“Why do you say that? Hawksbridge flourishes under your care.”
“I never wanted wealth or lands or title, or the responsibility that they entail. But now . . .” Now, when he was about to lose it all, he realized how much he had grown to love the land and its people. He would miss the rolling green acres, miss galloping through the early-morning mists. He would miss his library, and Mrs. Grainger’s apple dumplings, and the sense of accomplishment he felt at the end of each year.
But most of all, he would miss Kristine. . . .
With a groan, he slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her hungrily, desperately. His good hand moved restlessly over her body, stroking her breasts, her thighs, her buttocks, pressing her intimately against him. He kissed her cheeks, her nose, her eyes, her chin, ran his tongue down the slender column of her neck, tasted the soft, sensitive skin behind her ear.
With an impatient cry, he tossed the blanket aside so that she stood bared to his heated gaze, her body glowing in the light of the fire. Bending down, he rained kisses over her swollen belly, knowing this was as close to his child as he would ever get.
He closed his eyes as he felt Kristine’s hands move in the hair at his nape.
“What is it?” she asked. “Please, Erik, what is it that troubles you so?”
“Don’t ask,” he said with a low growl. “Not now. Not tonight.”
His lips moved up over her belly, his tongue laving her breasts, and then he was kissing her once more, kissing her as if he would never stop, could never have enough.
Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her into the bedroom, away from the light cast by the fire. The bed was small and narrow, the mattress soft. It was a child’s bed, and it sagged beneath their weight.
She embraced him, taking him into her arms, into her heart, holding him close, lifting her hips to receive him into herself.
As always, she longed to touch him, to explore his body, to know his body as intimately as he knew hers.
As always, he refused to let her touch him.
As always, he saw to her pleasure first. His climax followed quickly.
Lying there, their bodies still pressed intimately together, she closed her eyes. Listening to the sound of thunder and her husband’s ragged breathing, she felt a tear slip down her cheek, and knew that it was his.
Chapter Twelve
“What about our guests?” Kristine asked. She snuggled against Erik’s right side. She had noticed that he was always careful to keep her to his right and she wondered if his left side pained him greatly. She wanted to question him about that but knew he would not answer, knew that it would spoil the beauty, the intimacy, of this precious moment.
“I doubt anyone will miss us,” Erik replied. He ran his hand through her hair, watched the fine golden strands curl around his fingers. It was silky soft against his skin. He wished he could have seen it before it had been cut, wished he could have seen her standing in moonlight clad in nothing but her hair.
“Are we to spend the night here, then?” she asked.
“If you wish.”
She nodded. Contented as a well-fed cat, she didn’t want to move, didn’t want to get dressed or go back to the party.
“Tell me of your childhood, Kristine. Was it happy?”
“Yes, very. For a while anyway. My father was the schoolmaster in our town. We had a comfortable home. He was well-respected in our community.”
“You loved him.”
“Of course. Didn’t you love your father?”
“No, but I respected him. He was a wise man.”
“Why didn’t you love him?”
“Because he didn’t love me. Robert was his firstborn, his heir. I was nothing.” He ran his knuckles over her cheek. “We were speaking of you, of your life. What of your mother? You have not mentioned her.”
“She was very beautiful. Everyone thought so. She was much younger than my father and after a while she became discontented with our small village, our quiet life.” She sighed. “The summer I was two and ten, a troupe of players came to town.”
“Go on.”
“My mother took me to see the play. I don’t recall what it was, but I thought it was wonderful. The actors were fascinating. I wanted to stay and see the play again. So did my mother. When the first performance was over, we went outside and walked around, looking at the people, the animals. My mother was fascinated with everything. We were sitting in the shade, waiting for the next performance to start, when a young man approached us. He was one of the actors.” She took a deep breath. “When the troupe left town a week later, so did my mother. I never saw her again.”
“I’m sorry, Kristine. That must have been difficult for you. And for your father.”
“Yes.” She placed her hand over her belly in a protective gesture. “I couldn’t believe my mother had left me, left my father, for a man she scarcely knew. I still can’t believe it. At first, I told myself he had taken her by force, that she would never have gone with him willingly. Several days later, my father received a letter from my mother. She said she was sorry and begged him to make me understand why she had run away. Of course, at the time, there was nothing my father could say to make me understand.”
“And now?”
“I would never leave my child,” Kristine said vehemently. “Never!”
“And you never heard from your mother again?”
“She wrote me at first, on my birthday and at Christmas, telling me about all the wonderful places she had seen, how happy she was, promising to come and see me the next time the troupe came to town. But she never did. When I was four and ten, the letters stopped coming.”
“I’m sorry, love,” Erik murmured.
Love . . . It was the first time he had used such an endearment. It drove every other thought from her mind. Turning on her side, she looked into his eyes, so dark and mysterious, behind the mask. “Erik?”
“Hmm?”
The words do you love me trembled on her lips, but she swallowed them, unsaid. “Nothing,” she whispered, and leaning forward, her hands braced on his broad chest, she kissed him with all her heart and soul, and understood, for the first time, why her mother had run off with another man.
He rose with the dawn, knowing he would not be able to resist holding her, kissing her, when she woke, knowing he dared not risk making love to her in the light of day. He felt safe, protected, in the darkness.
Moving quietly, he went into the main room of the cottage to stand at the window. The rain had stopped and the sky was a bold dark blue. The scent of rain lingered in the air, and with it the smell of damp grass and earth. Water dripped from the eaves of the cottage, from the leaves of the trees. Birds chirped a welcome to the new day.