Beauty's Beast (15 page)

Even the wolves thought so. Earlier, driven once more by the same urge that had compelled him to run naked through the night, he had shed his clothing and gone running through the darkness. He had felt the cool, damp earth beneath his feet. A thousand different odors had assailed his nostrils, but it had been the scent of blood that had drawn him into the woods.

He had come upon the wolves deep in the forest. He had recognized them as the same ones he had seen near Hawksbridge Castle. They had been wary of him then. But not now. They walked toward him, stiff-legged, teeth bared. He had never known a wolf to attack a man. Too late, he realized they no longer perceived him as a man to be feared, but a rival, a threat to their kill.

They had circled him, moving in closer, closer. Fear had chilled his spine. And then there was no time for fear. The larger female had darted forward, her fangs sinking deep into his forearm. Erik had growled low in his throat, then turned to ward off the male's attack.

He looked down at the bits of bloody fur beneath his nails, remembered the taste of blood in his mouth. He had fought them as if he was one of them, growling and snapping, until one of the wolves bit deep into his right arm. Only then did sanity return, and with it the instinct to survive. Rising to his full height, he had yelled at the wolves.

Startled, they had backed away from him, then turned and ran back into the woods, disappearing into the shadows.

Overcome with weariness, Erik sank down on the ground, his wounds throbbing with every breath. He was cold, sick to his stomach. And he was thirsty, so thirsty. He licked his lips, desperate for a glass of water to ease his thirst, to wash the coppery taste of blood from his mouth.

He sat there for a long moment, trying to ignore his thirst, but it was impossible.

Gaining his feet, he returned to the house and poured himself a cup of water from the jug sitting on the table in the kitchen. The water was cold and sweet and he drank deeply, easing his thirst.

And then, hearing her footsteps, he froze.

“Erik?”

“Stay where you are!”

He heard the breath catch in her throat as she paused, then took another step. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Do not come any closer.”

“All right.”

He could sense her standing just beyond the door, waiting, wondering what was wrong. “What are you doing here?”

“I went riding and I got lost. What are
you
doing here? What is this place?”

“A place where you're not wanted.” He spoke bluntly, wanting to hurt her. “Go back the way you came. When you reach the stream, follow it eastward. It will lead you back to the castle.”

“You want me to leave? Now?”

“Yes.”

“But it's dark outside.”

“In the morning, then.”

“Why, Erik? What have I done?”

“Nothing. You've done nothing.” He took a deep breath. “I want you gone in the morning.”

He heard the sharp intake of her breath, knew she was trying not to cry. “When are you coming home?”

He clenched his right hand. She sounded so young, so uncertain. So unhappy. Was it possible she had been missing him?

“Erik?”

“I don't know.” He closed his eyes and wished for things that could never be. Wished he had two good hands to hold her close, wished he dared take her in his arms just once more. Wished he could lay his head in her lap and feel her hands moving over him. He needed the touch of her hand, needed the comfort only she could give. He was alone, so alone. And so afraid. The fear was a constant sickness in his gut; fear of what he was becoming, of what he was losing.

“It will be Christmas soon. Will you not come home for the holidays?”

His eyelids flew open and he saw her standing in the doorway. He turned sideways, hiding his left side in the dark shadows behind him.

She took a step forward, one hand outstretched. “Erik, are you bleeding?”

“Don't touch me!”

She came to an abrupt halt. “I won't. What happened to you?”

“I was attacked by wolves.”

Even in the darkness, he could see her eyes widen in horror. “Wolves!”

“I'll be all right. Please, just go away.”

“Not until I have looked at your wounds. They'll fester if they aren't treated.”

“I'm not dressed.”

A rush of heat climbed up the back of her neck. They had been married for almost a year and she had never seen him naked. “It's all right. I . . . I don't mind.”

“I do. Wait for me in the other room.”

“Very well.”

He watched her go, then went out the back door to gather up his discarded clothing. He felt better when he was dressed, his mask once again securely in place. The worst wounds were on his right side. He had not stopped to wonder why before, but he knew the answer. His human side was fragile, easily bruised. The skin on his left side was thicker, protected by a heavy layer of coarse black hair.

Desperate for her touch, needing to be near her, he would let her tend his wounds, and then he would never see her again.

When he was as presentable as possible, he went into the main room.

She was sitting on the edge of the settee, looking like a bird poised for flight. She glanced over her shoulder as he stepped into the room.

“Sit down,” she said. “Do you have any matches? I'll need to heat some water to clean your wounds. And light a lamp so I can see what I'm doing.”

“There are matches in one of the drawers in the kitchen.”

He sank back on the settee as she left the room. He could hear her moving about in the kitchen, filling a pan with water, opening the drawers, tearing a tea towel into strips.

Every muscle in his body ached, his wounds throbbed with a dull monotony. Overcome with weariness and a sense of hopelessness, he closed his eyes. How much longer did he have? How many more days and nights until the hideous transformation was complete?

He opened his eyes at the sound of her footsteps. She had lit a small lamp. He squinted against the light, his gaze moving over her. Her body had changed. Her breasts were fuller, her belly swollen with his babe.

She knelt at his feet. Lifting his right arm, she rolled up his shirtsleeve and began to wash away the blood. Her face paled as she stared at the deep gashes that ran the length of his arm. “You need a doctor.”

“No. No doctor.”

“But these wounds are deep. They need stitching.”

“Just wash them and wrap them up.”

“Why are you being so foolish about this?”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in an effort to calm his anger. It was a mistake. Her scent rushed into his nostrils, warm and womanly and uniquely hers, reminding him of the nights he had gone to her bed, the pleasure he had found in her arms.

“Erik, answer me!”

“No doctor. Just do the best you can.”

“I . . .” She swallowed the bitter bile tickling the back of her throat. “Do you have a needle and thread? I can . . . that is, I can try to . . . to stitch the wounds.”

“I don't know.” He rested his head on the back of the sofa. He felt light-headed from the blood he had lost, and weary, so weary. All he wanted to do was sleep.

He heard the faint rustle of her skirts as she stood up. He wondered where she was going, but he was too tired to give it more than a passing thought.

Time passed. A few moments, a few hours, he didn't know or care.

“I found a sewing basket in the bedroom.”

He grunted. Dominique had spent a few weeks here the summer she was pregnant. She had left her embroidery basket behind. He had promised to fetch it for her before winter set in, but he had forgotten, and then there had been no need. . ..

The settee sagged a little as Kristine sat down beside him. Gently, she took his arm and laid it across her lap. “Hold still. This is going to hurt.”

“It already hurts. Just do what you can.”

He watched her face as she began to sew the ragged edges of his flesh together. She bit down on one side of her lower lip, her brow furrowed in concentration. He watched the color drain from her face as she guided the shiny silver needle through his skin. Drops of blood ran down his arm, staining the cloth she had spread over her skirt. She swallowed several times and he knew she was fighting the urge to retch.

Well, so was he. He had a strong urge to laugh, to tell her there were worse things to see than a few bites and scratches. No doubt she would faint dead away if she discovered that a monster had fathered her child.

“That's the last one.” She removed the bloodstained cloth from her lap, wadded it up in a ball, and dropped it in the pan of bloody water. “Can I get you anything?”

“No.”

“You should go to bed.”

He nodded, but made no move to rise.

“Do you want me to help you?”

“No. Go to bed, Kristine. You have a long ride ahead of you in the morning.”

“You never answered my question.”

He blinked at her. “What question?”

“Will you come home for Christmas?”

“I don't know.”

He flinched at the hurt in her eyes. She looked at him for a long moment, then turned and walked out of the room.

He waited until he heard the bedroom door close and then, with a sigh, shrugged out of his shirt and trousers and began to wash the blood from the bites and scratches that ran along his left arm and leg and chest.

 

 

She stood in the bedroom, her back against the door, trying not to cry. What had she done? Why did he hate her so? The last night they had spent together had been wonderful, at least for her. She had thought he was starting to care for her. How could she have been so wrong? Did he find her so repulsive, now that she was pregnant?

She placed her hand over the burgeoning swell of her belly. He had seemed pleased when she'd told him about the baby. Had she been wrong about that, too?

She couldn't sleep, couldn't go back to Hawksbridge Castle without knowing what had gone wrong between them, why he had left her without a word. Couldn't wait until morning for answers to the questions that plagued her.

Gathering her courage, she opened the door and walked swiftly down the hallway.

She came to an abrupt halt, a scream rising in her throat as she stared at the figure illuminated in the lamplight. Thick black hair, like that of a wolf, covered the left side of its body. But this was no wolf . . . nor was it a man. Tales of werewolves flitted through her mind, and then, slowly, the creature turned toward her, and she saw the mask.

The room began to spin before her eyes. A hoarse whisper of denial rose in her throat and then she was falling, spinning down, down, into blessed oblivion. . ..

Erik reacted instinctively. Lunging forward, he caught Kristine in his arms. She felt so light, so fragile. In the pale glow of the lamp, he could see that all the color had drained from her face. He held her for several moments, then carried her swiftly down the hallway toward the larger of the two bedrooms. Gently, he placed her on the bed. After a moment's hesitation, he removed her riding boots, his hand lingering over the soft swell of her calf. Knowing she would not welcome his touch, he jerked his hand away.

Unfolding the heavy quilt at the foot of the bed, he drew it over her, his gaze lingering on her face. How beautiful she was. It hurt too much to look at her, and he turned away.

Mindful of the storm raging outside, he drew the heavy drapes over the window and lit a fire in the small hearth. A last look, and then he stalked out of the room.

He dressed quickly, his mind numb, his heart bleeding, his soul shattered. After months of hiding, she had seen him for what he was, what he was becoming. He did not fault her for her reaction. It was what he had expected.

Taking his greatcoat from the hall tree, he slipped it on, then left the lodge.

Misty stood outside, her head lowered, her back turned against the storm. She whinnied softly as he took up the reins.

Leading the mare, Erik made his way through the thick mud to the stable.

Raven snuffled a soft greeting when he opened the door.

“Easy, boy,” Erik murmured. He dropped the heavy bar in place, locking the door behind him, then walked to the horse's stall, the mare at his heels. He ran his hand down the stallion's sleek neck. “I brought you some company.”

Moving quickly, grateful to have something to occupy his mind, he stripped the saddle and blanket from the mare, then dried her with an old piece of sacking.

After settling the mare in the stall next to Raven's, Erik shrugged out of his greatcoat and hung it from a nail in the wall, thinking, as he did so, that he would soon have no need for clothing or a coat.

Overcome with a sense of despair, he sank down on the straw in an empty stall and closed his eyes. Man or beast, he knew he would never forget the look of horror he had seen reflected in Kristine's eyes.

 

 

Kristine woke feeling groggy and disoriented. It was the worst nightmare she had ever had, she thought as she sat up, worse than her dreams of being locked in a dark place when she had been a child, worse than the nightmares she'd had after stabbing Lord Valentine.

She shook her head, hoping to dispel the lingering images of the beast that had troubled her dreams. She frowned, surprised to find herself in bed. She didn't remember coming in here last night.

Throwing back the covers, Kristine slid her legs over the edge of the mattress and stood up, noting, as she did so, that someone had swept up the broken glass.

Padding to the window, she parted the drapes and looked outside. The rain had stopped, but dark, heavy clouds hung low in the sky. Chilled, she pulled on her boots, thinking that she didn't remember taking them off. She wrapped the quilt around her shoulders, then went to look for Erik, determined to make him tell her why he had left Hawksbridge Castle, to tell him she missed his company and beg him to please come home.

He was not in the house, but he had lit a fire in the hearth and filled the wood box. She peered out the front window. Her horse was gone. No doubt Erik had gone out to feed the horses. He would be chilled when he returned.

She hummed softy, hoping to shake off the lingering vestiges of her nightmare as she went into the kitchen. A search of the cupboards turned up a tea canister and several delicate china cups. Taking the teapot from the stove, she went to the sink. She was reaching for the pump handle when she saw the bowl. But it was the rag inside the bowl that held her gaze. The dark brown stains could only be blood. . ..

The teapot fell from fingers gone suddenly numb as she stared at the rag. It hadn't been a nightmare after all. It was then that she saw the note, written in Erik's bold hand. There were only two words:
Go home.

Heedless of the impending storm, she left the house and slogged through the thick mud toward the stable. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves, then lifted the latch. The heavy door opened with a creak.

“Erik? Erik, are you in here?” She stepped warily into the shadowy barn. “Erik?”

She moved deeper into the barn. Misty snorted softly and shook her head.

Kristine stroked the mare's neck as she glanced around the barn. There was no sign of Erik's horse, or of Erik.

Grateful that he had taught her how to saddle the mare, Kristine quickly saddled Misty. She led the mare back to the lodge and tethered her there. Inside, Kristine put out the fire in the hearth. Grabbing the quilt from the settee where she had dropped it, she went back outside and climbed into the saddle. Draping the heavy quilt around her shoulders, she rode toward the woods. When she found the stream, she followed it eastward, as Erik had instructed.

She was going home, and then she was going to find some answers.

 

 

Kristine stood in the guest parlor of the convent, waiting for Lady Trevayne. Too nervous to sit still, she paced the floor in front of the fireplace, chilled to the marrow of her bones in spite of the cheerful fire that blazed in the hearth.

“You wanted to see me?”

Kristine whirled around at the sound of Lady Trevayne's low, well-modulated voice. “Yes.”

Lady Trevayne crossed the room, her black skirts swaying gracefully. She sat down, her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “What did you wish to see me about?”

“Your son.”

Lady Trevayne stiffened visibly. “Has something happened to Erik?”

“Not in the way you mean,” Kristine said. “But there is something wrong with him. Something horribly wrong. And you know what it is, don't you?”

Lady Trevayne stared down at her clasped hands. “Yes, I know.”

“What is it that afflicts him so grievously?” Kristine placed her hands over her womb, horrified by the thought of giving birth to a child who was deformed. “He told me it would not affect our child. Was he telling me the truth?”

“You need have no fear. Erik's . . . malady will not affect your child, Kristine. Have no fear of that, but your life might be in danger.”

“My life? Why?”

Lady Trevayne took a deep breath. “My son was married before.”

“Yes, I know.”

Lady Trevayne nodded. “His wife, Dominique, died in childbirth. Dominique's mother is a powerful sorceress.”

“A witch!” Kristine exclaimed.

“Yes. She blamed Erik for her daughter's death. It was she who put the curse on my son.”

Kristine shivered. “What kind of curse?”

“She accused him of behaving like a rutting beast and declared that a beast was what he would become.”

“A beast . . .” Kristine sat down heavily. She wanted to say it wasn't true, couldn't be true, but it explained so many things.

“You should leave Hawksbridge Castle immediately,” Erik's mother said quietly. “Go anywhere you wish. I will see to it that you and your child want for nothing.”

“Leave?”

“You can return, in time, and claim your child's birthright.” Lady Trevayne paused a moment. “Should your babe be a boy, he will be the eighth lord of Hawksbridge Castle.”

“In time?” Kristine looked at the other woman in horror. “You mean when Erik is . . . is . . .”

“When the transformation is complete,” Lady Trevayne said.

“No . . . I can't leave him. How can you suggest such a thing? He's so alone.” She stood up again and began to pace the floor. “Why did you leave him when he needed you most?”

“I did not leave him,” Lady Trevayne replied sharply. “He sent me away, and when I returned, he sent me away again. He did not want me there, did not want me to see . . .”

“I'm sorry.”

The anger left the older woman's eyes and she inclined her head in a gesture of acceptance. “No one can help Erik now.” She lifted a hand to the rosary she wore around her neck. “I only pray that . . . that once the transformation is complete, he will have no memory of who he was before.”

Kristine stared at Erik's mother. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she rocked slowly back and forth as the reality of the curse, the sheer horror of it, flooded her mind.

She remembered a day some months ago when Charmion had come to the house, remembered Erik asking her if she was afraid. She had said she was not.
You should be afraid
, he had said.
The day may come when I'll tear you to shreds.

She had not understood his meaning at the time; now she feared she understood all too clearly. “Is there no way to end this curse?”

Lady Trevayne shook her head. “None that I know of.”

“But there might be,” Kristine said desperately. “There must be! Surely the witch could remove it.”

“Yes, I'm sure she could, but she will not. She is an evil woman, one who has always taken pleasure in inflicting pain. There is no forgiveness in her, no mercy, nothing but an unholy desire for vengeance.”

“There has to be something we can do!” Kristine said vehemently. “I've got to try.”

“Don't be a fool! There's nothing you can do for Erik. You must think of your child now.”

“I am thinking of my child,” Kristine retorted. “I'm thinking that he will need a father's love and guidance.”

Color flooded Lady Trevayne's pale cheeks. “Erik cannot be a father! Do you not understand? Soon he will not be a man at all, but a wild beast. Is that what you want for your child? A father who is a wild animal, a beast who will likely have no memory of his humanity, who might attack both you and your child?”

“No.” Tears that had been hovering close to the surface for days filled Kristine's eyes and ran in twin rivers down her cheeks, unleashed by the gruesome images created by her mother-in-law's words. “No.”

She bent at the waist, her head cradled in her hands, certain she would die from the pain knifing through her heart. She remembered the sight of the long dark hair that had covered one side of Erik's body and imagined what it would be like when the transformation was complete, when all trace of his humanity was gone and he was truly a beast.

She moaned, “No, no,” and then she felt a hand on her shoulder. Looking up, she saw Lady Trevayne standing at her side. Tears shimmered in the older woman's eyes.

“I'm sorry, daughter,” she said quietly. “Would you like to pray with me?”

Kristine sniffed back her tears. “Yes.”

Lady Trevayne reached for her hand and together they walked down the long, narrow corridor that led to the chapel.

The light from dozens of tall white candles filled the room with a soft amber glow. Kristine glanced at the painted faces of the saints as she made her way down the center aisle. They all looked so serene; she wished she could find that same sense of inner peace in her own life.

She knelt in one of the pews beside Lady Trevayne, bowed her head, and closed her eyes. Kneeling there, she poured out the desires of her heart, praying for a miracle that would thwart Charmion's curse, praying for a strong, healthy child, begging, pleading, for help.

She lost track of time as she knelt there. She had forgotten what a blessing it was to pray, to lay one's burdens at the feet of a loving Heavenly Father. She seemed to hear the words
Only ask and ye shall receive
, felt a reassuring presence near her, comforting her.

Blinking back tears, she rose to her feet, then offered Lady Trevayne her hand. “Why don't you come home with me?” Kristine asked.

“Thank you, Kristine,” Lady Trevayne said with a smile. “But . . .”

“Erik has gone. I should dearly love to have your company.”

“And I should love to spend more time with you, daughter, but . . .” She squeezed Kristine's hand. “I should not like for him to come home and find me there.” Lady Trevayne took a deep breath. “It's not because I'm afraid of him,” she explained softly, “but because he does not want me there. He does not wish me to see him as he is now, and I must respect his wishes.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you, child. I hope you will come and see me often.”

“I will. And I hope you'll come and spend Christmas Day with us.”

“I should like that very much. Ask Mrs. Grainger to send the coach for me.”

“I will.” Bending down, Kristine kissed the older woman's cheek. “Pray for us.”

“I shall. Mind my words, Kristine, stay away from Charmion.”

“Does she live nearby?” Kristine asked, wondering why the thought had not occurred to her before.

“She dwells at the top of Cimmerian Crag, less than a day's ride from Hawksbridge.”

Kristine nodded. Cimmerian Crag was a familiar landmark, though she had never known that anyone lived there.

Lady Trevayne laid her hand on Kristine's arm. “Stay away from her,” she warned again. “There is no way to soften that virago's wicked heart.”

 

 

It was dark by the time Kristine returned to Hawksbridge Castle. She bathed and dressed, then went down to supper. Mrs. Grainger hovered over her. Kristine knew the cook was about to burst with curiosity but, being a servant, it wasn't her place to ask where Kristine had been, and Kristine was not of a mind to explain.

She ate because it gave her something to do, because she would need her strength for the journey to Charmion's dwelling.

She would leave in the morning and hope her courage didn't desert her along the way. After dinner, she went into the library and sat in Erik's favorite chair. The house seemed so big, so empty without him. Even when he had been busy in another part of the house, she had felt his presence, had known that, sooner or later, he would come to her bed. She had not truly realized how much she had looked forward to being in his arms until he was gone.