Beauty's Beast (13 page)

“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 and 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.

“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.

He sniffed the air. “And fresh-baked scones with honey butter.”

“All right, I'm going,” she said. “And there had better be scones when we get there.”

It was late afternoon by the time the last of the guests took their leave. As Erik had expected, their absence the night before had not been noticed.

Now he and Kristine were sitting at the dining room table, nibbling on bread and cheese. Erik picked up his glass and sipped his wine. It was an excellent vintage, he mused, and added it to the list of enjoyments he would miss.

Leaning back in his chair, Erik regarded Kristine over the rim of his wineglass. “I should say your first soiree was a huge success.”

“It was fun, wasn't it?” Kristine mused with a smile. “We shall have to have another soon.”

Erik nodded, knowing that he would not be present the next time. He took a deep breath as a sharp twinge ran the length of his right arm. He clenched his hand. The curse was spreading.

Placing his glass on the table, he stood abruptly.

Kristine frowned as wine splashed over the white cloth. “What's wrong?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. I'll see you this evening.”

“Erik? Erik!” She turned in her chair, watching as he rushed out of the room.

 

 

Kristine sat at her dressing table, her head bowed over her diary.

She paused, rereading what she had written. “My strange husband,” she murmured. Why had he left the parlor so abruptly this afternoon? Where had he gone? She had not missed the look of torment, of pain, in his eyes. He had told her before he was often in pain. Was he hiding some dreadful illness from her, some fatal malady?

Fear clutched at her heart at the thought of losing him.

Slipping the book back in the drawer of her dresser, she left her chamber in search of her husband, but he was nowhere to be found.

At loose ends, she wandered down to the stable to visit Misty. She was currying the mare when Erik rode up.

The stallion was breathing heavily, its sides covered with foamy yellow lather, its legs smeared with mud.

Kristine smiled tentatively as Erik swung out of the saddle and patted the horse on the neck.

“Cool him out,” he said as he passed the stallion's reins to Brandt. “And give him an extra ration of oats.”

“Yes, my lord,” Brandt said. With a polite nod in Kristine's direction, the boy led the horse away.

“Did you have a good ride, my lord husband?” Kristine asked.

Erik nodded curtly. He had ridden long and hard and, for a short while, he had forgotten everything but the sheer joy of racing across the meadow. Once the stallion had lost its footing and Erik had wondered, even as he pulled up on the reins, if it wouldn't be better for all concerned if he took a fall and broke his neck.

“I would have gone with you,” Kristine remarked quietly.

“Next time,” Erik replied. He brushed a kiss across her cheek. “I shall see you at dinner.”

 

 

He was silent and withdrawn at the dinner table that night. She didn't know how or why, but she felt that he was withdrawing from her, erecting a wall between them. He had not said whether he planned to continue sharing her bed, and she couldn't summon the courage to ask. She felt his furtive gaze often during the meal, noticed that he ate nothing, though he drank several glasses of wine.

As was their wont, they went into the library after dinner. Erik perused the day's accounts while she sat in her favorite chair, frowning over a bit of embroidery. It was busywork, nothing more, she thought glumly, and then smiled.

“Erik?”

“Hmm?”

“I'll be needing some material, you know, to make things for the baby.”

He grunted softly. “Make a list of what you want. I will send Leyla to fetch them in the morning.” He looked up. “You will be needing some material for yourself, too, I should imagine.”

Kristine rested a hand over her belly, imagining how it would look in a few months' time. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Purchase whatever you need. Whatever you want.”

“Thank you, my lord. You are most generous.”

His gaze met hers, his eyes dark with an emotion she could not name and then, before she could do more than wonder what was troubling him so, he turned away so she could not see his eyes. Something was bothering him, she knew it in the deepest part of her, but what?

At ten, Mrs. Grainger brought them a pot of tea. At eleven, Kristine rose to go to bed. She folded her embroidery into a neat pile and placed it on the chair, then walked round the desk to kiss Erik's cheek.

“Good night, my lord husband.”

“Good night.”

“Will you . . .” She bit down on her lip. “Will I see you later?”

He didn't look at her but he nodded, once, curtly.

She yearned to touch him, to wrap her arms around him and press his head to her breasts, to beg him to tell her what it was that caused him such anguish, but he had never welcomed her touch. With a sigh, she turned and left the room.

A muscle clenched in Erik's jaw as she closed the door. He sat there, staring at nothing, remembering the warmth of her lips on his cheek, the faint flowery scent that clung to her hair and clothing, the slightly husky sound of her voice as she asked, in her own shy way, if he would join her in bed later. It never failed to amaze him that she invited his touch, that she had not told him of her pregnancy for fear he would no longer warm her bed. If he had one wish, it would be to always share her bed, her life, to cradle her in his arms each night, to kiss her awake each morning. But it was not to be.

Despair rose within him, darker than the night outside his window, deeper than the lake near the hunting lodge.

Driven by some primal urge that frightened him even as it compelled him, he left the house and turned toward the deep woods, discarding his clothing as he went, until he ran naked through the night.

The wind whipped through his hair, stung his eyes, chilled his body, and still he ran. The ground felt strange beneath his feet . . . and yet he knew it was his feet, and not the ground, that had changed. He ran for miles, tireless, mindless, his nostrils filling with the scents of the night—the damp earth, the leaves he crushed, the stink of something long dead. He heard the screech of an owl and then he caught the strong scent of blood.