Beauty's Beast(43)

Despair rose within him, darker than the night outside his window, deeper than the lake near the hunting lodge.

Driven by some primal urge that frightened him even as it compelled him, he left the house and turned toward the deep woods, discarding his clothing as he went, until he ran naked through the night.

The wind whipped through his hair, stung his eyes, chilled his body, and still he ran. The ground felt strange beneath his feet . . . and yet he knew it was his feet, and not the ground, that had changed. He ran for miles, tireless, mindless, his nostrils filling with the scents of the night—the damp earth, the leaves he crushed, the stink of something long dead. He heard the screech of an owl and then he caught the strong scent of blood.

Fresh blood.

It drew him like a beacon in the darkness.

The wolves growled as he approached. Three of them, a male and two females, huddled over the carcass of a deer.

Breathless, the blood teasing his nostrils, he walked toward them. The dominant female whined softly, then turned and trotted away, followed by the other, smaller female. The male stood his ground, teeth bared, hackles raised. A low growl rumbled in his throat.

An answering growl rose in Erik’s throat as he bared his teeth and took a step forward.

The wolf growled again, then turned and disappeared into the night.

With a howl of triumph, Erik dropped to his hands and knees and sniffed the carcass.

A purr of satisfaction rumbled in his throat as he lapped at the blood, and then he reared back, a cry of horror erupting from his lips as he realized what he was doing.

“No! No!” Scrambling to his feet, he scrubbed the blood from his mouth with the back of his good hand. “No.” He backed away from the carcass, appalled by his feral behavior.

“Kristine,” he moaned. “Help me. Someone, please, help me.”



She woke from a sound sleep, the melancholy cry of a wolf ringing in her ears. “Erik?” She patted the bed beside her and knew he had not been there.

Rising, she drew on her night robe and padded barefoot to the window. The moon hung low in the sky, silvering the trees, shining on the pond in the middle of the garden. All was quiet.

She was about to go back to bed when she saw it: a dark form making its way toward the back of the house. She leaned forward, eyes narrowed as she tried to see who it was. An intruder? One of the Graingers’ sons coming home from a night in town?

The figure stepped into a pool of moonlight and she caught a glimpse of long black hair, the flash of a naked thigh.

“Erik!” Grabbing the small lamp burning beside her bed, she hurried out of the room and down the stairs toward the kitchen.

She got there as the back door opened. “Erik?”

“Put out the light!”

“What?”

“The light. Put it out.”

Frowning, she turned down the wick, plunging the room into darkness.

“What are you doing here?” he growled.

“I . . . I saw you from my window. What were you doing out there? Are you . . . I thought . . . are you naked?”

“Go to bed, Kristine.”

“Erik, please tell me what is troubling you. Please let me help.”

“Kristine, go to bed.” He bit off each word.

“Yes, my lord.”

Turning on her heel, she ran out of the kitchen, through the dining room and hallway, then ducked behind the long curved settee in the parlor. A narrow shaft of moonlight shone through a slit in the draperies. Heart pounding, she waited.

And suddenly he strode into her line of vision. The moonlight slid across his bare shoulders. She could not see his face, only one arm and a long length of muscled thigh. He was carrying a wadded-up bundle that she assumed were his clothes.

She squinted, trying to see better in the darkness, but it was no use. He crossed the room quickly and disappeared up the stairs, leaving her to sit there, more confused than she had ever been in her life.

Erik felt every muscle in his body tense as he walked through the parlor, his face averted. He knew she was there, hiding behind the settee. Her scent filled his nostrils, as tempting as the deer’s warm blood. Revulsion rose up within him. He had hoped to spend one last night in Kristine’s bed, to hold her close one more time, to make love to her slowly, tenderly. To memorize every soft curve, but he dared not go to her now, nor ever again.

Tonight, he would gather what few things he would need. When he was certain she was asleep, he would go to her room and take one last look, and then he would leave the estate. He had left written orders for Mrs. Grainger, informing her that she was to tell no one where he had gone. After the babe was born, she was to send him word. When the time came, he wondered morbidly if he would still be human enough to care that Hawksbridge had a new heir.