Beauty's Beast (8 page)

He stalked the night, as much a part of the darkness as the light of the moon and the glittering stars. The ground was damp beneath his feet as he tracked her across the moor. His nostrils flared, filling with the scent of her warm flesh. The smell of her fear trailed behind her, arousing his ever-growing lust for blood. He could hear the rapid beating of her heart as she realized she was being followed and began to run.

But she couldn't outrun him, could never outrun the beast. He threw back his head and howled, the long, ululating cry filled with the certainty of victory.

Dropping to all fours, he loped after her. Saliva dripped from his jaws. And then he saw her, just ahead. Excitement flowed through him. The thrill of the hunt, the anticipation of the kill, made the blood roar in his ears.

She glanced over her shoulder, her face ghostly white in the moonlight, her eyes wide with fright. She tripped over a vine, a shrill scream of terror rising in her throat as she tumbled to the ground. And then he was on her, his teeth ripping through the thick velvet cloak, sinking into the soft skin beneath. The air filled with the sharp sting of her fear even as his mouth filled with the warm coppery taste of her blood. . ..

“No!” He howled the word, screamed it over and over again. Howled it in anguished denial as his razor-sharp teeth tore into her soft tender flesh. . ..

“Erik! My lord, wake up! Erik!”

Trevayne came awake with a start. Drenched in icy sweat, his heart pounding frantically, he glanced around the room. Had it only been a dream, then? But it had seemed so real.

“Erik!” He heard her fists pounding on the door, demanding entrance to his room. “Erik, let me in!”

He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, then plucked the mask from the table beside his bed and slipped it over his head.

“Erik?”

“I'm coming.” He took a deep, calming breath before he unlocked the door.

“Are you all right?” She lifted the lamp higher, her gaze sweeping over him.

“I'm fine,” he said, his voice rough.

“Are you?”

“Merely a nightmare.” He tried to smile and failed. “You've had them yourself.”

“Yes. Well, then . . .” Her eyelids fluttered down, but not before he saw the sting of his rejection reflected in her eyes.

“I'm sorry, Kristine, I didn't mean to be so curt. I . . . I appreciate your concern.”

“Would you like me to stay with you for a while?”

He glanced at his deformed hand, hidden behind the door, at his foot, hidden in the shadows. He should send her away, but he could not. The thought of being alone was beyond bearing. “Give me a moment.”

He closed the door, quickly removed the long shirt he slept in and pulled on a shirt and a pair of breeches. He slid his hand into his glove, stepped into a pair of soft leather boots. Taking a deep, calming breath, he opened the door and beckoned her inside.

“Can I get you anything, my lord?” She placed the lamp on the table beside his bed. “A glass of wine? Some warm milk, perhaps?”

Trevayne shook his head.

“Is there nothing I can do for you, my lord husband?”

“Why would you want to?” He sat on the edge of the bed and regarded her through narrowed eyes.

Kristine stared at him. All her life she had wanted someone to love, someone to care for. Her father had loved her, in his own way, and she had loved him, but he had ever been busy, too busy to shower a shy daughter with the affection she craved. As frightened as she had been when she learned that the lord of Hawksbridge Castle was to be her husband, she had hoped that he would come to love her, to need her, as no one else ever had. “I'm your wife.”

“Why do you stay here, Kristine? Why don't you hate me? Why haven't you run away?”

Her gaze slid away from his. “I have nowhere else to go, my lord, but if you wish me to leave, I shall do so.”

“You didn't answer my other question.”

“I cannot find it in my heart to hate you, my lord.” Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet his. “You saved me from a cruel death, and for that I shall ever be grateful.”

“And that's why you stay, why you let me into your bed? Because you are grateful?”

He saw the blood rush to her cheeks and wished he could call back the words. “I'm sorry,” he muttered. “Forgive me.”

She refused to meet his eyes. “It's obvious you have no need of me, my lord,” she said stiffly. “I'm sorry if I've . . .” Her voice broke and he knew she was on the verge of tears. “I'm sorry for intruding.”

With a sob, she turned blindly toward the door, wanting only to get away from him. How could she have been so wrong? He didn't need her the way a man needed his wife. And he never would.

“Kristine, wait.”

She hesitated, her hand on the latch, her whole body quivering with the effort to hold back her tears.

“Kristine, what do you want of me?”

“I want to be your wife.”

Trevayne stared at her back, noting the tremors that shook her, the slender shape barely visible beneath her gown. “I don't understand.”

“I want to share your life. I cannot abide living the way I do. I feel like a prisoner. Oh, the castle is lovely, and the servants are kind, but I have no one to talk to, nothing to occupy my time. I'm so lonely.”

She had mentioned that before, he mused, but he had not really listened. “Go on.”

“I want you to take your meals with me. I want to go riding with you when you tour the estate. I want to . . .” She paused, and he saw the telltale flush climb up the back of her neck. “I want to sleep beside you.”

She wanted the impossible, he thought bleakly. She wanted a normal life, but he could not give her that. He closed his eyes, remembering his vow to get her with child, then leave the castle, to end his life when she had borne him an heir. Selfish lout that he was, he had never taken her feelings into account. What would it hurt, to spend a little time with her, to keep her company if that was what she wanted? He refused to acknowledge he wanted it, too, refused to admit that his solitary existence was slowly choking him to death. . .. Ah, death, it loomed before him, shining, beckoning, the only hope he had to end the curse that was slowly robbing him of his humanity.

He took a deep breath, let it out in a slow, pain-filled sigh. “Very well, Kristine, it shall be as you wish.”

“You mean it?” She turned around, her green eyes sparkling with hope. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Thank you, my lord husband.” Smiling shyly, she took a step toward him. “Will you not tell me why you wear a mask?”

“No. You have told me what you want. Now I shall tell you my terms. You will never again ask about the mask, and you will promise to respect my privacy in this matter.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“I shall do my best to be your husband in every way, but I cannot stay the night in your bed.” He lifted a hand to still her protest. “I do not wish to sleep with the mask on,” he explained. The hours of darkness were the only time he was free of it; he could not sacrifice those hours of freedom, not even for her. “If you wish, I shall stay with you, in your bed, until you fall asleep.”

She nodded, hoping her disappointment didn't show. She had thought she might be able to sneak a look beneath the mask while he slept, but he had neatly forestalled the possibility.

“Very well, I agree to your terms.” Kristine held out her hand. “Will you join me in my bed, my lord husband?”

It was too soon. He needed time to adjust to her demands. “We will start our new life together on the morrow, Kristine.”

“As you wish, Lord Trevayne,” she replied. “Sleep well.”

 

 

Their new life started the following morning. Mrs. Grainger stared at Erik, obviously stunned by his presence as he entered the dining room.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said when she had gathered her wits. “Will you be dining with Lady Kristine?”

He nodded curtly as he sat down at the head of the table. He had avoided his servants as much as possible since he had started wearing the mask; had not eaten a meal downstairs in four years. He was aware of Yvette's furtive gaze as she hurried to set a place for him, of Nan's wide-eyed stare as she poured him a cup of tea.

“Good morning, my lord husband,” Kristine said as she swept into the room. “Did you sleep well?”

“No,” he replied candidly. “Did you?”

Twin flags of color rose in her cheeks as she lowered her gaze, her reply a barely perceptible shake of her head. She wondered if he had spent the night tossing and turning, as she had.

“Will you take me riding this morning?” she asked, determined to draw him out, to make him talk to her.

“I had planned to spend the day going over the household accounts,” Erik replied, his voice cool.

Kristine glanced away, but not before he saw the disappointment in her eyes. He did not understand her, he thought. Why did she want to be with him? For all that they were man and wife, she knew nothing about him, would be horrified to know what kind of monster sat at the table with her.

He picked at his food, unable to enjoy the meal while she was watching him. It had been years since he had taken his meals anywhere but in the privacy of his room. He was acutely conscious of his mask. With its silk so lightweight, he managed to forget its presence from time to time. But not now, with Kristine sitting across from him, with the housemaids sending furtive glances in his direction each time they entered the room.

With an exasperated sigh, he pushed away from the table. “Be ready in an hour,” he said gruffly.

 

 

They rode in silence for a time. Erik studied her, noting her stiff posture, her iron grip on the reins.

“Relax your hold,” he said quietly. “The mare has a soft mouth.”

“I don't understand.”

“Her mouth is tender, sensitive to the pull of the bit. You needn't hold the reins so tightly. Nor sit so stiffly. Let yourself move with the mare.”

Kristine tried to do as he said. It was hard at first. She wasn't at ease on the horse and it was hard to relax. But, gradually, she did as he said. Erik told her how to hold the reins, how to guide the mare not only with the reins, but with the pressure of her knees, how to bring the mare to a smooth stop. It amazed her that two strips of thin leather could control so large an animal, but Misty responded instantly.

As Kristine grew more at ease, she found that riding was quite pleasant. The countryside was beautiful, the rocking motion of the mare was restful.

Erik drew his horse to a halt near a narrow stream shaded by silver birches. He dismounted in a fluid motion, then turned and helped her from the saddle.

Kristine stared at his hands at her waist as he set her on the ground. His gloved left hand felt different from his right, though she couldn't quite explain why.

Abruptly, he drew his hands away and took a step backward. “I thought you might like to rest awhile.”

“Yes, I would, thank you.” She sat down on the grass, spreading her skirts around her.

Trevayne felt a sudden tightness in his throat as he looked at her. She wore a forest green riding habit that emphasized her sweet womanly curves and made her eyes glow like emeralds. A wide-brimmed hat with a matching green feather shaded her face and helped hide her shorn locks. She looked beautiful, he mused, beautiful and desirable. If he were a normal man, he would take her in his arms. He would kiss her and caress her, perhaps make love to her there, on the grass, with none but the sun to know.

But he was not a normal man, and she would turn away from him in horror, repulsed by his face and body, by the thought of giving herself to a monster.

“My lord?”

The sound of her voice brought him back to the present. “What is it?”

“Is something wrong?”

Wrong? He almost laughed out loud. She had no idea just how wrong things were. The good Lord willing, she would never know.

Kristine stared up at him, at his eyes, which looked dark and haunted behind the mask. “Why will you not confide in me?”

His eyes narrowed. “Confide in you? About what, pray tell?”

“Why you feel the need to wear a mask.” As soon as she spoke the words, she remembered her promise not to mention it again, but she forged on. “Why that witch woman called you a demon and urged me to leave with her before it was too late.”

He stared at her, his hands clenched at his sides, his breathing suddenly harsh and uneven.

“What did she mean about every tear and every drop of blood her daughter shed?”

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. For a moment, Kristine thought he might strike her; then he turned away, his shoulders shaking.

Kristine stared at him in amazement. Was he crying?

Rising, she went to stand behind him. “Erik? Erik, I'm sorry.”

“Go back to the house.”

She had ruined it, she thought, ruined what could have been the nicest day they had spent together since their marriage. She was about to turn away when she heard a muffled sob. He
was
crying, and it was all her fault.

Without stopping to consider the consequences, she put her arms around him, her front pressed to his back, and hugged him. “My lord? Erik? I'm truly sorry. Please forgive me.”

He stiffened in her embrace, his body as rigid as stone, and then, as if a dam had broken inside him, he began to cry, deep gulping sobs that shook his frame from head to foot. His tears dripped onto her hands.

“It will be all right.” She murmured the words as she stroked his back. Shudders wracked his body. “Erik, please don't cry.” Guilt rose within her. What had she said to cause him such pain?

Not knowing what else to do, she continued to speak to him in low, soothing tones, one arm wrapped loosely around his waist, the other stroking his back . . . his back. . .. She ran her hand over him, her fingertips detecting a difference between one side and the other. She lifted her hand a little and massaged his shoulders. Was his left shoulder larger than the right?