Beauty's Beast

  Hating her, hating himself, he lit the lamp at her bedside and then left the room, left the house.

  Outside, he removed his mask, ripped off his glove and his shirt, and then he began to run. He threw back his head, and the deep-throated sound of his despair pierced the darkness in a long, mournful howl.

  Chapter Six

  Kristine sat in the library a week later, trying to make sense of the history book she was reading, when one of the maids entered the room.

  “Lady Charmion is here,” Yvette announced.

  “Who?”

  “Lady Charmion.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is.”

  “She is the mother of Dominique, Lord Hawksbridge’s first wife.”

  “Oh. I . . .” Kristine closed the book and set it on the table beside her. “Does she wish to see me?”

  Yvette nodded, her blond curls bobbing. “She’s waiting in the front parlor.”

  “I see.” Kristine stood up, uncertain what she should do.

  “Perhaps you would like some tea and honey cakes?” the maid suggested.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  With a nod and a curtsy, Yvette left the room.

  Kristine took a deep breath, hoping to calm her nerves. Lady Charmion. She had heard it said the woman practiced the black arts. Why was she here?

  Kristine smoothed her skirt, hoping her day dress of dark blue velvet would be acceptable for greeting her guest. A white lace cap covered her short hair.

  Gathering her courage, Kristine made her way to the parlor, hoping that Erik would be there.

  Opening the door, Kristine stepped into the room. A woman stood in front of the hearth, staring into the fire. She turned when she heard the door open.

  Kristine stared at the woman. Lady Charmion was tall and slender. Dressed in a severe black gabardine gown and cloak, she had the look of a crow, with her sleek black hair and piercing black eyes.

  Kristine bobbed a curtsy. “Good day to you, Lady Charmion.”

  The woman looked at her sharply. “So, he has taken another wife. I could scarcely credit it when I heard the news.”

  Kristine gestured at the floral damask sofa. “Won’t you please sit down?”

  “I’ll stand.”

  “I’ve ordered tea and cakes,” Kristine said.

  “There is no need. I want nothing from this house.”

  “Then why have you come here?”

  “I wanted to see you with my own eyes, to warn you to flee his presence before he destroys you, too.”

  “Destroys me?”

  “He killed my daughter.”

  “He . . . he has treated me kindly thus far.”

  “Has he? Has he taken you to his bed? Has he satisfied his animalistic lust upon you?” The woman took a step forward, her black eyes burning like ebony fire as she placed her hand over Kristine’s belly. “Has he planted his demon seed within your womb?”

  Kristine took a step backward, frightened by the intensity of the woman’s stare, by the cold hatred in her voice.

  “You are not yet with child,” Charmion said. “I urge you to come away with me now, before it is too late.”

  “She is going nowhere with you.”

  Kristine looked over her shoulder at the sound of Erik’s voice, relief washing through her when she saw him standing in the doorway. He wore a loose-fitting cream-colored woolen shirt, forest green breeches, and black boots. Fathomless gray eyes regarded Lady Charmion from behind the black silk mask.

  Kristine glanced at Charmion, baffled by the gleam of satisfaction she saw in the woman’s eyes.

  “Get out of my house,” Erik said, his voice as hard and cold as winter ice.

  “I should watch my tongue, if I were you,” Charmion replied, her voice equally cold and hard, “lest a worse fate befall you.”

  “Worse!” he exclaimed softly. “What could possibly be worse than the hell to which you have already condemned me?”

  Charmion smiled smugly as her gaze ran ever so slowly over Erik from head to heel, lingering on the mask, the glove on his left hand.

  “For every tear my daughter shed, Trevayne,” she said, her voice bitter. “For every drop of blood.” With a last fulminating glance, she swept out of the room, her ebony cloak billowing behind her like a witch’s malediction.

  Kristine stared at Erik. He stood as though frozen in time, his hands clenched into tight fists, his whole body rigid. Behind the mask, his eyes were dark pools of anguish.

  She stood rooted to the spot, wishing she could think of something to say to banish the silence, to erase the tension that lingered in the woman’s wake, like acrid smoke from a pyre.

  A shudder rippled through Erik. When he looked at her, it was as if he was seeing her for the first time. “Why are you still here?”

  “My lord?”

  “Why don’t you run screaming from my presence?” he asked bitterly. “I heard what she told you. Are you not in fear for your life?”

  “No, my lord.”

  He lifted his gloved hand and studied it a moment. “You should be afraid,” he murmured, flexing his fingers. “The day may come when I’ll tear you to shreds.”

  “My lord?” She stared at him, perplexed by his cryptic words.

  “Leave me, Kristine.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” she said.

  Trevayne clenched his hand as he watched her leave the room. “Nothing will ever be as I wish it again,” he murmured bleakly. “The witch has seen to that.”

  Her presence in the house was driving him to distraction. Two months had passed since he had taken Kristine as his bride. The hours he had once spent immersed in running the affairs of the estate he now spent thinking about the young woman who was his wife. He spent hours watching her—spying on her, he amended with a rueful shake of his head. The castle was honeycombed with secret passageways and peepholes.

  He watched her when she sat in the solar, a piece of embroidery in her lap, her brow furrowed in concentration as she took tiny, delicate stitches in the fine linen.

  He watched her in the library, her head bent over a book. Sometimes she read aloud, the soft sound of her voice caressing his ears as he longed to caress her flesh. But he had vowed not to touch her again—a promise that put him at odds with the deathbed oath he had sworn to his father, for how could he ensure an heir for Hawksbridge when he had vowed not to bed his bride again?

  “Kristine.” Her name conjured sunlight and music, a longing to be touched, an ache so deep it caused him to groan in pain.

  Kristine. If only he could seek her out, sit across from her while she dined, join her in front of the fire in the evening and tell her of the day’s events. He yearned for the normal things most men took for granted—the company of his peers, an evening at the theater, the crush of people at a ball, the simple pleasure of making love to his wife in the light of day, with nothing between them but desire.

  Kristine. He felt her presence as he walked through the house late that night. The lingering scent of her perfume filled the very air he breathed. The book she was reading lay on the desk in the library, tempting his hand because she had touched it. Her embroidery made a splash of color on the chair where she had left it. Her bonnet hung from a hook near the door. Because she liked flowers, the rooms were filled with them—fragrant roses from the gardens, wildflowers and lacy ferns from the woods. The rose petals reminded him of her—soft and fragile and sweet-smelling.

  Unable to help himself, he went to her room and stepped inside. She had left the drapes at her window open. Moonlight filtered into the room, its pale light blending with the glow of the lamp beside her bed, bathing her face in its soft radiance.

  Drawn by an irresistible force, he crossed the floor to her side and gazed down at her. How lovely she was! Her cheeks were the color of ripe peaches, her lips as pink as the petals of the roses she loved, her hair the color of sun-ripened wheat. Her womanly scent rose up to tantalize him, stirring his blood, his desir
e.

  His breath caught in his throat when he realized that she had awakened.

  She sat up, sleepy-eyed and innocent. “My lord, is something amiss?”

  “No.” He ground the word from a throat gone dry.

  “You sound most peculiar. Are you ill?”

  He was ill, all right, he mused. Ill with wanting her. Feeling like a fool, he shook his head. “Go back to sleep, Kristine. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

  He was turning away from the bed when she caught his hand. “Stay, if you wish.”

  He stiffened, his face turned away from hers. “What did you say?”

  “You need not go, if you would rather stay.”

  He stared down at the slender fingers curled around his gloved hand. He could feel the heat of her through the soft leather. “It would be better if I left.”

  “As you wish.” Her hand dropped away from his.

  “It’s not what I wish,” he replied gruffly.

  “Then stay.”

  “I cannot.” He shook his head. “I cannot stay and not touch you.”

  He heard the sharp intake of her breath as the implication of his words struck her.

  “Good night, Kristine.” He started toward the door, her unspoken rejection no less painful for being expected.

  And then he heard her voice, soft and shaky. “I’m lonely, too, my lord husband.”

  He froze, one hand on the latch. “Lonely?”

  “Yes, my lord. The days are very long with no one to talk to. And my nights are longer still.”

  “I’m sorry, Kristine. I did not think . . .” He shook his head. It had not occurred to him that she might be lonely, too. But, of course, she would be. She was imprisoned in this place, as was he.

  Kristine took a deep breath, steeling herself for his rejection. “Will you not stay the night with me?”

  “I cannot, Kristine. I cannot lie beside you and not touch you.”

  “You are my husband. It is your right to share my bed.”

  “I vowed I would not touch you again!”

  “I release you from that vow.”

  He stood there, unmoving, hardly daring to believe that she had spoken, certain he had misunderstood.

  “Kristine, do you know what you are saying?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Slowly, he turned toward her, his gaze searching her face. “Are you certain?”

  She nodded, her green eyes luminous in the light of the lamp.

  On legs that trembled, he moved toward the bed, his gaze fixed on her outstretched hand as he blew out the lamp.

  And once again, her delicate fingers closed over his gloved hand. Heart pounding, he sat on the edge of the mattress. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”

  She nodded, her eyes widening as he lowered his head to capture her lips with his.

  She was sweet, even sweeter than he remembered. He drank from her lips, heat and desire spearing through him as he pressed her back on the bed, his ungloved hand sliding up and down the length of her thigh, delving under her gown to stroke the warm, soft skin beneath.

  With a muffled groan, he removed her gown, baring her body to his gaze, to his touch.

  His tongue stroked hers, and she writhed beneath him, her body molding to his. He felt her hand caress his back and he jerked upright. “Don’t.”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot.” She gazed up at him, her dark green eyes filled with confusion and hurt. “Why can’t I touch you?”

  “I have my reasons.” He took a deep breath. “Do you want me to go?”

  “No, my lord.” Her eyelids fluttered down, but not before he saw the single tear that welled in the corner of her eye.

  Cursing himself, Trevayne gathered her into his arms, his hands lightly stroking her smooth flesh, slowly arousing her. When, in the throes of passion, she reached out to touch him, he captured both her hands in one of his. He kissed her and caressed her until he was on fire, until her body was ready for his; and then, with a cry of mingled pleasure and pain, he sheathed himself deep within her. And for those few moments, he forgot what he was, forgot the fate that would ultimately be his. For those few moments, he was only a man. . . .

  She fell asleep in his arms, and he held her for a long while, stroking the soft, silky cap of her hair, wishing he could lie naked beside her, feel the warmth of her body pressed against the length of his own.

  But it was not to be, and wishing would not make it so.

  Just before dawn, he kissed her cheek, then slipped out of her bed and returned to the cold comfort of his lonely room.

  “Why won’t you tell me what he’s hiding beneath that mask?”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “Cannot, or will not?” Kristine asked.

  “Cannot, my lady.”

  “But you know, don’t you? You know what he’s hiding.”

  Mrs. Grainger shook her head. “I don’t know, dear. No one has seen his lordship’s face in almost four years.”

  “But why?”

  The cook shrugged. “Rumors abound. I’m sure you’ve heard them all. Can I get you anything else, my lady? More tea, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you.” Kristine rose from the table and left the dining room.

  She questioned Nan and Yvette, but both claimed they knew nothing.

  Later that afternoon, she went out to the stable and questioned Mrs. Grainger’s two sons, but Brandt and Gilbert only looked at her and shook their heads.

  Defeated, she went back into the house. Erik had loved her so gently last night. Never had she imagined she would hunger for the touch of a man’s hand, yearn to be held and kissed and caressed. There was tenderness in him, a need for love that he refused to acknowledge. But she had seen it in his eyes, felt it in his eager hands. Intuition told her that he would never let himself love her, that she would never be able to tear down the walls he kept between them, until she knew what he was hiding behind the mask.

  Later that night, sitting at her desk, she took pen in hand and opened her journal.

  It has been weeks since last I wrote. I have asked questions, I have wandered through the house, but I can find no answers to the riddle that is my husband. I believe the household staff knows something, but I do not believe they know what Erik is hiding beneath that mask. He is a strange man, silent and aloof, yet ever so gentle when he comes to me in the night. I think I could care for him if he would let me. I feel that he is as lonely as I, that he needs me, yet he will not let me close to him, nor trust me with whatever it is he is hiding.

  I am so lonely. . . . I pray that my womb may soon shelter a child. At least then I will have someone to love, someone to love me.

  Chapter Seven

  He stalked the night, as much a part of the darkness as the light of the moon and the glittering stars. The ground was damp beneath his feet as he tracked her across the moor. His nostrils flared, filling with the scent of her warm flesh. The smell of her fear trailed behind her, arousing his ever-growing lust for blood. He could hear the rapid beating of her heart as she realized she was being followed and began to run.

  But she couldn’t outrun him, could never outrun the beast. He threw back his head and howled, the long, ululating cry filled with the certainty of victory.

  Dropping to all fours, he loped after her. Saliva dripped from his jaws. And then he saw her, just ahead. Excitement flowed through him. The thrill of the hunt, the anticipation of the kill, made the blood roar in his ears.

  She glanced over her shoulder, her face ghostly white in the moonlight, her eyes wide with fright. She tripped over a vine, a shrill scream of terror rising in her throat as she tumbled to the ground. And then he was on her, his teeth ripping through the thick velvet cloak, sinking into the soft skin beneath. The air filled with the sharp sting of her fear even as his mouth filled with the warm coppery taste of her blood. . ..

  “No!” He howled the word, screamed it over and over again. Howled it in anguished denial as his razor-sharp teeth tore into her soft te
nder flesh. . ..

  “Erik! My lord, wake up! Erik!”

  Trevayne came awake with a start. Drenched in icy sweat, his heart pounding frantically, he glanced around the room. Had it only been a dream, then? But it had seemed so real.

  “Erik!” He heard her fists pounding on the door, demanding entrance to his room. “Erik, let me in!”

  He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, then plucked the mask from the table beside his bed and slipped it over his head.

  “Erik?”

  “I’m coming.” He took a deep, calming breath before he unlocked the door.

  “Are you all right?” She lifted the lamp higher, her gaze sweeping over him.

  “I’m fine,” he said, his voice rough.

  “Are you?”

  “Merely a nightmare.” He tried to smile and failed. “You’ve had them yourself.”

  “Yes. Well, then . . .” Her eyelids fluttered down, but not before he saw the sting of his rejection reflected in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Kristine, I didn’t mean to be so curt. I . . . I appreciate your concern.”

  “Would you like me to stay with you for a while?”

  He glanced at his deformed hand, hidden behind the door, at his foot, hidden in the shadows. He should send her away, but he could not. The thought of being alone was beyond bearing. “Give me a moment.”

  He closed the door, quickly removed the long shirt he slept in and pulled on a shirt and a pair of breeches. He slid his hand into his glove, stepped into a pair of soft leather boots. Taking a deep, calming breath, he opened the door and beckoned her inside.

  “Can I get you anything, my lord?” She placed the lamp on the table beside his bed. “A glass of wine? Some warm milk, perhaps?”

  Trevayne shook his head.

  “Is there nothing I can do for you, my lord husband?”

  “Why would you want to?” He sat on the edge of the bed and regarded her through narrowed eyes.

  Kristine stared at him. All her life she had wanted someone to love, someone to care for. Her father had loved her, in his own way, and she had loved him, but he had ever been busy, too busy to shower a shy daughter with the affection she craved. As frightened as she had been when she learned that the lord of Hawksbridge Castle was to be her husband, she had hoped that he would come to love her, to need her, as no one else ever had. “I’m your wife.”