“I don’t know.” He rested his head on the back of the sofa. He felt light-headed from the blood he had lost, and weary, so weary. All he wanted to do was sleep.
He heard the faint rustle of her skirts as she stood up. He wondered where she was going, but he was too tired to give it more than a passing thought.
Time passed. A few moments, a few hours, he didn’t know or care.
“I found a sewing basket in the bedroom.”
He grunted. Dominique had spent a few weeks here the summer she was pregnant. She had left her embroidery basket behind. He had promised to fetch it for her before winter set in, but he had forgotten, and then there had been no need. . ..
The settee sagged a little as Kristine sat down beside him. Gently, she took his arm and laid it across her lap. “Hold still. This is going to hurt.”
“It already hurts. Just do what you can.”
He watched her face as she began to sew the ragged edges of his flesh together. She bit down on one side of her lower lip, her brow furrowed in concentration. He watched the color drain from her face as she guided the shiny silver needle through his skin. Drops of blood ran down his arm, staining the cloth she had spread over her skirt. She swallowed several times and he knew she was fighting the urge to retch.
Well, so was he. He had a strong urge to laugh, to tell her there were worse things to see than a few bites and scratches. No doubt she would faint dead away if she discovered that a monster had fathered her child.
“That’s the last one.” She removed the bloodstained cloth from her lap, wadded it up in a ball, and dropped it in the pan of bloody water. “Can I get you anything?”
“No.”
“You should go to bed.”
He nodded, but made no move to rise.
“Do you want me to help you?”
“No. Go to bed, Kristine. You have a long ride ahead of you in the morning.”
“You never answered my question.”
He blinked at her. “What question?”
“Will you come home for Christmas?”
“I don’t know.”
He flinched at the hurt in her eyes. She looked at him for a long moment, then turned and walked out of the room.
He waited until he heard the bedroom door close and then, with a sigh, shrugged out of his shirt and trousers and began to wash the blood from the bites and scratches that ran along his left arm and leg and chest.
She stood in the bedroom, her back against the door, trying not to cry. What had she done? Why did he hate her so? The last night they had spent together had been wonderful, at least for her. She had thought he was starting to care for her. How could she have been so wrong? Did he find her so repulsive, now that she was pregnant?
She placed her hand over the burgeoning swell of her belly. He had seemed pleased when she’d told him about the baby. Had she been wrong about that, too?
She couldn’t sleep, couldn’t go back to Hawksbridge Castle without knowing what had gone wrong between them, why he had left her without a word. Couldn’t wait until morning for answers to the questions that plagued her.
Gathering her courage, she opened the door and walked swiftly down the hallway.
She came to an abrupt halt, a scream rising in her throat as she stared at the figure illuminated in the lamplight. Thick black hair, like that of a wolf, covered the left side of its body. But this was no wolf . . . nor was it a man. Tales of werewolves flitted through her mind, and then, slowly, the creature turned toward her, and she saw the mask.
The room began to spin before her eyes. A hoarse whisper of denial rose in her throat and then she was falling, spinning down, down, into blessed oblivion. . ..
Chapter Fourteen
Erik reacted instinctively. Lunging forward, he caught Kristine in his arms. She felt so light, so fragile. In the pale glow of the lamp, he could see that all the color had drained from her face. He held her for several moments, then carried her swiftly down the hallway toward the larger of the two bedrooms. Gently, he placed her on the bed. After a moment’s hesitation, he removed her riding boots, his hand lingering over the soft swell of her calf. Knowing she would not welcome his touch, he jerked his hand away.
Unfolding the heavy quilt at the foot of the bed, he drew it over her, his gaze lingering on her face. How beautiful she was. It hurt too much to look at her, and he turned away.
Mindful of the storm raging outside, he drew the heavy drapes over the window and lit a fire in the small hearth. A last look, and then he stalked out of the room.
He dressed quickly, his mind numb, his heart bleeding, his soul shattered. After months of hiding, she had seen him for what he was, what he was becoming. He did not fault her for her reaction. It was what he had expected.