Beauty’s Beast(32)
Author: Amanda Ashley

“Erik, please answer me. Are you hurt?”

“No,” he replied, his voice sounding harsher than ever in his ears. “I am not injured. Go to bed.”

“I thought, that is, you said you would come to me tonight.”

“I cannot.”

“Very well, my lord husband. I understand.”

He heard the coldness in her voice, the hurt, the disappointment. She thought he no longer wished to bed her now that he had gotten her with child. Nothing was further from the truth, but he could not tell her that. There was no point in trying to explain. Let her think him callous and cruel. In the long run, it would be a kindness.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the paw that had once been his left hand, at the thick black nails, fascinated and horrified by the sight. A rutting beast you were, a beast you will become.

“Are you happy, Charmion?” he wondered aloud. “Does it give you pleasure to know what I’ve become? Does the horror that I’m living ease the pain of your loss? Do you think Dominique rests more peacefully because of what you’ve done to me?”

With a weary sigh, he pulled on a black shirt and a pair of trousers, donned his mask and gloves and boots. Unlocking the door that connected his room to Kristine’s, he stepped into her chamber. She was lying on her side, asleep.

He padded quietly toward her, his heart breaking when he saw that she had been crying.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, my lord.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

She shook her head, too proud to admit she had missed him beside her.

He looked at her and knew he could not leave without making love to her one last time.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he wrapped his right arm around her and crushed her close, his mouth hungry for the taste of her, his hands desperate in their need to touch her.

She came alive in his arms, his desperation conveying itself to her. As always, when she would have caressed him, he caught both of her hands in his right one, denying her that which she sought.

He lifted her sleeping gown over her hips, unfastened his breeches, and settled himself between her thighs.

Their coupling was violent, passionate, burning as hot and bright as a comet streaking across the sky. It left her breathless and aching and satisfied as never before.

She was smiling when she fell asleep.

Chapter Thirteen

He was gone in the morning. Kristine stared at Mrs. Grainger, unable to believe her ears. “Gone? What do you mean, gone? Gone where? When is he coming back?”

“He has gone on an extended holiday, my lady.”

“A holiday? But . . . where has he gone?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, my lady.” The housekeeper’s gaze slid away from Kristine’s; nervous fingers plucked at the spotless white apron.

Kristine frowned, certain the housekeeper knew more than she was telling. “Did he say when he would be back?”

Mrs. Grainger hesitated a moment, and then sighed. “No. I am sorry. Truly I am.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lady. Would you be caring for some breakfast?”

Kristine shook her head. Gone on holiday? With Christmas coming? She didn’t believe it, refused to believe he would go off and leave her without a word after the night they had spent together. Surely it was a joke, a cruel prank. And even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it had to do with the anguish she had frequently seen in his eyes, not pain of the body, but of the soul.

Her appetite gone, she left the dining room. He couldn’t be gone.

Never had the time passed so slowly. She walked through the castle a dozen times, hoping to find him, but to no avail. She found rooms she had not seen before—a bedroom on the third floor that she guessed had been his mother’s, several rooms that held cast-off furniture, trunks filled with old-fashioned dresses and baby clothes, bonnets and blankets. At any other time, she would have been intrigued, but not now.

She went outside and wandered through the gardens, and then she ran to the stables, wondering why she hadn’t thought of it sooner.

She stared at Raven’s empty stall and tried to convince herself that Erik had just taken the horse out for a very long ride, but she knew, deep inside, that she was only lying to herself. He was gone, perhaps for good.

Back in the house, she went to his room and fell across his bed, certain her heart would break. Why, why, why?

He had never said he loved her, yet he had seemed to enjoy her company.

He had been pleased with the news of her pregnancy.

Hurt and confused, she wrapped her arms around his pillow. His scent surrounded her, kindling memories of days spent riding together, of nights in his arms. The tears came then, tears that burned her eyes and left her feeling weak and empty.

She was overcome with a sense of listlessness in the days that followed. She sought forgetfulness in sleep; she had no appetite, though she forced herself to eat for the sake of the child she was carrying.

She went to the stable to visit Misty each morning, tormenting herself with the memory of the hours she had spent in Erik’s company, remembering the day they had made love in the meadow.

Sometimes she felt as if time had stopped and she would be pregnant forever. Mrs. Grainger and the maids tried to cheer her, talking about how good it would be to have a babe in the house again, but even that failed to cheer her.

Erik had left her and all she could do was wonder why. Had she displeased him in some way? She went over every minute of the last few days they had spent together, looking for some clue that would explain his sudden departure.

She recalled the day she had told him she was pregnant. What was it he had said? Something about her being a delight and that he would miss her. She recalled asking him about the pain he was suffering, and his reply that there was nothing anyone could do.

Was he dying? The thought made her stomach roil with nausea. Was that it? Did he have some horrible wasting disease? Was that why he wore the mask, why she had never seen him unclothed, why he refused to let her touch him?

Determined to find the answers to her questions, she arranged to have Chilton bring the carriage around the following morning.

“Where to, my lady?” Chilton asked as he handed her into the conveyance.

“The convent,” Kristine said, “at St. Clair.”

Lady Trevayne received her in a small, austere room. Dressed in a severe black gown, her dark hair caught in a tight coil at her nape, she managed to look both fragile and regal at the same time.