Beauty's Beast (4 page)

He came to an abrupt halt in front of her door, wondering if she was still awake, when he heard her scream.

Alarmed, he flung open the door, his gaze darting around the room, but there was nothing amiss, no danger that he could see. And then he heard it again, a high-pitched scream of terror.

She was having a nightmare. In the dim light cast by the bedside candle, he could see her thrashing about. She had thrown off the covers; her nightgown was twisted around her slim hips, exposing a long length of pale, slender thigh.

“No! No, please, please . . . don't make me . . .”

Moving swiftly across the room, he extinguished the candle; then, sitting on the edge of the bed, he gathered the woman, his wife, into his arms.

“Kristine. Kristine!”

She came awake with a start, her body suddenly rigid in his arms.

Kristine took a deep breath as she recognized the harsh, raspy voice of her husband. She stared up at him, wondering, as always, why he hid in the darkness. Were the rumors true? Had he killed his first wife? Had be been marked by the devil?

“Be still, Kristine,” he said, his voice gruff yet kind. “It was only a bad dream.”

“It . . . it was . . .” She shuddered. “It was awful.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No.”

“Tell me.” It was not a request this time.

“I was drowning,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Drowning in a pool of blood. And I couldn't get out. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get out.”

“Awful, indeed,” Erik murmured. “Whose blood?”

“Lord Valentine's. The man who . . . who attacked me.”

Erik grunted softly. “Did you kill him?”

Kristine stared up at him, wishing she could see his face. A strange time for him to ask whether she was innocent or guilty, she mused. She had always thought it most peculiar that he had not inquired as to her guilt or innocence before they wed. Perhaps he had thought it foolish to ask. A woman charged with murder would likely have no qualms about lying as to her guilt.

“Did you kill him, Kristine?”

“Yes! I killed him! I . . . I stabbed him.” Her voice rose hysterically. “He tried to . . . to . . . and I killed him!” She stared up at him through tormented eyes. “I didn't mean to. I only wanted to make him stop, to leave me alone.”

“What were you doing in his house?”

“I tended his children.”

“You? You're little more than a child yourself.”

“I'm ten and seven.”

“Ah, a vast age, to be sure. How long were you employed in his house?”

“Only a few months. My father was struck and killed by a runaway carriage early last winter. He was a teacher, and even though I was a girl, he made sure I learned to read and write and do my sums. Lord Valentine was my father's friend. He hired me to care for and tutor his children.”

Erik grunted softly. Valentine had ever been a notorious rake. “Go on, tell me what happened the night Valentine died.”

Sobs wracked Kristine's body and tightened her throat as she told him what had transpired that night. She saw it all again in her mind, Lord Valentine's florid face leering down at her as he bent her back over the kitchen table, his whiskey-sour breath making her sick to her stomach, his hot, pudgy hands fondling her body, touching her in places she herself had never touched. She had struggled helplessly against him until her hand closed on the butcher knife lying on the table beside her. He had been trying to pry her thighs apart when she plunged the knife into his back.

“I didn't mean to kill him, truly I didn't,” she said, sniffling. “But I was so afraid. . . .”

“It's all right, Kristine.” His voice, usually a harsh rasp, was softer now, almost soothing. “There's no crime in defending your honor.”

He believed her! She felt an immense surge of relief. He believed her when no one else ever had.

Minutes passed. She grew increasingly aware of the strong arms that encircled her; of his breath, warm against her cheek; of the rock-hard thighs that cradled her. Her cheeks began to burn as she remembered the times he had slipped into bed beside her, a dark phantom in the night.

She shifted in his lap and her hand brushed his. He jerked away from her touch as though she had scalded him, then quickly shoved his hand into the pocket of his trousers.

Kristine frowned. His hand had felt . . . odd somehow. Misshapen, and covered with coarse hair.

“Are you all right now?” he asked gruffly.

“Yes. Thank you, my lord.”

He heaved a sigh. He did not want her thanks. He wanted nothing from her but a son to carry on the family name, to fulfill a vow made in a moment of weakness to ease an old man's passing. He held fast to that thought as he laid her back on the bed, drew her gown up over her hips, and positioned himself between her thighs.

She lay still and silent beneath him, like a sacrificial lamb awaiting the slaughter. An image of that drunken sot, Valentine, forcing himself upon her flitted through Erik's mind and he swore under his breath. He was no better than Valentine.

With an effort, he stood up and backed away from the bed. “Rest well, Kristine.”

His voice seemed rougher than usual, as though he were in pain.

“My lord . . .”

But he was already gone.

 

 

Kristine rose before dawn. Sleep had eluded her the night before. Every time she closed her eyes, she had seen images of Lord Valentine lying in an ever-widening pool of blood. Now, head aching, she went to the window, drew back the heavy drapes, and gazed into the yard below.

A man rode out of the morning mist. Mounted on a high-stepping black stallion, he put the horse through its paces: a slow trot, a canter, a graceful walk that looked like the horse was dancing. But it was the man who held her attention. He wore a long gray cloak over a loose-fitting shirt made of fine white wool. Black breeches hugged his muscular thighs. He rode as if he were one with the horse, his body in perfect rhythm with that of his mount. She never saw his commands, never saw his hands or legs move, but the horse responded instantly, stopping, starting, changing direction, rearing up on its hind legs, forelegs pawing the air.

She smiled as the horse bowed. The man dismounted in an easy flowing motion. The long gray cloak he wore swirled around his ankles like fog. The cowl fell back, revealing his face. She stared at him, trying to discern his features, and then, with a shock, she realized he was wearing a mask.

As though feeling her gaze, he looked up. The mask appeared to be made of black cloth and was cut so that it covered the entire left side of his face, as well as a portion of the right. Her heart seemed to stop as his gaze met hers. Waves of anger seemed to roll toward her, like heat radiating from a fire.

With a gasp, she drew back, her hand pressed over her heart, which pounded wildly in her breast.

Erik muttered a vile oath when he saw his bride staring down at him from the window of her bedchamber. Merciful heavens, what was she doing up at this hour? Even the household staff was still abed.

He tossed the stallion's reins to Brandt, gave the horse an affectionate pat on the shoulder, and stalked toward the back of the castle. Kristine had been here for only a few days, yet she had turned his home, and his life, upside down.

She was waiting for him at the scullery door.

Erik came to an abrupt halt, his gaze moving over her in one swift glance. She wore a flimsy blue sleeping gown and matching robe. Bare feet peeked from beneath the ruffled hem of her gown. A white cap trimmed with lace covered her head. To hide her shorn locks, he surmised. The lace framed her face in a most becoming manner.

“What are you doing here?” he asked brusquely.

Kristine swallowed past the lump in her throat. She had forgotten how tall and broad he was. His size intimidated her even more than the black silk mask that covered two-thirds of his face, leaving only his mouth and strong square chin exposed.

She stared at him, mute, wondering what horror lay hidden beneath the mask. She reminded herself that this was the same man who had comforted her the night before.

He swore, the rough timbre of his voice making the oath sound even more vile, and then he swept past her, every line of his body radiating anger. And buried beneath the anger, she sensed a dark and bitter despair.

Kristine stared after him, wondering what manner of man she had wed.

She thought of him all that day. Indeed, there was little else for her to do. She had no tasks to keep her hands busy, nothing else to occupy her mind.

She wandered through the castle, then went outside and walked through the gardens. Vast gardens, well tended. A section of fruit trees, another of vegetables, all carefully weeded. She found a rose garden and followed the white stone path that wandered up one row and down the other. A bed of red blooms, one of white, another of pink, and still another of yellow. Beautiful roses, hundreds and hundreds of them.

In the center of the rose garden, she discovered a pool, and in the center of the pool, a statue of a great hawk, namesake of Hawksbridge Castle, carved of black and white stone.

Kristine walked around the pool, studying the hawk from all sides. It was truly awe-inspiring, almost lifelike as it perched there, wings spread. She would not have been surprised to see it soar heavenward.

Enchanted with the beauty of the grounds, she continued her exploration, a cry of delight erupting from her throat when she happened upon a topiary garden. Trees cleverly trimmed into animal shapes rose all around her. Elephants and horses, a giraffe and a unicorn, a bear and a tiger. Animals she had only seen in pictures. She walked slowly, pausing to study each remarkable sculpture, wondering how it was possible to make the bushes look so alive.

After a time, she returned to the rose garden and sat down on the grass, her skirts spread around her. She ran her fingertips over the smooth silk of her gown. Never before had she worn such fine clothes.

With a sigh, she removed her bonnet and ran a hand over her hair. How long would it take for it to grow out? It had never been cut short before. She felt naked without its warmth and weight, as if a vital part of herself had been shorn away.

It seemed the day would never end, but at last the moon took command of the sky. She ate a lonely supper, took a lengthy bath, then retired to her bedchamber, wondering if he would come to her that night.

Afraid he would, afraid he would not.

Surely no one else had a marriage quite as strange as hers. Curled up in a chair, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

 

 

In his room, Erik paced the floor like a caged beast. Earlier in the day, he had watched Kristine walking through the gardens, more beautiful than any of the flowers. He had watched her and hated her, hated the soft glow in her eyes and the smoothness of her skin, the smile that curved her lips as she paused to admire his roses. He hated her vulnerability, the sweet lilting sound of her voice, the way her name echoed in his mind and lingered on his lips. He hated her for being young, for making him want things that would never again be his.

He ripped the mask away, yanked off his glove, ran his good hand over the hideous contours of his face. Charmion's curse screamed in the back of his mind:
A rutting beast you were, a beast you shall become. Not all at once, my selfish one. Day by day, the change will come upon you. . . .

Day by day, the transformation had happened. So slowly, so subtly, that in the beginning he had been convinced it was only his imagination, his own guilt rising up to torment him. But the day had come when his acquaintances could no longer hide their curiosity about the changes in his appearance. Rumors had flown that he had been stricken with a rare disease that caused the disfiguration, and he had not denied it. Better that rumor than the truth.

Not long after that, he had risen from a troubled sleep. After splashing water on his face, he had stared into the mirror and been horrified by the hideous half-human, half-beastly reflection that stared back at him. On that day, in a fit of horror and helplessness, he had broken every mirror in the castle, save a small one, and the floor-to ceiling mirrors that lined the ballroom, now out of sight behind locked doors.

Since then, the curse had crept over him like some insidious poison, creeping down the left side of his neck, his left shoulder, his arm, his hand. . ..

He lifted his left hand and studied it, horrified as always by the thick yellow nails, the coarse black hairs that covered his arm and the back of his hand, the pelt growing thicker with each passing day. The skin of his palm was thick and growing dark, like the pad of a wolf's paw. Soon there would be nothing human at all about the left side of his body. And in another few months, a year at most, there would be nothing human at all.

Removing the only remaining mirror in the castle from a drawer in his bedside table, he stared at his reflection, struck by the horrible realization that he would look less frightening, less grotesque, when the transformation was at last complete and he was finally, fully, a beast.

Unable to bear the sight of his reflection any longer, he dropped the mirror in the drawer and slammed it shut.

A beast . . . He felt the madness rise up within him, felt it seep into his mind, felt the darkness pulling at him, enticing him. . . . His dreams of late had been filled with images of predator and prey, of blood and death.

“No.” He shook his head. “No!” He repeated the word again and again until the cry of denial became a shout, and the shout became a roar that shook the very walls. “No!”

 

 

Kristine came awake with a start, wondering if she had dreamed that awful heart-wrenching cry. But there it was again, louder this time. She covered her ears in an attempt to blot out the horrible sound. What was it? Surely no one, man or woman, could produce a cry of such complete and utter agony. It penetrated every nerve, every pore, until she thought the anguish of it would cause her heart to break.