Beauty's Beast (2 page)

I am to be the bride of Erik Trevayne, Demon Lord of Hawksbridge Castle.

It was the first thought that crossed Kristine's mind upon waking in the morning. And hard upon that thought came every rumor she had ever heard of the man, every bit of idle country gossip, every lurid tale.

He was a monster who hadn't been seen in public since his wife died.

He had killed his first wife and child with his bare hands.

He had been cursed by the devil himself.

He was half man, half beast.

He was old, ugly, deformed, cruel, the seventh son of Satan.

He had been beset by some rare plague that left him horribly disfigured.

Kristine huddled under her thin blanket, shivering uncontrollably. Why did he want to marry her? What manner of man took a condemned murderess for a wife? She fought back a wave of hysterical laughter. She had murdered a man. The lord of Hawksbridge Castle had murdered his wife. As the guard had said, it did, indeed, seem to be a fitting match.

Never had the hours passed so quickly. Why, she wondered, did time seem to limp along when one waited for a happy occasion, and run on eager feet for an event one dreaded?

She tried to pray for strength, for courage, but words failed her and all she could do was murmur, “Please, please, please,” over and over again.

At dusk, two plump women clad in identical gray woolen gowns entered the cell. One carried a small box, the other carried a large bag.

A short time later, one of the guards dragged a small wooden tub into the cell. Two other guards followed and filled the tub with buckets of hot water, shuffling out when the task was complete. One of the women added several drops of fragrant oil to the water.

Kristine stood against the far wall, watching, wondering. Who were these women? What were they doing there? Were they also nuns? It seemed doubtful, considering the way they were dressed. Both had dark brown hair and eyes.

She looked longingly at the tub. She had not been allowed to bathe in the five and a half weeks she had been imprisoned. One needed money to procure a bath, a decent meal, a change of clothing. She had no funds of her own, nor anyone she might appeal to for aid.

She hesitated when the taller of the two women gestured for her to step into the tub. Surely they didn't expect her to undress and bathe in their presence?

The women smiled reassuringly as they approached her. Why didn't they speak? When they began to undress her, Kristine shook her head. Stripping off her soiled clothing, she hurriedly stepped into the tub and sank beneath the water, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

She tried to protest when the women began to wash her, but they ignored her, their hands gentle, quick, and competent, their eyes sympathetic when they saw how thin she was. One of them vigorously scrubbed her cropped hair and scalp, the other washed her from head to toe. When they were satisfied that she was clean, they helped her out of the tub and toweled her dry, then smoothed a soothing balm over her face and neck, her breasts, her arms and legs.

Kristine was shivering with nervousness when one of the women opened the bag and withdrew a chemise, drawers, and a petticoat, all trimmed with pink ribbons and dainty pink rosettes. Next came a gown of shimmering ice blue silk.

Kristine gaped at the dress. Never in all her life had she beheld anything so lovely. The cool silk felt like heaven against her skin, so much richer and softer than the rough homespun she was accustomed to. There were matching blue slippers for her feet.

She knew a moment of embarrassment as the two women studied her hair, or lack of it. Then, with a sigh, the shorter of the two pulled out a delicate veil of cream-colored lace from the satchel. With a small shake of her head, the woman set the veil in place.

The two women walked around Kristine, smoothing her skirt, making a slight adjustment to the veil, and then they smiled at each other, obviously pleased with what they had accomplished.

One of the women rapped sharply on the door. A moment later, the guard standing watch outside the cell turned the key in the lock and the two women escorted Kristine out of the cell, down the long dank corridor, and out of the prison.

Kristine emerged from the darkness feeling like a newborn lamb about to be led to the slaughter. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of clean, fresh air for the first time in over a month.

As soon as she stepped outside, two men wearing the bold green and black livery of Hawksbridge Castle fell into step beside her and escorted her to the small red brick chapel located across the road from the prison.

Her heart was pounding wildly as she entered the church, followed by the two men and the two silent women.

As soon as she was inside, her gaze flew to the altar, to the tall hooded man who stood waiting for her there.

“Come, my daughter.”

At the priest's words, Kristine dragged her gaze from the man who was to be her husband. Taking a deep breath, she walked down the short, narrow aisle, noticing, for the first time, that there was a woman seated in the front pew. A petite dark-haired woman dressed in unrelieved black.

Kristine was trembling from head to heel by the time she reached the altar. A wave of panic washed over her when the hooded man took his place at her side.

The priest smiled at them. “You will please join hands.”

Kristine's gaze darted toward the man at her right. He was tall, so tall the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. A cloak of finely woven dark blue wool shot with fine silver threads shrouded him from head to foot. Soft black leather boots covered his feet. He hesitated a moment, then extended his hand, revealing a long arm clad in fine white linen.

For a moment, Kristine stared at the gloved hand he extended toward her and then, wishing she could still her trembling, she placed her hand in his. His hand was large, the fine leather of his glove velvet-soft against her palm. She could feel the latent power in that hand as his fingers closed firmly around hers.

She looked up at the priest, her heart racing. If she begged the good father for help, would he offer her sanctuary? If she refused to marry, would her savior send her back to prison to face the executioner's axe?

In a daze, she listened to the words that bound her to a man whose countenance she had never seen.

Too soon, it was over.

“Lord Trevayne, you may bestow a kiss upon your bride, if you wish,” the good father said cheerfully.

Kristine stared up at the man who was now her husband, every instinct she possessed urging her to flee as she waited for him to claim his first kiss. Tall and regal, he stood there, not moving, his face hidden in the deep folds of the cowl, and then, slowly, he shook his head.

She felt his fingers tighten on hers—an apology for humiliating her, perhaps?—surprised to find that his rejection should hurt so badly.

“The Lord bless you both.” The priest made the sign of the cross, then turned toward the elegant woman clad in black. “Madam Trevayne, come forward and make your new daughter welcome.”

The woman in the front pew stood and walked toward Kristine, her face an indistinct blur beneath a short black veil. She was a small woman, with fine bones and small, delicate hands. Her dark brown hair was liberally streaked with gray. Kristine found it hard to believe that this petite gentlewoman had given birth to the tall, broad-shouldered man who stood so silently beside her.

“Welcome, daughter,” the woman said, her voice cold, distant. She pressed a cool kiss to Kristine's cheek, but her gaze was focused on her son.

With both their faces covered, it was impossible for Kristine to see their expressions, but there was no mistaking the tension between mother and son. It crackled between them, leaving Kristine to wonder at its cause.

“Is this wise, Erik?” Lady Trevayne murmured softly. “Are you not tempting fate?”

Kristine winced as her husband's grip tightened on her hand; then, without a word, he released his hold and stalked out of the church.

Lady Trevayne looked at Kristine, then slowly shook her head. “Leyla and Lilia will see you to your new home, daughter. Fare thee well.” And so saying, she moved past Kristine and knelt at the altar, where she bowed her head in prayer.

Glancing over her shoulder, Kristine saw the two women who had assisted her at the prison waiting for her near the door.

“Do not be afraid, child.” The priest offered her a reassuring smile as he firmly traced the sign of the cross on her brow with a spatulate thumb. “Go with God and fulfill your duty, as a wife should.”

With a nod, Kristine followed the two silent women out of the church.

A shiny black carriage drawn by a pair of matched chestnut geldings awaited her. When she was settled inside, the two silent women joined her. She heard the crack of a whip, and the carriage lurched forward.

 

 

Trevayne paced the deep shadows of his chamber, waiting. In the adjoining room, Leyla and Lilia were preparing his bride for bed.

His bride. He had chosen her because she was marked for execution, because she had been the most pathetic of the lot, because he had looked at her scrawny arms, flea-bitten legs, and shorn head and felt nothing. Nothing at all. He had not expected her to clean up so well. Washed and scrubbed and clad in ice blue silk, her dark green eyes luminous beneath the gossamer veil, she had looked incredibly young and vulnerable, like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother's clothes.

He wished she had remained ugly and unattractive.

He raked a hand through his hair. It was time to fulfill his father's last wish, now, while he was still able. As promised, he had taken a bride. In the nights to come, he would plant his seed within the girl's womb and pray it took root quickly. Once the child was born and pronounced healthy, he would seek the peace of mind and soul that only the grave could bring.

He whirled around as the door opened. Leyla stood there. She nodded, indicating that his bride was ready.

With a sigh, he waved the buxom woman away. Then, taking a deep breath, he left his chamber to do his duty.

 

 

Kristine paced the floor, her nervousness increasing with the passing of each minute.

The women who had attended her in the prison had readied her for her bridal night. She had surmised, from their strong resemblance to each other, that they were sisters. Had they been born mute, she wondered, or had their tongues been taken as punishment, or perhaps to silence them?

They had bathed her, powdered her, and dressed her in a diaphanous white gown that revealed far more than it hid, though she had little to hide, small-breasted and skinny as she was.

Unable to help herself, she reached up again and again to finger the ends of her shorn locks, which barely brushed her ears. Her one true beauty taken from her.

In an effort to avoid thinking of what was to come, she studied her surroundings. The chamber was large, larger than any room she had ever seen. Intricately woven tapestries hung from the walls. A thick carpet covered the floor. The bed was bigger than her room at home. The soft mattress was covered with fine linens and furs and numerous pillows in all shapes and sizes.

A small writing desk and chair occupied one corner. She would have no need of that, she mused. Even if she were so inclined, she had no one to write to, no friends, no family.

A round table held a ewer and matching basin, both painted with tiny blue flowers.

Standing in the middle of the room, she turned around slowly, realizing as she did so that there were no mirrors—not on the wall, not on the dressing table. That seemed passing strange for a lady's chamber, but then, much of what had transpired in the past few days had been strange in the extreme.

With hands that shook, she poured herself a glass of water. In spite of the circumstances that had brought about her marriage, she was determined to make the best of it. She knew nothing of her husband save for the rumors she had heard. She reminded herself that rumors were seldom accurate and rarely contained more than a grain of truth. Gossip had a tendency to grow and take on a life of its own the more oft it was repeated. People had talked about her, too. Little they had said was true. Holding that thought in mind, she endeavored to put her fears away. She would not judge her husband by what she had heard or by what others thought, but by how he treated her.

Going to the window, she stared out into the darkness beyond, one hand absently massaging her neck. Her husband had paid a high price for her, had saved her from a horrible fate. She could not fathom his reasons for taking a condemned woman for his bride, but he had and she would ever be grateful. She knew of several women in the village who had not met their husbands until the day they wed, and yet these women had grown to love their husbands, had borne them children, had grieved when their men were laid to rest.

Squaring her shoulders, Kristine took a deep breath, determined to be a good wife, to make her husband happy in any way she could and hope that, in time, she would learn to love him and that he would love her in return.

She turned when she heard movement in the hallway, all her good intentions fleeing in the face of reality. He was here! She placed the glass on the table, her heart galloping in her chest as she turned and saw him standing in the doorway. He wore the same long blue cloak he had worn at their wedding. It covered him from head to heel, his face again hidden in the shadow of the cowl's dark folds. Like a phantom from a childhood nightmare, he stood there, silent and still. His gaze moved over her in a long, assessing glance. Was he pleased? Disappointed?

Oh, Lord
, she prayed
, I'm so afraid
.
Please let him like me . . . please let him be kind. . .. I'm afraid . . . so afraid . . .

Wordlessly, he stepped into the room. She had forgotten how tall and broad he was. The sound of the door closing behind him sounded unusually loud in the stillness.