“You do not!” Kristine exclaimed, but the mention of food made her stomach growl, and she realized she was ravenous.
He sniffed the air. “And fresh-baked scones with honey butter.”
“All right, I’m going,” she said. “And there had better be scones when we get there.”
It was late afternoon by the time the last of the guests took their leave. As Erik had expected, their absence the night before had not been noticed.
Now he and Kristine were sitting at the dining room table, nibbling on bread and cheese. Erik picked up his glass and sipped his wine. It was an excellent vintage, he mused, and added it to the list of enjoyments he would miss.
Leaning back in his chair, Erik regarded Kristine over the rim of his wineglass. “I should say your first soiree was a huge success.”
“It was fun, wasn’t it?” Kristine mused with a smile. “We shall have to have another soon.”
Erik nodded, knowing that he would not be present the next time. He took a deep breath as a sharp twinge ran the length of his right arm. He clenched his hand. The curse was spreading.
Placing his glass on the table, he stood abruptly.
Kristine frowned as wine splashed over the white cloth. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. I’ll see you this evening.”
“Erik? Erik!” She turned in her chair, watching as he rushed out of the room.
Kristine sat at her dressing table, her head bowed over her diary.
Our first ball was a huge success. What fun, to be able to spend however much money I wish, to be able to order gowns and flowers, to entertain our neighbors in grand style. In truth, I had thought they might refuse, for Mrs. Grainger told me it has been several years since my lord husband has welcomed visitors to Hawksbridge Castle.
Lord Hoxford was most attentive throughout the evening. He is a handsome young man, with light brown hair and dark brown eyes. He is tall, though not so tall as my Erik . . . my Erik . . . He kissed me in the gardens, and then we went to the little cottage I found the other day. For the first time, he told me something of his past, his childhood.
Imagine my surprise when I learned he’d had a brother! No one has ever mentioned him. Erik told me he had once thought to enter the priesthood. I cannot imagine my lord Erik in a monastery, cannot imagine my life without my strange husband. I wonder if I will ever see what lies behind his mask, if he will ever come to trust me enough, or love me, as I have grown to love him. As I love our unborn child. I pray it will be a strong, healthy boy, with Erik’s beautiful dark eyes. . ..
She paused, rereading what she had written. “My strange husband,” she murmured. Why had he left the parlor so abruptly this afternoon? Where had he gone? She had not missed the look of torment, of pain, in his eyes. He had told her before he was often in pain. Was he hiding some dreadful illness from her, some fatal malady?
Fear clutched at her heart at the thought of losing him.
Slipping the book back in the drawer of her dresser, she left her chamber in search of her husband, but he was nowhere to be found.
At loose ends, she wandered down to the stable to visit Misty. She was currying the mare when Erik rode up.
The stallion was breathing heavily, its sides covered with foamy yellow lather, its legs smeared with mud.
Kristine smiled tentatively as Erik swung out of the saddle and patted the horse on the neck.
“Cool him out,” he said as he passed the stallion’s reins to Brandt. “And give him an extra ration of oats.”
“Yes, my lord,” Brandt said. With a polite nod in Kristine’s direction, the boy led the horse away.
“Did you have a good ride, my lord husband?” Kristine asked.
Erik nodded curtly. He had ridden long and hard and, for a short while, he had forgotten everything but the sheer joy of racing across the meadow. Once the stallion had lost its footing and Erik had wondered, even as he pulled up on the reins, if it wouldn’t be better for all concerned if he took a fall and broke his neck.
“I would have gone with you,” Kristine remarked quietly.
“Next time,” Erik replied. He brushed a kiss across her cheek. “I shall see you at dinner.”
He was silent and withdrawn at the dinner table that night. She didn’t know how or why, but she felt that he was withdrawing from her, erecting a wall between them. He had not said whether he planned to continue sharing her bed, and she couldn’t summon the courage to ask. She felt his furtive gaze often during the meal, noticed that he ate nothing, though he drank several glasses of wine.
As was their wont, they went into the library after dinner. Erik perused the day’s accounts while she sat in her favorite chair, frowning over a bit of embroidery. It was busywork, nothing more, she thought glumly, and then smiled.
“Erik?”
“Hmm?”
“I’ll be needing some material, you know, to make things for the baby.”
He grunted softly. “Make a list of what you want. I will send Leyla to fetch them in the morning.” He looked up. “You will be needing some material for yourself, too, I should imagine.”
Kristine rested a hand over her belly, imagining how it would look in a few months’ time. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“Purchase whatever you need. Whatever you want.”
“Thank you, my lord. You are most generous.”
His gaze met hers, his eyes dark with an emotion she could not name and then, before she could do more than wonder what was troubling him so, he turned away so she could not see his eyes. Something was bothering him, she knew it in the deepest part of her, but what?
At ten, Mrs. Grainger brought them a pot of tea. At eleven, Kristine rose to go to bed. She folded her embroidery into a neat pile and placed it on the chair, then walked round the desk to kiss Erik’s cheek.
“Good night, my lord husband.”
“Good night.”
“Will you . . .” She bit down on her lip. “Will I see you later?”
He didn’t look at her but he nodded, once, curtly.
She yearned to touch him, to wrap her arms around him and press his head to her breasts, to beg him to tell her what it was that caused him such anguish, but he had never welcomed her touch. With a sigh, she turned and left the room.
A muscle clenched in Erik’s jaw as she closed the door. He sat there, staring at nothing, remembering the warmth of her lips on his cheek, the faint flowery scent that clung to her hair and clothing, the slightly husky sound of her voice as she asked, in her own shy way, if he would join her in bed later. It never failed to amaze him that she invited his touch, that she had not told him of her pregnancy for fear he would no longer warm her bed. If he had one wish, it would be to always share her bed, her life, to cradle her in his arms each night, to kiss her awake each morning. But it was not to be.
Despair rose within him, darker than the night outside his window, deeper than the lake near the hunting lodge.
Driven by some primal urge that frightened him even as it compelled him, he left the house and turned toward the deep woods, discarding his clothing as he went, until he ran naked through the night.
The wind whipped through his hair, stung his eyes, chilled his body, and still he ran. The ground felt strange beneath his feet . . . and yet he knew it was his feet, and not the ground, that had changed. He ran for miles, tireless, mindless, his nostrils filling with the scents of the night—the damp earth, the leaves he crushed, the stink of something long dead. He heard the screech of an owl and then he caught the strong scent of blood.
Fresh blood.
It drew him like a beacon in the darkness.
The wolves growled as he approached. Three of them, a male and two females, huddled over the carcass of a deer.
Breathless, the blood teasing his nostrils, he walked toward them. The dominant female whined softly, then turned and trotted away, followed by the other, smaller female. The male stood his ground, teeth bared, hackles raised. A low
growl rumbled in his throat.
An answering growl rose in Erik’s throat as he bared his teeth and took a step forward.
The wolf growled again, then turned and disappeared into the night.
With a howl of triumph, Erik dropped to his hands and knees and sniffed the carcass.
A purr of satisfaction rumbled in his throat as he lapped at the blood, and then he reared back, a cry of horror erupting from his lips as he realized what he was doing.
“No! No!” Scrambling to his feet, he scrubbed the blood from his mouth with the back of his good hand. “No.” He backed away from the carcass, appalled by his feral behavior.
“Kristine,” he moaned. “Help me. Someone, please, help me.”
She woke from a sound sleep, the melancholy cry of a wolf ringing in her ears. “Erik?” She patted the bed beside her and knew he had not been there.
Rising, she drew on her night robe and padded barefoot to the window. The moon hung low in the sky, silvering the trees, shining on the pond in the middle of the garden. All was quiet.
She was about to go back to bed when she saw it: a dark form making its way toward the back of the house. She leaned forward, eyes narrowed as she tried to see who it was. An intruder? One of the Graingers’ sons coming home from a night in town?
The figure stepped into a pool of moonlight and she caught a glimpse of long black hair, the flash of a naked thigh.
“Erik!” Grabbing the small lamp burning beside her bed, she hurried out of the room and down the stairs toward the kitchen.
She got there as the back door opened. “Erik?”
“Put out the light!”
“What?”
“The light. Put it out.”
Frowning, she turned down the wick, plunging the room into darkness.
“What are you doing here?” he growled.
“I . . . I saw you from my window. What were you doing out there? Are you . . . I thought . . . are you naked?”
“Go to bed, Kristine.”
“Erik, please tell me what is troubling you. Please let me help.”
“Kristine, go to bed.” He bit off each word.
“Yes, my lord.”
Turning on her heel, she ran out of the kitchen, through the dining room and hallway, then ducked behind the long curved settee in the parlor. A narrow shaft of moonlight shone through a slit in the draperies. Heart pounding, she waited.
And suddenly he strode into her line of vision. The moonlight slid across his bare shoulders. She could not see his face, only one arm and a long length of muscled thigh. He was carrying a wadded-up bundle that she assumed were his clothes.
She squinted, trying to see better in the darkness, but it was no use. He crossed the room quickly and disappeared up the stairs, leaving her to sit there, more confused than she had ever been in her life.
Erik felt every muscle in his body tense as he walked through the parlor, his face averted. He knew she was there, hiding behind the settee. Her scent filled his nostrils, as tempting as the deer’s warm blood. Revulsion rose up within him. He had hoped to spend one last night in Kristine’s bed, to hold her close one more time, to make love to her slowly, tenderly. To memorize every soft curve, but he dared not go to her now, nor ever again.
Tonight, he would gather what few things he would need. When he was certain she was asleep, he would go to her room and take one last look, and then he would leave the estate. He had left written orders for Mrs. Grainger, informing her that she was to tell no one where he had gone. After the babe was born, she was to send him word. When the time came, he wondered morbidly if he would still be human enough to care that Hawksbridge had a new heir.
When he reached his chamber, he locked the door, and then locked the connecting door between his room and Kristine’s.
He heard her footsteps in the corridor a few moments later, heard the sound of her chamber door open and close.
Fighting the urge to go to her, Erik shoved a few items of clothing into a bag, grabbed a mask to replace the one he had lost in the woods.
He heard the soft rap of her knuckles on the door between their rooms. “My lord husband, are you in there?”
Heart pounding, he stared at the door, everything within him urging him to go to her, to seek the warm shelter of her arms. She had such a soft heart, surely she would be able to find some small shred of pity for the beast he was becoming. And then he looked down at the left side of his body, the thick dark hair, the deformed hand and foot, and knew she would run screaming from the sight of him.
“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 cr
uel 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.
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