Beauty's Beast(9)

The maids, Leyla and Lilia, were waiting in Kristine’s bedchamber when she entered. Though their facial features were almost identical, Leyla was a few inches taller than her sister. Both were clad in long gray dresses and white aprons; both wore their dark brown hair in tight coils atop their heads.

As they had the night before, they brushed out her hair, dusted her with fragrant powder, and then helped her into a gown. It was a different gown from the one she had worn the night before. Made of fine black silk, it slid sensuously over her body, making her feel a trifle wicked somehow.

Leyla smiled at her reassuringly. Lilia touched her shoulder, and then, bowing, they left the room.

And there was nothing for Kristine to do but wait.



He came to her that night and every night during the following week, rarely speaking, never letting her touch him, hardly touching her. And yet, when he did touch her, she burned as bright as the sun, always wanting more, always reaching for some intangible gift that remained just out of reach, leaving her aching and yearning for something she did not understand. She wondered if he took any pleasure in her bed. He never stayed longer than was necessary; indeed, he always seemed anxious to be gone.

And the more he came to her, the more often he touched her, the more curious she became about the strange man who was her husband.

Now she stared at the door, her body still damp with perspiration, her heart pounding. He had come to her again, like a thief in the night, taking that which he desired, then disappearing into the darkness. What would he do if she refused him? Would he beat her or accept her rejection with cold indifference? Yet even as she considered it, she knew she would never turn him away. She owed him her very life, a debt she could never repay, but more than that, she sensed, deep in her heart, that he needed her in ways he would never admit.

Rising, she filled a basin with water and washed away the visible proof that he had been there, then climbed back into bed and huddled beneath the covers, wondering what it would be like to spend the night in his arms.





Too keyed up to sleep, Erik prowled the floor in front of the door that connected his chamber to his bride’s. Perhaps he truly was no better than a rutting beast, as Charmion had declared. He had possessed Kristine only minutes ago, and already his body was hard with wanting her again. What spell had she cast over him, this tiny woman-child with her short, fuzzy hair and luminous green eyes? Had he come under the spell of yet another witch?

He came to an abrupt halt in front of her door, wondering if she was still awake, when he heard her scream.

Alarmed, he flung open the door, his gaze darting around the room, but there was nothing amiss, no danger that he could see. And then he heard it again, a high-pitched scream of terror.

She was having a nightmare. In the dim light cast by the bedside candle, he could see her thrashing about. She had thrown off the covers; her nightgown was twisted around her slim hips, exposing a long length of pale, slender thigh.

“No! No, please, please . . . don’t make me . . .”

Moving swiftly across the room, he extinguished the candle; then, sitting on the edge of the bed, he gathered the woman, his wife, into his arms.

“Kristine. Kristine!”

She came awake with a start, her body suddenly rigid in his arms.

Kristine took a deep breath as she recognized the harsh, raspy voice of her husband. She stared up at him, wondering, as always, why he hid in the darkness. Were the rumors true? Had he killed his first wife? Had be been marked by the devil?

“Be still, Kristine,” he said, his voice gruff yet kind. “It was only a bad dream.”

“It . . . it was . . .” She shuddered. “It was awful.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No.”

“Tell me.” It was not a request this time.

“I was drowning,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Drowning in a pool of blood. And I couldn’t get out. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get out.”

“Awful, indeed,” Erik murmured. “Whose blood?”

“Lord Valentine’s. The man who . . . who attacked me.”

Erik grunted softly. “Did you kill him?”

Kristine stared up at him, wishing she could see his face. A strange time for him to ask whether she was innocent or guilty, she mused. She had always thought it most peculiar that he had not inquired as to her guilt or innocence before they wed. Perhaps he had thought it foolish to ask. A woman charged with murder would likely have no qualms about lying as to her guilt.

“Did you kill him, Kristine?”

“Yes! I killed him! I . . . I stabbed him.” Her voice rose hysterically. “He tried to . . . to . . . and I killed him!” She stared up at him through tormented eyes. “I didn’t mean to. I only wanted to make him stop, to leave me alone.”