Too soon, Charmion came to his cell and took Kristine away. The witch had let them spend a week together. It had not been kindness on her part, Erik knew that well enough. Never kindness. She had given him a week to bask in Kristine’s love, to grow accustomed to her nearness, to the company and comfort of another human being, and then Charmion had taken her away, knowing his loneliness would be all the more awful to bear when she was gone, and he was again alone.
He howled his anger and frustration, the sound of his rage echoing off the damp stone walls, reverberating in his own ears until the wild animal sound penetrated his mind and he clamped his mouth shut, horrified that such a beastly cry had come from his lips.
Left alone, he padded restlessly back and forth, and everywhere he looked, his image stared back at him, mocking him, tormenting him. Though still manlike in stature, he was not a man. His whole body was covered with thick black fur now, his feet and his left hand were paws. His left ear was wolflike. Only his right hand and the right side of his face remained human. For now, he looked like a man in the costume of a wolf, but soon, soon . . . The horror of what he was becoming made his stomach churn, made him long for death, for the forgetfulness of oblivion.
He wrapped his right hand around one of the bars, wishing he could bend it to his will, wishing he could sink his teeth into Charmion’s black heart. He cursed her for taking Kristine from him. As much as it had bothered him to have her imprisoned in the dungeon, he had treasured Kristine’s company, had loved her all the more for letting him hold her when he was in such monstrous form. Sometimes, he had caught her staring at him, her beautiful green eyes filled with pity and compassion, but never with revulsion or fear. He had the feeling that her presence had been the only thing keeping him sane, feared that being alone with nothing but his own hideous reflection would soon drive him mad.
His fingers tightened around the bar of the cell, his knuckles going white with the strain. He had to get out of there!
“Please,” he prayed, “if I am damned to be a wolf, then let me forget that I was once a man. Let me run wild with Valaree and her pack. Please don’t leave me here, in Charmion’s power, to know that she has destroyed my love, to see my babe and never be able to hold her.” He groaned low in his throat. “Please, please . . .”
He wondered if Charmion would grant him the opportunity to see a priest and confess his sins before the transformation was complete. Would she think it punishment enough to condemn him to hell on earth without damning his eternal soul as well?
Without Kristine, the days passed with agonizing slowness. He paced restlessly back and forth, hour after hour, oblivious to the rough stones that scraped the pads of his feet until they bled. A harsh, bitter laugh rose in his throat. His paws, he amended as he stared at the bloody paw prints that stained the cold gray stones.
“A fine end you’ve come to, my lord of Hawksbridge Castle,” he muttered. “If only your father could see you now!”
He was going quietly mad, he thought, and welcomed the madness that would wipe away the memories of his past, of Kristine, of his unborn child.
He smiled as he thought of how disappointed Charmion would be if he lost his mind. She was looking forward to the time when his mind would be trapped in the body of an animal, but it would never happen if he went mad. Insanity would cheat her of her final victory.
Kristine paced her chamber, her arms wrapped protectively over her womb, her throat and eyes aching from the tears she had shed. She couldn’t seem to stop crying.
She looked around the room, at the sumptuous furnishings, and thought of Erik, locked in a damp cell in the dungeon below. She had a warm bed to sleep in, a soft mattress, fluffy pillows. He had a cold stone floor. She had a wardrobe filled with dresses of the finest silks and satins and soft wools. Erik was naked. Her meals were served hot on plates trimmed with gold; she had clear, cool water or wine or tea to drink. Erik was given a bowl of water and a platter of raw meat.
She would have refused to eat, refused the comfort Charmion offered, had it not been for her child, but she could not starve herself without harming the babe, and she could not risk her child’s life. Even knowing Charmion would take it from her, even knowing she would never see the baby again once it had been born, she could do nothing to cause harm to Erik’s child. Charmion might kill her, might kill Erik, but their child would live, proof that they had once lived. And loved.
She sought forgetfulness in sleep, but her dreams were dark and troubled. Sometimes she dreamed that Erik was a werewolf, that he was stalking her through dark shadowed woods. Sometimes she dreamed they had escaped from Charmion’s castle and returned home and that she was forced to keep Erik locked behind bars to prevent him from tearing their newborn child to shreds.
Charmion came to visit her morning and evening, making certain she was well, asking if there was anything she needed. A midwife had been summoned from the village. A nursery was being readied. Dominique’s cradle was being refinished.
Kristine didn’t know which was worse, the nightmares that haunted her sleep, or the waking nightmare that her life had become.
She thought longingly of Hawksbridge Castle, of Mrs. Grainger and Leyla and Lilia, of Nan and Yvette.
She missed riding Misty.
She missed falling asleep in Erik’s arms. . .. Erik, Erik. Waking or sleeping, he was ever in her thoughts, her prayers.
Daily, she begged and pleaded and demanded to see him again, and finally Charmion agreed.
Kristine’s heart pounded with anticipation as she followed the witch down the narrow flight of stairs to the dungeon. She had forgotten how bright it was down there with the candlelight reflected in the mirrors, candles that burned but never went out.
Charmion halted at the bottom of the stairs. “Enjoy your visit, my dear,” she said, her voice filled with mockery. “I shall return for you within the hour.”
Kristine nodded, the witch already forgotten as she hastened down the narrow corridor toward Erik’s cell.
She knew what he looked like. His image haunted every dream, yet she stared at him in shock when she saw him, only then realizing she had been hoping that the image she saw in her dreams was only make-believe, that she would find him whole when she saw him again.
He whirled around at the sound of her footsteps. A myriad of emotions flashed across his face—joy, hope, shame, despair—as he slowly walked toward her.
“Erik.”
“My Kristine.” He reached through the bars, his good hand resting on her swollen abdomen. “Are you well?”
“I’m fine. Truly.”
His gaze searched her face. “She’s not mistreating you?”
“No.” She blinked back her tears, knowing it would distress him to see her cry. Knowing that he needed her touch, needing to touch him in return, she reached through the bars and caressed his right cheek. “I miss you.”
He caught her hand in his. Lifting it to his lips, he kissed her palm, then rubbed his cheek back and forth against the back of her hand. Her skin was smooth and soft, so soft. He inhaled her fragrance, remembering the evenings they had spent together in the library, the nights he had shared her bed. Desire stirred within him and he dropped her hand. Wanting her now, in his present form, seemed obscene somehow.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said.
His voice was deeper than she remembered, almost a growl. “Don’t be angry with me. I had to see you. Oh!” She gasped as the baby gave a lusty kick. Reaching through the bars again, she took his hand and placed it over her womb. “Can you feel it?”
A look of wonder spread over his face as he felt his child move beneath his hand. “Does it hurt you?”
“No, it feels wonderful. I hope it’s a boy, Erik. A strong, healthy boy.” Fighting tears, she smiled up at him. “The next lord of Hawksbridge Castle.”
“The next lady of Hawksbridge, if Charmion is to be believed.”
“What do you mean?”
“She says the ch
ild is female, a girl to replace the daughter she has lost.”
“A girl. You have failed, then.”
“Failed?”
“You married me to beget an heir to Hawksbridge.”
“I have not failed. My daughter will be my heir.”
“You are not disappointed, then?”
“No.”
Kristine smiled. “Perhaps we will have a boy next time.”
Erik nodded. His daughter would never see Hawksbridge, and there would be no next time. He knew it, and so did Kristine, but he nodded just the same, willing to play the game if it would make her happy, even as he quietly cursed his father. But for his father, none of this would have happened. Left to his own devices, he would never have married Dominique. She would never have conceived, never died in childbirth, and he would not be here now, his body slowly being transformed into that of a beast. . .. He felt the baby move again, drew in a sharp breath as he realized that had he entered the priesthood, Kristine would have died on the gallows.
He blew out a deep sigh and realized that her life, the time they had spent together, was worth any price he had to pay.
“I won’t give up hope,” Kristine said. “I won’t stop believing that there’s a way out of here, a way to break the curse.”
He smiled down at her, but his eyes were filled with sadness.
“Don’t give up, Erik! Think about the baby. You want to see her, don’t you? We can’t let Charmion win. We can’t!”
“But I’ve already won.” Charmion materialized out of the shadows. She stared at Erik, a smug smile on her face. “Haven’t I?” She glanced at Kristine. “Even if you could escape, even if you kill me, there’s nothing you can do to save him.” Head cocked to one side, she nodded slowly as she studied Erik. “I should say the final transformation and the child will arrive within days of each other.”
Erik forced himself to endure the witch’s scrutiny without turning away, though it was humiliating to stand there, without so much as a scrap of cloth to hide his nakedness. Hatred boiled up inside him, filling him, until he thought he would choke on it.
“It grows more difficult each day, does it not?” Charmion mused. “More difficult to maintain your humanity. Well,” she said brightly, “soon you won’t have to worry about it at all. You shall make a delightful pet. No doubt I shall have to keep you tightly muzzled at first, but you will soon learn your place, and if you don’t, why, then I shall destroy you. A wolf skin would look well in front of my hearth, don’t you think?”
Kristine backed away from the cell, sickened by the image conjured up by the witch’s words, by the evil laughter that filled the dungeon like thick oily smoke.
A growl rose in Erik’s throat, a horrible, inhuman sound filled with impotent rage.
The witch cackled with delight as he lunged forward, his left arm reaching through the bars, claws straining to reach her.
Horrified, Kristine watched Charmion taunt him, watched him throw himself against the bars in a vain attempt to reach the witch. Kristine looked away, unable to watch, found herself reaching for a heavy gilt-edged mirror. Before she was fully aware of what she was doing, she lifted the mirror and struck Charmion over the head with all the force at her command.
The witch gasped in pain, then crumpled to the ground amid a shower of broken glass.
“Erik, what have I done?” Kristine stared at him, a look of horror on her face. “Is she dead?”
Dropping to his knees, he reached through the bars to check the witch’s pulse. There was none. For all their power, witches were frail creatures. He quickly searched her pockets, looking for the key to the lock, but it wasn’t there.
“Kristine. Kristine!”
“She’s dead, isn’t she? I didn’t mean to kill her.”
“Kristine, listen to me. You’ve got to find the key or something we can use to break the lock.”
She nodded. Then, with a glance at the fallen witch, she turned and hurried down the corridor.
Erik stared after her, then blew out a sigh. Charmion was dead, and all hope of breaking the curse had died with her.
He swore softly as he ran his hand over the lock. If Charmion had cast a spell over it, he would never get out.
Minutes later he heard the sound of Kristine’s footsteps on the stones, and then she was there. She held up a large brass key. “I found it!”
Erik nodded. “Hurry, love.” He held his breath as Kristine slid the key into the lock. An eternity seemed to pass as he waited for her to turn the key.
His breath whooshed out in a sigh of relief as the lock opened. A moment later, he was out of the cell, holding Kristine in his arms.
“Let’s go,” she said. “Please, Erik, let’s get out of here. Now.”
He nodded, as eager as she to put this place far behind them. Hand in hand, they left the dungeon.
“Find me something to wear and pack us some food,” Erik said when they reached the top of the stairs. “I’ll go saddle the horses.”
“Hurry.”
“I will.” He walked through the silent house toward the front door, the hair along the back of his neck prickling. He could feel Charmion’s dark magic all around him. He paused in the hallway, his gaze drawn to a life-sized portrait of Dominique.
He stared at the painting, wondering how she had grown up in this place of evil witchcraft and still remained so pure and sweet. He knew there were witches who practiced white magic, just as there were others, like Charmion, who delighted in evil. Dominique had been born to be a witch, but she had refused to acknowledge the magic she possessed. He had never truly realized until now how difficult it must have been for her.
With a sigh, he touched a finger to her painted cheek. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I never meant you any harm.”
Leave here. Hurry.
With a start, Erik glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see Dominique standing behind him, so clearly had he heard her voice. But there was no one there.
Filled with a sense of urgency, he left the house and headed for the stable. Ten minutes later both horses were saddled and he was at the back door.
“Kristine?”
“Here I am.” She stepped out of the kitchen, a basket and a heavy cloak on one arm. “Here.” She thrust a pile of clothing at him. “Hurry.”
She felt it, too, he thought as he dressed, the need to be gone from this place as soon as possible. He wondered briefly whose clothing he was wearing and what had happened to the former owner.
When he finished dressing, he draped the heavy cloak over Kristine’s shoulders; then they hurried toward the horses. Erik lifted Kristine onto Misty’s back, stuffed the contents of the basket into the saddlebags, and tossed the basket away.
Taking up Raven’s reins, he swung onto the stallion’s back and led the way out of the yard.
He didn’t look back.
Chapter Twenty-One
They rode as fast as they dared down the narrow, winding trail. Kristine let the mare have her head, knowing Misty didn’t need her hand on the reins to follow Erik’s big black stallion. Tears blinded her eyes. She had killed Charmion. It didn’t matter that the woman had been a witch, or that she had planned to take Erik’s child, or that she had probably planned to kill Kristine, herself, once the babe was born. She hadn’t wanted to kill Charmion, and yet, at the time, it had seemed there was no other choice. She couldn’t have left Erik in that awful dungeon, couldn’t have left him there knowing what the witch had in store for him.
A shiver raced down Kristine’s spine that had nothing to do with the cold. She had never been given to violence, yet she had killed twice. No matter that the first time had been to defend her honor, the second time to defend Erik and her unborn babe. Murder was a sin, and the guilt of it weighed heavily on her conscience.
She lifted her gaze to Erik’s back. The dreadful curse had almost fully consumed him. Only the right half of his face, neck, and hand remained human. The rest of his body more closely resembl
ed that of a man-sized wolf. And soon, too soon, the transformation would be complete and he would be lost to her forever.
What would happen to him then? What would he do? Where would he go? Would he stay with her at Hawksbridge Castle, condemned to live as a beast for the rest of his days? How would he bear it? How would she? And if he left . . . How would she go on, never knowing where he was, always wondering if he was dead or alive?
She wanted to scream out her anguish, to rail at fate, to curse Charmion for her wickedness. Sin or not, she was suddenly glad she had killed the witch.
Blinded by her tears, she almost pitched forward over Misty’s neck when the mare came to an abrupt halt. Snorting softly, Misty danced sideways. It was then that Kristine saw the wolves. Four of them. Three sleek black ones and a large gray one. They stood side by side across the foot of the trail, blocking their passage. Fear slid down her spine. Were they Charmion’s pets, put there to prevent their escape?
“Erik?” She gathered Misty’s reins. “Erik?”
“It’s all right, Kristine,” he said reassuringly.
“What do you mean?” she asked, and then stared, mouth open, as one of the black wolves transformed into a beautiful young woman with luminous brown eyes. Thick, waist-length black hair fell down her back and over her bare breasts.
Feeling suddenly light-headed, Kristine clutched the reins. A gasp escaped her lips. Darkness gathered around her. “Erik . . .”
He glanced over his shoulder, then vaulted from the saddle and ran to Misty’s side. He caught Kristine as she toppled from the mare’s back.
Valaree came to stand beside him. “Is she all right?”
“She’s fainted.”
Valaree smiled. “I didn’t mean to frighten her.”
“It’s not just you. She’s been through a rather bad time in the last few weeks.” He stared down at Kristine’s pale face. “She killed Charmion.”
“The sorceress is dead?” Valaree exclaimed. Her gaze ran over Erik, her brows drawing together in a frown. “But the curse is not broken.”