Beauty's Beast(12)

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.