Beauty's Beast (9 page)

Her curiosity rising, she ran her hands up and down his arms. His left arm felt different beneath the fine cloth of his coat, larger.

She was pondering what it could mean when he suddenly whirled around to face her. He wasn't crying now. Anger blazed in his dark eyes as he captured both her hands in his right one.

“What are you doing?” he asked in a voice that could only be called a growl.

“Nothing . . . I . . . nothing . . .”

She stared up at him, transfixed.

“I told you not to touch me.”

“I . . . I didn't mean any harm.”

She trembled in his grasp, her eyes wide with fright. He had a horrible urge to fling her to the ground, to strip off his mask and clothing and let her see the monstrous horror that was slowly engulfing his face and body. He wanted to frighten her, to hurt her. To make love to her until they were both breathless.

With an oath, he released her hands. “Go back to the house.”

She didn't argue this time. With a wordless cry, she whirled around and ran for her horse. He had a quick flash of one long stocking-covered leg as she pulled herself into the saddle and rode away without a backward glance.

 

 

Kristine sat at her desk, scribbling furiously, her head aching from the tears she had shed earlier.

Kristine froze, her pen poised over the page, as she heard the door to her room swing open. Even before she turned around, she knew he was there.

He loomed tall and broad in the doorway. His coat was gone, his cravat was askew.

“My lord?”

“Yes, wife?”

“Is something amiss?”

He shook his head, one hand braced against the wall. “I forgot about my vow.”

“Your vow?”

He nodded, his words slurring together as he said, “I have come to fulfill it.”

She stared at him, horrified by the realization that he was drunk.

“I promised my father an heir.” He closed the door and shot the bolt home. “Get into bed.”

“Now?” Her voice emerged as little more than a frightened squeak.

“Now.”

She stood up, knocking the chair over in the sudden panic that engulfed her. Her gaze darted around the room, her heart beating frantically. She had never refused him, never truly been afraid of him, until this moment. Behind the mask, his eyes burned like glowing coals.

He took a step toward her, and she retreated.

A low growl rose in his throat as he reached for her.

With a shriek, she tried to slip past him, but his hand closed over her arm, holding her fast.

“Don't,” she whispered. “Please don't. Not like this.”

“I must, my sweet Kristine. It is the only way to end this torment.”

She turned away as his whiskey-soured breath filled her nostrils.

A low groan rumbled in his throat as he drew her up hard against him, one arm holding her close. His right hand clasped her chin, holding her head still while he bent down to cover her mouth with his.

“Sweet,” he murmured. “Sweet.”

She tried to turn her face away, to free herself from his grasp, but it was impossible. He held her firmly, easily. She could feel every taut line of his body pressed against hers from shoulder to thigh. His tongue plundered her mouth and she tasted the whiskey he had been drinking.

She gasped when he swung her into his arms and carried her to bed. Depositing her none too gently on the mattress, he began to undress her. Clumsy in his haste, he ripped her gown and then, with a cry of frustration, he tore off her undergarments, flinging them across the room, until she lay on the bed, fully exposed to his rapacious gaze.

“Don't.” She whispered the word, knowing, in her heart, that it would do no good. “Please, don't.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over her body like a flame, bringing a hot flush of embarrassment to her cheeks.

He moved away from the bed to extinguish the lamp and close the drapes, plunging the room into utter darkness. She felt the bed sag under his weight as his body covered hers, pressing her down into the mattress. His gloved hand imprisoned both of hers while his other hand caressed her.

She had expected him to be rough, to take her quickly and be gone, but his hand was infinitely gentle as it glided over her body, arousing her against her will. She heard him curse under his breath, and then he was kissing her again. There was no violence in him now, nothing but tenderness as he rained kisses over her face and neck.

She tried to remain impassive, but her body betrayed her. Had he been cruel, she might have resisted, but he made love to her with infinite care, whispering to her all the while, praising her beauty, the softness of her skin, the sweetness of her lips, and she found herself responding, found herself wishing her hands were free so that she might stroke his back and shoulders, that she might run her fingers through his hair. She tried to draw her hands from his, but he tightened his hold.

“No,” he whispered. His voice was deep and husky, but there was no anger in it.

He kissed her shoulders, the curve of her neck—long, lingering kisses that excited her, until she writhed beneath him.

“Now,” she begged, and lifted her hips in silent invitation.

“Now,” he agreed. Reaching down, he unfastened his trousers.

A moment later, his body merged with hers. She thought she heard him whisper, “Please don't hate me, Kristine,” but she couldn't be sure, and then there was no time to wonder, there was only the exquisite pleasure of his body melding with hers as he moved deep within her.

She moaned softly as heat rippled through her, warm, sweet heat that touched every nerve, filled every hollow. She cried his name as pleasure burst within her, felt him shudder as he found his own release. Needing to touch him, she tried again to free her hands.

“No, Kristine.”

“Why?” she asked petulantly. “Why can't I touch you?”

She tried to see his face in the darkness, but he was only a dark shadow rising above her, a phantom lover who came to her in the night and disappeared with the dawn.

He rested his forehead against hers, his hair brushing her cheeks. “Don't ask.”

She felt his body relax, felt his hand move aimlessly over her body, stroking her arm, the curve of her breast, the curly cap of her hair. She wondered if he would fall asleep, wondered if he did, whether she dared light the candle and discover what he was hiding from her.

Minutes passed. She could hear the tick of the clock on her dressing table, the faint whisper of the wind against the windows. His breath fanned her cheek.

Then, with a sigh, he rolled away from her and stood up. She could feel him watching her as he fastened his trousers.

“Good night, Kristine.”

“My lord, I . . .”

“What?”

“Can we not start again?”

He blew out a deep sigh. What did she want from him? Surely she realized theirs would never be a normal relationship.

“Will you not stay with me until I fall asleep?”

He closed his eyes, his hands clenching. “If you wish.”

“I do. Very much.”

He heard the rustle of cloth as she drew back the blankets in silent invitation.

Wordlessly, he returned to the bed and slid in beside her. A moment later, she rested her head on his right shoulder. Why, he wondered, why didn't she hate him? He had given her no cause to feel otherwise. Was she so desperate for attention, she was willing to settle for whatever he was willing to give?

With a sigh of resignation, he slipped his arm around her shoulders and drew her against his side.

“Will you take breakfast with me on the morrow?” she asked.

Erik nodded. It would have been easier to live with her hatred, her scorn. He feared her affection would destroy him. He did not want her to care for him, did not want to care for her in return.

“Good night, my lord,” she murmured.

“Good night, Kristine.”

He stroked her hair, listening as her breathing became slow and even. When he was certain she was asleep, he brushed a kiss across her lips, rekindled the lamp beside her bed and then, reluctantly, left her chamber for his own.

The next few weeks passed quietly. Trevayne took his meals with Kristine. He spent his mornings looking after the affairs of the estate, took Kristine riding each afternoon. She quickly became an accomplished horsewoman. Even though the grooms were there to do her bidding and care for her horse, he taught her to saddle and bridle her own mount, insisted she learn the proper way to curry the mare, how to check Misty's feet and clean her hooves. Kristine proved to be a good student. She listened carefully to everything he told her, asked intelligent questions.

In the evenings, they usually retired to the library, which was Trevayne's favorite haunt. It was a large room, dominated by an enormous fireplace made of stone. Bookshelves bursting with all manner of books lined the walls. Heavy dark green draperies covered the windows, shutting out the shadows of the night. A large oak desk and leather chair stood in one corner of the room; a pair of overstuffed chairs covered in a dark green-and-gold stripe were placed invitingly in front of the hearth.

Some nights, he read the newspaper while she worked on a piece of embroidery. Some evenings he asked her to read to him. He taught her to play chess. Sometimes, as now, they sat in front of the fireplace, reading.

Each evening he followed her up the stairs and made love to her in the concealing darkness of her bedchamber. Ah, the hours he spent there, learning the contours of her body, exploring the softly rounded curves, the subtle hills and warm, deep valleys. Learning what brought her pleasure, what made her laugh, what made her burn like a living flame in his arms. He yearned to feel her hands on him, to feel her lips move across his flesh as she explored him in turn, but such a thing was beyond the realm of possibility.

When he had taken her to wife, he had hoped she would conceive immediately so that his vow to his father would be fulfilled and he could seek the solitude of his hunting lodge. But as the weeks passed into months, he found himself hoping his seed would not take root within her womb. It was foolish to let himself care for her when there could be no future for the two of them, no lasting happiness, yet he could not help wishing for more days in her company, more nights in her bed.

Being with her was torture of the most exquisite kind, sheer agony to know that their time together must soon end. The malignant affliction brought on by Charmion's curse was spreading to the toes of his right foot. He could feel the wretched change being wrought upon his body, an excruciating pain in bone and tissue as his flesh fought against its new shape.

Soon, it would not be a human foot at all, but a paw like the other, complete with fur and claws.

Soon, he would not be human at all, but an animal. Morbidly, he wondered if, when the hideous transformation was complete, he would lose the power of speech. Already his voice was altered, so that it often sounded more animalistic than human. Even more frightening than the possibility of losing the ability to speak was the possibility that he would lose all memory of being human . . . and he wondered which would be worse, to forget his humanity entirely, or to remain aware that he had once been a man, damned to spend the rest of his life trapped in the guise of a beast.

“Erik?”

He looked up to find her staring at him.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.” He laid his book aside. “Why do you ask?”

“You seem so far away.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I was going to ring for a cup of tea. Would you care for some?”

“I would rather have a brandy.”

She nodded, a flicker of concern giving her pause as she recalled the night he had come to her, intoxicated. That had not happened again, though she knew there were nights when he sought solace in a glass of whiskey.

A few minutes later, Nan entered the library.

Kristine relayed their wishes, then closed the book she had been pretending to read. For perhaps the hundredth time, she wondered what was troubling Erik. What secret was he keeping from her? It was more than just whatever disfigurement he hid behind the mask. She had hoped he would come to trust her enough to confide in her, prayed that, in time, he would come to care for her, as she was learning to care for him.

She knew there were times when he was in terrible pain, but he would not reveal the cause. She knew something weighed heavily upon his mind, but he would not divulge the reason. And yet she could not help but be heartened by the gradual change in their relationship. He seemed to genuinely enjoy her company. They ate their meals together, spent time together each day. Made love each night. It was a victory, of a sort, and she reminded herself again to be patient.

Nan returned a few minutes later. She handed Kristine a delicate china cup of peppermint tea sweetened with wild honey, and handed Erik a snifter of brandy.

“Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“No. Thank you, Nan.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy and left the room.

Kristine regarded her husband over the rim of her cup. He drained the glass in a few quick swallows. Placing the empty snifter on the table beside him, he rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. She saw the tension drain out of him as the brandy's warmth seeped through him.

Slowly, she sipped her tea, watching him all the while. His gloved hand relaxed in his lap, the tension went out of his shoulders. Was he asleep? She watched a few more minutes, but he didn't stir.

Almost before the thought crossed her mind, she was on her feet, tiptoeing toward him, the temptation to peek beneath the silk covering on his face overpowering in its intensity.

She stood beside his chair, her heart pounding so loudly, she wondered that it did not awaken him. Now was her chance to see what lay beneath the mask. She took a deep breath, held it for the space of a heartbeat. Now. It had to be now. She might never get another chance.

She was reaching for the bottom edge of the mask when she suddenly drew back, hands clenching at her sides. She had promised to respect his privacy; if she peeked beneath the mask without his consent, she would be breaking her promise, violating his trust. And trust, once shattered, could never be fully regained.

Fighting the urge to stamp her foot in frustration, she returned to her chair and finished her tea.

 

 

Kristine stared at the invitation in her hand. It was addressed to Lord and Lady Trevayne. It seemed odd to see her married name in writing. Lady Trevayne. She rarely thought of herself as such. In spite of her luxurious surroundings and elegant gowns, she was just Kristine.

She turned the envelope in her hands. Dare she open it? She ran her finger over the heavy vellum. Why shouldn't she? It was addressed to her, after all. She broke the seal and withdrew a sheet of monogrammed stationery. It was a handwritten invitation to a masquerade ball to be given by Lord and Lady Courtney Gladstone in three weeks' time.

“What have you got there?”

Feeling suddenly guilty, Kristine whirled around, startled by the sound of Erik's deep-throated voice. “An invitation.” She thrust it toward him, wondering if he would be angry that she had opened it.

Trevayne perused it quickly, then crumpled the page in his hand. There had been a time when Gladstone had been his best friend.

“I guess you don't want to go,” Kristine remarked with a wry grin.

“I don't go out. You know that.”

She nodded, her gaze intent upon his face.

Trevayne regarded her thoughtfully a moment. “Is it your wish to attend?”

“No!” She shook her head vigorously. The thought of mingling with all those highborn people was intimidating in the extreme. She had no social graces to speak of. She didn't know how to dance. She considered herself lucky that her father had taught her to read and write.

Trevayne grunted softly. Perhaps they should attend. When he was gone, Kristine would be mistress of Hawksbridge Castle. She should know who her neighbors were. In spite of her former station in life, she was Lady Trevayne now. He needed to make sure that she would be treated with the respect due her title.

“I was just going for a walk in the gardens,” Kristine said. “Would you care to join me?”

Trevayne smoothed the paper in his hand. “I want you to send a reply to Lady Gladstone and tell her we shall be pleased to attend.”

“What?” Kristine stared at him, certain her ears were playing tricks on her.

Trevayne nodded. “It's time you met your neighbors.”

“But I don't want to go. I can't go.”

“I thought it would please you.”

She shook her head again. “I don't like meeting strangers. And I can't dance. And . . . and what if someone should recognize me? I was in prison, condemned.”

“I doubt you need worry about meeting anyone you would know,” he remarked dryly, “or anyone who would know you.”

“I would rather not take the chance.”

“Enough. We're going. I shall teach you to dance. Leyla and Lilia can teach you anything else you need to know.”

His gaze ran over her. She was young and artlessly beautiful, her heart-shaped face devoid of the garish paint and powder so many women hid behind. She wore a day dress in muted shades of green that made her eyes glow. Her hair had grown out a little, framing her face in a cap of short, dark blond curls.

“But we never go out,” she said. “Why do we have to start now?”

“Ah, but Kristine,” he replied, his voice tinged with bitterness, “a masked ball is the perfect place to start.” He took her hand in his. “Come along,” he said, “you can write our reply, and then we can take that walk.”

With a sigh of resignation, Kristine let him lead her into the library. She sat at his desk, her brow furrowed, as she endeavored to pen a proper reply.

Trevayne sat in the chair near the fireplace, watching her. She had torn up her first two responses and was now laboring over a third. He could have done it for her, but something kept him from offering.

At last, she put her pen aside. “How does this sound?
Dear Lady Gladstone, thank you for your kind invitation. Lord Trevayne and I will be most happy to attend your masquerade ball on June first.
” She looked up at him. “Is it too short? Too curt?”

“No, it's fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Amelia doesn't require a lengthy reply. She merely needs to know how many people to expect.”

“I wish you would write it,” Kristine said petulantly. “Your handwriting is so much neater than mine.”

Rising, Trevayne went to stand behind her chair. He peered over her shoulder, his gaze skimming over the short message she had written.

“It looks fine, Kristine,” he assured her, and then, tempted by the slender curve of her throat and the flowery scent that clung to her hair and skin, he bent down and kissed her cheek.

At the sound of his voice, the touch of his lips, she went still all over. There had been no intimacy between them in the light of day. He came to her bed each night and left after she fell asleep. Except at breakfast, and the hour or two they spent horseback riding in the afternoon, she saw little of him until suppertime. A tiny flicker of hope peeked through the layers of self-doubt. Was he starting to care for her at last?

Startled by what he had done, Trevayne drew back. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to brush his lips across her cheek. Almost, he had gathered her into his arms. Would she have objected? With a mental shake of his head, he went to stand near the hearth, his back toward her. It would be best for them both if he remembered that theirs was a marriage of convenience. He did not want to care for her, did not want her to care for him. Once he had her with child, he would no longer be a part of her life. He would be wise to remember that.

“Have Chilton deliver your reply,” he said tersely. “And tell Judith you will need a costume for the ball.”

“Judith?”

“Mrs. Grainger. I shall see you at dinner.” Hands shoved deep into his pockets, he headed for the door.

“My lord . . .”

He paused, not looking at her. “Yes, Kristine?”

“You were going to walk in the gardens with me.”

“Not now.” He gentled his voice. “I shall teach you to dance after supper.” Without looking at her, he left the room.

 

 

Erik twirled her around the floor, faster and faster, until she was breathless. It was glorious to be in his arms. He was incredibly light on his feet for such a large man, infinitely patient as he taught her to waltz. It was dizzying, to be so close to him, to see the heat in his eyes when he looked at her. She had felt clumsy at first, tripping over her own feet, stepping on his, but he had counted the steps for her, urged her to relax, to forget about her feet and listen to the music provided by Mrs. Grainger's sons, who were out of sight in an adjoining room.

As Erik twirled her around the floor, Kristine watched their reflection in the mirrors that lined the walls of the ballroom. There were no mirrors in any of the other rooms in the castle. She had been surprised to find them here, behind locked doors.

He moved effortlessly, gracefully, leading her through the steps. No longer needing to concentrate on her feet, she smiled up at him.

“You are a most wonderful teacher, my lord husband.”

“And you are a most apt pupil, my lady wife, and as light as a feather in my arms.”

Pleasure engulfed her at his words. Her heart began to pound as his steps slowed, and then he was bending his head toward her, his lips claiming hers.

With a sigh, she melted against him, her hands clutching at the lapels of his coat, her eyelids fluttering down as he deepened the kiss. Wordlessly, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to one of the plush couches that lined three of the walls. After setting her on the cushions, he moved through the room, extinguishing all the lights save one at the far end near the door.