Some nights, he read the newspaper while she worked on a piece of embroidery. Some evenings he asked her to read to him. He taught her to play chess. Sometimes, as now, they sat in front of the fireplace, reading.
Each evening he followed her up the stairs and made love to her in the concealing darkness of her bedchamber. Ah, the hours he spent there, learning the contours of her body, exploring the softly rounded curves, the subtle hills and warm, deep valleys. Learning what brought her pleasure, what made her laugh, what made her burn like a living flame in his arms. He yearned to feel her hands on him, to feel her lips move across his flesh as she explored him in turn, but such a thing was beyond the realm of possibility.
When he had taken her to wife, he had hoped she would conceive immediately so that his vow to his father would be fulfilled and he could seek the solitude of his hunting lodge. But as the weeks passed into months, he found himself hoping his seed would not take root within her womb. It was foolish to let himself care for her when there could be no future for the two of them, no lasting happiness, yet he could not help wishing for more days in her company, more nights in her bed.
Being with her was torture of the most exquisite kind, sheer agony to know that their time together must soon end. The malignant affliction brought on by Charmion’s curse was spreading to the toes of his right foot. He could feel the wretched change being wrought upon his body, an excruciating pain in bone and tissue as his flesh fought against its new shape.
Soon, it would not be a human foot at all, but a paw like the other, complete with fur and claws.
Soon, he would not be human at all, but an animal. Morbidly, he wondered if, when the hideous transformation was complete, he would lose the power of speech. Already his voice was altered, so that it often sounded more animalistic than human. Even more frightening than the possibility of losing the ability to speak was the possibility that he would lose all memory of being human . . . and he wondered which would be worse, to forget his humanity entirely, or to remain aware that he had once been a man, damned to spend the rest of his life trapped in the guise of a beast.
“Erik?”
He looked up to find her staring at him.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.” He laid his book aside. “Why do you ask?”
“You seem so far away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was going to ring for a cup of tea. Would you care for some?”
“I would rather have a brandy.”
She nodded, a flicker of concern giving her pause as she recalled the night he had come to her, intoxicated. That had not happened again, though she knew there were nights when he sought solace in a glass of whiskey.
A few minutes later, Nan entered the library.
Kristine relayed their wishes, then closed the book she had been pretending to read. For perhaps the hundredth time, she wondered what was troubling Erik. What secret was he keeping from her? It was more than just whatever disfigurement he hid behind the mask. She had hoped he would come to trust her enough to confide in her, prayed that, in time, he would come to care for her, as she was learning to care for him.
She knew there were times when he was in terrible pain, but he would not reveal the cause. She knew something weighed heavily upon his mind, but he would not divulge the reason. And yet she could not help but be heartened by the gradual change in their relationship. He seemed to genuinely enjoy her company. They ate their meals together, spent time together each day. Made love each night. It was a victory, of a sort, and she reminded herself again to be patient.
Nan returned a few minutes later. She handed Kristine a delicate china cup of peppermint tea sweetened with wild honey, and handed Erik a snifter of brandy.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“No. Thank you, Nan.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and left the room.
Kristine regarded her husband over the rim of her cup. He drained the glass in a few quick swallows. Placing the empty snifter on the table beside him, he rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. She saw the tension drain out of him as the brandy’s warmth seeped through him.
Slowly, she sipped her tea, watching him all the while. His gloved hand relaxed in his lap, the tension went out of his shoulders. Was he asleep? She watched a few more minutes, but he didn’t stir.
Almost before the thought crossed her mind, she was on her feet, tiptoeing toward him, the temptation to peek beneath the silk covering on his face overpowering in its intensity.
She stood beside his chair, her heart pounding so loudly, she wondered that it did not awaken him. Now was her chance to see what lay beneath the mask. She took a deep breath, held it for the space of a heartbeat. Now. It had to be now. She might never get another chance.