“No.” He drew her against him once more, his hand stroking her back. She was warm and soft in his arms, a temptation like none he had ever known. With a sigh, he rested his chin on the top of her head, wishing he could hold her thus forever, wishing that he had years to spend with her instead of only a few more months at best. Wishing . . .
The strains of a waltz filled the air. Kristine placed her hand on his shoulder. “Dance with me, my lord?”
With a nod, he led her onto a small expanse of smooth stones, then swept her into his arms. The music and the night seemed to close around them, shutting out the rest of the world.
She was light as a feather in his arms as she followed his lead, and he thought how well they danced together, how well they fit together. Had it not been for the awful curse that plagued him, they might have enjoyed a long and happy life together.
He drew her closer. Soon, her belly would swell with his babe. It amazed him that she wanted his child, amazed him still more that she didn’t despise him, that she welcomed his touch, that she had feared he might cease coming to her bed once she conceived. What had he done to inspire her affection, her trust? Or was he fooling himself into thinking she cared? Perhaps she welcomed him in her bed out of a sense of duty because he had saved her from the executioner’s axe and given her a comfortable home. Perhaps her smiles were merely her way of expressing her gratitude. The thought filled him with a strange sense of anger and sadness. He wanted her love, her affection. He wanted her smiles and her laughter, knew he would hoard each precious moment he spent with her from now on so that he could take them out and look at them later.
“Is something amiss, my lord?” Kristine asked. “You seem very far away.”
“Do I? How could I be, when I’m holding you in my arms?”
His flattery warmed her down to her toes. “You’re not angry with me, then?”
“Angry?”
“About Lord Hoxford.”
“No, I’m not angry.”
A slender ray of moonlight broke through the clouds, haloing her hair. She was gazing up at him, her eyes dark, her lips slightly parted.
“Kristine . . .” Murmuring her name, he lifted the lower edge of his mask, bent his head, and claimed her lips. She tasted of sweet wine and he deepened the kiss, his tongue stroking hers. She pressed against him, her breasts warm against his chest, her breath quickening.
“Sweet,” he said, his voice thick, “so sweet.” His hand slid down her back, over her buttocks, drawing her up against him, letting her feel the need thrumming through him.
Feeling suddenly bold, she grabbed him by the hand and led him away from the house, her destination the little cottage she had found near a small pond. It was a tiny little house, one that might have been fashioned for a child.
Erik allowed her to lead him along, saying nothing. They had almost reached the cottage when it began to rain, a light mist that quickly became a downpour.
Kristine, dressed only in a gown of thin red silk, was soaked to the skin by the time they reached the cottage. Erik, clad in shirt, breeches, and a heavy woolen cloak, fared better.
As soon as they were inside, Erik pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She surrendered willingly, wondering at the desperation that seemed to grip him.
Gradually, his hold loosened. With a sigh, he released her. “You’re shivering,” he said. “You need to get out of that wet gown.”
She nodded.
“I’ll build a fire.”
While he laid the fire, she went into the bedroom and took off her ruined slippers, then peeled off her clothing, draping her gown and undergarments over a chair to dry. There were several blankets in the chest at the foot of the bed. She wrapped one securely around her, then carried two more into the parlor.
A small fire blazed in the hearth, casting heat and shadows into the room.
Erik stood with his back to her, one hand braced against the mantel. He had removed his cloak; it was spread over a chair.
She bit down on her lower lip. She knew without asking that he wouldn’t undress in front of her; knew better than to light one of the lamps.
With a sigh, she walked up behind him and draped one of the blankets over his shoulders.
“Thank you.”
“What is this place?” she asked, looking around.
“My brother and I played here when we were young.”
“Your brother?”
Erik nodded. “My elder brother. Robert,” he said heavily. “He was the rightful heir. He died in a hunting accident when he was nine and twenty.”
“You’ve never mentioned him before.”
“No.” He gazed into the flames, thinking how different his life would have been if his brother had lived. Robert would be lord of Hawksbridge Castle and he, Erik, would be living with the good brothers in poverty and obedience, his life dedicated to the church. He never would have married Dominique, or been burdened with this hideous curse.
He never would have met Kristine. . . . Meeting her, loving her, was almost worth all the rest.
“My lord, you should get out of those wet things.”
“They’re only damp,” he replied with a shrug. “They’ll dry soon enough.”
She stared at his broad back, wondering at the change in him. Only moments ago he had been on fire for her; now he seemed almost indifferent to her presence. What was he thinking?
“Have you other brothers?” she asked. “Sisters, perhaps?”
“No.” Slowly, he turned to face her. He had removed the horned mask and replaced it with one of black silk. “Have you?”
She shook her head, thinking how rare it was for him to ask about her family, her past. “All I have is you,” she said, very softly. And then she smiled. “And our babe.”
Pain lanced through him at her words, a pain so deep he thought he might die of it. He would never see his child. He knew it with gut-wrenching certainty.
“My lord? Erik?” She reached out, her hand closing over his arm. “Are you ill?”
“No.”
She looked up at him, her green eyes filled with worry.
“I’m fine, Kristine,” he said reassuringly. “Only cold all of a sudden.” He opened his arms. “Come, warm me.”
She stepped into his embrace, her arms wrapping around his waist, content to be there. “Tell me of your childhood. Was it happy?”
He rested his chin on the top of her head. “Happy enough. I never wanted to be lord of Hawksbridge. I knew the title would go to Robert, and I was glad of it. I was a solitary child, happiest when I was alone with my books. It was my intention to join the good friars at Hawksbridge Abbey and devote my life to God. It seemed a fine ambition at the time. I know now I was not cut out to be a monk any more than I was cut out to be the lord of Hawksbridge Castle.”