Gaston did not mind hunting in the winter. In fact, in many ways he preferred it. True, there weren't as many animals roaming the forests as in spring and summer. But there were also not as many hunters. The still and quiet made it easier to hear potential prey, and the snow on the ground made it easier to track them. Since the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of Belle and the prince, there was little else that brought him as much satisfaction as the hunt. With his musket and his keen senses he felt absolutely powerful, the master of the forest.
As Gaston crouched in the bushes, watching for any sign of movement in the stillness of the snow, Gaston noticed a patch of blue between the branches a few dozen yards away. It couldn't be. Gaston squinted at the figure, and slowly inched forward in the snow to see it better. The figure stopped and looked around, appearing lost. Gaston saw the face, and broke out into a self-satisfied grin. That Belle should wander, alone and on foot, right across his path, like red riding hood walking into the wolf's lair. At last, his luck returned.
Before Belle even realized what had happened, Gaston swiftly made his way through the snow and lept toward her, grabbing her from behind. Belle screamed, but was quickly silenced by Gaston, who pressed his hand against her mouth.
"Hello Belle," Gaston murmured into her ear. Belle responded by biting his hand. When he pulled it away in surprise she began screaming again and attempted to run away. Surprisingly fast for a man of his size he easily recaptured her, and punched her hard across the face. Reeling, Belle staggered backward, tripping and falling into the snow. Gaston laughed and stood over her.
"This is how I've always wanted to see you," Gaston said, "Flat on your back below me."
Belle scrambled to pull herself up, but the ice and snow made it a difficult task, and as soon as she gained any traction Gaston promptly shoved her back down.
"You have always been far too proud," Gaston told her, "You need to get your head out of those books and learn what it is women are good for."
Belle began screaming again, but Gaston quickly silenced her by throwing himself on top of her, grabbing her by the hair, and pushing his mouth to hers. She beat him with her fists, kicked him, and attempted to bite him again, but his strength far outweighed her own. As she struggled she noticed with horror Gaston undoing his belt. Gaston kept her pinned down with one arm, and began stroking himself quickly with the other.
"No!" Belle yelled, realizing what he meant to do with her, "I won't!"
Belle kicked him hard in the groin and managed to crawl away, but Gaston grabbed her yet again. In pain and now furious, he struck her across the face again and pinned her down hard. He tore her bodice, exposing her naked flesh to the snow, so cold it burned her. Their breath fogged the air around them, the forest silent in a canopy of tree branches and snow, save for Belle's screams.
"Stop fighting!" Gaston yelled, pulling up her skirts, "The more you fight the worse it will be."
"Never!" Belle shouted. Gaston responded by laughing and forcing her legs open.
"I will have you," Gaston told her, "I always get what I want, one way or another."
Belle continued to struggle, tears now pouring down her cheeks, fear suffocating her with the weight of Gaston's body. She closed her eyes, willing herself to be anywhere else, determined to take her mind as far from her body as she could. She thought of the art she had seen in the prince's castle, of traveling with her parents, of her favorite books. She took a breath, knowing it would happen soon.
All at once she heard Gaston swear and felt him move violently sideways. She opened her eyes to see the prince standing over them, looking wild with rage. She looked quickly over at Gaston as she scrambled to stand. From the way Gaston had fallen and how he was clutching his ribs, she guessed the prince had kicked him hard in the side.
Gaston suddenly reached out and grabbed Belle by the ankle. He managed to pull her off balance and she fell back into the snow. Gaston pulled himself and Belle up to stand, and as the prince lunged toward them Gaston unsheathed his hunting knife and held it to Belle's throat. As was no doubt Gaston's aim, the prince froze.
"Get back!" Gaston yelled, "Leave now or I slit your whore's throat."
The prince looked at Gaston with a horrified expression, then to Belle, then back at Gaston. It was clear his confidence had been knocked out of him, and all too obvious that he didn't know what to do.
"You-you would kill a woman just to make a point?" the prince asked incredulously.
"To take back my freedom! My honor!" Gaston yelled back, "All that you have taken from me. Leave! Now!"
Gaston tightened his grip on Belle and the prince watched as he dragged the knife slowly across Belle's throat, just hard enough to pierce her skin, tracing a thin line of blood across her neck.
"Stop!" the prince shouted, "I'll pay you!"
Gaston stopped, momentarily surprised. He eyed the prince suspiciously. The prince and Belle locked eyes, and then he brought his attention back to Gaston.
"With what?" Gaston spat.
"You can have the tavern back," the prince offered.
"The tavern was mine to begin with!" Gaston bellowed.
"And gold!" the prince added quickly, "Lots of gold."
Gaston's grip on Belle slackened as he considered the prince's offer. Belle noticed the shift in how tightly he was holding her, and took the opportunity to bite his hand again, hard enough to draw blood. He pulled his hand away in shock, dropping the knife. Belle elbowed him in the stomach and managed to flee. She meant to run away as quickly as possible, but before she could even find her footing the prince had lunged at Gaston. He punched him hard in the face. Gaston answered him by striking him in the stomach. As the prince doubled over, Gaston hit him in the back with his elbow, causing the prince to fall over. Gaston stood over him, victorious, raising his foot to kick him. The prince rolled away and grabbed the knife that had been dropped in the snow. He bounded to his feet and held it out, a warning.
"Stop!" the prince commanded, "Leave us."
Gaston raised an eyebrow, undefeated and calculating. The prince continued to hold out the knife, his muscles tensed, ready to fend off Gaston. Belle saw that the prince's hand was shaking so that the knife quivered slightly. Adam edged slowly to where Belle was standing. With one hand he undid his cloak and held it out to her, not looking at her, his gaze still set suspiciously at Gaston. She took it and wrapped it around her exposed and freezing skin. It was still warm and smelled like him, a mix of cologne, whiskey, and sweat. She pulled the cloak tight around herself, much more comforted by this gesture than she felt she ought to be. Gaston watched this exchange with visible disgust.
"All right. Give me my tavern," Gaston said, striding toward the prince with the swagger that always punctuated his steps, "And I will leave you to the girl."
The prince glared at Gaston, looking him over. Gaston held out his hand to shake on the deal. Were this but a few days ago the prince would have had him imprisoned. Now, however, he was thoroughly stripped of much of his power thanks to his father. He hesitated, then tucked the knife into his belt and shook Gaston's hand. Gaston shook it slowly, then in one swift movement pulled the prince toward him, retrieved the knife from the prince's belt, and attempted to stab him in the side. The prince dodged just in time, and the knife slashed his arm instead. The prince tackled Gaston, and the men struggled, the prince nimbly dodging Gaston's weapon while managing to get in a few solid punches. One punch managed to knock Gaston off-balance, and he lay in the snow. For once a look of fear trumped his usual expression of arrogance. Belle watched this with a significant feeling of satisfaction. The prince swiftly brought his foot down and smashed Gaston's arm with his boot, causing Gaston to lose his grip on the knife. Gaston's free arm grabbed the prince, and he fell. They rolled through the snow exchanging blows, each so consumed by rage and determined to beat the other that Belle feared that they would kill one another.
Belle watched, in a mix of horror, relief, and shock, as they repeatedly struck each other with such force that both men were now blinking and visibly struggling to maintain their tenuous hold on consciousness even as they continued to pummel each other. Belle looked around, panicked, torn between wanting to run away and feeling obligated to stop this somehow. Her breath was quick and she was sweating despite the cold, but she felt somehow detached from the scene in front of her, as though she were in a dream where she had a vague knowledge of dreaming. She caught her breath as she saw the prince's sleeve, red with blood, his wounded arm tugging her back into herself.
She grabbed a branch and wielded it over her shoulder like a club. Gaston had managed the upper hand in the fight, and was pummeling the prince's head repeatedly, so hard the sound of his fist cracking against the prince's skull echoed through the forest. Belle crept behind Gaston and, finding strength she did not know she possessed, brought the branch down hard upon the crown of his head. Gaston fell with a groan and the prince finished him off with a few punches until, at last, Gaston was unconscious and laid still as death in the snow.
The prince pulled himself shakily to his feet, victorious. Belle was still holding the branch, and they looked at one another, the wind now stirring and tousling Belle's hair and skirt. Neither of them spoke, and then the prince groaned slightly as he lost consciousness and fell to the ground in a heap.
Belle slowly laid down the branch and backed away. Her would-be captors had vanquished one another and she was free. Was this not the best possible outcome? Both these beasts lying helpless and harmless in the snow? She heard, if she was not mistaken, the sound of a horse neighing and pawing at the ground. It did not take her long to locate the steed, black and with a saddle made of the finest leather which quickly identified it as belonging to the prince. Belle could hardly contain her excitement as she checked the saddle and placed a foot in a stirrup, ready to hoist herself onto the horse. She could ride to the village where her aunt lived, send word to her father, and sort this whole mess out. It was a day and a half's ride, if that. Belle looked to the sky, using the position of the sun to judge the time of day and orient herself to where west was so she could set off in the correct direction. Just as she tensed her muscles to pull herself into the saddle she froze and slackened. She glanced over her shoulder at the prince and saw the snow, rose colored around him, tinted by his blood. Her expression fell, and she looked longingly at the saddle, knowing already what she had to do but for a moment unable to do it.
Resigned, she turned slowly and made her way back to the prince. He lay prostrate beneath her, bruised and bleeding. Belle reached down and tore a long strip of fabric off the bottom of her shift. She bandaged his arm, and while she did so she quickly assessed the damage. His handsome face was cut and bruised in numerous places, and she assumed that once he got out of the snow it would be swollen as well. Judging by the amount of blood coming from his nose she guessed it could be broken. Luckily, from what she could see, his injuries could be expected to heal. However, she could hardly leave him here, he needed to be returned to the castle. She bit her lip and considered his muscular form, wondering how in the world she was going to lift him onto the horse.
Adam awoke dizzy and with a pounding headache. He felt the smoothness of the sheets under him and blinked, his blurred vision clearing to reveal his bed curtains and the faces of worried servants. The prince slowly took in the fact that he was back in his bed in the west wing. As he brought his hand to his face and winced, he discerned what sounded like water being poured and turned his head toward the sound. Kneeling at his bedside was Belle, her hair down, her expression concerned as she busied herself with wringing a rag into a basin. He was surprised, but not displeased, to see her. She looked up, and her expression changed to one of relief when she saw him awake.
"Here now," she said, moving to remove the bandage from his arm. The prince pulled away defensively and she frowned, adding, "Just hold still!"
"That hurts!" he bellowed, sitting up and tugging his arm roughly away. Adam was a man short on patience even on days when he hadn't been pummeled by his father and muscular peasants. Belle frowned and threw the rag back into the basin. Finished with being dominated by brutish men, she leaned in to challenge him.
"If you hold still it wouldn't hurt as much!" she shouted as though she were admonishing a child. The prince straightened, surprised. He hadn't been shouted at since his mother was alive, and this threw him off balance.
"If you hadn't run away, this wouldn't have happened," he snapped, gathering himself for an argument.
"If you hadn't frightened me, I wouldn't have run away!" Belle retorted, her own patience thoroughly frayed.
"Frightened you?" Adam responded incredulously, "You barged into my quarters without so much as knocking! You need to learn respect!"
"And you need to learn how to control your temper!" Belle yelled. In her anger she had leaned in toward him, their faces now were perhaps six inches apart. The prince opened his mouth to reply but found himself, to his great surprise, silenced. The candlelight flowed over Belle's porcelain skin and she all but glowed like a river in moonlight. Loosened from its usual ponytail, her chestnut hair cascaded down her back, showing hints of auburn when the light caught it. The prince's defensive posture relaxed. She was lovely and he had no will to resist her.
"Now hold still," Belle commanded, taking his arm firmly. She paused and added more softly, "This might sting a little."
The prince hissed as the rag was pressed to his wound. Belle cleaned his arm gently, ignoring the power she felt in the muscles of his forearm as she held it, distracting herself from the heat of his flesh by focusing on his injury. As she examined his arm, she wondered how she would tell him that she would need to stitch up the gash.
"Mrs. Potts, can you fetch me a needle, thread, and more cloth please?" she said to the kindly woman, who had been at the prince's bedside from the moment she brought him in. Belle hesitated and added, "And whiskey?" Mrs. Potts looked as though she wanted to question Belle for a moment, but nodded and left the room.
"What?" The prince asked, alarmed, "What do you mean to do to me?"
"Don't worry," Belle told him, "I just need to stitch up this cut."
"No! I don't want that! Leave me alone!" the prince yelled, pulling his arm away again, exhaustion and pain causing him to behave with petulance. Belle was, for the first time, grateful that her father had so often hurt himself while tinkering with his various inventions. This, combined with knowledge gleaned from reading medical texts, had gifted Belle with respectable healing abilities. She was confident she could help the prince.
"It'll only take a minute," Belle assured him, "I know what I'm doing."
The prince hesitated, holding his arm away from her. He looked into her face and saw such kindness that before he realized it he had reluctantly given her his arm. Belle gently placed her hand on top of his own and squeezed it.
"It will be all right, your highness," she told him, her tone both authoritative and nurturing. He smiled weakly at her. She paused then added, as though it were an afterthought, "By the way... thank you, for saving my life."
He caught his breath, not prepared for such a statement. All at once, he felt regret for how he had treated her. He noticed a pressure in his chest of unbidden emotion and felt frustration at the maddening inadequacy of words. Belle preserved his dignity by busying herself with his wound, behaving as though nothing at all had been said.
"You're welcome," he choked out at last, suddenly shy. He looked down at his arm and cursed himself for responding so lamely.
Mrs. Potts came back into the room with the items Belle had requested. Belle thanked the servant and removed her hand from the prince's to take the needle and thread. The moment she lifted her hand from his was the instant he missed her touch. He blinked and looked back to her, his eyebrows knitted. She mistakenly took the panic in his expression for fear of the procedure and smiled at him reassuringly. Her smile only deepened his attraction to her and increased his consternation. Mrs. Potts offered him the whiskey and he took it, tilting the bottle back gratefully, more concerned with drowning his perplexing emotions than with dulling the physical pain.
Belle expertly tended to the prince's arm, certain when she was finished that it would heal beautifully. In silence she retrieved another rag and cleaned the rest of the prince's wounds. The prince lay in a haze of pain, whiskey and infatuation under Belle's care. In this state, he allowed himself to surrender to her. Though Belle's method of attending to the prince was decidedly different from Babette's techniques, he found he preferred Belle. He watched her as she pressed the rag to his face, his shoulders. She paused and blushed, looking down at a nasty scrape the prince had across his chest, just visible under the neckline of his shirt.
"May I?" she asked. The prince felt the corner of his mouth lift into a half smile, endeared by her modesty. He nodded. She shifted the linen of his shirt and placed the cloth to his skin. He continued to watch her with heavy lidded eyes, the smoothness of her movements, the subtle changes in her expression, the graceful arch of her neck and of her eyelashes. Belle's eyes diverted ever so fleetingly from the scrape she was cleaning to the rest of the prince's sculpted torso. She pulled the cloth away from him and cleared her throat.
"I think that should do it," she said, placing the rag back in the basin near the prince's bed. He took her hand and looked at her, his blue eyes blurry with exhaustion and alcohol, but his affection clear. Belle was surprised to find that she had no desire to pull away from him, that she could have stayed that way with this rude boorish man she hardly knew. She was used to men looking at her. What she was not used to was how a man's gaze could so quicken her heartbeat.
"Thank you," he told her. Their hands were still joined, their gazes locked. So they remained for an instant which lingered like a visitor that could not bear to leave. Suddenly, Belle felt overwhelmed by tiredness and confusion. She assumed the day's events were getting to her. Belle nodded to the prince and gingerly laid his arm across his torso.
"Rest, your highness," she advised him. He did not want to take his eyes off her, but to please her he let his heavy eyelids close. A feeling of comfort and relaxation overcame him, and he was asleep before Belle even reached the door.