Enchanted with the beauty of the grounds, she continued her exploration, a cry of delight erupting from her throat when she happened upon a topiary garden. Trees cleverly trimmed into animal shapes rose all around her. Elephants and horses, a giraffe and a unicorn, a bear and a tiger. Animals she had only seen in pictures. She walked slowly, pausing to study each remarkable sculpture, wondering how it was possible to make the bushes look so alive.
After a time, she returned to the rose garden and sat down on the grass, her skirts spread around her. She ran her fingertips over the smooth silk of her gown. Never before had she worn such fine clothes.
With a sigh, she removed her bonnet and ran a hand over her hair. How long would it take for it to grow out? It had never been cut short before. She felt naked without its warmth and weight, as if a vital part of herself had been shorn away.
It seemed the day would never end, but at last the moon took command of the sky. She ate a lonely supper, took a lengthy bath, then retired to her bedchamber, wondering if he would come to her that night.
Afraid he would, afraid he would not.
Surely no one else had a marriage quite as strange as hers. Curled up in a chair, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.
In his room, Erik paced the floor like a caged beast. Earlier in the day, he had watched Kristine walking through the gardens, more beautiful than any of the flowers. He had watched her and hated her, hated the soft glow in her eyes and the smoothness of her skin, the smile that curved her lips as she paused to admire his roses. He hated her vulnerability, the sweet lilting sound of her voice, the way her name echoed in his mind and lingered on his lips. He hated her for being young, for making him want things that would never again be his.
He ripped the mask away, yanked off his glove, ran his good hand over the hideous contours of his face. Charmion’s curse screamed in the back of his mind: A rutting beast you were, a beast you shall become. Not all at once, my selfish one. Day by day, the change will come upon you. . . .
Day by day, the transformation had happened. So slowly, so subtly, that in the beginning he had been convinced it was only his imagination, his own guilt rising up to torment him. But the day had come when his acquaintances could no longer hide their curiosity about the changes in his appearance. Rumors had flown that he had been stricken with a rare disease that caused the disfiguration, and he had not denied it. Better that rumor than the truth.
Not long after that, he had risen from a troubled sleep. After splashing water on his face, he had stared into the mirror and been horrified by the hideous half-human, half-beastly reflection that stared back at him. On that day, in a fit of horror and helplessness, he had broken every mirror in the castle, save a small one, and the floor-to ceiling mirrors that lined the ballroom, now out of sight behind locked doors.
Since then, the curse had crept over him like some insidious poison, creeping down the left side of his neck, his left shoulder, his arm, his hand. . ..
He lifted his left hand and studied it, horrified as always by the thick yellow nails, the coarse black hairs that covered his arm and the back of his hand, the pelt growing thicker with each passing day. The skin of his palm was thick and growing dark, like the pad of a wolf’s paw. Soon there would be nothing human at all about the left side of his body. And in another few months, a year at most, there would be nothing human at all.
Removing the only remaining mirror in the castle from a drawer in his bedside table, he stared at his reflection, struck by the horrible realization that he would look less frightening, less grotesque, when the transformation was at last complete and he was finally, fully, a beast.
Unable to bear the sight of his reflection any longer, he dropped the mirror in the drawer and slammed it shut.
A beast . . . He felt the madness rise up within him, felt it seep into his mind, felt the darkness pulling at him, enticing him. . . . His dreams of late had been filled with images of predator and prey, of blood and death.
“No.” He shook his head. “No!” He repeated the word again and again until the cry of denial became a shout, and the shout became a roar that shook the very walls. “No!”
Kristine came awake with a start, wondering if she had dreamed that awful heart-wrenching cry. But there it was again, louder this time. She covered her ears in an attempt to blot out the horrible sound. What was it? Surely no one, man or woman, could produce a cry of such complete and utter agony. It penetrated every nerve, every pore, until she thought the anguish of it would cause her heart to break.
She cried out in alarm as the door to her room crashed open and he stood there, every muscle in his long, lean body taut, his eyes burning through the slits in the mask.
“Get into bed.”
Frightened, she scrambled out of the chair to obey.
He extinguished the lamps, plunging the room into darkness. After unfastening his breeches, he ripped the flimsy sleeping gown from her body, then settled himself between her thighs, his gloved hand imprisoning both of hers above her head.
He closed his eyes, hating himself for taking her as if she were no more than a harlot, hating her for letting him do it without complaint.
She moved beneath him, the slight shifting of her hips settling him more deeply within her. With a groan, he buried his head against her shoulder, his body convulsing violently. A low moan trembled in her throat when he withdrew. Had he not known better, he might have thought it a protest at his leaving.
Praying that she would soon conceive, he left her lying there, unloved, unsatisfied.
As soon as Trevayne left her chamber, Kristine slipped from the bed and drew on a robe of soft pale blue velvet lined with dark blue silk. Sitting at the little writing desk, she opened the small leather-bound book that Mrs. Grainger had procured for her. Kristine had protested that it was much too fine, that all she wanted were a few sheets of paper, but Mrs. Grainger had insisted she keep the journal, saying there were many more where that one had come from.
With a sigh, Kristine opened the book, picked up her quill, and began to write.
What a strange place I have come to live in. My mother-in-law makes her home with the nuns in the convent at St. Clair. My maids are both mute. By birth, I wonder, or design?
Hawksbridge Castle is an enormous house, one that seems to shelter many secrets. I doubt I have seen it all, yet there are only a few servants. Mrs.
Grainger, Leyla and Lilia, Nan and Yvette. Just the five of them, yet the affairs of the castle run smoothly enough. Mrs. Grainger’s husband, Chilton, is in charge of the stable and grounds. Their two sons, neither of whom I’ve met, care for the gardens and help their father with the horses. Only eight servants to run this vast estate. I cannot help but wonder why there are not more. . ..
If the castle is strange, Lord Trevayne is stranger still. I know all the stories, I have heard all the rumors. I can only wonder which tales are true and which are fables told to frighten children. Sometimes I feel like a child. I know so little of the world, only what my father taught me, only what I have read in books.
Leaning forward, she dipped the quill in the ink again, then paused a moment to reflect on her words before continuing on.
My wedding night was not as I had always dreamed. The act, which I had feared, was not so awful as I had been warned or imagined, though my husband holds no love for me, nor I for him. I cannot help but wonder what peculiar circumstance prompted him to choose a bride who brings nothing of value to the marriage, and was also under sentence of death.
Last night I had a terrible nightmare. I was surprised when Lord Trevayne came to comfort me. He held me so gently, so tenderly, he hardly seemed the same man who comes to me in the dark of night. I feel my cheeks grow hot as I write this, as I admit, here on this page, that I look forward to his nightly visits, strange as they might be, to those few brief moments he spends in my bed. I wonder, does that make me dreadfully wicked?
I wish I knew what he is hiding behind the mask, why I never see hi
m during the day, why he dines alone in his room, why he refuses to let me touch him. . . .
This morning I saw him riding in the yard. He was surprised to see me, almost as surprised as I was to see him. How magnificent he looked, with his long gray cloak billowing behind him as he put his mount through its paces. A hell-black stallion ridden by a demon from hell, if town gossip is to be believed. But I do not believe my husband is a demon. Though he does seem strangely tormented, I do not give credence to the stories that he is a monster.
I have so many questions, and no one I dare ask for answers. I suppose that means I shall have to uncover the truth for myself. . . .
Chapter Four
Kristine woke early the next morning, determined to discover what her husband was hiding beneath the mask. She was tired of wondering, tired of being afraid. She had married the lord of Hawksbridge Castle for better or worse, and she would not rest until she discerned all there was to know about him.
She had no idea where this sudden surge of courage had come from. She had always been a rather cowardly creature, afraid of the dark, frightened of the unknown.
Perhaps it was merely feminine curiosity, the same insatiable curiosity that had compelled Pandora to open that accursed box. Kristine only hoped that whatever she discovered would not prove to have such disastrous results!
Erik had never come to her during the day. So, if he would not come to her, she would go to him. Remembering that she had seen him riding early yesterday morning, she dressed in the clothing she had worn the day before, plucked her bonnet from the chair, tied the ribbons beneath her chin, and then looked around for her shoes.
Thinking that one of the servants might have put them in the armoire, she opened the doors. And blinked in astonishment at the sight that met her eyes. Dresses. More dresses than she had ever seen. Where had they all come from?
Frowning, she stepped forward for a closer look, her hands moving lightly over the bounty before her. Yesterday there had been only three dresses and a pair of half-boots. Today there were at least twenty gowns in a wide variety of fabrics—fine muslins, delicate silks, lush velvets and satins. And the colors! Rich blues, deep greens, warm reds. Stripes and plaids. There were matching slippers and boots. Petticoats. A dozen exquisite bonnets perched on the top shelf.
Turning away from the armoire, she opened the drawers in the highboy, a soft exclamation of delight rising in her throat at the bounty she found there—fans and gloves and lace-edged handkerchiefs, delicate camisoles and silk stockings.
As she dropped a pair of gloves in her pocket, she wondered again where it had all come from, though there was but one logical answer—Erik. She was the wife of a wealthy man. It was only fitting that she look the part.
After pulling on a pair of boots from the armoire, she ran down the stairs and across the yard toward the barn.
Hearing voices, she ducked into an empty stall, her heart pounding with fear at being discovered. Huddled in a corner, she heard footsteps as the stable boys led Erik’s horse out of its stall.
A few minutes later she heard the harsh rasp of her husband’s voice, the clatter of hooves as he led the stallion from the stable.
Popping up from her hiding place, she saw Erik walking his big black stallion across the yard toward the flatlands beyond.
If she hurried, she might catch him.
“You there!” she called to the stable boys, hoping her voice had the proper ring of authority. “Saddle me a horse immediately.”
The two boys whirled around. “My lady,” they exclaimed, almost in unison.
“My horse, quickly!”
The boys exchanged glances. “We had best do as she says, Brandt,” the taller of the two suggested.
“Yes, indeed,” Kristine said with asperity.
“She should have a sidesaddle,” Brandt said. “It isn’t fitting for a lady to ride astride.”
“Then fetch me a sidesaddle,” she said impatiently. If they didn’t hurry, she would never find Lord Trevayne.
“Begging your pardon, my lady,” Brandt said. “But we don’t have one. The master’s first wife didn’t ride.”
“Just saddle my horse,” Kristine said. “And be quick about it!”
In a matter of minutes, she was standing beside a long-legged, cream-colored mare. “Has she a name?”
“Aye, White Mist,” Brandt replied, “but we call her Misty.”
“Is she gentle?”
“Yes, my lady, you’ve nothing to fear. She has a soft mouth and a fine disposition.”
Brandt helped her mount. Until then, she had not realized how tall the mare was. The ground suddenly seemed quite far away and Kristine felt her newfound courage rapidly deserting her. She had never been on a horse before; now, seated precariously on the leather saddle, with nothing to cling to, she began to think she had made a terrible mistake.
But there was no turning back, not if she hoped to follow Lord Trevayne. Casting a tremulous smile at the two stable boys, she clucked to the mare, breathed a sigh of relief when the animal walked out of the barn.
Kristine was wondering how to make the mare go in the direction she wished when Misty turned of her own accord, following the path Erik’s stallion had taken.
Kristine focused all her concentration on remaining in the saddle. The thin reins clasped in her gloved hands didn’t seem sturdy enough to control such a huge beast. Experimenting, she tugged on the left rein, then the right, laughing with delight as the mare turned left, then right. Reaching up to resettle her hat, Kristine accidentally tugged on the reins and the mare came to an abrupt halt, almost unseating her.
“This isn’t so hard,” Kristine mused aloud. It was, in fact, rather exhilarating to be out riding so early in the morning. Diamond drops of dew still clung to the grass, the birds were singing cheerfully high in the treetops, the sky was a bright clear blue.
Kristine had left the castle far behind when she heard the neighing of a horse. Erik’s horse? Her heart began to pound in anticipation at seeing him. Misty whinnied a reply and then, without warning, broke into a gallop.
With a startled shriek, Kristine toppled from the saddle. She saw the ground rushing up to meet her.
And then she saw nothing at all.
Trevayne reined his stallion to a halt as a woman’s cry shattered the early-morning stillness. For one swift moment, he was transported back in time as the sound of Dominique’s last anguished cry rang down the corridors of his mind.
Shaking the memory away, he wheeled the stallion around and rode back the way he had come. Rounding a stand of timber, he saw Misty trotting toward him, head lifted high to avoid stepping on the dangling reins.
Catching up the mare, Trevayne urged his horse into a gallop, a sudden sense of unease knifing through him.
He reined the stallion to a halt, his heart pounding with trepidation when he saw Kristine sprawled facedown on the dew-damp grass. Vaulting from the saddle, Trevayne knelt beside her, his gloved hands skimming over her arms and legs, along her back and neck. Satisfied that there were no broken bones, he removed her bonnet and examined the back of her head. Anger flared within him as he ran his fingertips over the short frizziness of her hair. Then, as carefully as he could, he turned her over, cradling her in his lap.
“Kristine?”
Her eyelids fluttered open at the sound of his voice.
“Kristine?”
She blinked at him. “My lord.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so. What happened?”
“It seems you took a fall. What are you doing out here? Who gave you permission to ride?”
“No one gave me permission,” she admitted, not quite meeting his eyes.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked again.
Should she tell him the truth? Would he be angry? What was he thinking? The mask hid most of his features. Leather riding gloves covered his hands. He wore a shirt of finely woven gray wool beneath a black broadcloth coat; black
riding breeches were tucked into expensive black boots.
“Answer me.”
Something warned her not to lie to him. “I was following you.”
“Following me?” Surprise flickered in his eyes. “Why?”
“Because I . . . that is . . .” Her gaze slid away from his. “I was curious, my lord.”
“Curious?”
“About where you go. I never see you except . . .” She took a deep breath, disconcerted by his unwavering gaze. “I never see you during the day.” Or in the night. The unspoken accusation hovered between them.
He muttered something under his breath, then eased her from his lap. Rising, he stared down at her for a long moment; then, reaching for her hand, he helped her to her feet. He released her as soon as she was steady.
“Come,” he said gruffly. “I’ll take you back.”
Kristine bit down on her lower lip; then, summoning her courage, she asked, “Do we have to? Go back, I mean.” She spread her hands in a gesture that encompassed the surrounding countryside. “It’s so pretty out here. And I do like riding. It’s quite . . . exciting.”
“You want to ride with me?” he exclaimed, disbelief evident in his voice, in the taut lines of his body.
“Yes, my lord, very much.”
“Have you ever ridden before today?”
She shook her head, wondering if such an admission was wise. Would he make her go back, now that he knew she was a novice?
“I shall have Brandt give you lessons.”
Taking up Misty’s reins, he led the mare to Kristine. “Are you certain you wish to ride with me?”
She nodded, feeling a rush of excitement as Erik’s hands closed around her waist. He lifted her effortlessly into the saddle, handed her the reins, then swung onto the stallion’s back and clucked to the horse.
Kristine urged Misty up beside him. They rode side by side, not speaking.
In spite of her earlier remark about the beauty of her surroundings, Kristine paid little heed to the passing countryside. The trees might have been blue, the sky green, for all the notice she took. All her senses were riveted on the man riding beside her. The tall, dark mysterious man who was her husband. Erik . . .
Beauty's Beast Page 4