“My lord?” She stared at him, perplexed by his cryptic words.
“Leave me, Kristine.”
“As you wish, my lord,” she said.
Trevayne clenched his hand as he watched her leave the room. “Nothing will ever be as I wish it again,” he murmured bleakly. “The witch has seen to that.”
Her presence in the house was driving him to distraction. Two months had passed since he had taken Kristine as his bride. The hours he had once spent immersed in running the affairs of the estate he now spent thinking about the young woman who was his wife. He spent hours watching her—spying on her, he amended with a rueful shake of his head. The castle was honeycombed with secret passageways and peepholes.
He watched her when she sat in the solar, a piece of embroidery in her lap, her brow furrowed in concentration as she took tiny, delicate stitches in the fine linen.
He watched her in the library, her head bent over a book. Sometimes she read aloud, the soft sound of her voice caressing his ears as he longed to caress her flesh. But he had vowed not to touch her again—a promise that put him at odds with the deathbed oath he had sworn to his father, for how could he ensure an heir for Hawksbridge when he had vowed not to bed his bride again?
“Kristine.” Her name conjured sunlight and music, a longing to be touched, an ache so deep it caused him to groan in pain.
Kristine. If only he could seek her out, sit across from her while she dined, join her in front of the fire in the evening and tell her of the day’s events. He yearned for the normal things most men took for granted—the company of his peers, an evening at the theater, the crush of people at a ball, the simple pleasure of making love to his wife in the light of day, with nothing between them but desire.
Kristine. He felt her presence as he walked through the house late that night. The lingering scent of her perfume filled the very air he breathed. The book she was reading lay on the desk in the library, tempting his hand because she had touched it. Her embroidery made a splash of color on the chair where she had left it. Her bonnet hung from a hook near the door. Because she liked flowers, the rooms were filled with them—fragrant roses from the gardens, wildflowers and lacy ferns from the woods. The rose petals reminded him of her—soft and fragile and sweet-smelling.
Unable to help himself, he went to her room and stepped inside. She had left the drapes at her window open. Moonlight filtered into the room, its pale light blending with the glow of the lamp beside her bed, bathing her face in its soft radiance.
Drawn by an irresistible force, he crossed the floor to her side and gazed down at her. How lovely she was! Her cheeks were the color of ripe peaches, her lips as pink as the petals of the roses she loved, her hair the color of sun-ripened wheat. Her womanly scent rose up to tantalize him, stirring his blood, his desire.
His breath caught in his throat when he realized that she had awakened.
She sat up, sleepy-eyed and innocent. “My lord, is something amiss?”
“No.” He ground the word from a throat gone dry.
“You sound most peculiar. Are you ill?”
He was ill, all right, he mused. Ill with wanting her. Feeling like a fool, he shook his head. “Go back to sleep, Kristine. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
He was turning away from the bed when she caught his hand. “Stay, if you wish.”
He stiffened, his face turned away from hers. “What did you say?”
“You need not go, if you would rather stay.”
He stared down at the slender fingers curled around his gloved hand. He could feel the heat of her through the soft leather. “It would be better if I left.”
“As you wish.” Her hand dropped away from his.
“It’s not what I wish,” he replied gruffly.
“Then stay.”
“I cannot.” He shook his head. “I cannot stay and not touch you.”
He heard the sharp intake of her breath as the implication of his words struck her.
“Good night, Kristine.” He started toward the door, her unspoken rejection no less painful for being expected.
And then he heard her voice, soft and shaky. “I’m lonely, too, my lord husband.”
He froze, one hand on the latch. “Lonely?”
“Yes, my lord. The days are very long with no one to talk to. And my nights are longer still.”
“I’m sorry, Kristine. I did not think . . .” He shook his head. It had not occurred to him that she might be lonely, too. But, of course, she would be. She was imprisoned in this place, as was he.
Kristine took a deep breath, steeling herself for his rejection. “Will you not stay the night with me?”
“I cannot, Kristine. I cannot lie beside you and not touch you.”