“Why do you stay here, Kristine? Why don’t you hate me? Why haven’t you run away?”
Her gaze slid away from his. “I have nowhere else to go, my lord, but if you wish me to leave, I shall do so.”
“You didn’t answer my other question.”
“I cannot find it in my heart to hate you, my lord.” Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet his. “You saved me from a cruel death, and for that I shall ever be grateful.”
“And that’s why you stay, why you let me into your bed? Because you are grateful?”
He saw the blood rush to her cheeks and wished he could call back the words. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Forgive me.”
She refused to meet his eyes. “It’s obvious you have no need of me, my lord,” she said stiffly. “I’m sorry if I’ve . . .” Her voice broke and he knew she was on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry for intruding.”
With a sob, she turned blindly toward the door, wanting only to get away from him. How could she have been so wrong? He didn’t need her the way a man needed his wife. And he never would.
“Kristine, wait.”
She hesitated, her hand on the latch, her whole body quivering with the effort to hold back her tears.
“Kristine, what do you want of me?”
“I want to be your wife.”
Trevayne stared at her back, noting the tremors that shook her, the slender shape barely visible beneath her gown. “I don’t understand.”
“I want to share your life. I cannot abide living the way I do. I feel like a prisoner. Oh, the castle is lovely, and the servants are kind, but I have no one to talk to, nothing to occupy my time. I’m so lonely.”
She had mentioned that before, he mused, but he had not really listened. “Go on.”
“I want you to take your meals with me. I want to go riding with you when you tour the estate. I want to . . .” She paused, and he saw the telltale flush climb up the back of her neck. “I want to sleep beside you.”
She wanted the impossible, he thought bleakly. She wanted a normal life, but he could not give her that. He closed his eyes, remembering his vow to get her with child, then leave the castle, to end his life when she had borne him an heir. Selfish lout that he was, he had never taken her feelings into account. What would it hurt, to spend a little time with her, to keep her company if that was what she wanted? He refused to acknowledge he wanted it, too, refused to admit that his solitary existence was slowly choking him to death. . .. Ah, death, it loomed before him, shining, beckoning, the only hope he had to end the curse that was slowly robbing him of his humanity.
He took a deep breath, let it out in a slow, pain-filled sigh. “Very well, Kristine, it shall be as you wish.”
“You mean it?” She turned around, her green eyes sparkling with hope. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
“Thank you, my lord husband.” Smiling shyly, she took a step toward him. “Will you not tell me why you wear a mask?”
“No. You have told me what you want. Now I shall tell you my terms. You will never again ask about the mask, and you will promise to respect my privacy in this matter.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“I shall do my best to be your husband in every way, but I cannot stay the night in your bed.” He lifted a hand to still her protest. “I do not wish to sleep with the mask on,” he explained. The hours of darkness were the only time he was free of it; he could not sacrifice those hours of freedom, not even for her. “If you wish, I shall stay with you, in your bed, until you fall asleep.”
She nodded, hoping her disappointment didn’t show. She had thought she might be able to sneak a look beneath the mask while he slept, but he had neatly forestalled the possibility.
“Very well, I agree to your terms.” Kristine held out her hand. “Will you join me in my bed, my lord husband?”
It was too soon. He needed time to adjust to her demands. “We will start our new life together on the morrow, Kristine.”
“As you wish, Lord Trevayne,” she replied. “Sleep well.”
Their new life started the following morning. Mrs. Grainger stared at Erik, obviously stunned by his presence as he entered the dining room.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said when she had gathered her wits. “Will you be dining with Lady Kristine?”
He nodded curtly as he sat down at the head of the table. He had avoided his servants as much as possible since he had started wearing the mask; had not eaten a meal downstairs in four years. He was aware of Yvette’s furtive gaze as she hurried to set a place for him, of Nan’s wide-eyed stare as she poured him a cup of tea.
“Good morning, my lord husband,” Kristine said as she swept into the room. “Did you sleep well?”
“No,” he replied candidly. “Did you?”
Twin flags of color rose in her cheeks as she lowered her gaze, her reply a barely perceptible shake of her head. She wondered if he had spent the night tossing and turning, as she had.
“Will you take me riding this morning?” she asked, determined to draw him out, to make him talk to her.
“I had planned to spend the day going over the household accounts,” Erik replied, his voice cool.
Kristine glanced away, but not before he saw the disappointment in her eyes. He did not understand her, he thought. Why did she want to be with him? For all that they were man and wife, she knew nothing about him, would be horrified to know what kind of monster sat at the table with her.
He picked at his food, unable to enjoy the meal while she was watching him. It had been years since he had taken his meals anywhere but in the privacy of his room. He was acutely conscious of his mask. With its silk so lightweight, he managed to forget its presence from time to time. But not now, with Kristine sitting across from him, with the housemaids sending furtive glances in his direction each time they entered the room.
With an exasperated sigh, he pushed away from the table. “Be ready in an hour,” he said gruffly.
They rode in silence for a time. Erik studied her, noting her stiff posture, her iron grip on the reins.
“Relax your hold,” he said quietly. “The mare has a soft mouth.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Her mouth is tender, sensitive to the pull of the bit. You needn’t hold the reins so tightly. Nor sit so stiffly. Let yourself move with the mare.”
Kristine tried to do as he said. It was hard at first. She wasn’t at ease on the horse and it was hard to relax. But, gradually, she did as he said. Erik told her how to hold the reins, how to guide the mare not only with the reins, but with the pressure of her knees, how to bring the mare to a smooth stop. It amazed her that two strips of thin leather could control so large an animal, but Misty responded instantly.
As Kristine grew more at ease, she found that riding was quite pleasant. The countryside was beautiful, the rocking motion of the mare was restful.
Erik drew his horse to a halt near a narrow stream shaded by silver birches. He dismounted in a fluid motion, then turned and helped her from the saddle.
Kristine stared at his hands at her waist as he set her on the ground. His gloved left hand felt different from his right, though she couldn’t quite explain why.
Abruptly, he drew his hands away and took a step backward. “I thought you might like to rest awhile.”
“Yes, I would, thank you.” She sat down on the grass, spreading her skirts around her.
Trevayne felt a sudden tightness in his throat as he looked at her. She wore a forest green riding habit that emphasized her sweet womanly curves and made her eyes glow like emeralds. A wide-brimmed hat with a matching green feather shaded her face and helped hide her shorn locks. She looked beautiful, he mused, beautiful and desirable. If he were a normal man, he would take her in his arms. He would kiss her and caress her, perhaps make love to her there, on the grass, with none but the sun to know.
But he was not a normal man, and she would turn away from him in horror, repulsed by
his face and body, by the thought of giving herself to a monster.
“My lord?”
The sound of her voice brought him back to the present. “What is it?”
“Is something wrong?”
Wrong? He almost laughed out loud. She had no idea just how wrong things were. The good Lord willing, she would never know.
Kristine stared up at him, at his eyes, which looked dark and haunted behind the mask. “Why will you not confide in me?”
His eyes narrowed. “Confide in you? About what, pray tell?”
“Why you feel the need to wear a mask.” As soon as she spoke the words, she remembered her promise not to mention it again, but she forged on. “Why that witch woman called you a demon and urged me to leave with her before it was too late.”
He stared at her, his hands clenched at his sides, his breathing suddenly harsh and uneven.
“What did she mean about every tear and every drop of blood her daughter shed?”
He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. For a moment, Kristine thought he might strike her; then he turned away, his shoulders shaking.
Kristine stared at him in amazement. Was he crying?
Rising, she went to stand behind him. “Erik? Erik, I’m sorry.”
“Go back to the house.”
She had ruined it, she thought, ruined what could have been the nicest day they had spent together since their marriage. She was about to turn away when she heard a muffled sob. He was crying, and it was all her fault.
Without stopping to consider the consequences, she put her arms around him, her front pressed to his back, and hugged him. “My lord? Erik? I’m truly sorry. Please forgive me.”
He stiffened in her embrace, his body as rigid as stone, and then, as if a dam had broken inside him, he began to cry, deep gulping sobs that shook his frame from head to foot. His tears dripped onto her hands.
“It will be all right.” She murmured the words as she stroked his back. Shudders wracked his body. “Erik, please don’t cry.” Guilt rose within her. What had she said to cause him such pain?
Not knowing what else to do, she continued to speak to him in low, soothing tones, one arm wrapped loosely around his waist, the other stroking his back . . . his back. . .. She ran her hand over him, her fingertips detecting a difference between one side and the other. She lifted her hand a little and massaged his shoulders. Was his left shoulder larger than the right?
Her curiosity rising, she ran her hands up and down his arms. His left arm felt different beneath the fine cloth of his coat, larger.
She was pondering what it could mean when he suddenly whirled around to face her. He wasn’t crying now. Anger blazed in his dark eyes as he captured both her hands in his right one.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a voice that could only be called a growl.
“Nothing . . . I . . . nothing . . .”
She stared up at him, transfixed.
“I told you not to touch me.”
“I . . . I didn’t mean any harm.”
She trembled in his grasp, her eyes wide with fright. He had a horrible urge to fling her to the ground, to strip off his mask and clothing and let her see the monstrous horror that was slowly engulfing his face and body. He wanted to frighten her, to hurt her. To make love to her until they were both breathless.
With an oath, he released her hands. “Go back to the house.”
She didn’t argue this time. With a wordless cry, she whirled around and ran for her horse. He had a quick flash of one long stocking-covered leg as she pulled herself into the saddle and rode away without a backward glance.
Kristine sat at her desk, scribbling furiously, her head aching from the tears she had shed earlier.
I have ruined it all, shattered the fine thread of friendship that had bloomed between us. If only he would confide in me, if only I knew what it is that torments him so!
The memory of Charmion’s visit haunts my every waking moment. Strange, I gave it hardly a thought when it occurred, but now I cannot forget the hatred in her eyes when she looked at Erik. I think she truly believes he killed her daughter. I have not wanted to believe the rumors true, but I have seen his anger firsthand. What if, in a fit of rage, he killed his first wife? After today, I no longer think him incapable of such a foul deed. . ..
Kristine froze, her pen poised over the page, as she heard the door to her room swing open. Even before she turned around, she knew he was there.
He loomed tall and broad in the doorway. His coat was gone, his cravat was askew.
“My lord?”
“Yes, wife?”
“Is something amiss?”
He shook his head, one hand braced against the wall. “I forgot about my vow.”
“Your vow?”
He nodded, his words slurring together as he said, “I have come to fulfill it.”
She stared at him, horrified by the realization that he was drunk.
“I promised my father an heir.” He closed the door and shot the bolt home. “Get into bed.”
“Now?” Her voice emerged as little more than a frightened squeak.
“Now.”
She stood up, knocking the chair over in the sudden panic that engulfed her. Her gaze darted around the room, her heart beating frantically. She had never refused him, never truly been afraid of him, until this moment. Behind the mask, his eyes burned like glowing coals.
He took a step toward her, and she retreated.
A low growl rose in his throat as he reached for her.
With a shriek, she tried to slip past him, but his hand closed over her arm, holding her fast.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please don’t. Not like this.”
“I must, my sweet Kristine. It is the only way to end this torment.”
She turned away as his whiskey-soured breath filled her nostrils.
A low groan rumbled in his throat as he drew her up hard against him, one arm holding her close. His right hand clasped her chin, holding her head still while he bent down to cover her mouth with his.
“Sweet,” he murmured. “Sweet.”
She tried to turn her face away, to free herself from his grasp, but it was impossible. He held her firmly, easily. She could feel every taut line of his body pressed against hers from shoulder to thigh. His tongue plundered her mouth and she tasted the whiskey he had been drinking.
She gasped when he swung her into his arms and carried her to bed. Depositing her none too gently on the mattress, he began to undress her. Clumsy in his haste, he ripped her gown and then, with a cry of frustration, he tore off her undergarments, flinging them across the room, until she lay on the bed, fully exposed to his rapacious gaze.
“Don’t.” She whispered the word, knowing, in her heart, that it would do no good. “Please, don’t.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over her body like a flame, bringing a hot flush of embarrassment to her cheeks.
He moved away from the bed to extinguish the lamp and close the drapes, plunging the room into utter darkness. She felt the bed sag under his weight as his body covered hers, pressing her down into the mattress. His gloved hand imprisoned both of hers while his other hand caressed her.
She had expected him to be rough, to take her quickly and be gone, but his hand was infinitely gentle as it glided over her body, arousing her against her will. She heard him curse under his breath, and then he was kissing her again. There was no violence in him now, nothing but tenderness as he rained kisses over her face and neck.
She tried to remain impassive, but her body betrayed her. Had he been cruel, she might have resisted, but he made love to her with infinite care, whispering to her all the while, praising her beauty, the softness of her skin, the sweetness of her lips, and she found herself responding, found herself wishing her hands were free so that she might stroke his back and shoulders, that she might run her fingers through his hair. She tried to draw her hands from his, but he tig
htened his hold.
“No,” he whispered. His voice was deep and husky, but there was no anger in it.
He kissed her shoulders, the curve of her neck—long, lingering kisses that excited her, until she writhed beneath him.
“Now,” she begged, and lifted her hips in silent invitation.
“Now,” he agreed. Reaching down, he unfastened his trousers.
A moment later, his body merged with hers. She thought she heard him whisper, “Please don’t hate me, Kristine,” but she couldn’t be sure, and then there was no time to wonder, there was only the exquisite pleasure of his body melding with hers as he moved deep within her.
She moaned softly as heat rippled through her, warm, sweet heat that touched every nerve, filled every hollow. She cried his name as pleasure burst within her, felt him shudder as he found his own release. Needing to touch him, she tried again to free her hands.
“No, Kristine.”
“Why?” she asked petulantly. “Why can’t I touch you?”
She tried to see his face in the darkness, but he was only a dark shadow rising above her, a phantom lover who came to her in the night and disappeared with the dawn.
He rested his forehead against hers, his hair brushing her cheeks. “Don’t ask.”
She felt his body relax, felt his hand move aimlessly over her body, stroking her arm, the curve of her breast, the curly cap of her hair. She wondered if he would fall asleep, wondered if he did, whether she dared light the candle and discover what he was hiding from her.
Minutes passed. She could hear the tick of the clock on her dressing table, the faint whisper of the wind against the windows. His breath fanned her cheek.
Then, with a sigh, he rolled away from her and stood up. She could feel him watching her as he fastened his trousers.
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