She watched him furtively. He rode easily in the saddle, the reins loosely held in his right hand. His left hand, curled into a tight fist, rested on his thigh. Her gaze moved over his broad back and shoulders. He was as well muscled as the big horse he rode. Her gaze lingered on the blue-black highlights in his hair, was drawn again and again to the mask that covered his face. What was he hiding beneath that bit of black silk?
Trevayne was acutely aware of her veiled glances in his direction. He understood her curiosity. What he didn’t understand was why she wanted to ride with him. He had given her no reason to desire his company.
The silence stretched between them, thrumming like a tuning fork. Kristine glanced at his gloved hands, remembering how they felt moving over her body, wondering again if his left hand was deformed in some way. He shifted in the saddle and she watched the play of muscles beneath his coat, felt her mouth go dry as he turned to face her.
Desperate to break the taut silence between them, she cast about for some safe topic of conversation. “All this land,” she said, making a sweeping gesture with one hand. “Is it yours?”
He nodded curtly. “And yours, too, madam.”
She felt a rush of heat climb up her neck and into her cheeks as he reminded her, in his rough, gravel-like voice, that she was also his. She wondered if he had been injured somehow, if that was what caused his voice to be so harsh.
“Where does your . . . our . . . land end?”
“At the stream, just beyond that rise. The property across the water belongs to Lord Farthingale.”
Kristine nodded, though she had no idea who Lord Farthingale might be.
She looked at Erik, her gaze again drawn to the mask. She saw his eyes narrow, his muscles tense, as he endured her scrutiny.
Muttering an oath, he reined the stallion to a halt.
Unwilling to pass the stallion, Misty planted her feet. With a startled cry, Kristine grabbed at the saddle to keep from flying over the mare’s neck.
“Why did you come after me?” Erik rasped.
“My lord?”
“Answer me, damn you. Why were you following me?”
She flinched at the bitterness in his voice, the quiet rage in his eyes.
“Answer me!”
“Because I . . . I thought that we should spend some time together.”
“Did you?”
His voice, that low, gruff voice, struck her like shards of glass. She nodded, her hands clenching and unclenching on the reins.
“Did it not occur to you that I might wish to be alone?”
“Do you?”
Two words. Small words. Simple words. They drew the anger from him as effectively as a poultice drew poison from a wound. Of course he didn’t want to be alone. He wanted his old life back. He wanted to be able to go riding along the public roads again, to while away the hours gambling with his former cronies, to dine with old friends, to dance with a pretty woman who would smile at him instead of turning away in horror. Alone? He was utterly weary of being alone, of life.
She was watching him, silent, curious, perhaps even afraid. Well, she should be afraid. Soon he would be more monster than man. He stared into her eyes, those luminous emerald-green eyes that haunted his sleep, and wished he could sweep her into his arms and bury himself in her warmth, here, now, with the sun shining upon them like a benediction. Wished he could strip away his mask and clothing and feel the honeyed warmth of her silken skin against his. . ..
Bitterness rose up within him anew as he considered all that was forever denied him, and with it an overpowering sense of despair.
“Go back to the house, Kristine,” he said wearily.
“My lord?”
“Do as I say.”
She lacked the courage to argue with him. He watched her tug on Misty’s reins. The mare did not want to leave the company of the stallion, but Kristine finally managed to turn the horse around. His wife sent one last glance in his direction, her eyes filled with hurt and disappointment, and then, with a toss of her head, she left him there, staring after her, foolishly wishing for things that could never be.
That night, Kristine bent over her diary, fighting the urge to cry as she wrote.
He doesn’t want me, and he never will. I know that now. He doesn’t want warmth or affection. He doesn’t want someone to share his life or his dreams. Why, then, did he marry me? What did he hope to gain?
“A son,” she muttered bitterly. “That’s all he wants from you.”
Fighting the childish urge to throw herself on the bed and pound the pillow with her fists, she took a deep breath, then dipped her quill in the inkwell.
I asked Mrs. Grainger why he wears a mask, but she shook her head and refused to answer me. One way or another, I shall uncover the secrets of this house, and those of the man who is its master.
I have nothing else to do with my time. . ..
Chapter Five
Kristine rose early the next morning. Dressing quickly, she went to the window and peered out into the gray dawn. As soon as she saw Erik striding toward the barn, she went to the door that separated her room from his. It was locked. Frowning, she stood there a moment, then left her room. She tiptoed the short distance to his chamber, then paused, her hand on the latch.
What was she doing? What if one of the maids found her in there? With a shake of her head, she opened the door. She was, after all, the lady of the house, and Erik was her husband. She had every right to be there.
She closed the door quietly behind her, then stood there a moment, her heart thundering in her ears. This room was even larger than her bedchamber. A huge bed with wine-colored hangings and a matching counterpane stood directly across from the entrance. Several large pillows were propped against the massive oak headboard. There were tables on each side of the bed. There was an armoire of carved oak to her left, a stone fireplace similar to the one in her room to her right. A small round table and a single chair stood to the right of the hearth. High, narrow, leaded windows were located on either side of the bed. Draperies the same color and material as the canopy hung at the windows. Tapestry rugs in muted shades of wine and blue covered the floor.
Moving farther into the room, she ran her hand over the counterpane, slid her fingertips over one of the pillows. He slept here. Did he ever think of her, dream of her?
Feeling like a thief in the night, yet unable to resist, she went to the armoire and looked inside, noting that her husband seemed to have a preference for coats and breeches in somber hues. The top drawer held a number of shirts in a variety of colors, all made of finely woven wool. Did he always wear wool, she wondered, even in summer? The second drawer held handkerchiefs of fine linen, a wide assortment of cravats and gloves. The third held at least a dozen masks, all fashioned of black silk.
Her breath caught in her throat when she picked one up. It was featherlight in her hand, made so that a portion of it fit over the top of his head. Narrow ribbons served to hold it in place. Why did he wear a mask, she wondered again. What was he hiding? A horrible scar? The disfiguring marks of the pox? A deformity of some kind?
She shook her head. He was such a large, vibrant man, she could not imagine that someone who exuded such power could be anything but perfect.
She held the mask by the edges and lifted it in front of her face, peering through the slits cut for his eyes as she tried to imagine what it would be like to wear such a thing day and night.
“What are you doing in here?”
She would recognize that gruff voice anywhere. It split the stillness with the force of a thunderclap. Kristine felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment as she whirled around to face him, the mask dangling from her hand, forgotten.
Dressed all in black, her husband loomed over her like a dark, angry cloud.
“I . . .”
“You have no business in here.”
She stared up at him. Tall and broad, he blocked the doorway, effectively shutting off her only means of escape.
> “I asked you a question.” He spoke each word softly. Slowly. Distinctly.
She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat, tried to form a coherent sentence, and failed.
He held out one gloved hand. “Give it to me.”
Kristine looked at him blankly. “What? Oh!” She dropped the mask into his outstretched hand.
“Get out.” His fist closed over the silk.
“I’m sorry.” She stared up at him, willing him to move. She wanted nothing more than to flee his presence, but he stood in front of the door, blocking her retreat.
“Get. Out.”
“I will. I would. But . . .” She glanced longingly at the door. “I can’t.”
He stared down at her and then, realizing her predicament, he took a step to the left.
With a wordless cry, she picked up her skirts and ran out of the room.
Trevayne stared after her, engulfed by rage and an overpowering sense of hopelessness. He had never meant to care for her, had not thought it possible. But she was so young, so innocent. She stirred feelings within him that he had thought long dead, crushed beneath the bitterness, the hatred, that had been his constant companions since Dominique’s death. He had married Kristine because she was a stranger, because she had no ties to his past. He had thought he could wed her and bed her and forget her. Now her very presence threatened to bring down the walls he had so carefully erected between himself and the rest of the world.
He paced the floor, the mask he had taken from her crumpled in his hand. He would go to her tonight and plant his seed within her. If there was any mercy in the world, his seed would take root and he could leave here, leave her. He could not bear the pain of his reawakened emotions, could not let himself care for a woman who would recoil in horror if she but knew what lay behind his mask, what kind of monster came to her bed in the dark of night.
The day passed slowly. With Kristine in the house, he felt like a prisoner in his own chambers. He wished, futilely, that he might go downstairs and engage her in conversation, but the mask he was forced to hide behind was like a wall between them. He could not abide the curiosity in her gaze, could not answer the unspoken questions in her eyes, could not pretend that their marriage was anything but what it was—the means to an end. He dared not let her become important to him for fear it would weaken his resolve and that, when the time came, he would be unable to end his life, that he would be unwilling to leave her once the child was born. It would be far better for her, and for him, if there were no tender feelings between them. If he were wise, he would cultivate her hatred. He wanted no one to grieve for him when he was gone. At his death, she would become a wealthy woman. She could remain a widow or marry again at her leisure.
The thought of another man savoring her sweetness filled him with rage. It was part of the curse, he thought, that horrible fury that rose up within him more and more often of late, urging him to strike out, to destroy those who elicited his wrath.
Filled with black despair, he paced the floor, waiting for darkness to cover the land so that he might go to his wife’s bed.
He stared out the window, willing the sun to set, willing the night to come quickly and cloak the land in shadow. He, who had once loved the light, now sought the sheltering cover of darkness.
Was it a lifetime ago that he had hunted the woods with his companions, spent his days at his club, his nights drinking and carousing or pursuing the pleasures of female flesh? Hard to believe he had once been rather vain of his looks, harder still to recall that beautiful women had once sought his favor, that he had been the envy of his peers. Once, secure in his youth and virility, he had attended numerous balls and cotillions where women old and young, married and single, had vied for his attention . . . and then he had married Dominique and that life had come to an end.
A bitter laugh that resembled a growl more than human amusement rumbled deep in his throat. His days of youth and innocence were gone now, forever gone. He was no longer the man he had been, but a freak, half beast, half man. A heavy sigh rose within him. Soon, too soon, there would be nothing left but the beast. . ..
A knock at his door roused him from his morbid thoughts. A curt word sent Mrs. Grainger away. He had no appetite for food this night.
He thought of Kristine, imagined the two silent women readying his bride for bed, bathing her in perfumed water, anointing her body with sweet-smelling oils.
He summoned Yvette and ordered water for a bath, then sent the maid away.
He bathed quickly, hating the sight of his own body . . . the right half forever reminding him of what he had been, the left side evidence of what he would soon become. He pulled on a clean pair of breeches, a wool shirt that hid his misshapen left side, the soft leather boots that were specially made, the left one larger than the right to accommodate his changing shape. He donned a clean mask, drew a glove over his deformed hand.
He swore silently as he unlocked the door between his room and hers, damning the vindictive witch who had cursed him. He could feel the curse spreading, knew that in the morning, he would have lost a little more of himself to the beast that was slowly stealing his humanity, devouring him a little more with each passing day. Soon, too soon, there would be nothing left of the man he had been.
Like a wounded animal, he felt the need to be alone, to go off by himself and hide from prying eyes. God willing, his seed would soon find fertile ground and he could seek the solitude he craved.
With his hand on the latch to his bride’s bedchamber, he sent a swift, silent plea to heaven, praying that Kristine would be with child before the night was over.
Kristine woke with a start to find Erik standing beside her bed. He had been so angry earlier, she hadn’t expected him to come to her that night. Recalling the rage that had burned in his dark eyes when he’d found her in his room still had the power to make her tremble.
He had extinguished the light she kept on the table at her bedside. In the darkness, he loomed over her like the shadow of certain death.
After unfastening his breeches, he threw the covers aside, flung her gown up over her hips. Unreasoning panic rose inside her as his body covered hers. She didn’t want him to take her like this, as if she were no more than a receptacle for his lust, some tawdry harlot whose favor he had purchased for the night. She knew he didn’t care for her, but she was his wife. Surely she deserved some small measure of respect.
She felt his hand on her breast, and suddenly, in the darkness, it was Lord Valentine lying atop her, his hot sweaty hands groping her. She closed her eyes, and Valentine’s image rose up before her, his thick lips pulled back, his pale blue eyes filled with lust as they raked her body.
“No,” she whimpered softly. “Leave me alone, please just leave me alone!”
Trevayne froze as she began to thrash beneath him.
“My Lord Valentine,” she sobbed, her eyes tightly shut. “Don’t! Oh, please, please, let me go!”
“Kristine.”
Lost in the nightmare of the past, she writhed beneath him, tears coursing down her pale cheeks.
“Kristine, it’s me, Erik,” he said, and then wondered why that knowledge should soothe her. He had given her no reason to trust him.
“No, don’t . . . don’t . . .” She sobbed the words.
Swearing softly, he sat up and drew her into his arms. “Kristine, you are safe here. Listen to me! I will not hurt you. No one will ever hurt you again, I swear it.”
Opening her eyes, she stared at him blankly a moment. “My lord?”
“You’re safe now, Kristine,” he murmured. “I’ll not bother you again.”
Carefully, he lowered her back onto the mattress, drew her gown down over her hips, and pulled the covers up to her chin.
Turning away from the bed, he fastened his breeches, then walked toward the door. He was reaching for the latch when she called his name.
“Erik?”
“What?”
“Will you not stay with me?”
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He went still, hardly daring to breathe. “Why?”
“I don’t want to be alone. I . . . I don’t want you to be alone.”
“We can’t always have what we want.”
“Please, my lord, won’t you stay with me until I fall asleep?”
Every instinct he possessed urged him to leave the room. Instead, he retraced his steps to the side of the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. “Go to sleep, Kristine.”
He could not see her face in the darkness, but he heard her soft sigh as she snuggled under the covers.
“Thank you, my lord.”
He made a soft, wordless sound deep in his throat. He wondered how long she had spent in prison, if that was the reason she feared the darkness, the reason she kept a lamp burning at her bedside throughout the night.
He took a deep breath, his nostrils filling with the warm, sweet scent of her—the soap she had bathed with, the peppermint she used to sweeten her breath, the scent of lilacs that clung to her skin. It was part of the curse, his heightened sense of smell, of taste. His hearing was more acute than before, too. He could hear each soft breath she took.
He clenched his left hand, shoved his right hand into his pocket to keep from touching the curve of her cheek, the short, silky cap of her hair.
Desire rose within him, a desire to bury himself within her. He yearned to shed his clothes and his accursed mask and enfold her in his arms, feel the heat of her skin against his. . ..
His body hardened painfully. Why was he sitting here, torturing himself with her nearness? He was not her nursemaid, nor her governess. If she was afraid of the dark, she had a lamp at her bedside.
But he didn’t leave the room, only continued to sit there, his hands tightly clenched, until the soft, steady sound of her breathing told him she was asleep.