Beauty's Beast (10 page)

She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, admiring the height and the breadth of him, his long-legged stride. She opened her arms in welcome when he returned to the couch and he sank into her embrace, his lips seeking hers, his hands loosening the ties of her gown, fondling her breasts as he removed her dress and chemise.

She yearned to caress him in return, but knew he would not welcome her touch. In all the months of their marriage, she had never seen him naked, never felt the touch of his naked flesh against her own. Always, his clothing stood like a barrier between them.

She ran her hands over his shoulders, her fingertips stroking the rich velvet of his coat, wondering if his skin would be as soft, as smooth. It never failed to astonish her that she could want him so quickly. How was it that one man's touch could arouse her to heights of ecstasy she had never dreamed existed, while another's evoked only loathing?

She moaned with delight as their bodies merged. She loved the weight of him pressing her down upon the cushions, the touch of his hand stroking her flesh, the urgency that caused him to groan with need as he drove deeper inside her, burning away every thought, until they melted together, one into the other, and she was complete at last. . ..

He held her close in his arms afterward, held her tight, as if he cared for her, as if he could not bear to let her go.

“Why?” he asked after a long while had passed. “Why did you not look under the mask the other night in the library?”

Startled by his question, she blinked up at him, though she could not see his expression in the dimly lit room. “Why, my lord? Why, because I promised I would not.” She sat up, her eyes narrowing with suspicion as she put her dress to rights. “You were not asleep, then?”

“No.” He sat up, his arm curling around her waist.

“You were only pretending to be asleep, then, trying to trick me?”

He lifted one shoulder in an elaborate shrug. “I needed to know if I could trust you.”

With a little
humph
of annoyance, she tried to thrust him away from her. It was like trying to move a mountain.

“Don't be angry, Kristine.”

“Let me go!”

He laughed softly, amused by her show of temper. “Not yet.” He dropped tender kisses along the curve of her cheek, down the length of her neck, across her shoulder. “Not quite yet.”

She tried to hold on to her anger, but it evaporated beneath the heat of his kisses, banished by the husky tremor in his voice as he whispered endearments in her ear, his tongue a wicked flame as it moved across her skin.

She ignited like dry tinder in his arms, everything else forgotten as she clung to him. Once, turning her face to the side, she found herself staring at numerous shimmering images of the two of them reflected back at her from the mirrored walls. They were a study in ivory and ebony, she mused, her skin seeming extraordinarily white against the darkness of his clothing, his black mask and hair a striking contrast to her pale flesh.

How well we look together
, she mused, and then he was kissing her again and there was no more time for thought. . ..

 

 

“No! No!” She screamed the words as she clawed at his face, her nails raking deep furrows down his florid cheeks. “No!”

Her hand closed around the knife and she drove it into his back, her stomach roiling as she felt the blade pierce skin and flesh, gagging as his hot blood spurted over her hand. “No!”

“Hush, Kristine, it's all right. Hush now, hush, it's over.”

The deep timbre of a familiar voice, the solid strength of familiar arms, chased the nightmare away. “Erik? Oh, Erik.” With a sob, she buried her face against his chest.

“You're safe, Kristine,” he whispered. “Nothing can hurt you here.”

She nestled against him, her arms twining around his waist. “It's so awful. I wish I could forget.”

He stroked her back, pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips moving softly in the fine silken curls of her hair. “It's over now,” he said. “Try to get some rest. It will be morning soon.”

“Stay with me. Please stay with me.”

With a nod, Trevayne eased her under the covers, then stretched out beside her, one arm holding her close. She felt so small, so fragile, he could only imagine how terrified she had been when she fought off Valentine's unwelcome advances. Damn the man. If she hadn't already killed him, he would gladly do it for her.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she rested her head on his shoulder. He felt the tension drain out of her, felt her body relax as sleep claimed her once more.

Trevayne trailed his fingertips over her cheek. They were a fine pair, he mused, both haunted by nightmares—hers brought on by memories of the past, his filled with fears of the future.

He lifted his left hand. What lay beneath the glove could no longer be called human. It was deformed, covered with coarse black fur, the nails thick and long. His entire left side was covered with a heavy pelt of black fur, his left foot was misshapen, transformed by the same coarse black fur and thick yellow nails as his left hand. His right foot now looked the same as his left.

He fought back a rising tide of panic, praying that Kristine would soon conceive, knowing that, all too soon, he would not dare go near her bed for fear she would discover his secret. But more than that, he was terrified that he would lose control of the beast rapidly devouring his humanity; that, in a moment of mindless need, he would do her harm.

He turned onto his side and watched her sleeping. Her nightmares had been eased; he feared the worst of his were just beginning.

Kristine gazed in wonder at the colorful lanterns that lined the long, curved drive that led to Gladstone Manor. It looked like a fairy place. The windows on every floor were also ablaze with light.

Erik assisted her from the coach and took her by the hand. Portraying the Angel of Death, he was attired all in black. A black broadcloth cloak lined in ebony silk fell in graceful folds from his shoulders, the hem brushing the tops of his knee-high black boots. A hideous death's-head mask that was genuinely frightening to behold completed his costume.

Representing the Norse goddess Freya, Kristine wore a long white gown trimmed in gold satin, her short hair covered by a long blond wig. They made a striking pair, she mused, like midnight and moonlight.

The sound of conversation and laughter filled the air, vying with the music. She had never seen such a crush of people. She couldn't stop staring. Zeus waltzed by with Cleopatra, a lion stood in the corner, conversing with a shapely ghost in a diaphanous gown. There were all manner of costumes. Some were comical, some were grotesque, some quite bizarre. Kristine would have melted into a corner if given a choice, but it was not to be.

“Come,” Erik said, leading her onto the dance floor, “let us see how well you remember your lessons.”

She moved woodenly at first, conscious of people staring at them. She didn't belong here with these elegant people. They would be appalled if they knew they were entertaining a convicted felon. She tripped on her skirt, stepped on Erik's toes.

“Relax, Kristine,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze. “You have nothing to fear.”

She gazed up into his eyes and everything else faded away. She forgot to watch her feet, forgot to count the steps. Effortlessly, he waltzed her around the room. She was aware of his hand, large and firm, at her waist, of his gaze burning into hers. They dipped and swayed as if they had been waltzing together for years.

When the music ended, there were a dozen men waiting to claim her for the next dance.

Trevayne surrendered her with good grace, though inside he was seething with resentment. Making his way to a shadowed corner, he watched her waltz by in the arms of another man. This was what he wanted, he reminded himself. He wanted her to get to know other men. She was young, far too young to spend the rest of her life alone. She would undoubtedly wish to marry again. She would want companionship, a man's protection. His child would need a father. . . .

Jealousy rose within him like bitter bile as he watched the young fops fawn over her, vying for a smile, a dance, bringing her a cup of hot spiced punch, seeking to make her laugh.

Shy at first, she was soon at ease in their midst. He knew she had never been taught to flirt, yet she came by it naturally. The men swarmed around her like bears to a honey pot.

Trevayne watched as long as he could and then, unable to endure it a moment longer, he made his way through the crowd. Ignoring the protests of those paying her court, he led her away from her admirers.

“Are you having a good time, madam?”

“Yes, very.” She looked up at him, her eyes alight with merriment, her lips parted in a smile, until she saw the expression in his eyes. “Have I done something to displease you, my lord?”

He choked back the harsh reply that sprang to his lips. How could he chastise her? He had left her alone, like a fawn among a pack of wolves, and now he was angry because she had held her own, because she had not come running to him for protection.

“My lord?”

“No, Kristine, you have done nothing to displease me.” He offered her his hand. “Come, my lady wife, and dance with me.”

He was aware of the stares that followed them as they twirled around the floor, conscious of the whispered voices as his neighbors speculated on why he had not been seen in public for the last four years.

When the waltz ended, Lord Dunston claimed Kristine for the next dance. Erik kissed Kristine's hand, inclined his head in Dunston's direction, and left the floor.

It seemed odd to be in the midst of so many people after his self-imposed exile, strange to hear music and laughter. A few of his old cronies guessed who he was and urged him to join them for a game of cards. At first, he was reluctant, but the thought of being in their company again, of being able to pretend, if only for a little while, that he was still the man he had once been, was far too tempting. He sent one of the footmen to tell Kristine he would see her in an hour, and followed Gladstone into the card room.

“Erik, it's good to see you out again,” Gladstone remarked as he sat down and began to shuffle a deck of cards.

“It's good to be out.”

“That new bride's been keeping him busy, I'll wager,” Robert Jordan said with a leer.

“Ah, without doubt, without doubt,” Fitzroy said. “Our Erik always had a way with the ladies. Shall we remove our masks while we play?”

“I think I shall keep mine on,” Jordan declared.

“I shouldn't wonder,” Erik muttered with a wry grin. It was a well-known fact that Jordan was unable to keep from smiling when he was dealt a good hand. “I shall keep mine on, as well.”

They played with the ease of men who had grown up together and were comfortable with one another. Gladstone kept the whiskey flowing, Dunston relayed the latest court gossip, Fitzroy complained loudly each time he lost a hand.

The hour passed all too quickly. With regret, Erik stood to leave.

“You're not going!” Dunston exclaimed. “Surely you intend to give us a chance to recoup our losses.”

Erik grinned beneath his mask. “I am sorry, gentlemen, but I have left my bride alone far too long already.”

“Yes, I'd keep an eye on that one myself,” Jordan remarked.

“My plan, to be sure,” Erik said. He slipped his winnings into his pocket. “Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure, as always.”

“Of course,” Fitzroy muttered irritably. “You won. As always.”

Erik sketched an exaggerated bow, then left the room. Taking a glass of wine from one of the footmen, he made his way to the ballroom, his gaze skimming over the crowd until he found Kristine.

She stood out from the other women like a rose in a field of clover. Her face was flushed from dancing, her eyes bright as she stood in the midst of a group of admirers. Lady Trevayne was the belle of the ball, he mused. Once he was gone, she would have suitors aplenty at her door, men eager to woo and wed her. And bed her.

“But for now, she's mine,” he murmured, and placing his empty glass on a table, he crossed the floor to claim his bride.

“May I have this dance, wife?” he asked.

Kristine looked up at him, eyes shining. “I'm afraid I've promised it to Lord Hoxford.”

“Lord Hoxford can wait,” Erik said curtly, and before the lord in question could protest, Erik swept her into his arms. “You are my wife,” he said as he whirled her out among the other couples, “and I want to dance.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

He gazed down at her. “How much wine have you had to drink?”

“Only a few glasses.”

“No more.”

“My lord?”

“I don't want you tipsy.”

“I'm not . . .” She hiccupped. “Tipsy.”

“Indeed?”

She looked up at him, obviously offended. “I'm sober as . . . as a judge.” She shuddered at her poor choice of words. A judge. All too well she remembered the dour-faced magistrate who had sentenced her to death, who had refused to believe she had killed Lord Valentine in self-defense.

“Kristine?” Erik frowned, wondering at the sudden change in her mood. “Are you sick?”

“No.” She looked up at him, her eyes filled with sadness. “I didn't mean to kill him.”

“I know.” He drew her into his arms and held her close. “I know.”

The Gladstones' butler chose that moment to announce dinner.

Because of the large number of people, and the rather cumbersome costumes of some of their guests, Lady Gladstone had decided on a buffet.

Kristine watched in amazement as the doors at the far end of the ballroom opened to reveal a dozen long tables covered with white damask cloths and laden with food: whole roast pigs, game hens stuffed with wild rice, racks of lamb, platters of seafood, huge bowls of vegetables in rich sauces, baskets of bread and rolls. Just looking at so much food made her feel suddenly queasy.

She placed her hand on Erik's arm. “Could we go outside for a moment? I feel the need for a little fresh air.”

“Of course.”

Tucking her hand into his, he led her out into the vast gardens that surrounded the estate. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you.” She removed her mask and placed it on a wrought-iron bench. “It was quite warm in there.”

Erik smiled indulgently. How young and innocent she was, and how beautiful. An angel, caressed by moonlight.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

“Like what?”

“Like a hungry cat about to pounce on a poor little mouse.”

“Perhaps because that is exactly what I am thinking.”

“Really?” She blinked up at him, her eyes wide, her cheeks as pink as the roses that grew in profusion all around them.

“Really.”

She swayed toward him. “Will you not kiss me then, my lord?”

It was a thought to tempt a saint, but he could not indulge her now, could not remove his mask without revealing the ugliness beneath.

“My lord?” She took a rather unsteady step toward him.

“Kristine!” He reached out to steady her. “I think you are in your cups, my dear.”

“I don't feel so good,” she mumbled.

“I'll take you home.”

“But I don't want to go home,” she protested. “I'm having such a good time. And I owe Lord Hoxford a waltz.”

“There will be no more dancing for you tonight, my sweet,” Erik said. “I'm taking you home. I shall send Brandt in to make our apologies.”

She looked up at him in horror. “You're not going to tell him I'm . . . I'm . . .”

“Of course not. I shall say you're feeling a little under the weather.”

“I'm fine, really.” She took a deep breath, intending to argue further, then pressed a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Erik, I'm going to be sick!”

Scooping her into his arms, he ran toward the far end of the garden, then set her down. No sooner had her feet touched the ground than she dropped to her knees and began to retch.

Erik knelt beside her, one hand supporting her, silently offered her his handkerchief when she was through. “Are you all right?”

“I think I'm dying.”

He laughed softly. “Not quite. You will most likely feel better now. Not used to spirits, are you?”

Kristine shook her head, then groaned. “No.”

“One shouldn't overindulge on an empty stomach,” he said sympathetically. “Come, let us go home.”

She was unusually quiet in the carriage on the way home.

“Is something wrong?” Erik asked.

“I made a fool of myself,” she replied, not looking at him. “I made you leave the party early.”

He laughed softly as he drew her into his arms. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yes.”

“That's all that matters.”

“You are so good to me, Erik.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “Why are you so good to me?”

He gazed down at her, at her lips, pink and slightly parted, at the long dark lashes that lay against her cheeks. Why, indeed, he mused as he gave her shoulders a squeeze. Why, indeed.

“Will you make love to me when we get home?”

“You should get some sleep.”

“I am not tired.” She lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck. “Come, my lord, you must do your husbandly duty.”

He told himself it was the champagne talking, but he didn't care. She wanted him, and that was all that mattered.

“Yes,” he said gently, “my duty.”