Gathering her courage, she opened the door and walked swiftly down the hallway.
She came to an abrupt halt, a scream rising in her throat as she stared at the figure illuminated in the lamplight. Thick black hair, like that of a wolf, covered the left side of its body. But this was no wolf . . . nor was it a man. Tales of werewolves flitted through her mind, and then, slowly, the creature turned toward her, and she saw the mask.
The room began to spin before her eyes. A hoarse whisper of denial rose in her throat and then she was falling, spinning down, down, into blessed oblivion. . ..
Chapter Fourteen
Erik reacted instinctively. Lunging forward, he caught Kristine in his arms. She felt so light, so fragile. In the pale glow of the lamp, he could see that all the color had drained from her face. He held her for several moments, then carried her swiftly down the hallway toward the larger of the two bedrooms. Gently, he placed her on the bed. After a moment’s hesitation, he removed her riding boots, his hand lingering over the soft swell of her calf. Knowing she would not welcome his touch, he jerked his hand away.
Unfolding the heavy quilt at the foot of the bed, he drew it over her, his gaze lingering on her face. How beautiful she was. It hurt too much to look at her, and he turned away.
Mindful of the storm raging outside, he drew the heavy drapes over the window and lit a fire in the small hearth. A last look, and then he stalked out of the room.
He dressed quickly, his mind numb, his heart bleeding, his soul shattered. After months of hiding, she had seen him for what he was, what he was becoming. He did not fault her for her reaction. It was what he had expected.
Taking his greatcoat from the hall tree, he slipped it on, then left the lodge.
Misty stood outside, her head lowered, her back turned against the storm. She whinnied softly as he took up the reins.
Leading the mare, Erik made his way through the thick mud to the stable.
Raven snuffled a soft greeting when he opened the door.
“Easy, boy,” Erik murmured. He dropped the heavy bar in place, locking the door behind him, then walked to the horse’s stall, the mare at his heels. He ran his hand down the stallion’s sleek neck. “I brought you some company.”
Moving quickly, grateful to have something to occupy his mind, he stripped the saddle and blanket from the mare, then dried her with an old piece of sacking.
After settling the mare in the stall next to Raven’s, Erik shrugged out of his greatcoat and hung it from a nail in the wall, thinking, as he did so, that he would soon have no need for clothing or a coat.
Overcome with a sense of despair, he sank down on the straw in an empty stall and closed his eyes. Man or beast, he knew he would never forget the look of horror he had seen reflected in Kristine’s eyes.
Kristine woke feeling groggy and disoriented. It was the worst nightmare she had ever had, she thought as she sat up, worse than her dreams of being locked in a dark place when she had been a child, worse than the nightmares she’d had after stabbing Lord Valentine.
She shook her head, hoping to dispel the lingering images of the beast that had troubled her dreams. She frowned, surprised to find herself in bed. She didn’t remember coming in here last night.
Throwing back the covers, Kristine slid her legs over the edge of the mattress and stood up, noting, as she did so, that someone had swept up the broken glass.
Padding to the window, she parted the drapes and looked outside. The rain had stopped, but dark, heavy clouds hung low in the sky. Chilled, she pulled on her boots, thinking that she didn’t remember taking them off. She wrapped the quilt around her shoulders, then went to look for Erik, determined to make him tell her why he had left Hawksbridge Castle, to tell him she missed his company and beg him to please come home.
He was not in the house, but he had lit a fire in the hearth and filled the wood box. She peered out the front window. Her horse was gone. No doubt Erik had gone out to feed the horses. He would be chilled when he returned.
She hummed softy, hoping to shake off the lingering vestiges of her nightmare as she went into the kitchen. A search of the cupboards turned up a tea canister and several delicate china cups. Taking the teapot from the stove, she went to the sink. She was reaching for the pump handle when she saw the bowl. But it was the rag inside the bowl that held her gaze. The dark brown stains could only be blood. . ..
The teapot fell from fingers gone suddenly numb as she stared at the rag. It hadn’t been a nightmare after all. It was then that she saw the note, written in Erik’s bold hand. There were only two words: Go home.
Heedless of the impending storm, she left the house and slogged through the thick mud toward the stable. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves, then lifted the latch. The heavy door opened with a creak.
“Erik? Erik, are you in here?” She stepped warily into the shadowy barn. “Erik?”
She moved deeper into the barn. Misty snorted softly and shook her head.
Kristine stroked the mare’s neck as she glanced around the barn. There was no sign of Erik’s horse, or of Erik.
Grateful that he had taught her how to saddle the mare, Kristine quickly saddled Misty. She led the mare back to the lodge and tethered her there. Inside, Kristine put out the fire in the hearth. Grabbing the quilt from the settee where she had dropped it, she went back outside and climbed into the saddle. Draping the heavy quilt around her shoulders, she rode toward the woods. When she found the stream, she followed it eastward, as Erik had instructed.
She was going home, and then she was going to find some answers.
Kristine stood in the guest parlor of the convent, waiting for Lady Trevayne. Too nervous to sit still, she paced the floor in front of the fireplace, chilled to the marrow of her bones in spite of the cheerful fire that blazed in the hearth.
“You wanted to see me?”
Kristine whirled around at the sound of Lady Trevayne’s low, well-modulated voice. “Yes.”
Lady Trevayne crossed the room, her black skirts swaying gracefully. She sat down, her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “What did you wish to see me about?”
“Your son.”
Lady Trevayne stiffened visibly. “Has something happened to Erik?”
“Not in the way you mean,” Kristine said. “But there is something wrong with him. Something horribly wrong. And you know what it is, don’t you?”
Lady Trevayne stared down at her clasped hands. “Yes, I know.”
“What is it that afflicts him so grievously?” Kristine placed her hands over her womb, horrified by the thought of giving birth to a child who was deformed. “He told me it would not affect our child. Was he telling me the truth?”