Beauty's Beast

by Amanda Ashley

  Overcome by a wave of self-pity and remorse, she pulled the covers over her head and cried herself to sleep.

  The two silent women attended her in the morning. One brought warm water so she might bathe while the other stripped the soiled linen from the bed. Kristine felt her cheeks flush when she saw the dark brownish-red stain on the rumpled white sheets, visible evidence that the marriage had been consummated, that she had come to her husband pure and undefiled.

  After she bathed, the women powdered her, then dressed her in a luxurious gown of deep green velvet. Nodding their approval, they curtsied and left the room.

  Kristine stood there for a moment, fingering the ragged edges of her hair and wondering what was expected of her now. At length, she put on a white ruffled cap trimmed with green ribbon and left the room, slowly making her way down the narrow stairway to the first floor. The aroma of freshly baked bread drew her toward the back of the building.

  A tall, painfully thin woman wearing a blue dress and a crisp white apron hurried to meet Kristine as she stepped into the kitchen.

  “My lady, what are you doing in here?”

  “I’m hungry. Is it all right if I fix something to eat?”

  “Gracious, no! It’s not seemly for the lady of the house to be in the kitchen.” The woman made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go on with you, now, have a seat in the dining hall. I did not expect you down so early this morning. I shall bring your breakfast immediately.”

  “Thank you . . . I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

  “But of course you don’t, love. I am Mrs. Grainger. Run along now.” She turned to scowl at the scullery maids who were standing behind her, staring wide-eyed at Kristine. “Yvette, set the table quickly. Nan, take the muffins from the oven. I can almost smell them burning.”

  Kristine slipped out of the kitchen and peered down the long hallway, wondering behind which door she might find the dining hall.

  The china clock on the carved sideboard chimed merrily as Kristine stared down at more food than she had ever seen at one time. Muffins and biscuits and tarts, bowls of fresh fruit and thick cream, a cup of hot cocoa, fat sausages, and eggs swimming in butter. She looked at the food and could not help wondering how Mrs. Grainger stayed so thin in the midst of such abundance.

  She sampled everything and found it all delicious.

  “Is it to your liking, Lady Trevayne?”

  She looked up to find Mrs. Grainger standing beside her chair. “Oh, yes, it’s wonderful. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

  The cook beamed with pleasure. “Can I be bringing you anything else?”

  “Oh, no, thank you.”

  The woman smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just you wait until you see what I have planned for your supper.”

  “Has my . . . my husband already eaten?”

  A shadow flickered in Mrs. Grainger’s pale blue eyes. “Lord Trevayne takes his meals in his room.”

  “Oh. I . . . I didn’t know.”

  Mrs. Grainger glanced around the opulent dining room, then sighed with regret. “No one ever eats in here.”

  “No one?” Kristine frowned. “I thought . . . doesn’t his lordship’s mother live here?”

  “Not for the last year or so, my lady. Her departure was quite abrupt. Nan said she heard Lord Trevayne and his mother quarreling one night, though what they were arguing about remains a mystery.” Mrs. Grainger clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes widening. “I’m sorry, my lady. I should not be telling you this. ’Tis only kitchen gossip, after all.”

  “And you have no idea why she left?”

  Mrs. Grainger tucked her hands into the pockets of her apron. “I think Lord Trevayne ordered her out of the house.”

  “He ordered his own mother out of the house!” Kristine exclaimed, shocked at the very idea. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  Mrs. Grainger shook her head. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say.” The words I’ve said too much already hung unspoken in the air between them.

  “Where does his mother live now?”

  “At the convent at St. Clair.”

  “A convent! Whatever for?”

  “It was her choice. She could have gone to live at one of Lord Trevayne’s other holdings, but she said she preferred to live with the good sisters. I think she just wanted to stay close by.” Mrs. Grainger cleared her throat. “Are you sure I can’t be getting you anything else, my lady? More tea, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you.” Rising, Kristine folded her napkin in half and placed it on the table.

  “It will be all right, my lady,” the cook said kindly.

  Kristine nodded, disconcerted by the look of sympathy in the older woman’s eyes.

  Leaving the dining room, she wandered through the castle. It was large, immaculately clean, furnished in the height of fashion. Imported carpets covered the floors, expensive paintings and tapestries hung on the walls. One door was locked. She thought it curious, when all the others were open.

  Going into the kitchen, she queried Mrs. Grainger.

  “It’s the ballroom,” Mrs. Grainger said.

  “Why is it locked?”

  “That’s something you’ll have to ask his lordship,” the housekeeper replied.

  With a nod, Kristine left the kitchen and continued her exploration of the castle. Ask his lordship, indeed.

  So many rooms, she thought as she toured the upstairs. All empty of life.

  Finally, she settled on an overstuffed chair in the library, her feet curled beneath her as she tried to read. But she couldn’t concentrate on the words, couldn’t think of anything but the man who had come to her in the dark hours of the night. Her husband. Would he come to her again tonight?

  She sat there for hours, watching the sun sink lower in the sky, watching the horizon blaze with color as the setting sun splashed the heavens with streaks of crimson and gold, her nerves growing taut as night cast her cloak over the land.

  She had no appetite for supper. Mrs. Grainger hovered over her, encouraging her to eat, but the food tasted like ashes in Kristine’s mouth. She couldn’t enjoy the meal, couldn’t do anything but wonder if he would come to her bed again.

  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.”

  “What were you doing in his house?”

  “I tended his children.”

  “You? You’re little more than a child yourself.”

  “I’m ten and seven.”

  “Ah, a vast age, to be sure. How long were you employed in his house?”

  “Only a few months. My father was struck and killed by a runaway carriage early last winter. He was a teacher, and even though I was a girl, he made sure I learned to read and write and do my sums. Lord Valentine was my father’s friend. He hired me to care for and tutor his children.”

  Erik grunted softly. Valentine had ever been a notorious rake. “Go on, tell me what happened the night Valentine died.”

  Sobs wracked Kristine’s body and tightened her throat as she told him what had transpired that night. She saw it all again in her mind, Lord Valentine’s florid face leering down at her as he bent her back over the kitchen table, his whiskey-sour breath making her sick to her stomach, his hot, pudgy hands fondling her body, touching her in places she herself had never touched. She had struggled helplessly against him until her hand closed on the butcher knife lying on the table beside her. He had been trying to pry her thighs apart when she plunged the knife into his back.

  “I didn’t mean to kill him, truly I didn’t,” she said, sniffling. “But I was so afraid. . . .”

  “It’s all right, Kristine.” His voice, usually a harsh rasp, was softer now, almost soothing. “There’s no crime in defending your honor.”

  He believed her! She felt an immense surge of relief. He believed her when no one else ever had.

  Minutes passed. She grew increasingly aware of the strong arms that encircled her; of his breath, warm against her cheek; of the rock-hard thighs that cradled her. Her cheeks began to burn as she remembered the times he had slipped into bed beside her, a dark phantom in the night.

  She shifted in his lap and her hand brushed his. He jerked away from her touch as though she had scalded him, then quickly shoved his hand into the pocket of his trousers.

  Kristine frowned. His hand had felt . . . odd somehow. Misshapen, and covered with coarse hair.

  “Are you all right now?” he asked gruffly.

  “Yes. Thank you, my lord.”

  He heaved a sigh. He did not want her thanks. He wanted nothing from her but a son to carry on the family name, to fulfill a vow made in a moment of weakness to ease an old man’s passing. He held fast to that thought as he laid her back on the bed, drew her gown up over her hips, and positioned himself between her thighs.

  She lay still and silent beneath him, like a sacrificial lamb awaiting the slaughter. An image of that drunken sot, Valentine, forcing himself upon her flitted through Erik’s mind and he swore under his breath. He was no better than Valentine.

  With an effort, he stood up and backed away from the bed. “Rest well, Kristine.”

  His voice seemed rougher than usual, as though he were in pain.

  “My lord . . .”

  But he was already gone.

  Kristine rose before dawn. Sleep had eluded her the night before. Every time she closed her eyes, she had seen images of Lord Valentine lying in an ever-widening pool of blood. Now, head aching, she went to the window, drew back the heavy drapes, and gazed into the yard below.

  A man rode out of the morning mist. Mounted on a high-stepping black stallion, he put the horse through its paces: a slow trot, a canter, a graceful walk that looked like the horse was dancing. But it was the man who held her attention. He wore a long gray cloak over a loose-fitting shirt made of fine white wool. Black breeches hugged his muscular thighs. He rode as if he were one with the horse, his body in perfect rhythm with that of his mount. She never saw his commands, never saw his hands or legs move, but the horse responded instantly, stopping, starting, changing direction, rearing up on its hind legs, forelegs pawing the air.

  She smiled as the horse bowed. The man dismounted in an easy flowing motion. The long gray cloak he wore swirled around his ankles like fog. The cowl fell back, revealing his face. She stared at him, trying to discern his features, and then, with a shock, she realized he was wearing a mask.

  As though feeling her gaze, he looked up. The mask appeared to be made of black cloth and was cut so that it covered the entire left side of his face, as well as a portion of the right. Her heart seemed to stop as his gaze met hers. Waves of anger seemed to roll toward her, like heat radiating from a fire.

  With a gasp, she drew back, her hand pressed over her heart, which pounded wildly in her breast.

  Erik muttered a vile oath when he saw his bride staring down at him from the window of her bedchamber. Merciful heavens, what was she doing up at this hour? Even the household staff was still abed.

  He tossed the stallion’s reins to Brandt, gave the horse an affectionate pat on the shoulder, and stalked toward the back of the castle. Kristine had been here for only a few days, yet she had turned his home, and his life, upside do
wn.

  She was waiting for him at the scullery door.

  Erik came to an abrupt halt, his gaze moving over her in one swift glance. She wore a flimsy blue sleeping gown and matching robe. Bare feet peeked from beneath the ruffled hem of her gown. A white cap trimmed with lace covered her head. To hide her shorn locks, he surmised. The lace framed her face in a most becoming manner.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked brusquely.

  Kristine swallowed past the lump in her throat. She had forgotten how tall and broad he was. His size intimidated her even more than the black silk mask that covered two-thirds of his face, leaving only his mouth and strong square chin exposed.

  She stared at him, mute, wondering what horror lay hidden beneath the mask. She reminded herself that this was the same man who had comforted her the night before.

  He swore, the rough timbre of his voice making the oath sound even more vile, and then he swept past her, every line of his body radiating anger. And buried beneath the anger, she sensed a dark and bitter despair.

  Kristine stared after him, wondering what manner of man she had wed.

  She thought of him all that day. Indeed, there was little else for her to do. She had no tasks to keep her hands busy, nothing else to occupy her mind.

  She wandered through the castle, then went outside and walked through the gardens. Vast gardens, well tended. A section of fruit trees, another of vegetables, all carefully weeded. She found a rose garden and followed the white stone path that wandered up one row and down the other. A bed of red blooms, one of white, another of pink, and still another of yellow. Beautiful roses, hundreds and hundreds of them.

  In the center of the rose garden, she discovered a pool, and in the center of the pool, a statue of a great hawk, namesake of Hawksbridge Castle, carved of black and white stone.

  Kristine walked around the pool, studying the hawk from all sides. It was truly awe-inspiring, almost lifelike as it perched there, wings spread. She would not have been surprised to see it soar heavenward.