Beauty's Beast(42)

Lord Hoxford was most attentive throughout the evening. He is a handsome young man, with light brown hair and dark brown eyes. He is tall, though not so tall as my Erik . . . my Erik . . . He kissed me in the gardens, and then we went to the little cottage I found the other day. For the first time, he told me something of his past, his childhood.

Imagine my surprise when I learned he’d had a brother! No one has ever mentioned him. Erik told me he had once thought to enter the priesthood. I cannot imagine my lord Erik in a monastery, cannot imagine my life without my strange husband. I wonder if I will ever see what lies behind his mask, if he will ever come to trust me enough, or love me, as I have grown to love him. As I love our unborn child. I pray it will be a strong, healthy boy, with Erik’s beautiful dark eyes. . ..


She paused, rereading what she had written. “My strange husband,” she murmured. Why had he left the parlor so abruptly this afternoon? Where had he gone? She had not missed the look of torment, of pain, in his eyes. He had told her before he was often in pain. Was he hiding some dreadful illness from her, some fatal malady?

Fear clutched at her heart at the thought of losing him.

Slipping the book back in the drawer of her dresser, she left her chamber in search of her husband, but he was nowhere to be found.

At loose ends, she wandered down to the stable to visit Misty. She was currying the mare when Erik rode up.

The stallion was breathing heavily, its sides covered with foamy yellow lather, its legs smeared with mud.

Kristine smiled tentatively as Erik swung out of the saddle and patted the horse on the neck.

“Cool him out,” he said as he passed the stallion’s reins to Brandt. “And give him an extra ration of oats.”

“Yes, my lord,” Brandt said. With a polite nod in Kristine’s direction, the boy led the horse away.

“Did you have a good ride, my lord husband?” Kristine asked.

Erik nodded curtly. He had ridden long and hard and, for a short while, he had forgotten everything but the sheer joy of racing across the meadow. Once the stallion had lost its footing and Erik had wondered, even as he pulled up on the reins, if it wouldn’t be better for all concerned if he took a fall and broke his neck.

“I would have gone with you,” Kristine remarked quietly.

“Next time,” Erik replied. He brushed a kiss across her cheek. “I shall see you at dinner.”





He was silent and withdrawn at the dinner table that night. She didn’t know how or why, but she felt that he was withdrawing from her, erecting a wall between them. He had not said whether he planned to continue sharing her bed, and she couldn’t summon the courage to ask. She felt his furtive gaze often during the meal, noticed that he ate nothing, though he drank several glasses of wine.

As was their wont, they went into the library after dinner. Erik perused the day’s accounts while she sat in her favorite chair, frowning over a bit of embroidery. It was busywork, nothing more, she thought glumly, and then smiled.

“Erik?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ll be needing some material, you know, to make things for the baby.”

He grunted softly. “Make a list of what you want. I will send Leyla to fetch them in the morning.” He looked up. “You will be needing some material for yourself, too, I should imagine.”

Kristine rested a hand over her belly, imagining how it would look in a few months’ time. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Purchase whatever you need. Whatever you want.”

“Thank you, my lord. You are most generous.”

His gaze met hers, his eyes dark with an emotion she could not name and then, before she could do more than wonder what was troubling him so, he turned away so she could not see his eyes. Something was bothering him, she knew it in the deepest part of her, but what?

At ten, Mrs. Grainger brought them a pot of tea. At eleven, Kristine rose to go to bed. She folded her embroidery into a neat pile and placed it on the chair, then walked round the desk to kiss Erik’s cheek.

“Good night, my lord husband.”

“Good night.”

“Will you . . .” She bit down on her lip. “Will I see you later?”

He didn’t look at her but he nodded, once, curtly.

She yearned to touch him, to wrap her arms around him and press his head to her breasts, to beg him to tell her what it was that caused him such anguish, but he had never welcomed her touch. With a sigh, she turned and left the room.

A muscle clenched in Erik’s jaw as she closed the door. He sat there, staring at nothing, remembering the warmth of her lips on his cheek, the faint flowery scent that clung to her hair and clothing, the slightly husky sound of her voice as she asked, in her own shy way, if he would join her in bed later. It never failed to amaze him that she invited his touch, that she had not told him of her pregnancy for fear he would no longer warm her bed. If he had one wish, it would be to always share her bed, her life, to cradle her in his arms each night, to kiss her awake each morning. But it was not to be.