Unable to help himself, he went to her room and stepped inside. She had left the drapes at her window open. Moonlight filtered into the room, its pale light blending with the glow of the lamp beside her bed, bathing her face in its soft radiance.
Drawn by an irresistible force, he crossed the floor to her side and gazed down at her. How lovely she was! Her cheeks were the color of ripe peaches, her lips as pink as the petals of the roses she loved, her hair the color of sun-ripened wheat. Her womanly scent rose up to tantalize him, stirring his blood, his desire.
His breath caught in his throat when he realized that she had awakened.
She sat up, sleepy-eyed and innocent. “My lord, is something amiss?”
“No.” He ground the word from a throat gone dry.
“You sound most peculiar. Are you ill?”
He was ill, all right, he mused. Ill with wanting her. Feeling like a fool, he shook his head. “Go back to sleep, Kristine. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
He was turning away from the bed when she caught his hand. “Stay, if you wish.”
He stiffened, his face turned away from hers. “What did you say?”
“You need not go, if you would rather stay.”
He stared down at the slender fingers curled around his gloved hand. He could feel the heat of her through the soft leather. “It would be better if I left.”
“As you wish.” Her hand dropped away from his.
“It’s not what I wish,” he replied gruffly.
“Then stay.”
“I cannot.” He shook his head. “I cannot stay and not touch you.”
He heard the sharp intake of her breath as the implication of his words struck her.
“Good night, Kristine.” He started toward the door, her unspoken rejection no less painful for being expected.
And then he heard her voice, soft and shaky. “I’m lonely, too, my lord husband.”
He froze, one hand on the latch. “Lonely?”
“Yes, my lord. The days are very long with no one to talk to. And my nights are longer still.”
“I’m sorry, Kristine. I did not think . . .” He shook his head. It had not occurred to him that she might be lonely, too. But, of course, she would be. She was imprisoned in this place, as was he.
Kristine took a deep breath, steeling herself for his rejection. “Will you not stay the night with me?”
“I cannot, Kristine. I cannot lie beside you and not touch you.”
“You are my husband. It is your right to share my bed.”
“I vowed I would not touch you again!”
“I release you from that vow.”
He stood there, unmoving, hardly daring to believe that she had spoken, certain he had misunderstood.
“Kristine, do you know what you are saying?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Slowly, he turned toward her, his gaze searching her face. “Are you certain?”
She nodded, her green eyes luminous in the light of the lamp.
On legs that trembled, he moved toward the bed, his gaze fixed on her outstretched hand as he blew out the lamp.
And once again, her delicate fingers closed over his gloved hand. Heart pounding, he sat on the edge of the mattress. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”
She nodded, her eyes widening as he lowered his head to capture her lips with his.
She was sweet, even sweeter than he remembered. He drank from her lips, heat and desire spearing through him as he pressed her back on the bed, his ungloved hand sliding up and down the length of her thigh, delving under her gown to stroke the warm, soft skin beneath.
With a muffled groan, he removed her gown, baring her body to his gaze, to his touch.
His tongue stroked hers, and she writhed beneath him, her body molding to his. He felt her hand caress his back and he jerked upright. “Don’t.”
“I’m sorry. I forgot.” She gazed up at him, her dark green eyes filled with confusion and hurt. “Why can’t I touch you?”
“I have my reasons.” He took a deep breath. “Do you want me to go?”
“No, my lord.” Her eyelids fluttered down, but not before he saw the single tear that welled in the corner of her eye.
Cursing himself, Trevayne gathered her into his arms, his hands lightly stroking her smooth flesh, slowly arousing her. When, in the throes of passion, she reached out to touch him, he captured both her hands in one of his. He kissed her and caressed her until he was on fire, until her body was ready for his; and then, with a cry of mingled pleasure and pain, he sheathed himself deep within her. And for those few moments, he forgot what he was, forgot the fate that would ultimately be his. For those few moments, he was only a man. . . .
She fell asleep in his arms, and he held her for a long while, stroking the soft, silky cap of her hair, wishing he could lie naked beside her, feel the warmth of her body pressed against the length of his own.
But it was not to be, and wishing would not make it so.
Just before dawn, he kissed her cheek, then slipped out of her bed and returned to the cold comfort of his lonely room.
“Why won’t you tell me what he’s hiding beneath that mask?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Cannot, or will not?” Kristine asked.
“Cannot, my lady.”
“But you know, don’t you? You know what he’s hiding.”
Mrs. Grainger shook her head. “I don’t know, dear. No one has seen his lordship’s face in almost four years.”
“But why?”
The cook shrugged. “Rumors abound. I’m sure you’ve heard them all. Can I get you anything else, my lady? More tea, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.” Kristine rose from the table and left the dining room.
She questioned Nan and Yvette, but both claimed they knew nothing.
Later that afternoon, she went out to the stable and questioned Mrs. Grainger’s two sons, but Brandt and Gilbert only looked at her and shook their heads.
Defeated, she went back into the house. Erik had loved her so gently last night. Never had she imagined she would hunger for the touch of a man’s hand, yearn to be held and kissed and caressed. There was tenderness in him, a need for love that he refused to acknowledge. But she had seen it in his eyes, felt it in his eager hands. Intuition told her that he would never let himself love her, that she would never be able to tear down the walls he kept between them, until she knew what he was hiding behind the mask.
Later that night, sitting at her desk, she took pen in hand and opened her journal.
It has been weeks since last I wrote. I have asked questions, I have wandered through the house, but I can find no answers to the riddle that is my husband. I believe the household staff knows something, but I do not believe they know what Erik is hiding beneath that mask. He is a strange man, silent and aloof, yet ever so gentle when he comes to me in the night. I think I could care for him if he would let me. I feel that he is as lonely as I, that he needs me, yet he will not let me close to him, nor trust me with whatever it is he is hiding.