“No,” he whispered. His voice was deep and husky, but there was no anger in it.
He kissed her shoulders, the curve of her neck—long, lingering kisses that excited her, until she writhed beneath him.
“Now,” she begged, and lifted her hips in silent invitation.
“Now,” he agreed. Reaching down, he unfastened his trousers.
A moment later, his body merged with hers. She thought she heard him whisper, “Please don’t hate me, Kristine,” but she couldn’t be sure, and then there was no time to wonder, there was only the exquisite pleasure of his body melding with hers as he moved deep within her.
She moaned softly as heat rippled through her, warm, sweet heat that touched every nerve, filled every hollow. She cried his name as pleasure burst within her, felt him shudder as he found his own release. Needing to touch him, she tried again to free her hands.
“No, Kristine.”
“Why?” she asked petulantly. “Why can’t I touch you?”
She tried to see his face in the darkness, but he was only a dark shadow rising above her, a phantom lover who came to her in the night and disappeared with the dawn.
He rested his forehead against hers, his hair brushing her cheeks. “Don’t ask.”
She felt his body relax, felt his hand move aimlessly over her body, stroking her arm, the curve of her breast, the curly cap of her hair. She wondered if he would fall asleep, wondered if he did, whether she dared light the candle and discover what he was hiding from her.
Minutes passed. She could hear the tick of the clock on her dressing table, the faint whisper of the wind against the windows. His breath fanned her cheek.
Then, with a sigh, he rolled away from her and stood up. She could feel him watching her as he fastened his trousers.
“Good night, Kristine.”
“My lord, I . . .”
“What?”
“Can we not start again?”
He blew out a deep sigh. What did she want from him? Surely she realized theirs would never be a normal relationship.
“Will you not stay with me until I fall asleep?”
He closed his eyes, his hands clenching. “If you wish.”
“I do. Very much.”
He heard the rustle of cloth as she drew back the blankets in silent invitation.
Wordlessly, he returned to the bed and slid in beside her. A moment later, she rested her head on his right shoulder. Why, he wondered, why didn’t she hate him? He had given her no cause to feel otherwise. Was she so desperate for attention, she was willing to settle for whatever he was willing to give?
With a sigh of resignation, he slipped his arm around her shoulders and drew her against his side.
“Will you take breakfast with me on the morrow?” she asked.
Erik nodded. It would have been easier to live with her hatred, her scorn. He feared her affection would destroy him. He did not want her to care for him, did not want to care for her in return.
“Good night, my lord,” she murmured.
“Good night, Kristine.”
He stroked her hair, listening as her breathing became slow and even. When he was certain she was asleep, he brushed a kiss across her lips, rekindled the lamp beside her bed and then, reluctantly, left her chamber for his own.
Chapter Eight
The next few weeks passed quietly. Trevayne took his meals with Kristine. He spent his mornings looking after the affairs of the estate, took Kristine riding each afternoon. She quickly became an accomplished horsewoman. Even though the grooms were there to do her bidding and care for her horse, he taught her to saddle and bridle her own mount, insisted she learn the proper way to curry the mare, how to check Misty’s feet and clean her hooves. Kristine proved to be a good student. She listened carefully to everything he told her, asked intelligent questions.
In the evenings, they usually retired to the library, which was Trevayne’s favorite haunt. It was a large room, dominated by an enormous fireplace made of stone. Bookshelves bursting with all manner of books lined the walls. Heavy dark green draperies covered the windows, shutting out the shadows of the night. A large oak desk and leather chair stood in one corner of the room; a pair of overstuffed chairs covered in a dark green-and-gold stripe were placed invitingly in front of the hearth.
Some nights, he read the newspaper while she worked on a piece of embroidery. Some evenings he asked her to read to him. He taught her to play chess. Sometimes, as now, they sat in front of the fireplace, reading.
Each evening he followed her up the stairs and made love to her in the concealing darkness of her bedchamber. Ah, the hours he spent there, learning the contours of her body, exploring the softly rounded curves, the subtle hills and warm, deep valleys. Learning what brought her pleasure, what made her laugh, what made her burn like a living flame in his arms. He yearned to feel her hands on him, to feel her lips move across his flesh as she explored him in turn, but such a thing was beyond the realm of possibility.
When he had taken her to wife, he had hoped she would conceive immediately so that his vow to his father would be fulfilled and he could seek the solitude of his hunting lodge. But as the weeks passed into months, he found himself hoping his seed would not take root within her womb. It was foolish to let himself care for her when there could be no future for the two of them, no lasting happiness, yet he could not help wishing for more days in her company, more nights in her bed.
Being with her was torture of the most exquisite kind, sheer agony to know that their time together must soon end. The malignant affliction brought on by Charmion’s curse was spreading to the toes of his right foot. He could feel the wretched change being wrought upon his body, an excruciating pain in bone and tissue as his flesh fought against its new shape.
Soon, it would not be a human foot at all, but a paw like the other, complete with fur and claws.
Soon, he would not be human at all, but an animal. Morbidly, he wondered if, when the hideous transformation was complete, he would lose the power of speech. Already his voice was altered, so that it often sounded more animalistic than human. Even more frightening than the possibility of losing the ability to speak was the possibility that he would lose all memory of being human . . . and he wondered which would be worse, to forget his humanity entirely, or to remain aware that he had once been a man, damned to spend the rest of his life trapped in the guise of a beast.
“Erik?”
He looked up to find her staring at him.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.” He laid his book aside. “Why do you ask?”