Chapter three - Beatrice

A bear was roaring. Beatrice was sure it had to be a bear. No other animal could make such a horribly deep, rumbling noise. Even the earth seemed to tremble beneath her at the sound. It was as if the beast was right beside her, roaring directly into her ear. Her eyes popped open and blind with terror, she attempted to leap away. Escape was her only intent, but to her horror, she found she was trapped. She could do no more than wriggle helplessly like a fish trapped in a net. Something warm and heavy weighed her down and held her fast.

Oh, God. The bear was holding her down. He was going to devour her whole, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut again. Her heart pounded frantically within her chest as she waited for the painful death to come. Surely, the beast would soon be ripping into her flesh with razor-sharp teeth and claws. Her imagination supplied her with endless gory images of yellow, razor-sharp teeth covered in blood and gore. So filled with such spectacularly gory images that it took ages to notice the roaring had stopped.

Until a soft puff of warm air brushed across her face. She braced herself, expecting the putrid, fetid breath of a feral carnivore. Instead, the faint scent of warm tea and salty tang of chicken broth flowed past her nose. She frowned in confusion. But she was far too panicked to reason it out. She kept her eyes tight shut, rigid with expectation. After what felt like an eternity of terrifying suspense, curiosity eventually overcame her terror.

Cautiously, she cracked open one eye and took a quick look. The first thing to fill her vision was a hairy mountain, and she almost succumbed to another bout of panic. Then she frowned in confusion as her sight focused on what appeared to be a rough grey blanket. Why would a mindless beast possess an ordinary wool blanket? As this question rolled through her mind, she tilted her head back slightly, her gaze following the hair-covered mound that rose above the edge of that grey blanket.

There, sloping upward was revealed one broad shoulder with far less fur than any bear she had ever seen. In fact, there didn't seem to be any rough fur. More sparce, dark whorls of hair, and even more swarthy skin. Her eyes traced the muscular shoulder further, watching the hair thicken and lengthen until a face came into view. A human face with a hard, square chin covered by a dark, thick beard. Softly curved lips peeked out from beneath a dark, heavy mustache, adding an almost feminine softness to an otherwise strong, masculine face. A long, prominent nose and broad, heavy brow added weight to his features. More thick dark hair, tousled and unkempt, covered his head.

Beatrice almost sighed with relief. Now that she knew her life was not in immediate danger, she had calmed enough to realize there was no bear. Just a man, sound asleep and snoring. But then, he was as large as any bear and nearly as hairy. No wonder she had mistaken him for a beast. But who was he? And how did she come to be here, laying by his side, trapped in his powerful arms? One strong limb was wrapped around her back, a calloused hand clamped on her backside and trapping her against his side. Her head lay in the hollow beneath his broad shoulder, one arm trapped between their entwined bodies while her other hand was caught under his callused palm, sandwiched against that hard, powerful chest. The dark whorls of chest hair tickled her palm and, impulsively, her fingers clenched in the soft, springy pelt. The man snorted in his sleep, and she froze, fearing she had wakened him, but he simply grunted and resumed his snoring.

No longer bothered by the deep sounds rumbling from his throat, Beatrice decided his bear-like appearance wasn't quite so intimidating as she'd originally thought. He had a boyish, youthful look with his features relaxed in sleep, despite those hard, manly planes. Not that he would be considered handsome by most standards. That hawkish nose of his was too large, his forehead too broad, his jawline too square. And that dark, heavy beard only seemed to add weight to the hard manly strength of his chiseled features.

There was a mottled, blotchy area that disappeared under his beard and seemed to flow down his neck. The skin was oddly rough and almost purple in tone. It was difficult to discern through the thick, coarse beard, but the blemish resembled a terrible scar. He must have suffered a painful, life-threatening accident. Her heart clenched in sympathy. It was a wonder the man had survived. But who was he, and why was she here, in his bed? Somehow, this did not alarm her as it probably should have. She felt pleasantly warm and reasonably comfortable despite not recognizing her companion. She almost didn't want to move.

Until pins and needles prickled painfully along the arm trapped beneath her. She flexed her fingers to ease some of the discomfort, but it had little effect. If only she could move and restore circulation. She wriggled her hips, clenching her thighs, and then became aware of another, more insistent, embarrassing pressure. She rolled her eyes, sighing with frustration. Now she really needed to move. And it was in that moment she came to realize that she was naked as a newborn babe. She nearly squeaked in shocked outrage. Where were her clothes?

To further mortification, she realized one of her legs was thrown up over his hips, her knee resting on his pelvic bone perilously close to his manly parts. Mortified heat rushed over her face as she flushed with embarrassment. There was no way she could have done such a shocking thing deliberately. This brazen position was embarrassing enough, but then, when she tried to lift the offending limb, she discovered another impediment. Her foot seemed to be wedged between his hard, muscular thighs.

But embarrassment yielded to necessity as the pressure on her bladder increased, becoming more urgent. She shifted again, clenching her pelvic muscles in an effort to stave off the compulsion. But nature was not to be denied. It was a losing battle, and she knew it. The cramps were becoming almost unbearable. If she didn't manage to find the chamber pot soon, she was going to embarrass herself further. There was no choice but to rouse her slumbering companion. He was too heavy for her to move, and his grip was too strong for her to escape. Finally, she took her courage in hand and gently prodded him with the hand trapped between them.

"Uh, Sir. I beg your pardon." She whispered hesitantly, braced for a negative reaction. After all, no one would tolerate being woken from such a sound sleep. She well remembered how her brother hated to be disturbed when he was resting. How much worse would this stranger be? But her worries were for naught. He didn't even flinch. She tapped his chest and tried again.

"Sir, please, you must wake." This time, her voice was clear and strong, but the man-bear slept on, undisturbed.

Annoyed and desperate, Beatrice fisted the hand on his burly chest, tugging on the wiry hairs trapped between her fingers. The man-bear started with a snort. The huge hand trapping her fingers suddenly clutched them tightly to his chest. Not  enough to hurt, but enough to prevent another painful tug. He lifted his shaggy head, heavy dark brows furrowed as he opened one beautiful sky-blue eye and gave her a baleful glare. It really was most disconcerting, that brilliant blue in the midst of such a swarthy complexion. She was completely mesmerized by the sight.

But as he continued to glare at her, she swallowed back a sudden fear. He had every right to his ire at her rudeness, disturbing his peaceful slumber. She cringed in dread, anticipating the inevitable angry eruption. But when he simply continued to eye her with that almost comically baleful expression, her fear morphed into frustration. She wanted to rail at him for restraining her this way. But as pressure continued to build in her bladder, the urgency of her predicament overcame every other concern.

"Sir, I really must insist. The need is becoming most dire." She blurted, desperation overriding discretion. "I have to..." Again, her cheeks heated with embarrassment, but he was still eyeing her, though his glare had slid into confusion. He did not understand, and she had to overcome a lifetime of protocol to explain or suffer mortification. "Please. I have a need for the chamberpot."

A moment passed before both those sky-blue eyes popped open, widening with dawning comprehension. Then, without a word, the man-bear rolled to his feet, grabbed a wooden bucket up off the floor, and held it out to her. Frozen with shock, she could only stare. She barely noticed the bucket.

She had never in her nineteen years seen a fully naked man before. All that tanned flesh, sculpted muscle and dark, curling hair. Even the mottled shading of his skin tone did not detract from all that male beauty. An odd fluttering started in her belly. The man was huge, and yet, there was not an ounce of fat on him. He was all hard, powerful muscle and sinew. She was tempted to reach out and touch him to see if that muscle was as hard as it looked. The huge man loomed over her, and yet, curiously, she was unafraid. Intrigued, enthralled perhaps, but not afraid.

She could not drag her gaze away from all that naked perfection. A mighty Greek statue to life, sculpted and molded to perfection. The only flaws were several scars blotching his tanned skin. The worse and most noticeable of them a long, purple scar that ran from over his left shoulder, across his collarbone and disappeared into the wiry hair on his neck and chin. But even that did not detract from his god-like form. Her eyes wandered lower and she felt a pang of regret. He held that container at just the right spot to cover all the most interesting bits. Then she realized where her mind had traveled and embarrassed heat flushed her cheeks. It was morally wrong to ogle the man like this and she mentally berated herself for such shameful behavior. Yet she could not stop admiring the colossus standing before her. She had to admit, if only to herself, that she was thoroughly enjoying the view.

Impatient with her prolonged scrutiny, he huffed and moveded closer. Suddenly Beatrice was afraid as she had not been before. As he stretched across the bed, she flinched away from him. She squeezed her eyes shut, turning her face away, expecting a blow. But, when nothing happened, she cracked open one eye, chancing a look at him over her shoulder.

The man had frozen in place, the pail extended before him. His dark brow was lowered in confusion, but he didn't seem angry. And then his eyes narrowed and his mouth flattened with what she guessed was disgust. She braced herself for a verbal assault. Surely now he would harangue her for such nonsensical behavior. But again, he held his silence. With deliberate precision, he firmly set the bucket down on the floor at her side, straightened and stepped away.

Now she felt certain he would take her to task and yet he continued to say nothing. Without uttering a word, he simply turned his back on her. The funny fluttering in her belly returned as she admired the glorious view of that sculpted backside. Her eyes devoured every inch of him. It was only as she lifted her eyes, to rise above that narrow waist, that Beatrice nearly gasped aloud in shocked dismay. The scar that ran over his shoulder continued down his spine, ending just beneath his ribcage. Mottled skin ran in a strip about hand width, nearly purple, shrivelled and melted. What disaster must have befallen him to produce such a nasty wound? She simply could not fathom how he could recover from such a horrendous injury.

Obviously, it did not seem to hinder his movements. He had no difficulty that she could see as he bent and scooped a pair of breeches from the floor. Quickly, he stepped into them and she almost sighed in disappointment as that wonderfully sculpted white buttocks disappeared from view. Then he set another log on the fire and stirred up the coals beneath the grate, seemingly ignoring her.

A particularly sharp cramp from her bursting bladder brought Beatrice out of her trancelike obsession with her host. He continued to kneel there before the hearth even after he finished feeding the fire. He seemed to have frozen in place and it took Beatrice several agonizing seconds to decifer his motive. Eyeing the bear-man she speculated that he was giving her the courtesy of keeping his back turned to provide her with the illusion of privacy. Realizing this was the only concession she was liable to receive, Beatrice struggled to her feet while clinging to her only covering.

She was feeling weak and unsteady and wanted nothing more than to lay down and go back to sleep. She was so thoroughly exhausted but the urge to relieve herself was agonizing and threatened to overcome her control. She felt like a hostage to her own bodily functions. With a quick glance to check the bear-man still had his back turned, she squatted over the bucket and tended her business. The relief was so great she almost dropped right down on top of the bucket. Only the thought of the horrid mess she would create strengthened her limbs enough to allow her to shift back to the pallet. There she collapsed, barely looking up when the man slipped around her to grab up the bucket and retreated to the far side of the room.

She heard a door rattle and a few moments later, she was alone. But Beatrice was beyond caring. She could barely keep her eyes open. Exhaustion overwhelmed her. Darkness swept over her senses and she was asleep before the man returned.