Beauty's Beast (3 page)

He crossed the floor on silent feet and extinguished the candles, plunging the room into utter darkness. “Get into bed.”

His voice was low and rough, almost a growl. Just hearing it made her throat ache, causing her to wonder if it was painful for him to speak.

“Now!”

The tone of his voice propelled her into bed. She scrambled under the covers, clutching them to her breast, watching, wide-eyed, as he moved toward her, a tall black shadow gliding soundlessly through the darkness. She willed her stiff muscles to relax, told herself this man was her husband. It was her duty to submit to him.

There was a whisper of cloth as he removed his cloak and tossed it aside. He tossed the blankets to the floor. The bed sagged as, fully clothed, he straddled her hips.

She fought the urge to scream as his weight pinned her to the mattress. Fear rose within her, making her heart pound frantically as his hands slid under her gown. Apprehension skittered down her spine as she realized he still wore the glove on his left hand. Effortlessly, he positioned her beneath him.

She shifted her weight, and her hand brushed against his chest.

“Don't!”

“My lord?”

“Don't touch me.”

“My lord?” she repeated, certain she had not heard him correctly.

“Don't touch me.” His voice was deep, yet she thought she detected a note of pain in the harshly spoken words, a pain of the spirit rather than the flesh.

She blinked against the quick rush of tears that welled in her eyes. She had not wanted this marriage, but she had vowed to make the best of it, had promised herself she would do everything possible to please the husband whose face she still had not seen.

“Are you a virgin?” His voice, gravel-rough, broke on the last word.

She nodded, too stunned to speak, ashamed that he had felt the need to ask.

“Answer me.”

“Y . . . yes, my lord.”

She felt his body grow taut, heard him swear under his breath.

“It . . . it displeases you?”

“No. It's just . . . inconvenient.”

“I'm sorry, my lord,” she whispered.

“You needn't be sorry,” he said gruffly.

The tears came then, running quietly down her cheeks. She had been a fool to think he would cherish her, a fool to hope she might come to love him, that he would learn to love her in return. She had thought her husband would be pleased with her innocence, happy to instruct her in the intimacy of the marriage bed.

His hand brushed her shoulder, and she recoiled from his touch.

“You needn't be afraid of me,” he muttered. “I want nothing from you, nothing but a child.”

His hands moved over her body, one rough and calloused, the other sheathed in fine leather. His naked hand slid between her thighs, readying her to receive him. And then he took hold of both her wrists in his gloved hand. To make sure she did not touch him, she mused. What kind of man was he, to be so afraid of her touch?

She heard him swear again as he unfastened his trousers, then positioned his big body between her thighs. She gasped at his weight, cried out as he breached her maidenhead with one quick thrust. He waited for the space of a heartbeat, then moved even more deeply within her, his thrusts becoming faster, harder. His urgency frightened her, and then she heard him swear again, felt him shudder violently.

For a moment, he collapsed on top of her. She felt the silk of his hair against her cheek, the warm whisper of his breath across her bare breast.

And then, as if he had never been there, he was gone, and she was alone in the bed.

Back in his own room, Trevayne paced the floor, his body aching with the need to sheathe himself within his bride's warmth once more, to feel her velvet heat surround him, to inhale the warm, womanly fragrance of her skin. He cursed himself for using her so roughly, for taking her without the loving words and gentleness a bride deserved when her maidenhead was taken. But he had no gentleness left within him, no kindness for himself or anyone else. He had loved once, and it had ended tragically. He would never love again. Nor would he allow anyone to care for him.

It had been more than four years since a woman had willingly shared his bed. Four long years since he had given pleasure and received it in return.

But he could not help imagining what it would have been like to feel his bride's small, soft hands sliding over his skin, to taste her lips, to dip into her mouth and savor the honeyed sweetness within. He regretted not taking the time to explore the enticingly slim body hidden beneath the silken gown. It was his right, after all. She was his now, to do with as he pleased.

But as much as he yearned to explore the lush hills and valleys of her body, he could never allow her to learn the contours of his own. The risk of discovery, of rejection, was far too great, but even greater was the risk of letting himself care, as he had come to care for Dominique. . . .

Remorse seared his heart and soul as her image rose in his mind: Dominique, writhing in agony as her body sought to expel his child; Dominique lying still and white on bloodstained linen; Dominique, her wide blue eyes glazed with pain and empty of life.

Ruthlessly, he thrust the memories from him. He would not think of her now, nor hopefully, ever again, though he doubted that was possible. Instead, he focused on the bed he had left and the young woman who had awaited him there.

He would go to her again tomorrow night, and every night, until she was breeding, and then he would not touch her again.

He would return to the hunting lodge located high in the hills to the south and stay there until one of the women brought word that his wife had been delivered of a healthy child.

And then, his duty done, he would put an end to his life, and with it an end to his guilt, and his pain, and the hideous curse that, in its infancy, had made grown men turn away in revulsion and caused women to flee in horror.

 

 

Kristine sat with her back against the carved headboard, the thick woolen blankets pulled up to her chin. Staring into the inky blackness that engulfed the room, she fought the urge to weep. This had been her bridal night. She had not expected love nor sweet words nor tenderness from the enigmatic stranger she had wed, but neither had she expected him to take her with such blatant disregard for her feelings.

She sighed into the darkness. In truth, she hadn't known what to expect. She had never bedded a man—had, in fact, killed the man who had tried to take her by force. Ironic, that she should marry a man who had, in his own way, been more brutal than Lord Valentine.

He was a strange one, was Erik Trevayne. He had said he wanted nothing from her but a child. The bowels of a filthy prison seemed a strange place to look for a bride. But then, perhaps he didn't like women, didn't want a wife to share his life, but only a fertile belly in which to plant his seed. Strange, how that thought hurt.

She wondered what lay beneath the glove he had worn, why he hid himself from her in the dark, why he would not allow her to see him or touch him. She knew little of the marriage act, but surely it was not usually accomplished with the man fully clothed. What was he hiding?

Perhaps the rumors regarding the Demon Lord of Hawksbridge Castle were true after all. He had certainly taken her like a beast. She felt her anger rise, fueled by hurt and disappointment as her girlish dreams of love and happily-ever-after evaporated like morning dew.

Despair settled over her. She was his wife now, his property, the same as his lands and his horse. As such, she was subject to his every whim. He could do with her whatsoever he wished. He could abuse her, beat her, even kill her, and no one would say a word against him. Why had she let herself think she might find a measure of joy in this union, that he might come to love her? Surely no normal man went hunting for a bride inside prison walls. What a ninny she had been to think she might find happiness in this huge old castle with a stranger. Her determination to make the best of her marriage suddenly seemed ludicrous.

Overcome by a wave of self-pity and remorse, she pulled the covers over her head and cried herself to sleep.

 

 

The two silent women attended her in the morning. One brought warm water so she might bathe while the other stripped the soiled linen from the bed. Kristine felt her cheeks flush when she saw the dark brownish-red stain on the rumpled white sheets, visible evidence that the marriage had been consummated, that she had come to her husband pure and undefiled.

After she bathed, the women powdered her, then dressed her in a luxurious gown of deep green velvet. Nodding their approval, they curtsied and left the room.

Kristine stood there for a moment, fingering the ragged edges of her hair and wondering what was expected of her now. At length, she put on a white ruffled cap trimmed with green ribbon and left the room, slowly making her way down the narrow stairway to the first floor. The aroma of freshly baked bread drew her toward the back of the building.

A tall, painfully thin woman wearing a blue dress and a crisp white apron hurried to meet Kristine as she stepped into the kitchen.

“My lady, what are you doing in here?”

“I'm hungry. Is it all right if I fix something to eat?”

“Gracious, no! It's not seemly for the lady of the house to be in the kitchen.” The woman made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go on with you, now, have a seat in the dining hall. I did not expect you down so early this morning. I shall bring your breakfast immediately.”

“Thank you . . . I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't know your name.”

“But of course you don't, love. I am Mrs. Grainger. Run along now.” She turned to scowl at the scullery maids who were standing behind her, staring wide-eyed at Kristine. “Yvette, set the table quickly. Nan, take the muffins from the oven. I can almost smell them burning.”

Kristine slipped out of the kitchen and peered down the long hallway, wondering behind which door she might find the dining hall.

 

 

The china clock on the carved sideboard chimed merrily as Kristine stared down at more food than she had ever seen at one time. Muffins and biscuits and tarts, bowls of fresh fruit and thick cream, a cup of hot cocoa, fat sausages, and eggs swimming in butter. She looked at the food and could not help wondering how Mrs. Grainger stayed so thin in the midst of such abundance.

She sampled everything and found it all delicious.

“Is it to your liking, Lady Trevayne?”

She looked up to find Mrs. Grainger standing beside her chair. “Oh, yes, it's wonderful. I've never tasted anything like it.”

The cook beamed with pleasure. “Can I be bringing you anything else?”

“Oh, no, thank you.”

The woman smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just you wait until you see what I have planned for your supper.”

“Has my . . . my husband already eaten?”

A shadow flickered in Mrs. Grainger's pale blue eyes. “Lord Trevayne takes his meals in his room.”

“Oh. I . . . I didn't know.”

Mrs. Grainger glanced around the opulent dining room, then sighed with regret. “No one ever eats in here.”

“No one?” Kristine frowned. “I thought . . . doesn't his lordship's mother live here?”

“Not for the last year or so, my lady. Her departure was quite abrupt. Nan said she heard Lord Trevayne and his mother quarreling one night, though what they were arguing about remains a mystery.” Mrs. Grainger clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes widening. “I'm sorry, my lady. I should not be telling you this. 'Tis only kitchen gossip, after all.”

“And you have no idea why she left?”

Mrs. Grainger tucked her hands into the pockets of her apron. “I think Lord Trevayne ordered her out of the house.”

“He ordered his own mother out of the house!” Kristine exclaimed, shocked at the very idea. “Why would he do such a thing?”

Mrs. Grainger shook her head. “I'm afraid I couldn't say.” The words
I've said too much already
hung unspoken in the air between them.

“Where does his mother live now?”

“At the convent at St. Clair.”

“A convent! Whatever for?”

“It was her choice. She could have gone to live at one of Lord Trevayne's other holdings, but she said she preferred to live with the good sisters. I think she just wanted to stay close by.” Mrs. Grainger cleared her throat. “Are you sure I can't be getting you anything else, my lady? More tea, perhaps?”

“No, thank you.” Rising, Kristine folded her napkin in half and placed it on the table.

“It will be all right, my lady,” the cook said kindly.

Kristine nodded, disconcerted by the look of sympathy in the older woman's eyes.

Leaving the dining room, she wandered through the castle. It was large, immaculately clean, furnished in the height of fashion. Imported carpets covered the floors, expensive paintings and tapestries hung on the walls. One door was locked. She thought it curious, when all the others were open.

Going into the kitchen, she queried Mrs. Grainger.

“It's the ballroom,” Mrs. Grainger said.

“Why is it locked?”

“That's something you'll have to ask his lordship,” the housekeeper replied.

With a nod, Kristine left the kitchen and continued her exploration of the castle. Ask his lordship, indeed.

So many rooms, she thought as she toured the upstairs. All empty of life.

Finally, she settled on an overstuffed chair in the library, her feet curled beneath her as she tried to read. But she couldn't concentrate on the words, couldn't think of anything but the man who had come to her in the dark hours of the night. Her husband. Would he come to her again tonight?

She sat there for hours, watching the sun sink lower in the sky, watching the horizon blaze with color as the setting sun splashed the heavens with streaks of crimson and gold, her nerves growing taut as night cast her cloak over the land.

She had no appetite for supper. Mrs. Grainger hovered over her, encouraging her to eat, but the food tasted like ashes in Kristine's mouth. She couldn't enjoy the meal, couldn't do anything but wonder if he would come to her bed again.

The maids, Leyla and Lilia, were waiting in Kristine's bedchamber when she entered. Though their facial features were almost identical, Leyla was a few inches taller than her sister. Both were clad in long gray dresses and white aprons; both wore their dark brown hair in tight coils atop their heads.

As they had the night before, they brushed out her hair, dusted her with fragrant powder, and then helped her into a gown. It was a different gown from the one she had worn the night before. Made of fine black silk, it slid sensuously over her body, making her feel a trifle wicked somehow.

Leyla smiled at her reassuringly. Lilia touched her shoulder, and then, bowing, they left the room.

And there was nothing for Kristine to do but wait.

He came to her that night and every night during the following week, rarely speaking, never letting her touch him, hardly touching her. And yet, when he did touch her, she burned as bright as the sun, always wanting more, always reaching for some intangible gift that remained just out of reach, leaving her aching and yearning for something she did not understand. She wondered if he took any pleasure in her bed. He never stayed longer than was necessary; indeed, he always seemed anxious to be gone.

And the more he came to her, the more often he touched her, the more curious she became about the strange man who was her husband.

Now she stared at the door, her body still damp with perspiration, her heart pounding. He had come to her again, like a thief in the night, taking that which he desired, then disappearing into the darkness. What would he do if she refused him? Would he beat her or accept her rejection with cold indifference? Yet even as she considered it, she knew she would never turn him away. She owed him her very life, a debt she could never repay, but more than that, she sensed, deep in her heart, that he needed her in ways he would never admit.

Rising, she filled a basin with water and washed away the visible proof that he had been there, then climbed back into bed and huddled beneath the covers, wondering what it would be like to spend the night in his arms.

 

 

Too keyed up to sleep, Erik prowled the floor in front of the door that connected his chamber to his bride's. Perhaps he truly was no better than a rutting beast, as Charmion had declared. He had possessed Kristine only minutes ago, and already his body was hard with wanting her again. What spell had she cast over him, this tiny woman-child with her short, fuzzy hair and luminous green eyes? Had he come under the spell of yet another witch?