XXVI

"There's always use in fighting," said Emma. "Especially when it makes terrible people cry." Ransom Riggs, A Map of Days

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XXVI.

Belle ran.

She didn't feel the pain in her foot even though she ran with only one shoe. She didn't feel the fatigue in her body as though she had been travelling for days in a confined space. She didn't feel anything but determination to put as much distance between her and that house as she could.

Belle ran towards the ocean. The ocean meant fishermen, people, help. She needed help. She prayed for help.

As soon as Belle had crossed over the grassy hill, her eyes took in the great expanse of the sea before her. It was endless. But it wasn't a fishing village. The boats were not fishing boats. It was a port.

Belle had experience with ports. The boats were tall ships, docked in the great harbour. Some flew the British flag, and they looked to be military vessels. Others looked like ... they looked like trade ships. She froze as panic began to cripple her. It began to flow through her veins and paralyse her right there in the middle of the dirt road.

Which way?

Whichever way she ran she could be taken. She couldn't run down into that port and ask for help. She couldn't risk being led somewhere, abducted, forced onto a vessel and shipped somewhere terrible. Not again.

Belle's breaths were shallow as she struggled to suck in enough air to fill her lungs. Without warning, her legs gave way and her knees fell into the stone covered road, digging into her skin and, no doubt, breaking it. Belle tangled her fingers in her hair as she gripped her head, trying to focus, trying to breathe, and trying to calm down so that she could think.

I don't want to be taken. I don't want to be taken.

I don't choose it. I don't want it.

I want to choose. I want to be the one to choose.

"Stop it," she hissed at herself. "Stop it now." Crippling herself in the middle of the road was far more dangerous. She was practically asking for someone to come along and take her. She had already fought, and she had already won. She could do it again.

Belle climbed to her feet and filled her lungs with air, properly this time. She knew what was behind her. She didn't know what was in front of her. As if there was ever a choice.

Belle continued to run, putting one foot in front of the other, bringing her closer and closer to the port town. The smell of salt and fish in the air was intoxicating and Belle prayed that she would find sanctuary.

As she began to pass the first few houses, she realised that she was still gripping the fire iron in her hand, from the point of which dripped Jean's dark red blood. Belle knew that she needed to abandon it, even if it made her feel safer to hold it. She said a prayer to ask for protection as she threw the iron into the long grass on the side of the road. And the moment she did, she wanted to run back after it. She felt naked without it, and the fear began to turn her veins to ice.

But Belle kept moving, determined to steer clear of the dock. She would not go anywhere near a ship, and she would keep her wits about her. She needed to find a way to contact Peter.

The village itself was busy. The wind whipped off of the ocean in a freezing chill, and Belle hugged at her sides for warmth. There were stalls hawking their fresh catches and men selling fishing supplies. Belle recognised the scent of the tavern before it actually came into view.

She hadn't meant to pass by such an establishment, but she had, and she immediately heard the drunken jeers of men who stumbled outside. Belle hurried past them but became highly aware that two continued after her.

Belle's heart, which was already thundering against her ribs, about beat out of her chest. This had happened before. This had happened before. This had happened before. No, no, no. She screwed up her face as her tears began to cloud her vision before she ran again.

"Wait!" shouted one of the men behind her. "Who are you?"

"We just want to talk!" called the other.

Belle ran blindly. She didn't stop. She did not even turn around. Could people not see? Could they not see that she was being chased by these men? She ducked and weaved, forcing her way through the groups of villagers, her teary eyes meaning that she bumped into more people than she meant to.

Belle turned a corner, hoping to evade them, but her heart dropped out of her chest and onto the ground when she realised that she had turned down an alleyway. A dead end. This was how it happened in Portugal. She had been cornered and she had been attacked and she had been taken aboard a ship. A loud sob escaped Belle's mouth as she turned back, but her path was quickly blocked by the two men from the tavern.

Belle's hand flexed around the phantom fire iron, and she took a step backwards. "Stay away from me!" she shouted at them.

But they didn't listen. They loomed like devils, edging towards her with their grins of yellowed teeth.

Belle anxiously looked around her for a weapon, something to wield against them. The alleyway was empty save for some abandoned crates of old fishing nets. Her eyes flicked back to their approaching figures.

"Get away!" she shouted again.

"We've never seen you around here before," called back one.

"We just wanted to meet you."

Belle swallowed before sucking in a lungful of air as she prepared to scream. But before she could, a third figure joined them in the alleyway. At a glimpse, Belle could see that he wore a fine blue coat.

"What do you two think you are doing to this poor woman?" His voice was fine, his accent reminding her of the way the duke spoke.

It took a moment in her heightened state of panic to understand what he had said. But she did, and his commanding tone forced the two would-be devils to stop in their tracks.

"Just showing her the way is all, Lieutenant," the man on the right muttered.

"Be on your way then," commanded the lieutenant.

The two men were quick to scurry out of the alleyway, leaving Belle alone with the lieutenant. He stood with proud, perfect posture, his hand on the hilt of the sabre he wore on his belt. The moment Belle caught sight of his weapon, she felt a searing pain across her belly.

Her hand instinctively went to the scar that marred her skin there, the one that had been placed there by a weapon just like that one, when she had been hiding from the lynch mob aboard Captain Whitfield's vessel with Alex.

"Are you alright, miss?"

The man's tone sounded sincere and concerned, but Belle could not feel safe when she was cornered like she was. She moved forward tentatively, walking towards the mouth of the alleyway, but quite nearly hugging the wall on the opposite side from the lieutenant.

He stood completely still.

When she came out into the light, she could see the face of the soldier clearly. He was young, perhaps only a few years older than she was, with a fair complexion and ashy coloured hair underneath his hat. He was watching her with his pale blue eyes.

"My name is Lieutenant William Harrow. You look as though you have had quite an ordeal, miss. May I be of some assistance to you?"

Every instinct of Belle's was to never trust a man. They were not safe. This man had sent the others away, but that did not mean that he was safe. She could not afford to make such a mistake.

"Do you have some family nearby? Someone I can send for?" he pressed further. When Belle said nothing, he asked, "Can you understand me, miss? Do you speak English?"

"Yes, I can understand you," she replied tentatively. "Where is it? This place, where is it?"

Lieutenant Harrow frowned a little. "This is Plymouth, miss. How have you come to be here?"

Plymouth. She remembered that the word on the ring in Jean's house began with 'p'. Had that word said Plymouth? But she couldn't remember how to spell it. If she managed to get her hands on some paper and ink then she would have to ask someone to spell the word for her.

"Have you been brought here against your will, miss?" Lieutenant Harrow continued to press. A flash of something crossed his face. "Were you brought here aboard a ship? I can hear an accent. Where have you come from?"

There were too many questions for Belle's racing mind to translate. "Slow!" she begged.

The lieutenant took a breath. "Have you been brough here against your will, miss?" he asked again, this time much more slowly.

Belle nodded.

She heard him swallow. "Were you brought here aboard a ship, miss?"

Belle shook her head.

"Where have you come from?"

Belle knew that he most likely meant to ask from whence she had come from originally. She very clearly did not appear to be of English blood. But she had come from her new home, and she wanted to return there. "I live in Hertfordshire," she replied softly.

Lieutenant's brows furrowed a little. "Hertfordshire?" he repeated, but he nodded. "And who brought you all the way to Plymouth from Hertfordshire?"

"A monster."

Belle looked into the lieutenant's eyes. She could see confusion and apprehension, but she could see no malice. Her instinct was never to trust. But in this instance, she had to. She needed help.

"I was kidnapped by an evil man." Belle would not call him her husband. Husband was a title reserved for an honourable man. "He took me from my home, and he meant to force me back to Saint-Martin, to be a slave." She prayed this lieutenant would be able to help her. And if he couldn't, or if she was wrong about him, she was no longer cornered in an alleyway. She was fast on her feet.

"This man meant to smuggle you?" Lieutenant Harrow asked sharply, his eyes narrowing.

"Yes," confirmed Belle.

The lieutenant's already perfect posture straightened. "You are safe now, miss."

Safe. This was her favourite word, and her most fervent wish. "I want to go home to Hertfordshire. Is there a carriage? Or somewhere I might write a letter?"

The lieutenant escorted Belle towards a small building with a sign that read: Royal Mail. Belle struggled to read the sign but recognised the interior as a postal service. Inside was a large wooden counter with a small stack of parcels and a collection of newspapers. Behind the counter were a series of shelves, on which letters and parcels were organised in neat piles.

The lieutenant kindly gave the postal worker a coin and he provided Belle with a piece of paper, a quill, and a pot of ink.

"Is this the latest?" he asked, gesturing to the pile of newspapers.

"Arrived this morning," confirmed the postman.

Belle took a breath and concentrated.

Peter, she wrote.

I am in P –

"Excuse me, would you please spell this town for me?" Belle murmured to the postman.

"Plymouth? It's like it sounds," he replied gruffly. "P-L-Y-M-O-U-T-H."

It certainly was not like it sounded. There was a 'y' in the word. But nonetheless, Belle copied down the letters he spoke.

– lymouth. I am saf.

Plez get to Plymouth.

Belle

Belle shook the piece of paper in the air to dry the ink before folding the letter. The postman provided her with wax and a seal before she flipped the letter over to address it. That was when she froze. She only knew of Peter's address in London. How would she write to him in Ashwood?

"Are you in the custody of the Duke of Ashwood, Miss Desjardins?"

Belle gasped as she looked up at the lieutenant. He had lowered his newspaper to the look at her. She had not told him her name. How had he known that? And how had he known about the duke?

"Your ordeal has been reported in the paper," the lieutenant clarified. "I am terribly sorry for what has happened to you."

"What?" The postman frowned as he snatched another of the newspapers off of the counter.

Belle, too, peered over the counter to look at the paper.

DUKE OF ASHWOOD OFFERS £1000 FOR SAFE RETURN OF BELLE DESJARDINS

Much of the headline was a muddle for Belle. She couldn't read it save for her name. But the duke had put it there. They were looking for her.

"A thousand pounds?" gasped the postman. "For her?" He motioned to Belle. "You're the woman in the article?"

Belle said nothing. She didn't like this man's tone. It made her uneasy.

"Are you claiming the reward?" he asked the lieutenant.

"That would be immoral," retorted Lieutenant Harrow. "Kindly send Miss Desjardins' letter."

Belle could see gold in this man's eyes, and not the gold that was in hers.

"It's not addressed," snapped the postman.

Belle quickly wrote Peter's name before she looked to the lieutenant. "I do not know the address."

He clearly thought that was odd.

"I cannot write it," she explained further. "Please. I need this to be sent to Peter Denham. Ashwood House, Ashwood Parish, Hertfordshire."

The lieutenant gallantly took the quill and addressed the letter for Belle, and the postman took it from her. He looked very sad to see them ago, as though his biggest payday was slipping away from him.

The moment that Belle and Lieutenant Harrow stepped out onto the street, however, there seemed to be quite a bit of commotion about. She could hear shouting, and a large gathering of people had formed some fifty feet away.

Lieutenant Harrow placed his hand on his sabre as he uttered, "Wait here, Miss Desjardins." He walked over to the gathering with authoritative purpose as he commanded people to move out of his way. The villagers cleared quickly, and that was when Belle caught sight of him. She caught sight of Claude.

Claude was huffing and puffing, ranting and raving, and his clothes were stained red with blood. With the villagers cleared, however, Claude was able to set his eyes on Belle. The minute he saw her, he pointed at her. "There she is!" he shouted in his heavily accented English. "Arrest her! She is a murderer!"

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I'm giving my own hand a smack and saying "Bad Laura", don't worry. What is my problem? Can't give her a break, can I?

Hope you enjoyed it!

This will be my last chapter of my summer holidays *cries*. We will now be back to the usual scheduled programming of chapters every Saturday night as I'll be back to work.

I watched Encanto today and freaking loved it! I have not enjoyed an animated Disney movie in so long. A lot of the new ones just aren't my cup of tea but I loved this one!

I've also been watching the Australian Open because I love my tennis and Nadal's five setter today had me on the edge of my seat, but very glad he sent Shapovalov packing. And then our Ash Barty wooooooo. I hope the both of them can go all the way!

Vote and comment xxx