“I see.” Kristine stood up, uncertain what she should do.
“Perhaps you would like some tea and honey cakes?” the maid suggested.
“Yes, thank you.”
With a nod and a curtsy, Yvette left the room.
Kristine took a deep breath, hoping to calm her nerves. Lady Charmion. She had heard it said the woman practiced the black arts. Why was she here?
Kristine smoothed her skirt, hoping her day dress of dark blue velvet would be acceptable for greeting her guest. A white lace cap covered her short hair.
Gathering her courage, Kristine made her way to the parlor, hoping that Erik would be there.
Opening the door, Kristine stepped into the room. A woman stood in front of the hearth, staring into the fire. She turned when she heard the door open.
Kristine stared at the woman. Lady Charmion was tall and slender. Dressed in a severe black gabardine gown and cloak, she had the look of a crow, with her sleek black hair and piercing black eyes.
Kristine bobbed a curtsy. “Good day to you, Lady Charmion.”
The woman looked at her sharply. “So, he has taken another wife. I could scarcely credit it when I heard the news.”
Kristine gestured at the floral damask sofa. “Won’t you please sit down?”
“I’ll stand.”
“I’ve ordered tea and cakes,” Kristine said.
“There is no need. I want nothing from this house.”
“Then why have you come here?”
“I wanted to see you with my own eyes, to warn you to flee his presence before he destroys you, too.”
“Destroys me?”
“He killed my daughter.”
“He . . . he has treated me kindly thus far.”
“Has he? Has he taken you to his bed? Has he satisfied his animalistic lust upon you?” The woman took a step forward, her black eyes burning like ebony fire as she placed her hand over Kristine’s belly. “Has he planted his demon seed within your womb?”
Kristine took a step backward, frightened by the intensity of the woman’s stare, by the cold hatred in her voice.
“You are not yet with child,” Charmion said. “I urge you to come away with me now, before it is too late.”
“She is going nowhere with you.”
Kristine looked over her shoulder at the sound of Erik’s voice, relief washing through her when she saw him standing in the doorway. He wore a loose-fitting cream-colored woolen shirt, forest green breeches, and black boots. Fathomless gray eyes regarded Lady Charmion from behind the black silk mask.
Kristine glanced at Charmion, baffled by the gleam of satisfaction she saw in the woman’s eyes.
“Get out of my house,” Erik said, his voice as hard and cold as winter ice.
“I should watch my tongue, if I were you,” Charmion replied, her voice equally cold and hard, “lest a worse fate befall you.”
“Worse!” he exclaimed softly. “What could possibly be worse than the hell to which you have already condemned me?”
Charmion smiled smugly as her gaze ran ever so slowly over Erik from head to heel, lingering on the mask, the glove on his left hand.
“For every tear my daughter shed, Trevayne,” she said, her voice bitter. “For every drop of blood.” With a last fulminating glance, she swept out of the room, her ebony cloak billowing behind her like a witch’s malediction.
Kristine stared at Erik. He stood as though frozen in time, his hands clenched into tight fists, his whole body rigid. Behind the mask, his eyes were dark pools of anguish.
She stood rooted to the spot, wishing she could think of something to say to banish the silence, to erase the tension that lingered in the woman’s wake, like acrid smoke from a pyre.
A shudder rippled through Erik. When he looked at her, it was as if he was seeing her for the first time. “Why are you still here?”
“My lord?”
“Why don’t you run screaming from my presence?” he asked bitterly. “I heard what she told you. Are you not in fear for your life?”
“No, my lord.”
He lifted his gloved hand and studied it a moment. “You should be afraid,” he murmured, flexing his fingers. “The day may come when I’ll tear you to shreds.”
“My lord?” She stared at him, perplexed by his cryptic words.
“Leave me, Kristine.”
“As you wish, my lord,” she said.
Trevayne clenched his hand as he watched her leave the room. “Nothing will ever be as I wish it again,” he murmured bleakly. “The witch has seen to that.”
Her presence in the house was driving him to distraction. Two months had passed since he had taken Kristine as his bride. The hours he had once spent immersed in running the affairs of the estate he now spent thinking about the young woman who was his wife. He spent hours watching her—spying on her, he amended with a rueful shake of his head. The castle was honeycombed with secret passageways and peepholes.
He watched her when she sat in the solar, a piece of embroidery in her lap, her brow furrowed in concentration as she took tiny, delicate stitches in the fine linen.
He watched her in the library, her head bent over a book. Sometimes she read aloud, the soft sound of her voice caressing his ears as he longed to caress her flesh. But he had vowed not to touch her again—a promise that put him at odds with the deathbed oath he had sworn to his father, for how could he ensure an heir for Hawksbridge when he had vowed not to bed his bride again?
“Kristine.” Her name conjured sunlight and music, a longing to be touched, an ache so deep it caused him to groan in pain.
Kristine. If only he could seek her out, sit across from her while she dined, join her in front of the fire in the evening and tell her of the day’s events. He yearned for the normal things most men took for granted—the company of his peers, an evening at the theater, the crush of people at a ball, the simple pleasure of making love to his wife in the light of day, with nothing between them but desire.
Kristine. He felt her presence as he walked through the house late that night. The lingering scent of her perfume filled the very air he breathed. The book she was reading lay on the desk in the library, tempting his hand because she had touched it. Her embroidery made a splash of color on the chair where she had left it. Her bonnet hung from a hook near the door. Because she liked flowers, the rooms were filled with them—fragrant roses from the gardens, wildflowers and lacy ferns from the woods. The rose petals reminded him of her—soft and fragile and sweet-smelling.