Beauty’s Beast(7)
Author: Amanda Ashley

Rising, she filled a basin with water and washed away the visible proof that he had been there, then climbed back into bed and huddled beneath the covers, wondering what it would be like to spend the night in his arms.

Too keyed up to sleep, Erik prowled the floor in front of the door that connected his chamber to his bride’s. Perhaps he truly was no better than a rutting beast, as Charmion had declared. He had possessed Kristine only minutes ago, and already his body was hard with wanting her again. What spell had she cast over him, this tiny woman-child with her short, fuzzy hair and luminous green eyes? Had he come under the spell of yet another witch?

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.