“Take them away,” he repeated. “I beg of you.”
Her hell-black eyes met his, filled with hatred. “For every tear my daughter wept, my lord Erik, for every drop of blood she shed.”
Drawing himself up to his full height, he stepped away from the bars. He would not beg, would not humiliate himself before her. He summoned his own hatred, felt it wrap around him, strengthening his resolve. He would not be brought down by his own reflection, monstrous as it was. He would not grovel. Nor would he surrender to the despair that flowed through him. He was still alive, and while he lived, he would resist her. Somehow, he would find a way to escape and free Kristine. Somehow . . .
“Has your lady wife seen you as you are now?” Charmion wondered aloud.
Muttering a vile oath, he lunged forward, his good hand reaching through the bars, reaching for her throat, but she stepped nimbly out of danger, a cackle of laughter spewing from her lips.
And in spite of his resolve, he found himself pleading once more. “I’m begging you, don’t bring her down here, don’t let her see this. Think of the child.”
“Unlike my Dominique, your little street urchin is made of strong stuff,” Charmion said, her words bitter. “She may scream, she may faint, but the child is well-rooted within her and will be in no danger.” A cruel smile twisted her lips. “Think how pleased she will be when I tell her you are here.”
Laughter bubbled from Charmion’s throat, faster and faster, until he thought, hoped, prayed, she would choke on it.
“I cannot wait to see her face when she sees yours,” the witch exclaimed, and with a wave of her hand, she was gone.
Kristine looked up from her sewing as Charmion entered the room. As always, a feeling of dread swept over her when she was in the witch’s presence. Charmion had treated her kindly thus far, making sure she had enough to eat, that she had a comfortable bed, clothes to accommodate her rapidly expanding waistline. The witch had provided several yards of soft wool for baby sacques and gowns. She had assured Kristine of an easy delivery, claiming that there were herbs to ease the pangs of birth and bring the child speedily into the world. Kristine didn’t know if the witch spoke the truth, but if so, why had the herbs not worked on Dominique?
Kristine shook the disquieting thoughts away. Charmion had been the essence of kindness, save for the fact that she was holding Kristine prisoner against her will.
“Good afternoon, Lady Kristine,” Charmion said. As always, there was an edge of mockery in her tone, a glint of dislike in her eyes.
Kristine nodded. “Good afternoon.”
“I have a surprise for you, my dear,” Charmion said, her voice a soft purr.
“A surprise?” Kristine asked.
“Yes. Tell me, what would please you most?”
“I should like to go home.”
Charmion laughed and made a dismissing gesture with one hand. “What else would please you?”
Tears burned Kristine’s eyes. “I should like to see my husband.”
Charmion smiled. Smiles were meant to be expressions of joy, of delight, but there was nothing of happiness in the smile the witch bestowed upon Kristine.
“And so you shall,” Charmion exclaimed. She held out one hand. “Come.”
“He’s here?” Kristine stood abruptly, her sewing falling to the floor in her haste. “Erik is here?”
“Indeed. He is waiting for you.”
She was afraid to believe, afraid to hope.
“Come along.” The witch’s black eyes were filled with dark merriment and expectation as she led the way out the door and down the corridor.
Kristine followed behind, her heart pounding with anticipation and dread. A part of her was filled with hope, while another, more sensible part feared that it would not be Erik she was going to see, but his body.
Fear coiled deep within her as Charmion led her down a winding staircase and into a dungeon ablaze with light.
Charmion’s castle was dimly lit at best and Kristine blinked against the sudden, unexpected brightness.
Charmion paused at the foot of the stairs. “He is waiting for you. Stay as long as you wish.” She smiled, a smug, immensely satisfied smile, and then she vanished.
Kristine stood there for a moment, afraid to move, afraid this was some cruel hoax and that she would not find Erik here at all, but his corpse.
She took a tentative step forward. “Erik? Erik, are you here?”
“Stay where you are, Kristine. For the love of God, stay where you are.”
Weak with relief, she put a hand against the wall for support. He was here, he was alive! Thank God.
“Are you all right?” she called. “Has she hurt you?”
“I am as I was when I arrived,” he replied, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Go now. Do not come down here again.”
Confused, she stared down the narrow corridor. There were cells on both sides of the stone walkway. All were empty of life. All were filled with mirrors, though she could see nothing reflected in them but the light of a dozen lamps. Curious, she took a step forward.
“No!” The word, filled with panic, sounded as though it had been ripped from his throat. “Go back!”
Alarmed, she ran down the narrow corridor, her footsteps echoing off the walls. And then she saw him, standing in the far corner of a small barred cell, his back toward her, his head bowed. There was nothing else in the cell—no bed, no chair, not even a blanket, only iron bars and a cold stone floor.
“Erik?” She took a hesitant step forward, certain this was a cruel joke. “Erik, is that you?”
“Go away, Kristine. Please, if you have any feeling for me at all, go away and never come back.”
She took a step closer, staring in morbid fascination at the creature standing with its back toward her. She could not see its face. The form, though human, was covered from head to foot on one side with thick black fur. Only they weren’t feet, but paws.
It had to be a joke, she thought, some horrible monstrous joke. And even as she tried to convince herself that it was some cruel jest on Charmion’s part, her memory spewed forth a kaleidoscope of images she had tried to forget: The sight of Erik coming home naked in the dark of a rain-swept night. The creature she had seen in the lodge the night she’d fainted, a creature who had worn a mask and whose left side had been covered with thick black fur. Nothing she had seen before, nothing Lady Trevayne had said, had prepared her for what she saw now.
It was not a trick at all. It was Erik.