Beauty's Beast(5)

“Do not be afraid, child.” The priest offered her a reassuring smile as he firmly traced the sign of the cross on her brow with a spatulate thumb. “Go with God and fulfill your duty, as a wife should.”

With a nod, Kristine followed the two silent women out of the church.

A shiny black carriage drawn by a pair of matched chestnut geldings awaited her. When she was settled inside, the two silent women joined her. She heard the crack of a whip, and the carriage lurched forward.





Trevayne paced the deep shadows of his chamber, waiting. In the adjoining room, Leyla and Lilia were preparing his bride for bed.

His bride. He had chosen her because she was marked for execution, because she had been the most pathetic of the lot, because he had looked at her scrawny arms, flea-bitten legs, and shorn head and felt nothing. Nothing at all. He had not expected her to clean up so well. Washed and scrubbed and clad in ice blue silk, her dark green eyes luminous beneath the gossamer veil, she had looked incredibly young and vulnerable, like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.

He wished she had remained ugly and unattractive.

He raked a hand through his hair. It was time to fulfill his father’s last wish, now, while he was still able. As promised, he had taken a bride. In the nights to come, he would plant his seed within the girl’s womb and pray it took root quickly. Once the child was born and pronounced healthy, he would seek the peace of mind and soul that only the grave could bring.

He whirled around as the door opened. Leyla stood there. She nodded, indicating that his bride was ready.

With a sigh, he waved the buxom woman away. Then, taking a deep breath, he left his chamber to do his duty.





Kristine paced the floor, her nervousness increasing with the passing of each minute.

The women who had attended her in the prison had readied her for her bridal night. She had surmised, from their strong resemblance to each other, that they were sisters. Had they been born mute, she wondered, or had their tongues been taken as punishment, or perhaps to silence them?

They had bathed her, powdered her, and dressed her in a diaphanous white gown that revealed far more than it hid, though she had little to hide, small-breasted and skinny as she was.

Unable to help herself, she reached up again and again to finger the ends of her shorn locks, which barely brushed her ears. Her one true beauty taken from her.

In an effort to avoid thinking of what was to come, she studied her surroundings. The chamber was large, larger than any room she had ever seen. Intricately woven tapestries hung from the walls. A thick carpet covered the floor. The bed was bigger than her room at home. The soft mattress was covered with fine linens and furs and numerous pillows in all shapes and sizes.

A small writing desk and chair occupied one corner. She would have no need of that, she mused. Even if she were so inclined, she had no one to write to, no friends, no family.

A round table held a ewer and matching basin, both painted with tiny blue flowers.

Standing in the middle of the room, she turned around slowly, realizing as she did so that there were no mirrors—not on the wall, not on the dressing table. That seemed passing strange for a lady’s chamber, but then, much of what had transpired in the past few days had been strange in the extreme.

With hands that shook, she poured herself a glass of water. In spite of the circumstances that had brought about her marriage, she was determined to make the best of it. She knew nothing of her husband save for the rumors she had heard. She reminded herself that rumors were seldom accurate and rarely contained more than a grain of truth. Gossip had a tendency to grow and take on a life of its own the more oft it was repeated. People had talked about her, too. Little they had said was true. Holding that thought in mind, she endeavored to put her fears away. She would not judge her husband by what she had heard or by what others thought, but by how he treated her.

Going to the window, she stared out into the darkness beyond, one hand absently massaging her neck. Her husband had paid a high price for her, had saved her from a horrible fate. She could not fathom his reasons for taking a condemned woman for his bride, but he had and she would ever be grateful. She knew of several women in the village who had not met their husbands until the day they wed, and yet these women had grown to love their husbands, had borne them children, had grieved when their men were laid to rest.

Squaring her shoulders, Kristine took a deep breath, determined to be a good wife, to make her husband happy in any way she could and hope that, in time, she would learn to love him and that he would love her in return.

She turned when she heard movement in the hallway, all her good intentions fleeing in the face of reality. He was here! She placed the glass on the table, her heart galloping in her chest as she turned and saw him standing in the doorway. He wore the same long blue cloak he had worn at their wedding. It covered him from head to heel, his face again hidden in the shadow of the cowl’s dark folds. Like a phantom from a childhood nightmare, he stood there, silent and still. His gaze moved over her in a long, assessing glance. Was he pleased? Disappointed?