Page 15 of Beauty's Beast

Unwilling to pass the stallion, Misty planted her feet. With a startled cry, Kristine grabbed at the saddle to keep from flying over the mare’s neck.

“Why did you come after me?” Erik rasped.

“My lord?”

“Answer me, damn you. Why were you following me?”

She flinched at the bitterness in his voice, the quiet rage in his eyes.

“Answer me!”

“Because I … I thought that we should spend some time together.”

“Did you?”

His voice, that low, gruff voice, struck her like shards of glass. She nodded, her hands clenching and unclenching on the reins.

“Did it not occur to you that I might wish to be alone?”

“Do you?”

Two words. Small words. Simple words. They drew the anger from him as effectively as a poultice drew poison from a wound. Of course he didn’t want to be alone. He wanted his old life back. He wanted to be able to go riding along the public roads again, to while away the hours gambling with his former cronies, to dine with old friends, to dance with a pretty woman who would smile at him instead of turning away in horror. Alone? He was utterly weary of being alone, of life.

She was watching him, silent, curious, perhaps even afraid. Well, she should be afraid. Soon he would be more monster than man. He stared into her eyes, those luminous emerald-green eyes that haunted his sleep, and wished he could sweep her into his arms and bury himself in her warmth, here, now, with the sun shining upon them like a benediction. Wished he could stripaway his mask and clothing and feel the honeyed warmth of her silken skin against his …

Bitterness rose within him anew as he considered all that was forever denied him, and with it an overpowering sense of despair.

“Go back to the house, Kristine,” he said wearily.

“My lord?”

“Do as I say.”

She lacked the courage to argue with him. He watched her tug on Misty’s reins. The mare did not want to leave the company of the stallion, but Kristine finally managed to turn the horse around. His wife sent one last glance in his direction, her eyes filled with hurt and disappointment, and then, with a toss of her head, she left him there, staring after her, foolishly wishing for things that could never be.

That night, Kristine bent over her diary, fighting the urge to cry as she wrote.

He doesn’t want me, and he never will. I know that now. He doesn’t want warmth or affection. He doesn’t want someone to share his life or his dreams. Why, then, did he marry me? What did he hope to gain?

“A son,” she muttered bitterly. “That’s all he wants from you.”

Fighting the childish urge to throw herself on the bed and pound the pillow with her fists, she took a deep breath, then dipped her quill in the inkwell.

I asked Mrs. Grainger why he wears a mask, but she shook her head and refused to answer me. One way or another, I shalluncover the secrets of this house, and those of the man who is its master.

I have nothing else to do with my time …

Chapter Five

Kristine rose early the next morning. Dressing quickly, she went to the window and peered out into the gray dawn. As soon as she saw Erik striding toward the barn, she went to the door that separated her room from his. It was locked. Frowning, she stood there a moment, then left her room. She tiptoed the short distance to his chamber, then paused, her hand on the latch.

What was she doing? What if one of the maids found her in there? With a shake of her head, she opened the door. She was, after all, the lady of the house, and Erik was her husband. She had every right to be there.

She closed the door quietly behind her, then stood there a moment, her heart thundering in her ears. This room was even larger than her bedchamber. A huge bed with wine-colored hangings and a matching counterpane stood directly across from the entrance. Several large pillows were propped against the massive oak headboard. There were tables on each side of the bed. There was an armoire of carved oak to her left, a stone fireplace similar to the one in her room to her right. A small round table and a single chair stood to the right of the hearth. High, narrow, leaded windows were located on either side of the bed. Draperies the same color and material as the canopy hung at the windows. Tapestry rugs in muted shades of wine and blue covered the floor.

Moving farther into the room, she ran her hand over the counterpane, slid her fingertips over one of the pillows. He slept here. Did he ever think of her, dream of her?

Feeling like a thief in the night, yet unable to resist, she went to the armoire and looked inside, noting that her husband seemed to have a preference for coats and breeches in somber hues. The top drawer held a number of shirts in a variety of colors, all made of finely woven wool. Did he always wear wool, she wondered, even in summer? The second drawer held handkerchiefs of fine linen, a wide assortment of cravats and gloves. The third held at least a dozen masks, all fashioned of black silk.

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