Beauty's Beast(26)

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 tightened 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.

“Good night, Kristine.”

“My lord, I . . .”

“What?”

“Can we not start again?”

He blew out a deep sigh. What did she want from him? Surely she realized theirs would never be a normal relationship.

“Will you not stay with me until I fall asleep?”

He closed his eyes, his hands clenching. “If you wish.”

“I do. Very much.”

He heard the rustle of cloth as she drew back the blankets in silent invitation.

Wordlessly, he returned to the bed and slid in beside her. A moment later, she rested her head on his right shoulder. Why, he wondered, why didn’t she hate him? He had given her no cause to feel otherwise. Was she so desperate for attention, she was willing to settle for whatever he was willing to give?

With a sigh of resignation, he slipped his arm around her shoulders and drew her against his side.

“Will you take breakfast with me on the morrow?” she asked.

Erik nodded. It would have been easier to live with her hatred, her scorn. He feared her affection would destroy him. He did not want her to care for him, did not want to care for her in return.

“Good night, my lord,” she murmured.

“Good night, Kristine.”

He stroked her hair, listening as her breathing became slow and even. When he was certain she was asleep, he brushed a kiss across her lips, rekindled the lamp beside her bed and then, reluctantly, left her chamber for his own.





Chapter Eight



The next few weeks passed quietly. Trevayne took his meals with Kristine. He spent his mornings looking after the affairs of the estate, took Kristine riding each afternoon. She quickly became an accomplished horsewoman. Even though the grooms were there to do her bidding and care for her horse, he taught her to saddle and bridle her own mount, insisted she learn the proper way to curry the mare, how to check Misty’s feet and clean her hooves. Kristine proved to be a good student. She listened carefully to everything he told her, asked intelligent questions.

In the evenings, they usually retired to the library, which was Trevayne’s favorite haunt. It was a large room, dominated by an enormous fireplace made of stone. Bookshelves bursting with all manner of books lined the walls. Heavy dark green draperies covered the windows, shutting out the shadows of the night. A large oak desk and leather chair stood in one corner of the room; a pair of overstuffed chairs covered in a dark green-and-gold stripe were placed invitingly in front of the hearth.