of when her father would pass. There was no one coming to rescue her.
Her only options were writing letters and thinking.
And, right now, the last thing she wanted to do was think.
