The two women walked around Kristine, smoothing her skirt, making a slight adjustment to the veil, and then they smiled at each other, obviously pleased with what they had accomplished.
One of the women rapped sharply on the door. A moment later, the guard standing watch outside the cell turned the key in the lock and the two women escorted Kristine out of the cell, down the long dank corridor, and out of the prison.
Kristine emerged from the darkness feeling like a newborn lamb about to be led to the slaughter. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of clean, fresh air for the first time in over a month.
As soon as she stepped outside, two men wearing the bold green and black livery of Hawksbridge Castle fell into step beside her and escorted her to the small red brick chapel located across the road from the prison.
Her heart was pounding wildly as she entered the church, followed by the two men and the two silent women.
As soon as she was inside, her gaze flew to the altar, to the tall hooded man who stood waiting for her there.
“Come, my daughter.”
At the priest’s words, Kristine dragged her gaze from the man who was to be her husband. Taking a deep breath, she walked down the short, narrow aisle, noticing, for the first time, that there was a woman seated in the front pew. A petite dark-haired woman dressed in unrelieved black.
Kristine was trembling from head to heel by the time she reached the altar. A wave of panic washed over her when the hooded man took his place at her side.
The priest smiled at them. “You will please join hands.”
Kristine’s gaze darted toward the man at her right. He was tall, so tall the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. A cloak of finely woven dark blue wool shot with fine silver threads shrouded him from head to foot. Soft black leather boots covered his feet. He hesitated a moment, then extended his hand, revealing a long arm clad in fine white linen.
For a moment, Kristine stared at the gloved hand he extended toward her and then, wishing she could still her trembling, she placed her hand in his. His hand was large, the fine leather of his glove velvet-soft against her palm. She could feel the latent power in that hand as his fingers closed firmly around hers.
She looked up at the priest, her heart racing. If she begged the good father for help, would he offer her sanctuary? If she refused to marry, would her savior send her back to prison to face the executioner’s axe?
In a daze, she listened to the words that bound her to a man whose countenance she had never seen.
Too soon, it was over.
“Lord Trevayne, you may bestow a kiss upon your bride, if you wish,” the good father said cheerfully.
Kristine stared up at the man who was now her husband, every instinct she possessed urging her to flee as she waited for him to claim his first kiss. Tall and regal, he stood there, not moving, his face hidden in the deep folds of the cowl, and then, slowly, he shook his head.
She felt his fingers tighten on hers—an apology for humiliating her, perhaps?—surprised to find that his rejection should hurt so badly.
“The Lord bless you both.” The priest made the sign of the cross, then turned toward the elegant woman clad in black. “Madam Trevayne, come forward and make your new daughter welcome.”
The woman in the front pew stood and walked toward Kristine, her face an indistinct blur beneath a short black veil. She was a small woman, with fine bones and small, delicate hands. Her dark brown hair was liberally streaked with gray. Kristine found it hard to believe that this petite gentlewoman had given birth to the tall, broad-shouldered man who stood so silently beside her.
“Welcome, daughter,” the woman said, her voice cold, distant. She pressed a cool kiss to Kristine’s cheek, but her gaze was focused on her son.
With both their faces covered, it was impossible for Kristine to see their expressions, but there was no mistaking the tension between mother and son. It crackled between them, leaving Kristine to wonder at its cause.
“Is this wise, Erik?” Lady Trevayne murmured softly. “Are you not tempting fate?”
Kristine winced as her husband’s grip tightened on her hand; then, without a word, he released his hold and stalked out of the church.
Lady Trevayne looked at Kristine, then slowly shook her head. “Leyla and Lilia will see you to your new home, daughter. Fare thee well.” And so saying, she moved past Kristine and knelt at the altar, where she bowed her head in prayer.
Glancing over her shoulder, Kristine saw the two women who had assisted her at the prison waiting for her near the door.
“Do not be afraid, child.” The priest offered her a reassuring smile as he firmly traced the sign of the cross on her brow with a spatulate thumb. “Go with God and fulfill your duty, as a wife should.”
With a nod, Kristine followed the two silent women out of the church.
A shiny black carriage drawn by a pair of matched chestnut geldings awaited her. When she was settled inside, the two silent women joined her. She heard the crack of a whip, and the carriage lurched forward.
Trevayne paced the deep shadows of his chamber, waiting. In the adjoining room, Leyla and Lilia were preparing his bride for bed.
His bride. He had chosen her because she was marked for execution, because she had been the most pathetic of the lot, because he had looked at her scrawny arms, flea-bitten legs, and shorn head and felt nothing. Nothing at all. He had not expected her to clean up so well. Washed and scrubbed and clad in ice blue silk, her dark green eyes luminous beneath the gossamer veil, she had looked incredibly young and vulnerable, like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.
He wished she had remained ugly and unattractive.
He raked a hand through his hair. It was time to fulfill his father’s last wish, now, while he was still able. As promised, he had taken a bride. In the nights to come, he would plant his seed within the girl’s womb and pray it took root quickly. Once the child was born and pronounced healthy, he would seek the peace of mind and soul that only the grave could bring.
He whirled around as the door opened. Leyla stood there. She nodded, indicating that his bride was ready.
With a sigh, he waved the buxom woman away. Then, taking a deep breath, he left his chamber to do his duty.
Kristine paced the floor, her nervousness increasing with the passing of each minute.
The women who had attended her in the prison had readied her for her bridal night. She had surmised, from their strong resemblance to each other, that they were sisters. Had they been born mute, she wondered, or had their tongues been taken as punishment, or perhaps to silence them?
They had bathed her, powdered her, and dressed her in a diaphanous white gown that revealed far more than it hid, though she had little to hide, small-breasted and skinny as she was.
Unable to help herself, she reached up again and again to finger the ends of her shorn locks, which barely brushed her ears. Her one true beauty taken from her.
In an effort to avoid thinking of what was to come, she studied her surroundings. The chamber was large, larger than any room she had ever seen. Intricately woven tapestries hung from the walls. A thick carpet covered the floor. The bed was bigger than her room at home. The soft mattress was covered with fine linens and furs and numerous pillows in all shapes and sizes.
A small writing desk and chair occupied one corner. She would have no need of that, she mused. Even if she were so inclined, she had no one to write to, no friends, no family.
A round table held a ewer and matching basin, both painted with tiny blue flowers.
Standing in the middle of the room, she turned around slowly, realizing as she did so that there were no mirrors—not on the wall, not on the dressing table. That seemed passing strange for a lady’s chamber, but then, much of what had transpired in the past few days had been strange in the extreme.
With hands that shook, she poured herself a glass of water. In spite of the circumstances that had brought about her
marriage, she was determined to make the best of it. She knew nothing of her husband save for the rumors she had heard. She reminded herself that rumors were seldom accurate and rarely contained more than a grain of truth. Gossip had a tendency to grow and take on a life of its own the more oft it was repeated. People had talked about her, too. Little they had said was true. Holding that thought in mind, she endeavored to put her fears away. She would not judge her husband by what she had heard or by what others thought, but by how he treated her.
Going to the window, she stared out into the darkness beyond, one hand absently massaging her neck. Her husband had paid a high price for her, had saved her from a horrible fate. She could not fathom his reasons for taking a condemned woman for his bride, but he had and she would ever be grateful. She knew of several women in the village who had not met their husbands until the day they wed, and yet these women had grown to love their husbands, had borne them children, had grieved when their men were laid to rest.
Squaring her shoulders, Kristine took a deep breath, determined to be a good wife, to make her husband happy in any way she could and hope that, in time, she would learn to love him and that he would love her in return.
She turned when she heard movement in the hallway, all her good intentions fleeing in the face of reality. He was here! She placed the glass on the table, her heart galloping in her chest as she turned and saw him standing in the doorway. He wore the same long blue cloak he had worn at their wedding. It covered him from head to heel, his face again hidden in the shadow of the cowl’s dark folds. Like a phantom from a childhood nightmare, he stood there, silent and still. His gaze moved over her in a long, assessing glance. Was he pleased? Disappointed?
Oh, Lord, she prayed, I’m so afraid. Please let him like me . . . please let him be kind. . .. I’m afraid . . . so afraid . . .
Wordlessly, he stepped into the room. She had forgotten how tall and broad he was. The sound of the door closing behind him sounded unusually loud in the stillness.
He crossed the floor on silent feet and extinguished the candles, plunging the room into utter darkness. “Get into bed.”
His voice was low and rough, almost a growl. Just hearing it made her throat ache, causing her to wonder if it was painful for him to speak.
“Now!”
The tone of his voice propelled her into bed. She scrambled under the covers, clutching them to her breast, watching, wide-eyed, as he moved toward her, a tall black shadow gliding soundlessly through the darkness. She willed her stiff muscles to relax, told herself this man was her husband. It was her duty to submit to him.
There was a whisper of cloth as he removed his cloak and tossed it aside. He tossed the blankets to the floor. The bed sagged as, fully clothed, he straddled her hips.
She fought the urge to scream as his weight pinned her to the mattress. Fear rose within her, making her heart pound frantically as his hands slid under her gown. Apprehension skittered down her spine as she realized he still wore the glove on his left hand. Effortlessly, he positioned her beneath him.
She shifted her weight, and her hand brushed against his chest.
“Don’t!”
“My lord?”
“Don’t touch me.”
“My lord?” she repeated, certain she had not heard him correctly.
“Don’t touch me.” His voice was deep, yet she thought she detected a note of pain in the harshly spoken words, a pain of the spirit rather than the flesh.
She blinked against the quick rush of tears that welled in her eyes. She had not wanted this marriage, but she had vowed to make the best of it, had promised herself she would do everything possible to please the husband whose face she still had not seen.
“Are you a virgin?” His voice, gravel-rough, broke on the last word.
She nodded, too stunned to speak, ashamed that he had felt the need to ask.
“Answer me.”
“Y . . . yes, my lord.”
She felt his body grow taut, heard him swear under his breath.
“It . . . it displeases you?”
“No. It’s just . . . inconvenient.”
“I’m sorry, my lord,” she whispered.
“You needn’t be sorry,” he said gruffly.
The tears came then, running quietly down her cheeks. She had been a fool to think he would cherish her, a fool to hope she might come to love him, that he would learn to love her in return. She had thought her husband would be pleased with her innocence, happy to instruct her in the intimacy of the marriage bed.
His hand brushed her shoulder, and she recoiled from his touch.
“You needn’t be afraid of me,” he muttered. “I want nothing from you, nothing but a child.”
His hands moved over her body, one rough and calloused, the other sheathed in fine leather. His naked hand slid between her thighs, readying her to receive him. And then he took hold of both her wrists in his gloved hand. To make sure she did not touch him, she mused. What kind of man was he, to be so afraid of her touch?
She heard him swear again as he unfastened his trousers, then positioned his big body between her thighs. She gasped at his weight, cried out as he breached her maidenhead with one quick thrust. He waited for the space of a heartbeat, then moved even more deeply within her, his thrusts becoming faster, harder. His urgency frightened her, and then she heard him swear again, felt him shudder violently.
For a moment, he collapsed on top of her. She felt the silk of his hair against her cheek, the warm whisper of his breath across her bare breast.
And then, as if he had never been there, he was gone, and she was alone in the bed.
Chapter Three
Back in his own room, Trevayne paced the floor, his body aching with the need to sheathe himself within his bride’s warmth once more, to feel her velvet heat surround him, to inhale the warm, womanly fragrance of her skin. He cursed himself for using her so roughly, for taking her without the loving words and gentleness a bride deserved when her maidenhead was taken. But he had no gentleness left within him, no kindness for himself or anyone else. He had loved once, and it had ended tragically. He would never love again. Nor would he allow anyone to care for him.
It had been more than four years since a woman had willingly shared his bed. Four long years since he had given pleasure and received it in return.
But he could not help imagining what it would have been like to feel his bride’s small, soft hands sliding over his skin, to taste her lips, to dip into her mouth and savor the honeyed sweetness within. He regretted not taking the time to explore the enticingly slim body hidden beneath the silken gown. It was his right, after all. She was his now, to do with as he pleased.
But as much as he yearned to explore the lush hills and valleys of her body, he could never allow her to learn the contours of his own. The risk of discovery, of rejection, was far too great, but even greater was the risk of letting himself care, as he had come to care for Dominique. . . .
Remorse seared his heart and soul as her image rose in his mind: Dominique, writhing in agony as her body sought to expel his child; Dominique lying still and white on bloodstained linen; Dominique, her wide blue eyes glazed with pain and empty of life.
Ruthlessly, he thrust the memories from him. He would not think of her now, nor hopefully, ever again, though he doubted that was possible. Instead, he focused on the bed he had left and the young woman who had awaited him there.
He would go to her again tomorrow night, and every night, until she was breeding, and then he would not touch her again.
He would return to the hunting lodge located high in the hills to the south and stay there until one of the women brought word that his wife had been delivered of a healthy child.
And then, his duty done, he would put an end to his life, and with it an end to his guilt, and his pain, and the hideous curse that, in its infancy, had made grown men turn away in revulsion and caused women to flee in horror.
Kristine sat with her back against t
he carved headboard, the thick woolen blankets pulled up to her chin. Staring into the inky blackness that engulfed the room, she fought the urge to weep. This had been her bridal night. She had not expected love nor sweet words nor tenderness from the enigmatic stranger she had wed, but neither had she expected him to take her with such blatant disregard for her feelings.
She sighed into the darkness. In truth, she hadn’t known what to expect. She had never bedded a man—had, in fact, killed the man who had tried to take her by force. Ironic, that she should marry a man who had, in his own way, been more brutal than Lord Valentine.
He was a strange one, was Erik Trevayne. He had said he wanted nothing from her but a child. The bowels of a filthy prison seemed a strange place to look for a bride. But then, perhaps he didn’t like women, didn’t want a wife to share his life, but only a fertile belly in which to plant his seed. Strange, how that thought hurt.
She wondered what lay beneath the glove he had worn, why he hid himself from her in the dark, why he would not allow her to see him or touch him. She knew little of the marriage act, but surely it was not usually accomplished with the man fully clothed. What was he hiding?
Perhaps the rumors regarding the Demon Lord of Hawksbridge Castle were true after all. He had certainly taken her like a beast. She felt her anger rise, fueled by hurt and disappointment as her girlish dreams of love and happily-ever-after evaporated like morning dew.
Despair settled over her. She was his wife now, his property, the same as his lands and his horse. As such, she was subject to his every whim. He could do with her whatsoever he wished. He could abuse her, beat her, even kill her, and no one would say a word against him. Why had she let herself think she might find a measure of joy in this union, that he might come to love her? Surely no normal man went hunting for a bride inside prison walls. What a ninny she had been to think she might find happiness in this huge old castle with a stranger. Her determination to make the best of her marriage suddenly seemed ludicrous.
Beauty's Beast Page 2