Beauty's Beast (5 page)

She cried out in alarm as the door to her room crashed open and he stood there, every muscle in his long, lean body taut, his eyes burning through the slits in the mask.

“Get into bed.”

Frightened, she scrambled out of the chair to obey.

He extinguished the lamps, plunging the room into darkness. After unfastening his breeches, he ripped the flimsy sleeping gown from her body, then settled himself between her thighs, his gloved hand imprisoning both of hers above her head.

He closed his eyes, hating himself for taking her as if she were no more than a harlot, hating her for letting him do it without complaint.

She moved beneath him, the slight shifting of her hips settling him more deeply within her. With a groan, he buried his head against her shoulder, his body convulsing violently. A low moan trembled in her throat when he withdrew. Had he not known better, he might have thought it a protest at his leaving.

Praying that she would soon conceive, he left her lying there, unloved, unsatisfied.

 

 

As soon as Trevayne left her chamber, Kristine slipped from the bed and drew on a robe of soft pale blue velvet lined with dark blue silk. Sitting at the little writing desk, she opened the small leather-bound book that Mrs. Grainger had procured for her. Kristine had protested that it was much too fine, that all she wanted were a few sheets of paper, but Mrs. Grainger had insisted she keep the journal, saying there were many more where that one had come from.

With a sigh, Kristine opened the book, picked up her quill, and began to write.

Leaning forward, she dipped the quill in the ink again, then paused a moment to reflect on her words before continuing on.

Kristine woke early the next morning, determined to discover what her husband was hiding beneath the mask. She was tired of wondering, tired of being afraid. She had married the lord of Hawksbridge Castle for better or worse, and she would not rest until she discerned all there was to know about him.

She had no idea where this sudden surge of courage had come from. She had always been a rather cowardly creature, afraid of the dark, frightened of the unknown.

Perhaps it was merely feminine curiosity, the same insatiable curiosity that had compelled Pandora to open that accursed box. Kristine only hoped that whatever she discovered would not prove to have such disastrous results!

Erik had never come to her during the day. So, if he would not come to her, she would go to him. Remembering that she had seen him riding early yesterday morning, she dressed in the clothing she had worn the day before, plucked her bonnet from the chair, tied the ribbons beneath her chin, and then looked around for her shoes.

Thinking that one of the servants might have put them in the armoire, she opened the doors. And blinked in astonishment at the sight that met her eyes. Dresses. More dresses than she had ever seen. Where had they all come from?

Frowning, she stepped forward for a closer look, her hands moving lightly over the bounty before her. Yesterday there had been only three dresses and a pair of half-boots. Today there were at least twenty gowns in a wide variety of fabrics—fine muslins, delicate silks, lush velvets and satins. And the colors! Rich blues, deep greens, warm reds. Stripes and plaids. There were matching slippers and boots. Petticoats. A dozen exquisite bonnets perched on the top shelf.

Turning away from the armoire, she opened the drawers in the highboy, a soft exclamation of delight rising in her throat at the bounty she found there—fans and gloves and lace-edged handkerchiefs, delicate camisoles and silk stockings.

As she dropped a pair of gloves in her pocket, she wondered again where it had all come from, though there was but one logical answer—Erik. She was the wife of a wealthy man. It was only fitting that she look the part.

After pulling on a pair of boots from the armoire, she ran down the stairs and across the yard toward the barn.

Hearing voices, she ducked into an empty stall, her heart pounding with fear at being discovered. Huddled in a corner, she heard footsteps as the stable boys led Erik's horse out of its stall.

A few minutes later she heard the harsh rasp of her husband's voice, the clatter of hooves as he led the stallion from the stable.

Popping up from her hiding place, she saw Erik walking his big black stallion across the yard toward the flatlands beyond.

If she hurried, she might catch him.

“You there!” she called to the stable boys, hoping her voice had the proper ring of authority. “Saddle me a horse immediately.”

The two boys whirled around. “My lady,” they exclaimed, almost in unison.

“My horse, quickly!”

The boys exchanged glances. “We had best do as she says, Brandt,” the taller of the two suggested.

“Yes, indeed,” Kristine said with asperity.

“She should have a sidesaddle,” Brandt said. “It isn't fitting for a lady to ride astride.”

“Then fetch me a sidesaddle,” she said impatiently. If they didn't hurry, she would never find Lord Trevayne.

“Begging your pardon, my lady,” Brandt said. “But we don't have one. The master's first wife didn't ride.”

“Just saddle my horse,” Kristine said. “And be quick about it!”

In a matter of minutes, she was standing beside a long-legged, cream-colored mare. “Has she a name?”

“Aye, White Mist,” Brandt replied, “but we call her Misty.”

“Is she gentle?”

“Yes, my lady, you've nothing to fear. She has a soft mouth and a fine disposition.”

Brandt helped her mount. Until then, she had not realized how tall the mare was. The ground suddenly seemed quite far away and Kristine felt her newfound courage rapidly deserting her. She had never been on a horse before; now, seated precariously on the leather saddle, with nothing to cling to, she began to think she had made a terrible mistake.

But there was no turning back, not if she hoped to follow Lord Trevayne. Casting a tremulous smile at the two stable boys, she clucked to the mare, breathed a sigh of relief when the animal walked out of the barn.

Kristine was wondering how to make the mare go in the direction she wished when Misty turned of her own accord, following the path Erik's stallion had taken.

Kristine focused all her concentration on remaining in the saddle. The thin reins clasped in her gloved hands didn't seem sturdy enough to control such a huge beast. Experimenting, she tugged on the left rein, then the right, laughing with delight as the mare turned left, then right. Reaching up to resettle her hat, Kristine accidentally tugged on the reins and the mare came to an abrupt halt, almost unseating her.

“This isn't so hard,” Kristine mused aloud. It was, in fact, rather exhilarating to be out riding so early in the morning. Diamond drops of dew still clung to the grass, the birds were singing cheerfully high in the treetops, the sky was a bright clear blue.

Kristine had left the castle far behind when she heard the neighing of a horse. Erik's horse? Her heart began to pound in anticipation at seeing him. Misty whinnied a reply and then, without warning, broke into a gallop.

With a startled shriek, Kristine toppled from the saddle. She saw the ground rushing up to meet her.

And then she saw nothing at all.

Trevayne reined his stallion to a halt as a woman's cry shattered the early-morning stillness. For one swift moment, he was transported back in time as the sound of Dominique's last anguished cry rang down the corridors of his mind.

Shaking the memory away, he wheeled the stallion around and rode back the way he had come. Rounding a stand of timber, he saw Misty trotting toward him, head lifted high to avoid stepping on the dangling reins.

Catching up the mare, Trevayne urged his horse into a gallop, a sudden sense of unease knifing through him.

He reined the stallion to a halt, his heart pounding with trepidation when he saw Kristine sprawled facedown on the dew-damp grass. Vaulting from the saddle, Trevayne knelt beside her, his gloved hands skimming over her arms and legs, along her back and neck. Satisfied that there were no broken bones, he removed her bonnet and examined the back of her head. Anger flared within him as he ran his fingertips over the short frizziness of her hair. Then, as carefully as he could, he turned her over, cradling her in his lap.

“Kristine?”

Her eyelids fluttered open at the sound of his voice.

“Kristine?”

She blinked at him. “My lord.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I don't think so. What happened?”

“It seems you took a fall. What are you doing out here? Who gave you permission to ride?”

“No one gave me permission,” she admitted, not quite meeting his eyes.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked again.

Should she tell him the truth? Would he be angry? What was he thinking? The mask hid most of his features. Leather riding gloves covered his hands. He wore a shirt of finely woven gray wool beneath a black broadcloth coat; black riding breeches were tucked into expensive black boots.

“Answer me.”

Something warned her not to lie to him. “I was following you.”

“Following me?” Surprise flickered in his eyes. “Why?”

“Because I . . . that is . . .” Her gaze slid away from his. “I was curious, my lord.”

“Curious?”

“About where you go. I never see you except . . .” She took a deep breath, disconcerted by his unwavering gaze. “I never see you during the day.”
Or in the night
. The unspoken accusation hovered between them.

He muttered something under his breath, then eased her from his lap. Rising, he stared down at her for a long moment; then, reaching for her hand, he helped her to her feet. He released her as soon as she was steady.

“Come,” he said gruffly. “I'll take you back.”

Kristine bit down on her lower lip; then, summoning her courage, she asked, “Do we have to? Go back, I mean.” She spread her hands in a gesture that encompassed the surrounding countryside. “It's so pretty out here. And I do like riding. It's quite . . . exciting.”

“You want to ride with me?” he exclaimed, disbelief evident in his voice, in the taut lines of his body.

“Yes, my lord, very much.”

“Have you ever ridden before today?”

She shook her head, wondering if such an admission was wise. Would he make her go back, now that he knew she was a novice?

“I shall have Brandt give you lessons.”

Taking up Misty's reins, he led the mare to Kristine. “Are you certain you wish to ride with me?”

She nodded, feeling a rush of excitement as Erik's hands closed around her waist. He lifted her effortlessly into the saddle, handed her the reins, then swung onto the stallion's back and clucked to the horse.

Kristine urged Misty up beside him. They rode side by side, not speaking.

In spite of her earlier remark about the beauty of her surroundings, Kristine paid little heed to the passing countryside. The trees might have been blue, the sky green, for all the notice she took. All her senses were riveted on the man riding beside her. The tall, dark mysterious man who was her husband. Erik . . .

She watched him furtively. He rode easily in the saddle, the reins loosely held in his right hand. His left hand, curled into a tight fist, rested on his thigh. Her gaze moved over his broad back and shoulders. He was as well muscled as the big horse he rode. Her gaze lingered on the blue-black highlights in his hair, was drawn again and again to the mask that covered his face. What was he hiding beneath that bit of black silk?

Trevayne was acutely aware of her veiled glances in his direction. He understood her curiosity. What he didn't understand was why she wanted to ride with him. He had given her no reason to desire his company.

The silence stretched between them, thrumming like a tuning fork. Kristine glanced at his gloved hands, remembering how they felt moving over her body, wondering again if his left hand was deformed in some way. He shifted in the saddle and she watched the play of muscles beneath his coat, felt her mouth go dry as he turned to face her.

Desperate to break the taut silence between them, she cast about for some safe topic of conversation. “All this land,” she said, making a sweeping gesture with one hand. “Is it yours?”

He nodded curtly. “And yours, too, madam.”

She felt a rush of heat climb up her neck and into her cheeks as he reminded her, in his rough, gravel-like voice, that she was also his. She wondered if he had been injured somehow, if that was what caused his voice to be so harsh.

“Where does your . . . our . . . land end?”

“At the stream, just beyond that rise. The property across the water belongs to Lord Farthingale.”

Kristine nodded, though she had no idea who Lord Farthingale might be.

She looked at Erik, her gaze again drawn to the mask. She saw his eyes narrow, his muscles tense, as he endured her scrutiny.

Muttering an oath, he reined the stallion to a halt.

Unwilling to pass the stallion, Misty planted her feet. With a startled cry, Kristine grabbed at the saddle to keep from flying over the mare's neck.

“Why did you come after me?” Erik rasped.

“My lord?”

“Answer me, damn you. Why were you following me?”

She flinched at the bitterness in his voice, the quiet rage in his eyes.

“Answer me!”

“Because I . . . I thought that we should spend some time together.”

“Did you?”

His voice, that low, gruff voice, struck her like shards of glass. She nodded, her hands clenching and unclenching on the reins.

“Did it not occur to you that I might wish to be alone?”

“Do you?”

Two words. Small words. Simple words. They drew the anger from him as effectively as a poultice drew poison from a wound. Of course he didn't want to be alone. He wanted his old life back. He wanted to be able to go riding along the public roads again, to while away the hours gambling with his former cronies, to dine with old friends, to dance with a pretty woman who would smile at him instead of turning away in horror. Alone? He was utterly weary of being alone, of life.

She was watching him, silent, curious, perhaps even afraid. Well, she should be afraid. Soon he would be more monster than man. He stared into her eyes, those luminous emerald-green eyes that haunted his sleep, and wished he could sweep her into his arms and bury himself in her warmth, here, now, with the sun shining upon them like a benediction. Wished he could strip away his mask and clothing and feel the honeyed warmth of her silken skin against his. . ..