“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.
Chapter Eight
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 hand
s. 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.
She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, admiring the height and the breadth of him, his long-legged stride. She opened her arms in welcome when he returned to the couch and he sank into her embrace, his lips seeking hers, his hands loosening the ties of her gown, fondling her breasts as he removed her dress and chemise.
She yearned to caress him in return, but knew he would not welcome her touch. In all the months of their marriage, she had never seen him naked, never felt the touch of his naked flesh against her own. Always, his clothing stood like a barrier between them.
She ran her hands over his shoulders, her fingertips stroking the rich velvet of his coat, wondering if his skin would be as soft, as smooth. It nev
er failed to astonish her that she could want him so quickly. How was it that one man’s touch could arouse her to heights of ecstasy she had never dreamed existed, while another’s evoked only loathing?
She moaned with delight as their bodies merged. She loved the weight of him pressing her down upon the cushions, the touch of his hand stroking her flesh, the urgency that caused him to groan with need as he drove deeper inside her, burning away every thought, until they melted together, one into the other, and she was complete at last. . ..
He held her close in his arms afterward, held her tight, as if he cared for her, as if he could not bear to let her go.
“Why?” he asked after a long while had passed. “Why did you not look under the mask the other night in the library?”
Startled by his question, she blinked up at him, though she could not see his expression in the dimly lit room. “Why, my lord? Why, because I promised I would not.” She sat up, her eyes narrowing with suspicion as she put her dress to rights. “You were not asleep, then?”
“No.” He sat up, his arm curling around her waist.
“You were only pretending to be asleep, then, trying to trick me?”
He lifted one shoulder in an elaborate shrug. “I needed to know if I could trust you.”
With a little humph of annoyance, she tried to thrust him away from her. It was like trying to move a mountain.
“Don’t be angry, Kristine.”
“Let me go!”
He laughed softly, amused by her show of temper. “Not yet.” He dropped tender kisses along the curve of her cheek, down the length of her neck, across her shoulder. “Not quite yet.”
She tried to hold on to her anger, but it evaporated beneath the heat of his kisses, banished by the husky tremor in his voice as he whispered endearments in her ear, his tongue a wicked flame as it moved across her skin.
She ignited like dry tinder in his arms, everything else forgotten as she clung to him. Once, turning her face to the side, she found herself staring at numerous shimmering images of the two of them reflected back at her from the mirrored walls. They were a study in ivory and ebony, she mused, her skin seeming extraordinarily white against the darkness of his clothing, his black mask and hair a striking contrast to her pale flesh.