Beauty’s Beast(22)
Author: Amanda Ashley

How well we look together, she mused, and then he was kissing her again and there was no more time for thought. . ..

“No! No!” She screamed the words as she clawed at his face, her nails raking deep furrows down his florid cheeks. “No!”

Her hand closed around the knife and she drove it into his back, her stomach roiling as she felt the blade pierce skin and flesh, gagging as his hot blood spurted over her hand. “No!”

“Hush, Kristine, it’s all right. Hush now, hush, it’s over.”

The deep timbre of a familiar voice, the solid strength of familiar arms, chased the nightmare away. “Erik? Oh, Erik.” With a sob, she buried her face against his chest.

“You’re safe, Kristine,” he whispered. “Nothing can hurt you here.”

She nestled against him, her arms twining around his waist. “It’s so awful. I wish I could forget.”

He stroked her back, pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips moving softly in the fine silken curls of her hair. “It’s over now,” he said. “Try to get some rest. It will be morning soon.”

“Stay with me. Please stay with me.”

With a nod, Trevayne eased her under the covers, then stretched out beside her, one arm holding her close. She felt so small, so fragile, he could only imagine how terrified she had been when she fought off Valentine’s unwelcome advances. Damn the man. If she hadn’t already killed him, he would gladly do it for her.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she rested her head on his shoulder. He felt the tension drain out of her, felt her body relax as sleep claimed her once more.

Trevayne trailed his fingertips over her cheek. They were a fine pair, he mused, both haunted by nightmares—hers brought on by memories of the past, his filled with fears of the future.

He lifted his left hand. What lay beneath the glove could no longer be called human. It was deformed, covered with coarse black fur, the nails thick and long. His entire left side was covered with a heavy pelt of black fur, his left foot was misshapen, transformed by the same coarse black fur and thick yellow nails as his left hand. His right foot now looked the same as his left.

He fought back a rising tide of panic, praying that Kristine would soon conceive, knowing that, all too soon, he would not dare go near her bed for fear she would discover his secret. But more than that, he was terrified that he would lose control of the beast rapidly devouring his humanity; that, in a moment of mindless need, he would do her harm.

He turned onto his side and watched her sleeping. Her nightmares had been eased; he feared the worst of his were just beginning.

Chapter Nine

Kristine gazed in wonder at the colorful lanterns that lined the long, curved drive that led to Gladstone Manor. It looked like a fairy place. The windows on every floor were also ablaze with light.

Erik assisted her from the coach and took her by the hand. Portraying the Angel of Death, he was attired all in black. A black broadcloth cloak lined in ebony silk fell in graceful folds from his shoulders, the hem brushing the tops of his knee-high black boots. A hideous death’s-head mask that was genuinely frightening to behold completed his costume.

Representing the Norse goddess Freya, Kristine wore a long white gown trimmed in gold satin, her short hair covered by a long blond wig. They made a striking pair, she mused, like midnight and moonlight.

The sound of conversation and laughter filled the air, vying with the music. She had never seen such a crush of people. She couldn’t stop staring. Zeus waltzed by with Cleopatra, a lion stood in the corner, conversing with a shapely ghost in a diaphanous gown. There were all manner of costumes. Some were comical, some were grotesque, some quite bizarre. Kristine would have melted into a corner if given a choice, but it was not to be.

“Come,” Erik said, leading her onto the dance floor, “let us see how well you remember your lessons.”

She moved woodenly at first, conscious of people staring at them. She didn’t belong here with these elegant people. They would be appalled if they knew they were entertaining a convicted felon. She tripped on her skirt, stepped on Erik’s toes.

“Relax, Kristine,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze. “You have nothing to fear.”

She gazed up into his eyes and everything else faded away. She forgot to watch her feet, forgot to count the steps. Effortlessly, he waltzed her around the room. She was aware of his hand, large and firm, at her waist, of his gaze burning into hers. They dipped and swayed as if they had been waltzing together for years.

When the music ended, there were a dozen men waiting to claim her for the next dance.

Trevayne surrendered her with good grace, though inside he was seething with resentment. Making his way to a shadowed corner, he watched her waltz by in the arms of another man. This was what he wanted, he reminded himself. He wanted her to get to know other men. She was young, far too young to spend the rest of her life alone. She would undoubtedly wish to marry again. She would want companionship, a man’s protection. His child would need a father. . . .

Jealousy rose within him like bitter bile as he watched the young fops fawn over her, vying for a smile, a dance, bringing her a cup of hot spiced punch, seeking to make her laugh.

Shy at first, she was soon at ease in their midst. He knew she had never been taught to flirt, yet she came by it naturally. The men swarmed around her like bears to a honey pot.

Trevayne watched as long as he could and then, unable to endure it a moment longer, he made his way through the crowd. Ignoring the protests of those paying her court, he led her away from her admirers.

“Are you having a good time, madam?”

“Yes, very.” She looked up at him, her eyes alight with merriment, her lips parted in a smile, until she saw the expression in his eyes. “Have I done something to displease you, my lord?”

He choked back the harsh reply that sprang to his lips. How could he chastise her? He had left her alone, like a fawn among a pack of wolves, and now he was angry because she had held her own, because she had not come running to him for protection.

“My lord?”

“No, Kristine, you have done nothing to displease me.” He offered her his hand. “Come, my lady wife, and dance with me.”

He was aware of the stares that followed them as they twirled around the floor, conscious of the whispered voices as his neighbors speculated on why he had not been seen in public for the last four years.

When the waltz ended, Lord Dunston claimed Kristine for the next dance. Erik kissed Kristine’s hand, inclined his head in Dunston’s direction, and left the floor.