Beauty's Beast(16)

“Do as I say.”

She lacked the courage to argue with him. He watched her tug on Misty’s reins. The mare did not want to leave the company of the stallion, but Kristine finally managed to turn the horse around. His wife sent one last glance in his direction, her eyes filled with hurt and disappointment, and then, with a toss of her head, she left him there, staring after her, foolishly wishing for things that could never be.





That night, Kristine bent over her diary, fighting the urge to cry as she wrote.


He doesn’t want me, and he never will. I know that now. He doesn’t want warmth or affection. He doesn’t want someone to share his life or his dreams. Why, then, did he marry me? What did he hope to gain?


“A son,” she muttered bitterly. “That’s all he wants from you.”

Fighting the childish urge to throw herself on the bed and pound the pillow with her fists, she took a deep breath, then dipped her quill in the inkwell.


I asked Mrs. Grainger why he wears a mask, but she shook her head and refused to answer me. One way or another, I shall uncover the secrets of this house, and those of the man who is its master.

I have nothing else to do with my time. . ..





Chapter Five



Kristine rose early the next morning. Dressing quickly, she went to the window and peered out into the gray dawn. As soon as she saw Erik striding toward the barn, she went to the door that separated her room from his. It was locked. Frowning, she stood there a moment, then left her room. She tiptoed the short distance to his chamber, then paused, her hand on the latch.

What was she doing? What if one of the maids found her in there? With a shake of her head, she opened the door. She was, after all, the lady of the house, and Erik was her husband. She had every right to be there.

She closed the door quietly behind her, then stood there a moment, her heart thundering in her ears. This room was even larger than her bedchamber. A huge bed with wine-colored hangings and a matching counterpane stood directly across from the entrance. Several large pillows were propped against the massive oak headboard. There were tables on each side of the bed. There was an armoire of carved oak to her left, a stone fireplace similar to the one in her room to her right. A small round table and a single chair stood to the right of the hearth. High, narrow, leaded windows were located on either side of the bed. Draperies the same color and material as the canopy hung at the windows. Tapestry rugs in muted shades of wine and blue covered the floor.

Moving farther into the room, she ran her hand over the counterpane, slid her fingertips over one of the pillows. He slept here. Did he ever think of her, dream of her?

Feeling like a thief in the night, yet unable to resist, she went to the armoire and looked inside, noting that her husband seemed to have a preference for coats and breeches in somber hues. The top drawer held a number of shirts in a variety of colors, all made of finely woven wool. Did he always wear wool, she wondered, even in summer? The second drawer held handkerchiefs of fine linen, a wide assortment of cravats and gloves. The third held at least a dozen masks, all fashioned of black silk.

Her breath caught in her throat when she picked one up. It was featherlight in her hand, made so that a portion of it fit over the top of his head. Narrow ribbons served to hold it in place. Why did he wear a mask, she wondered again. What was he hiding? A horrible scar? The disfiguring marks of the pox? A deformity of some kind?

She shook her head. He was such a large, vibrant man, she could not imagine that someone who exuded such power could be anything but perfect.

She held the mask by the edges and lifted it in front of her face, peering through the slits cut for his eyes as she tried to imagine what it would be like to wear such a thing day and night.

“What are you doing in here?”

She would recognize that gruff voice anywhere. It split the stillness with the force of a thunderclap. Kristine felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment as she whirled around to face him, the mask dangling from her hand, forgotten.

Dressed all in black, her husband loomed over her like a dark, angry cloud.

“I . . .”

“You have no business in here.”

She stared up at him. Tall and broad, he blocked the doorway, effectively shutting off her only means of escape.

“I asked you a question.” He spoke each word softly. Slowly. Distinctly.

She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat, tried to form a coherent sentence, and failed.

He held out one gloved hand. “Give it to me.”

Kristine looked at him blankly. “What? Oh!” She dropped the mask into his outstretched hand.

“Get out.” His fist closed over the silk.

“I’m sorry.” She stared up at him, willing him to move. She wanted nothing more than to flee his presence, but he stood in front of the door, blocking her retreat.