Beauty's Beast (14 page)

Fresh blood.

It drew him like a beacon in the darkness.

The wolves growled as he approached. Three of them, a male and two females, huddled over the carcass of a deer.

Breathless, the blood teasing his nostrils, he walked toward them. The dominant female whined softly, then turned and trotted away, followed by the other, smaller female. The male stood his ground, teeth bared, hackles raised. A low growl rumbled in his throat.

An answering growl rose in Erik's throat as he bared his teeth and took a step forward.

The wolf growled again, then turned and disappeared into the night.

With a howl of triumph, Erik dropped to his hands and knees and sniffed the carcass.

A purr of satisfaction rumbled in his throat as he lapped at the blood, and then he reared back, a cry of horror erupting from his lips as he realized what he was doing.

“No! No!” Scrambling to his feet, he scrubbed the blood from his mouth with the back of his good hand. “No.” He backed away from the carcass, appalled by his feral behavior.

“Kristine,” he moaned. “Help me. Someone, please, help me.”

She woke from a sound sleep, the melancholy cry of a wolf ringing in her ears. “Erik?” She patted the bed beside her and knew he had not been there.

Rising, she drew on her night robe and padded barefoot to the window. The moon hung low in the sky, silvering the trees, shining on the pond in the middle of the garden. All was quiet.

She was about to go back to bed when she saw it: a dark form making its way toward the back of the house. She leaned forward, eyes narrowed as she tried to see who it was. An intruder? One of the Graingers' sons coming home from a night in town?

The figure stepped into a pool of moonlight and she caught a glimpse of long black hair, the flash of a naked thigh.

“Erik!” Grabbing the small lamp burning beside her bed, she hurried out of the room and down the stairs toward the kitchen.

She got there as the back door opened. “Erik?”

“Put out the light!”

“What?”

“The light. Put it out.”

Frowning, she turned down the wick, plunging the room into darkness.

“What are you doing here?” he growled.

“I . . . I saw you from my window. What were you doing out there? Are you . . . I thought . . . are you naked?”

“Go to bed, Kristine.”

“Erik, please tell me what is troubling you. Please let me help.”

“Kristine, go to bed.” He bit off each word.

“Yes, my lord.”

Turning on her heel, she ran out of the kitchen, through the dining room and hallway, then ducked behind the long curved settee in the parlor. A narrow shaft of moonlight shone through a slit in the draperies. Heart pounding, she waited.

And suddenly he strode into her line of vision. The moonlight slid across his bare shoulders. She could not see his face, only one arm and a long length of muscled thigh. He was carrying a wadded-up bundle that she assumed were his clothes.

She squinted, trying to see better in the darkness, but it was no use. He crossed the room quickly and disappeared up the stairs, leaving her to sit there, more confused than she had ever been in her life.

Erik felt every muscle in his body tense as he walked through the parlor, his face averted. He knew she was there, hiding behind the settee. Her scent filled his nostrils, as tempting as the deer's warm blood. Revulsion rose up within him. He had hoped to spend one last night in Kristine's bed, to hold her close one more time, to make love to her slowly, tenderly. To memorize every soft curve, but he dared not go to her now, nor ever again.

Tonight, he would gather what few things he would need. When he was certain she was asleep, he would go to her room and take one last look, and then he would leave the estate. He had left written orders for Mrs. Grainger, informing her that she was to tell no one where he had gone. After the babe was born, she was to send him word. When the time came, he wondered morbidly if he would still be human enough to care that Hawksbridge had a new heir.

When he reached his chamber, he locked the door, and then locked the connecting door between his room and Kristine's.

He heard her footsteps in the corridor a few moments later, heard the sound of her chamber door open and close.

Fighting the urge to go to her, Erik shoved a few items of clothing into a bag, grabbed a mask to replace the one he had lost in the woods.

He heard the soft rap of her knuckles on the door between their rooms. “My lord husband, are you in there?”

Heart pounding, he stared at the door, everything within him urging him to go to her, to seek the warm shelter of her arms. She had such a soft heart, surely she would be able to find some small shred of pity for the beast he was becoming. And then he looked down at the left side of his body, the thick dark hair, the deformed hand and foot, and knew she would run screaming from the sight of him.

“Erik, please answer me. Are you hurt?”

“No,” he replied, his voice sounding harsher than ever in his ears. “I am not injured. Go to bed.”

“I thought, that is, you said you would come to me tonight.”

“I cannot.”

“Very well, my lord husband. I understand.”

He heard the coldness in her voice, the hurt, the disappointment. She thought he no longer wished to bed her now that he had gotten her with child. Nothing was further from the truth, but he could not tell her that. There was no point in trying to explain. Let her think him callous and cruel. In the long run, it would be a kindness.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the paw that had once been his left hand, at the thick black nails, fascinated and horrified by the sight.
A rutting beast you were, a beast you will become.

“Are you happy, Charmion?” he wondered aloud. “Does it give you pleasure to know what I've become? Does the horror that I'm living ease the pain of your loss? Do you think Dominique rests more peacefully because of what you've done to me?”

With a weary sigh, he pulled on a black shirt and a pair of trousers, donned his mask and gloves and boots. Unlocking the door that connected his room to Kristine's, he stepped into her chamber. She was lying on her side, asleep.

He padded quietly toward her, his heart breaking when he saw that she had been crying.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”

“There's nothing to forgive, my lord.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

She shook her head, too proud to admit she had missed him beside her.

He looked at her and knew he could not leave without making love to her one last time.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he wrapped his right arm around her and crushed her close, his mouth hungry for the taste of her, his hands desperate in their need to touch her.

She came alive in his arms, his desperation conveying itself to her. As always, when she would have caressed him, he caught both of her hands in his right one, denying her that which she sought.

He lifted her sleeping gown over her hips, unfastened his breeches, and settled himself between her thighs.

Their coupling was violent, passionate, burning as hot and bright as a comet streaking across the sky. It left her breathless and aching and satisfied as never before.

She was smiling when she fell asleep.

He was gone in the morning. Kristine stared at Mrs. Grainger, unable to believe her ears. “Gone? What do you mean, gone? Gone where? When is he coming back?”

“He has gone on an extended holiday, my lady.”

“A holiday? But . . . where has he gone?”

“I'm sure I don't know, my lady.” The housekeeper's gaze slid away from Kristine's; nervous fingers plucked at the spotless white apron.

Kristine frowned, certain the housekeeper knew more than she was telling. “Did he say when he would be back?”

Mrs. Grainger hesitated a moment, and then sighed. “No. I am sorry. Truly I am.”

“Why didn't he tell me?”

“I'm sure I couldn't say, my lady. Would you be caring for some breakfast?”

Kristine shook her head. Gone on holiday? With Christmas coming? She didn't believe it, refused to believe he would go off and leave her without a word after the night they had spent together. Surely it was a joke, a cruel prank. And even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it had to do with the anguish she had frequently seen in his eyes, not pain of the body, but of the soul.

Her appetite gone, she left the dining room. He couldn't be gone.

Never had the time passed so slowly. She walked through the castle a dozen times, hoping to find him, but to no avail. She found rooms she had not seen before—a bedroom on the third floor that she guessed had been his mother's, several rooms that held cast-off furniture, trunks filled with old-fashioned dresses and baby clothes, bonnets and blankets. At any other time, she would have been intrigued, but not now.

She went outside and wandered through the gardens, and then she ran to the stables, wondering why she hadn't thought of it sooner.

She stared at Raven's empty stall and tried to convince herself that Erik had just taken the horse out for a very long ride, but she knew, deep inside, that she was only lying to herself. He was gone, perhaps for good.

Back in the house, she went to his room and fell across his bed, certain her heart would break. Why, why, why?

He had never said he loved her, yet he had seemed to enjoy her company.

He had been pleased with the news of her pregnancy.

Hurt and confused, she wrapped her arms around his pillow. His scent surrounded her, kindling memories of days spent riding together, of nights in his arms. The tears came then, tears that burned her eyes and left her feeling weak and empty.

She was overcome with a sense of listlessness in the days that followed. She sought forgetfulness in sleep; she had no appetite, though she forced herself to eat for the sake of the child she was carrying.

She went to the stable to visit Misty each morning, tormenting herself with the memory of the hours she had spent in Erik's company, remembering the day they had made love in the meadow.

Sometimes she felt as if time had stopped and she would be pregnant forever. Mrs. Grainger and the maids tried to cheer her, talking about how good it would be to have a babe in the house again, but even that failed to cheer her.

Erik had left her and all she could do was wonder why. Had she displeased him in some way? She went over every minute of the last few days they had spent together, looking for some clue that would explain his sudden departure.

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 enough 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?