Beauty's Beast

  “You mustn’t flatter me so, Lord Hoxford,” Kristine protested.

  “I speak no flattery,” Hoxford replied. “Only the truth.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. “Your skin is like the finest satin, your hair shines like the sun.”

  Kristine tried to withdraw her hand from his. “Lord Hoxford, you must not say such things to me. It isn’t proper.”

  “Not proper to compliment my hostess?” Hoxford laughed softly as he drew Kristine into his arms. “Don’t be absurd.”

  A low growl rose in Erik’s throat as Hoxford kissed Kristine. She struggled for a moment, then stood passive and unresponsive in the young man’s arms.

  Hoxford released her immediately, his expression curious. “Do you find me so repulsive?” he asked quietly.

  “No, my lord. I am flattered by your words and your interest, but I am, after all, a married woman.”

  “You take your vows seriously, then?”

  “Yes, very seriously. I would do nothing to shame my husband, or myself.”

  Hoxford nodded. “My apologies, my lady. I hope you will not think the less of me for my impetuousness.”

  Kristine shook her head. She knew that flirting was to be expected, knew that many women, forced to marry men they did not love, sought affairs. She was not one of them. Her marriage might be a strange one, but she had no wish to end it, no wish to cuckold Erik.

  Hoxford offered her his arm. “Come, I’ll walk you back to the house.”

  “Thank you, but I think I shall stay outside and take the air for a few minutes,” Kristine said.

  Hoxford bowed over her hand. “As you wish, Lady Trevayne. Again, my apologies for my behavior. I pray I have not offended you.”

  “Apology accepted, Lord Hoxford.”

  “We can remain friends, then?”

  Kristine smiled. “Of course.”

  With a nod, Hoxford returned to the house.

  Kristine watched him walk away, her emotions in turmoil. He was a very handsome young man. At another time, before Erik had entered her life, she would have found young Hoxford most attractive, would have been extraordinarily pleased by his admiration. In truth, she had found his kiss quite pleasant, though it lacked the fire and excitement of Erik’s kisses. Erik. She wished he was here with her now, wished he would take her in his arms. . ..

  She whirled around, suddenly aware that she was no longer alone. As if conjured by her desire, he was there before her, a dark silhouette in the blackness of the night.

  “My lord,” she murmured. “You startled me.”

  “Indeed?” He closed the distance between them, until they were only a hand span apart. “What are you doing out here, alone?”

  “Nothing. I . . .” Her gaze slid away from his. How much had he seen? How much had he heard? She felt a wave of heat sweep into her cheeks. “I wasn’t alone.”

  “No?”

  She shook her head. “Lord Hoxford was with me.”

  “A fine young man,” Erik remarked, his voice cool.

  “Yes.”

  “He’s to your liking, then?”

  “Yes. But only as a friend, my lord. You are my husband.”

  “And if you were free, would you accept Hoxford’s suit?”

  “Erik, my lord . . .” She couldn’t keep the fine edge of panic from her voice. Had she displeased him in some way? Was he planning to put her aside? “What are you saying?”

  “Nothing, my sweet.” He drew her into his arms and crushed her close. “Nothing.”

  “You don’t think that Lord Hoxford . . . that I . . .” She looked up at Erik, wishing she could see his face.

  “No.” He drew her against him once more, his hand stroking her back. She was warm and soft in his arms, a temptation like none he had ever known. With a sigh, he rested his chin on the top of her head, wishing he could hold her thus forever, wishing that he had years to spend with her instead of only a few more months at best. Wishing . . .

  The strains of a waltz filled the air. Kristine placed her hand on his shoulder. “Dance with me, my lord?”

  With a nod, he led her onto a small expanse of smooth stones, then swept her into his arms. The music and the night seemed to close around them, shutting out the rest of the world.

  She was light as a feather in his arms as she followed his lead, and he thought how well they danced together, how well they fit together. Had it not been for the awful curse that plagued him, they might have enjoyed a long and happy life together.

  He drew her closer. Soon, her belly would swell with his babe. It amazed him that she wanted his child, amazed him still more that she didn’t despise him, that she welcomed his touch, that she had feared he might cease coming to her bed once she conceived. What had he done to inspire her affection, her trust? Or was he fooling himself into thinking she cared? Perhaps she welcomed him in her bed out of a sense of duty because he had saved her from the executioner’s axe and given her a comfortable home. Perhaps her smiles were merely her way of expressing her gratitude. The thought filled him with a strange sense of anger and sadness. He wanted her love, her affection. He wanted her smiles and her laughter, knew he would hoard each precious moment he spent with her from now on so that he could take them out and look at them later.

  “Is something amiss, my lord?” Kristine asked. “You seem very far away.”

  “Do I? How could I be, when I’m holding you in my arms?”

  His flattery warmed her down to her toes. “You’re not angry with me, then?”

  “Angry?”

  “About Lord Hoxford.”

  “No, I’m not angry.”

  A slender ray of moonlight broke through the clouds, haloing her hair. She was gazing up at him, her eyes dark, her lips slightly parted.

  “Kristine . . .” Murmuring her name, he lifted the lower edge of his mask, bent his head, and claimed her lips. She tasted of sweet wine and he deepened the kiss, his tongue stroking hers. She pressed against him, her breasts warm against his chest, her breath quickening.

  “Sweet,” he said, his voice thick, “so sweet.” His hand slid down her back, over her buttocks, drawing her up against him, letting her feel the need thrumming through him.

  Feeling suddenly bold, she grabbed him by the hand and led him away from the house, her destination the little cottage she had found near a small pond. It was a tiny little house, one that might have been fashioned for a child.

  Erik allowed her to lead him along, saying nothing. They had almost reached the cottage when it began to rain, a light mist that quickly became a downpour.

  Kristine, dressed only in a gown of thin red silk, was soaked to the skin by the time they reached the cottage. Erik, clad in shirt, breeches, and a heavy woolen cloak, fared better.

  As soon as they were inside, Erik pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She surrendered willingly, wondering at the desperation that seemed to grip him.

  Gradually, his hold loosened. With a sigh, he released her. “You’re shivering,” he said. “You need to get out of that wet gown.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll build a fire.”

  While he laid the fire, she went into the bedroom and took off her ruined slippers, then peeled off her clothing, draping her gown and undergarments over a chair to dry. There were several blankets in the chest at the foot of the bed. She wrapped one securely around her, then carried two more into the parlor.

  A small fire blazed in the hearth, casting heat and shadows into the room.

  Erik stood with his back to her, one hand braced against the mantel. He had removed his cloak; it was spread over a chair.

  She bit down on her lower lip. She knew without asking that he wouldn’t undress in front of her; knew better than to light one of the lamps.

  With a sigh, she walked up behind him and draped one of the blankets over his shoulders.

  “Thank you.”

  “What is this place?” she asked, looking around.

  “My brother a
nd I played here when we were young.”

  “Your brother?”

  Erik nodded. “My elder brother. Robert,” he said heavily. “He was the rightful heir. He died in a hunting accident when he was nine and twenty.”

  “You’ve never mentioned him before.”

  “No.” He gazed into the flames, thinking how different his life would have been if his brother had lived. Robert would be lord of Hawksbridge Castle and he, Erik, would be living with the good brothers in poverty and obedience, his life dedicated to the church. He never would have married Dominique, or been burdened with this hideous curse.

  He never would have met Kristine. . . . Meeting her, loving her, was almost worth all the rest.

  “My lord, you should get out of those wet things.”

  “They’re only damp,” he replied with a shrug. “They’ll dry soon enough.”

  She stared at his broad back, wondering at the change in him. Only moments ago he had been on fire for her; now he seemed almost indifferent to her presence. What was he thinking?

  “Have you other brothers?” she asked. “Sisters, perhaps?”

  “No.” Slowly, he turned to face her. He had removed the horned mask and replaced it with one of black silk. “Have you?”

  She shook her head, thinking how rare it was for him to ask about her family, her past. “All I have is you,” she said, very softly. And then she smiled. “And our babe.”

  Pain lanced through him at her words, a pain so deep he thought he might die of it. He would never see his child. He knew it with gut-wrenching certainty.

  “My lord? Erik?” She reached out, her hand closing over his arm. “Are you ill?”

  “No.”

  She looked up at him, her green eyes filled with worry.

  “I’m fine, Kristine,” he said reassuringly. “Only cold all of a sudden.” He opened his arms. “Come, warm me.”

  She stepped into his embrace, her arms wrapping around his waist, content to be there. “Tell me of your childhood. Was it happy?”

  He rested his chin on the top of her head. “Happy enough. I never wanted to be lord of Hawksbridge. I knew the title would go to Robert, and I was glad of it. I was a solitary child, happiest when I was alone with my books. It was my intention to join the good friars at Hawksbridge Abbey and devote my life to God. It seemed a fine ambition at the time. I know now I was not cut out to be a monk any more than I was cut out to be the lord of Hawksbridge Castle.”

  “Why do you say that? Hawksbridge flourishes under your care.”

  “I never wanted wealth or lands or title, or the responsibility that they entail. But now . . .” Now, when he was about to lose it all, he realized how much he had grown to love the land and its people. He would miss the rolling green acres, miss galloping through the early-morning mists. He would miss his library, and Mrs. Grainger’s apple dumplings, and the sense of accomplishment he felt at the end of each year.

  But most of all, he would miss Kristine. . . .

  With a groan, he slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her hungrily, desperately. His good hand moved restlessly over her body, stroking her breasts, her thighs, her buttocks, pressing her intimately against him. He kissed her cheeks, her nose, her eyes, her chin, ran his tongue down the slender column of her neck, tasted the soft, sensitive skin behind her ear.

  With an impatient cry, he tossed the blanket aside so that she stood bared to his heated gaze, her body glowing in the light of the fire. Bending down, he rained kisses over her swollen belly, knowing this was as close to his child as he would ever get.

  He closed his eyes as he felt Kristine’s hands move in the hair at his nape.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Please, Erik, what is it that troubles you so?”

  “Don’t ask,” he said with a low growl. “Not now. Not tonight.”

  His lips moved up over her belly, his tongue laving her breasts, and then he was kissing her once more, kissing her as if he would never stop, could never have enough.

  Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her into the bedroom, away from the light cast by the fire. The bed was small and narrow, the mattress soft. It was a child’s bed, and it sagged beneath their weight.

  She embraced him, taking him into her arms, into her heart, holding him close, lifting her hips to receive him into herself.

  As always, she longed to touch him, to explore his body, to know his body as intimately as he knew hers.

  As always, he refused to let her touch him.

  As always, he saw to her pleasure first. His climax followed quickly.

  Lying there, their bodies still pressed intimately together, she closed her eyes. Listening to the sound of thunder and her husband’s ragged breathing, she felt a tear slip down her cheek, and knew that it was his.

  Chapter Twelve

  “What about our guests?” Kristine asked. She snuggled against Erik’s right side. She had noticed that he was always careful to keep her to his right and she wondered if his left side pained him greatly. She wanted to question him about that but knew he would not answer, knew that it would spoil the beauty, the intimacy, of this precious moment.

  “I doubt anyone will miss us,” Erik replied. He ran his hand through her hair, watched the fine golden strands curl around his fingers. It was silky soft against his skin. He wished he could have seen it before it had been cut, wished he could have seen her standing in moonlight clad in nothing but her hair.

  “Are we to spend the night here, then?” she asked.

  “If you wish.”

  She nodded. Contented as a well-fed cat, she didn’t want to move, didn’t want to get dressed or go back to the party.

  “Tell me of your childhood, Kristine. Was it happy?”

  “Yes, very. For a while anyway. My father was the schoolmaster in our town. We had a comfortable home. He was well-respected in our community.”

  “You loved him.”

  “Of course. Didn’t you love your father?”

  “No, but I respected him. He was a wise man.”

  “Why didn’t you love him?”

  “Because he didn’t love me. Robert was his firstborn, his heir. I was nothing.” He ran his knuckles over her cheek. “We were speaking of you, of your life. What of your mother? You have not mentioned her.”

  “She was very beautiful. Everyone thought so. She was much younger than my father and after a while she became discontented with our small village, our quiet life.” She sighed. “The summer I was two and ten, a troupe of players came to town.”

  “Go on.”

  “My mother took me to see the play. I don’t recall what it was, but I thought it was wonderful. The actors were fascinating. I wanted to stay and see the play again. So did my mother. When the first performance was over, we went outside and walked around, looking at the people, the animals. My mother was fascinated with everything. We were sitting in the shade, waiting for the next performance to start, when a young man approached us. He was one of the actors.” She took a deep breath. “When the troupe left town a week later, so did my mother. I never saw her again.”

  “I’m sorry, Kristine. That must have been difficult for you. And for your father.”

  “Yes.” She placed her hand over her belly in a protective gesture. “I couldn’t believe my mother had left me, left my father, for a man she scarcely knew. I still can’t believe it. At first, I told myself he had taken her by force, that she would never have gone with him willingly. Several days later, my father received a letter from my mother. She said she was sorry and begged him to make me understand why she had run away. Of course, at the time, there was nothing my father could say to make me understand.”

  “And now?”

  “I would never leave my child,” Kristine said vehemently. “Never!”

  “And you never heard from your mother again?”

  “She wrote me at first, on my birthday and at Christmas, telling me about all the wonderful places she had seen, how happy she was, promising to
come and see me the next time the troupe came to town. But she never did. When I was four and ten, the letters stopped coming.”

  “I’m sorry, love,” Erik murmured.

  Love . . . It was the first time he had used such an endearment. It drove every other thought from her mind. Turning on her side, she looked into his eyes, so dark and mysterious, behind the mask. “Erik?”

  “Hmm?”

  The words do you love me trembled on her lips, but she swallowed them, unsaid. “Nothing,” she whispered, and leaning forward, her hands braced on his broad chest, she kissed him with all her heart and soul, and understood, for the first time, why her mother had run off with another man.

  He rose with the dawn, knowing he would not be able to resist holding her, kissing her, when she woke, knowing he dared not risk making love to her in the light of day. He felt safe, protected, in the darkness.

  Moving quietly, he went into the main room of the cottage to stand at the window. The rain had stopped and the sky was a bold dark blue. The scent of rain lingered in the air, and with it the smell of damp grass and earth. Water dripped from the eaves of the cottage, from the leaves of the trees. Birds chirped a welcome to the new day.

  “Good morning.”

  He glanced over his shoulder to see Kristine standing in the doorway, a blanket wrapped tightly around her. “You’re up early, wife.”

  “So are you.”

  He made a vague gesture with his hand. They both knew why he had left her bed; there was no need to fabricate a lie. “We should go back. Our guests will be preparing to leave soon.”

  She nodded in agreement, but didn’t move.

  Slowly, he walked toward her. “Thank you for last night,” he said, and watched her cheeks bloom with color.

  “Thank you,” she replied with a saucy grin. “Won’t you kiss me good morning?”

  He smiled indulgently, then kissed her, long and hard. “Go get dressed.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Go,” he said. “Mrs. Grainger is fixing breakfast. I smell ham and eggs cooking.”

  “You do not!” Kristine exclaimed, but the mention of food made her stomach growl, and she realized she was ravenous.