She recalled the day she had told him she was pregnant. What was it he had said? Something about her being a delight and that he would miss her. She recalled asking him about the pain he was suffering, and his reply that there was nothing anyone could do.
Was he dying? The thought made her stomach roil with nausea. Was that it? Did he have some horrible wasting disease? Was that why he wore the mask, why she had never seen him unclothed, why he refused to let her touch him?
Determined to find the answers to her questions, she arranged to have Chilton bring the carriage around the following morning.
“Where to, my lady?” Chilton asked as he handed her into the conveyance.
“The convent,” Kristine said, “at St. Clair.”
Lady Trevayne received her in a small, austere room. Dressed in a severe black gown, her dark hair caught in a tight coil at her nape, she managed to look both fragile and regal at the same time.
At the wedding, Kristine had guessed Erik’s mother to be in her sixties. She realized now that Lady Trevayne was probably ten years younger.
“I hope I haven’t come at a bad time,” Kristine said.
“No. Please, sit down.”
Kristine sat on one of the hard-backed chairs, her hands folded tightly in her lap. “Thank you.”
“Why have you come here?” Lady Trevayne asked.
“I wanted to ask you about Erik.”
A shadow passed through the older woman’s eyes; her fingers went white around the rosary clutched in her hand. “What about him?”
“Is he ill?”
“Ill?”
“Yes, there’s something wrong with him, I know there is.”
“Have you asked Erik what it is that troubles him?”
“Yes, but he refuses to speak of it. I know he’s in pain, but he won’t tell me the cause.”
“I’m sorry, I cannot help you.”
“But you know, don’t you? Please, I just want to help.”
“You care for him, don’t you?”
“Yes. I love him.” She spoke the words without thinking, only then realizing that it was true.
“I’m sorry for you, my dear.”
“Sorry for me? Why?”
Lady Trevayne shook her head. “You are with child, are you not?”
“Yes, I am. Did Erik tell you?”
“I have not seen my son since the day of your wedding.”
“He left me.”
A soft sigh escaped Lady Trevayne’s thin lips. “It’s for the best. Go home, Kristine. Forget about Erik. Think of your babe.” She rose to her feet, a small, slender woman whose eyes seemed to hold all the sadness of the world. “God bless you, Kristine. Please send one of the boys to let me know when your child is born.”
Kristine stared after Erik’s mother, more confused than ever.
Heavy-hearted, she left the convent.
Because she didn’t know what else to do, she spent the next several days trying to follow Lady Trevayne’s advice. She spent hours sewing baby clothes, thinking of names, furnishing the chamber next to her own.
And yet, each morning, she woke hoping to find that Erik had returned. And each night she cried herself to sleep.
Kristine stood at the window, staring outside. The day was gloomy, overcast, and perfectly suited to her mood. It was but a few weeks until Christmas, but she had refused to let Mrs. Grainger and the serving girls decorate the house. She wanted no reminders of the season. There was no joy in her heart, only a cold, lonely emptiness.
Moving away from the window, she pulled on her riding boots, donned a thick woolen cloak and hood, and went to the barn.
Brandt met her at the door. “Ye’re not thinking of riding this afternoon, miss?”
“Yes, why?”
“We’ll have rain before nightfall.”
“I won’t be gone long.”
“Very well.” Grumbling under his breath about the danger of riding in her condition, Brandt saddled the mare and helped Kristine mount. “Be careful now,” he warned.
“I will.”
Mindful of her unborn baby, Kristine kept Misty at a sedate walk, even though she yearned to let the mare run. Once, she had found pleasure in the beauty of the land, in the sense of freedom that riding gave her, but no more. She feared she might never be happy again, that nothing would ever make her smile, or laugh.
She shouldn’t be riding at all. Mrs. Grainger and the maids had all tried to dissuade her, but she had refused to listen. Riding did not provide the pleasure it once had and yet, it made her feel closer to Erik to do something they had once enjoyed together.
Reaching into her pocket, she curled her fingers around a mask she had taken from Erik’s room. The material was soft, warm from being in her pocket. It was the only thing that gave her comfort.
Lost in a world of despair, she rode farther afield than she ever had before. Only when the sky turned dark and she heard the rumble of thunder did she realize she was hopelessly lost.
Misty snorted and tossed her head as a gust of wind shook the trees and sent a handful of dead leaves skittering across her path.
Glancing around, Kristine urged the mare in the direction she hoped led home. A sharp crack of lightning rent the clouds, unleashing a torrent of rain. Thunder shook the ground.
Another crack of lightning spooked the mare and she stretched out in a dead run, oblivious to the hand on the reins or Kristine’s voice demanding that she stop. The ground flew by at an alarming rate.
Terrified, Kristine prayed that the mare wouldn’t fall, that she would make her way safely back home.
Misty splashed across a narrow creek that was already beginning to swell and raced up the rocky incline on the opposite bank.
They were going the wrong way. Kristine had no doubt of it now. A forest of dark trees grew at the top of the rise. Wind and rain shook the leaves so that the trees seemed to be alive, swaying to the turbulent music of the storm.
Kristine tugged on the reins in a vain effort to halt Misty’s flight, but the mare had the bit between her teeth and she ran on and on.
Kristine shivered violently, chilled by the rain and the fear spiraling through her. Why hadn’t she listened to Mrs. Grainger and the maids? Even Brandt had tried to dissuade her, but she had foolishly refused to listen.
She tugged on the reins again, but Misty ran steadily onward, almost as if she had a destination in mind.
Please, please, don’t let her fall.
She repeated the prayer over and over again, knowing that a fall now could be fatal not only for herself, but for the babe she carried. Erik’s son.
After what seemed an eternity, Misty slowed. She whinnied, then whinnied again as she burst through the trees into a small clearing.
Kristine blinked the rain from her eyes, certain she was seeing things. But no, it was still there. A rugged-looking house built of sturdy logs and gray stone. A small barn was set back from the house.
With a sigh of relief, Kristine slid from the saddle and ran up the stairs, drawn by the possibility of a warm fire and shelter from the storm. She felt bad for leaving Misty in the rain, but comforted herself with the knowledge that wild horses remained outside in all kinds of weather.
She hesitated a moment; then, summoning her courage, she knocked on the door. She waited several heartbeats, then knocked again. Still no answer.
A gust of wind chilled her to the bone. Biting down on her lower lip, she stared at the latch, wondering if the door was unlocked, wondering if she dared go inside, uninvited.
A sharp crack of thunder ended her indecision. She lifted the latch and the door swung open. “Hello? Is anyone home?”
When there was no answer, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
It was cold inside the house, too, but at least it was dry. There was a thick woolen blanket draped over the back of a settee and she drew it around her, grateful for its warmth.
It was a large, square room. The fireplace looked big eno
ugh to roast an ox; the mantel was higher than her head. The furniture was large and sturdy, built for a man’s comfort. A bookshelf was set against one wall. There were several low tables. A rack of antlers hung above the fireplace.
Clutching the blanket around her shoulders, she went exploring. A quick glance showed that the kitchen was little more than a stove, a table, and two chairs. Turning away from the door, she walked down a short hall. A large bedroom took up most of the back of the house. A huge, rough-hewn bed dominated the room. A large armoire stood against one wall. An intricately carved chest with a domed lid rested at the foot of the bed. She took a step into the room, then drew back as she heard a crunching sound. Looking down, she saw the shattered pieces of a large mirror scattered on the floor. Frowning, she backed out of the room. There was a smaller bedroom next to the first, furnished with only a narrow bed, a three-drawer oak chest, and a commode.
Returning to the front of the house, she looked longingly at the hearth, wishing she had a way to start a fire.
Wrapped in the blanket, she sat down on the settee and closed her eyes. She would just sit here until the storm passed, and then she would go home. . .. Home.
It would never be home without Erik.
He smelled her the moment he stepped into the lodge. Her scent filled his nostrils, seemed to permeate every fiber of his being. For a moment, he forgot the pain that engulfed him, forgot everything but the fact that she was there, within reach.
And then he looked down at his hand that was no longer a hand, at the bloody bits of hair beneath the thick black claws, and a long, shuddering sigh rippled through him.
He could not go to her, could not let her see him. If he was lucky, he would bleed to death.
But surely he could risk a look. Just one look. He knew she was asleep, though he didn’t know how he had come by that knowledge.
Padding quietly across the kitchen floor, he made his way into the lodge’s main room and peered over the back of the settee. And she was there, sleeping soundly, her head pillowed on her hand.
His gaze slid over her. She was as beautiful as he remembered, her skin soft and smooth, her cheeks rosy, her lips pink and inviting. He yearned to touch her, to taste her, but he dared not.
Slowly, he backed out of the room and left the lodge. Outside, he drew in a deep breath. The cold air stung his wounds. He stared at the long claw marks that ran down his arms, at the bites across his chest and legs and shoulders. Blood continued to ooze from the deepest gashes. He had a sudden, overpowering urge to lick his wounds.
The idea should have been repulsive, and yet it wasn’t. It was what animals did, after all, and wasn’t that was he was now? A beast?
Even the wolves thought so. Earlier, driven once more by the same urge that had compelled him to run naked through the night, he had shed his clothing and gone running through the darkness. He had felt the cool, damp earth beneath his feet. A thousand different odors had assailed his nostrils, but it had been the scent of blood that had drawn him into the woods.
He had come upon the wolves deep in the forest. He had recognized them as the same ones he had seen near Hawksbridge Castle. They had been wary of him then. But not now. They walked toward him, stiff-legged, teeth bared. He had never known a wolf to attack a man. Too late, he realized they no longer perceived him as a man to be feared, but a rival, a threat to their kill.
They had circled him, moving in closer, closer. Fear had chilled his spine. And then there was no time for fear. The larger female had darted forward, her fangs sinking deep into his forearm. Erik had growled low in his throat, then turned to ward off the male’s attack.
He looked down at the bits of bloody fur beneath his nails, remembered the taste of blood in his mouth. He had fought them as if he was one of them, growling and snapping, until one of the wolves bit deep into his right arm. Only then did sanity return, and with it the instinct to survive. Rising to his full height, he had yelled at the wolves.
Startled, they had backed away from him, then turned and ran back into the woods, disappearing into the shadows.
Overcome with weariness, Erik sank down on the ground, his wounds throbbing with every breath. He was cold, sick to his stomach. And he was thirsty, so thirsty. He licked his lips, desperate for a glass of water to ease his thirst, to wash the coppery taste of blood from his mouth.
He sat there for a long moment, trying to ignore his thirst, but it was impossible.
Gaining his feet, he returned to the house and poured himself a cup of water from the jug sitting on the table in the kitchen. The water was cold and sweet and he drank deeply, easing his thirst.
And then, hearing her footsteps, he froze.
“Erik?”
“Stay where you are!”
He heard the breath catch in her throat as she paused, then took another step. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Do not come any closer.”
“All right.”
He could sense her standing just beyond the door, waiting, wondering what was wrong. “What are you doing here?”
“I went riding and I got lost. What are you doing here? What is this place?”
“A place where you’re not wanted.” He spoke bluntly, wanting to hurt her. “Go back the way you came. When you reach the stream, follow it eastward. It will lead you back to the castle.”
“You want me to leave? Now?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s dark outside.”
“In the morning, then.”
“Why, Erik? What have I done?”
“Nothing. You’ve done nothing.” He took a deep breath. “I want you gone in the morning.”
He heard the sharp intake of her breath, knew she was trying not to cry. “When are you coming home?”
He clenched his right hand. She sounded so young, so uncertain. So unhappy. Was it possible she had been missing him?
“Erik?”
“I don’t know.” He closed his eyes and wished for things that could never be. Wished he had two good hands to hold her close, wished he dared take her in his arms just once more. Wished he could lay his head in her lap and feel her hands moving over him. He needed the touch of her hand, needed the comfort only she could give. He was alone, so alone. And so afraid. The fear was a constant sickness in his gut; fear of what he was becoming, of what he was losing.
“It will be Christmas soon. Will you not come home for the holidays?”
His eyelids flew open and he saw her standing in the doorway. He turned sideways, hiding his left side in the dark shadows behind him.
She took a step forward, one hand outstretched. “Erik, are you bleeding?”
“Don’t touch me!”
She came to an abrupt halt. “I won’t. What happened to you?”
“I was attacked by wolves.”
Even in the darkness, he could see her eyes widen in horror. “Wolves!”
“I’ll be all right. Please, just go away.”
“Not until I have looked at your wounds. They’ll fester if they aren’t treated.”
“I’m not dressed.”
A rush of heat climbed up the back of her neck. They had been married for almost a year and she had never seen him naked. “It’s all right. I . . . I don’t mind.”
“I do. Wait for me in the other room.”
“Very well.”
He watched her go, then went out the back door to gather up his discarded clothing. He felt better when he was dressed, his mask once again securely in place. The worst wounds were on his right side. He had not stopped to wonder why before, but he knew the answer. His human side was fragile, easily bruised. The skin on his left side was thicker, protected by a heavy layer of coarse black hair.
Desperate for her touch, needing to be near her, he would let her tend his wounds, and then he would never see her again.
When he was as presentable as possible, he went into the main room.
She was sitting on the edge of the settee, looking like a bird pois
ed for flight. She glanced over her shoulder as he stepped into the room.
“Sit down,” she said. “Do you have any matches? I’ll need to heat some water to clean your wounds. And light a lamp so I can see what I’m doing.”
“There are matches in one of the drawers in the kitchen.”
He sank back on the settee as she left the room. He could hear her moving about in the kitchen, filling a pan with water, opening the drawers, tearing a tea towel into strips.
Every muscle in his body ached, his wounds throbbed with a dull monotony. Overcome with weariness and a sense of hopelessness, he closed his eyes. How much longer did he have? How many more days and nights until the hideous transformation was complete?
He opened his eyes at the sound of her footsteps. She had lit a small lamp. He squinted against the light, his gaze moving over her. Her body had changed. Her breasts were fuller, her belly swollen with his babe.
She knelt at his feet. Lifting his right arm, she rolled up his shirtsleeve and began to wash away the blood. Her face paled as she stared at the deep gashes that ran the length of his arm. “You need a doctor.”
“No. No doctor.”
“But these wounds are deep. They need stitching.”
“Just wash them and wrap them up.”
“Why are you being so foolish about this?”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in an effort to calm his anger. It was a mistake. Her scent rushed into his nostrils, warm and womanly and uniquely hers, reminding him of the nights he had gone to her bed, the pleasure he had found in her arms.
“Erik, answer me!”
“No doctor. Just do the best you can.”
“I . . .” She swallowed the bitter bile tickling the back of her throat. “Do you have a needle and thread? I can . . . that is, I can try to . . . to stitch the wounds.”
“I don’t know.” He rested his head on the back of the sofa. He felt light-headed from the blood he had lost, and weary, so weary. All he wanted to do was sleep.