Beauty’s Beast(13)
Author: Amanda Ashley

A knock at his door roused him from his morbid thoughts. A curt word sent Mrs. Grainger away. He had no appetite for food this night.

He thought of Kristine, imagined the two silent women readying his bride for bed, bathing her in perfumed water, anointing her body with sweet-smelling oils.

He summoned Yvette and ordered water for a bath, then sent the maid away.

He bathed quickly, hating the sight of his own body . . . the right half forever reminding him of what he had been, the left side evidence of what he would soon become. He pulled on a clean pair of breeches, a wool shirt that hid his misshapen left side, the soft leather boots that were specially made, the left one larger than the right to accommodate his changing shape. He donned a clean mask, drew a glove over his deformed hand.

He swore silently as he unlocked the door between his room and hers, damning the vindictive witch who had cursed him. He could feel the curse spreading, knew that in the morning, he would have lost a little more of himself to the beast that was slowly stealing his humanity, devouring him a little more with each passing day. Soon, too soon, there would be nothing left of the man he had been.

Like a wounded animal, he felt the need to be alone, to go off by himself and hide from prying eyes. God willing, his seed would soon find fertile ground and he could seek the solitude he craved.

With his hand on the latch to his bride’s bedchamber, he sent a swift, silent plea to heaven, praying that Kristine would be with child before the night was over.

Kristine woke with a start to find Erik standing beside her bed. He had been so angry earlier, she hadn’t expected him to come to her that night. Recalling the rage that had burned in his dark eyes when he’d found her in his room still had the power to make her tremble.

He had extinguished the light she kept on the table at her bedside. In the darkness, he loomed over her like the shadow of certain death.

After unfastening his breeches, he threw the covers aside, flung her gown up over her hips. Unreasoning panic rose inside her as his body covered hers. She didn’t want him to take her like this, as if she were no more than a receptacle for his lust, some tawdry harlot whose favor he had purchased for the night. She knew he didn’t care for her, but she was his wife. Surely she deserved some small measure of respect.

She felt his hand on her breast, and suddenly, in the darkness, it was Lord Valentine lying atop her, his hot sweaty hands groping her. She closed her eyes, and Valentine’s image rose up before her, his thick lips pulled back, his pale blue eyes filled with lust as they raked her body.

“No,” she whimpered softly. “Leave me alone, please just leave me alone!”

Trevayne froze as she began to thrash beneath him.

“My Lord Valentine,” she sobbed, her eyes tightly shut. “Don’t! Oh, please, please, let me go!”

“Kristine.”

Lost in the nightmare of the past, she writhed beneath him, tears coursing down her pale cheeks.

“Kristine, it’s me, Erik,” he said, and then wondered why that knowledge should soothe her. He had given her no reason to trust him.

“No, don’t . . . don’t . . .” She sobbed the words.

Swearing softly, he sat up and drew her into his arms. “Kristine, you are safe here. Listen to me! I will not hurt you. No one will ever hurt you again, I swear it.”

Opening her eyes, she stared at him blankly a moment. “My lord?”

“You’re safe now, Kristine,” he murmured. “I’ll not bother you again.”

Carefully, he lowered her back onto the mattress, drew her gown down over her hips, and pulled the covers up to her chin.

Turning away from the bed, he fastened his breeches, then walked toward the door. He was reaching for the latch when she called his name.

“Erik?”

“What?”

“Will you not stay with me?”

He went still, hardly daring to breathe. “Why?”

“I don’t want to be alone. I . . . I don’t want you to be alone.”

“We can’t always have what we want.”

“Please, my lord, won’t you stay with me until I fall asleep?”

Every instinct he possessed urged him to leave the room. Instead, he retraced his steps to the side of the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. “Go to sleep, Kristine.”

He could not see her face in the darkness, but he heard her soft sigh as she snuggled under the covers.

“Thank you, my lord.”

He made a soft, wordless sound deep in his throat. He wondered how long she had spent in prison, if that was the reason she feared the darkness, the reason she kept a lamp burning at her bedside throughout the night.

He took a deep breath, his nostrils filling with the warm, sweet scent of her—the soap she had bathed with, the peppermint she used to sweeten her breath, the scent of lilacs that clung to her skin. It was part of the curse, his heightened sense of smell, of taste. His hearing was more acute than before, too. He could hear each soft breath she took.

He clenched his left hand, shoved his right hand into his pocket to keep from touching the curve of her cheek, the short, silky cap of her hair.

Desire rose within him, a desire to bury himself within her. He yearned to shed his clothes and his accursed mask and enfold her in his arms, feel the heat of her skin against his. . ..

His body hardened painfully. Why was he sitting here, torturing himself with her nearness? He was not her nursemaid, nor her governess. If she was afraid of the dark, she had a lamp at her bedside.

But he didn’t leave the room, only continued to sit there, his hands tightly clenched, until the soft, steady sound of her breathing told him she was asleep.

Hating her, hating himself, he lit the lamp at her bedside and then left the room, left the house.

Outside, he removed his mask, ripped off his glove and his shirt, and then he began to run. He threw back his head, and the deep-throated sound of his despair pierced the darkness in a long, mournful howl.

Chapter Six

Kristine sat in the library a week later, trying to make sense of the history book she was reading, when one of the maids entered the room.

“Lady Charmion is here,” Yvette announced.

“Who?”

“Lady Charmion.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is.”

“She is the mother of Dominique, Lord Hawksbridge’s first wife.”

“Oh. I . . .” Kristine closed the book and set it on the table beside her. “Does she wish to see me?”

Yvette nodded, her blond curls bobbing. “She’s waiting in the front parlor.”