Page 1 of Beloved Beast

Prologue

From the Journal of Luke Madden, Lighthouse keeper

Trevose Head Lighthouse, Cornwall

September 18, 1932

A broken heart has prompted my entry today. I’ve lost my beloved wife, Glenna. Though our parting was inevitable, I did not expect to lose her from a hurricane’s storm surge. To have her literally torn from my arms is more than I can bear.

How cruel is fate? In 1895, I died in a carriage race. Beyond all comprehension and science, I was allowed to live again thanks to Reed Parker, Glenna’s cousin. For in my previous incarnation as Lucas Madden, Viscount Ravenswood, I lived for selfish means consisting of one debauched incident after another. Many were glad of my passing. My own father did not mourn me.

I was reborn, reanimated, the horrific result of an experiment that should not have been successful. I thrived. Though alive, I am not in the strictest sense of the word—human. I am something beyond. Deep within, I am no longer an egocentric being, though physically many consider me a monster. The true monster was Ravenswood, who perished and eventually became Luke Madden, a lighthouse keeper in Cornwall.

Glenna did not mind I outwardly carried the scars of my previous life. She loved me with the whole of her generous heart. We shared thirty-seven devoted years together, living a quiet, solitary life. I had hoped we would be granted at least twenty more, but as I stated, fate is cruel, for while Glenna aged, I did not.

Now I must continue on without her giving, warm nature and unconditional love to sustain me. I am leaving this light keeper life behind. Lucas Madden will cease to exist. As tempting as it may be to cloister myself away for however long a subsistence I must endure, I promised Glenna more than once I would not hide from life. Or love.

But I have had my happy ending. I’ve known passion, desire, and companionship. Deep down I understand I will never experience such again. For who else could love a beast?

Chapter 1

London

March, 1943

Luke Newman shifted his 1939 Triumph Twelve into third gear as he rounded the corner heading for the Riddlesdown area and a visit he was not looking forward to. Professor Reed Parker’s health was failing, and his son, Fred—Luke’s nephew—made the not-so-subtle suggestion if he wanted to see him once more, this would be the chance to do it. At age eighty-nine, Reed had lived a long, full life, and his eventual and close passing made Luke melancholy. Reed was one of the last ties to his former life as Lucas Madden, Viscount Ravenswood, and one of his last ties to Glenna.

A sharp stab of pain curled under his ribs at the thought of his late wife. Though eleven years had passed since her death, the emptiness still remained. The circumstances of her untimely demise still haunted his dreams. But he would not ruminate on it today. A flat bit of road stretched out before him. Luke shifted to fourth gear, slammed the accelerator to the floor, and all 11.81 of horsepower roared to life, pushing the vehicle to its maximum speed of sixty-five miles per hour.

Of all the inventions and advances in technology and science since the late 1800s, the automobile fascinated Luke the most. He tried to buy a new one every few years, though thanks to the war, production had all but halted. Only sixty-six of these cars were made, he was lucky to have purchased one before the war began. The way things were progressing, he may be stuck with this sedan for some years to come.

The war. Perhaps Fred should have encouraged Reed and Clara to stay in Charlwood. The small village was more than an hour away by train or auto, and certainly safer than living in the outskirts of London. But with both parents in various stages of declining health, Fred wanted them nearby where he could check on them on a regular basis. His nephew was a case officer with SIS, the Secret Intelligence Service, or as it was becoming referred to more often, MI-6. Luke could not blame Fred for wanting his family close.

Since Fred was well aware of Luke’s secrets, he had given Luke a new identity, along with accompanying identification. A sardonic smile curved at the corner of his lips as he recalled the conversation he and his nephew shared shortly after Luke left Cornwall.

“Have you thought of a name?” Fred asked.

“Why not Lucas Deadman? Seems appropriate in more ways than one. Was I not brought back from the dead? Am I not dead inside, now that Glenna…?”

“Give over, Uncle. Enough of the self-pity. You promised Aunt Glenna more than once you would live on and embrace life.” Fred rubbed his chin, deep in thought, an action his father used. “You are a new man…that’s it. Newman. How do you like the sound of it?”

In truth, Luke liked it. The name fit him well. During the past eleven years he and Fred had grown close, more like best mates than uncle and nephew. Luke often assisted Fred with his assignments, especially where his particular talents could be useful. Being a case officer, Fred was responsible for recruiting and running existing agents. Luke was currently on the payroll of SIS, working with Fred exclusively in London. Only Fred’s ranking supervisor knew of the arrangement. Luke did not need the extra coin; he’d turned the money he procured from his father into a small fortune thanks to shrewd investments at the turn of the century in a little known American fountain drink called Coca-Cola.

Shifting down into third, then second, Luke slowed the vehicle as he neared the small Tudor style cottage Reed and Clara resided in. Once he parked the car in front of the dwelling, he turned off the ignition and glanced around the quiet street. No one about, but he would not take the chance nosy neighbors peered out from behind their blackout curtains.

Luke pulled his gray fedora low over his eyes and turned the collar of his trench coat up to obscure his face. Close to fifty years since his reanimation, explaining his appearance remained difficult in most circumstances. After he grabbed the brown paper bag from the passenger seat, he locked the car and headed up the walk to the front entrance.

Clara answered the door and immediately embraced him. “You came at a good time. He is sitting up in the parlor, a little stronger today than he has been.”

Luke kissed her cheek affectionately and handed her the bag. “My rations of tea, sugar, and butter. I have no need of them. There is some government cheddar, not the best, but I know Reed enjoys cheese and biscuits.”

Clara’s lower lip quivered. “Thank you for thinking of us. He will be pleased to see you. It’s been a good long while.”

Too long. Not since Christmas and he had no excuse except when in Reed’s company, the pain of losing Glenna came roaring to the surface. Also, his relationship with Reed was complicated at best due to the fact the man used him in a bizarre experiment. At times, Luke resented Reed’s arrogant interference. Luke’s life had been over. He was dead and should have stayed dead. But then, he would not have fallen in love with Glenna and would not have enjoyed thirty-seven years of utter bliss.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Clara said, pulling him from his thoughts. He gave her a brief smile. As he stepped into the parlor, he tamped down any lingering bitterness. Reed looked every bit of his eighty-nine years. Since he’d seen him last, the rapid decline was evident.

Hunched over and covered in a shawl, Reed lifted his head to meet Luke’s gaze. Yes, I can see it. Death stood nearby clutching his scythe with his bony hand. Reed’s skin was nearly the same shade of light gray as Luke’s and pulled tight across his fragile frame with nearly every vein visible. His heart was failing. Even his lips showed the slight blue tinge of a man not getting enough oxygen in his blood.