His hand brushed her shoulder, and she recoiled from his touch.
“You needn’t be afraid of me,” he muttered. “I want nothing from you, nothing but a child.”
His hands moved over her body, one rough and calloused, the other sheathed in fine leather. His naked hand slid between her thighs, readying her to receive him. And then he took hold of both her wrists in his gloved hand. To make sure she did not touch him, she mused. What kind of man was he, to be so afraid of her touch?
She heard him swear again as he unfastened his trousers, then positioned his big body between her thighs. She gasped at his weight, cried out as he breached her maidenhead with one quick thrust. He waited for the space of a heartbeat, then moved even more deeply within her, his thrusts becoming faster, harder. His urgency frightened her, and then she heard him swear again, felt him shudder violently.
For a moment, he collapsed on top of her. She felt the silk of his hair against her cheek, the warm whisper of his breath across her bare breast.
And then, as if he had never been there, he was gone, and she was alone in the bed.
Chapter Three
Back in his own room, Trevayne paced the floor, his body aching with the need to sheathe himself within his bride’s warmth once more, to feel her velvet heat surround him, to inhale the warm, womanly fragrance of her skin. He cursed himself for using her so roughly, for taking her without the loving words and gentleness a bride deserved when her maidenhead was taken. But he had no gentleness left within him, no kindness for himself or anyone else. He had loved once, and it had ended tragically. He would never love again. Nor would he allow anyone to care for him.
It had been more than four years since a woman had willingly shared his bed. Four long years since he had given pleasure and received it in return.
But he could not help imagining what it would have been like to feel his bride’s small, soft hands sliding over his skin, to taste her lips, to dip into her mouth and savor the honeyed sweetness within. He regretted not taking the time to explore the enticingly slim body hidden beneath the silken gown. It was his right, after all. She was his now, to do with as he pleased.
But as much as he yearned to explore the lush hills and valleys of her body, he could never allow her to learn the contours of his own. The risk of discovery, of rejection, was far too great, but even greater was the risk of letting himself care, as he had come to care for Dominique. . . .
Remorse seared his heart and soul as her image rose in his mind: Dominique, writhing in agony as her body sought to expel his child; Dominique lying still and white on bloodstained linen; Dominique, her wide blue eyes glazed with pain and empty of life.
Ruthlessly, he thrust the memories from him. He would not think of her now, nor hopefully, ever again, though he doubted that was possible. Instead, he focused on the bed he had left and the young woman who had awaited him there.
He would go to her again tomorrow night, and every night, until she was breeding, and then he would not touch her again.
He would return to the hunting lodge located high in the hills to the south and stay there until one of the women brought word that his wife had been delivered of a healthy child.
And then, his duty done, he would put an end to his life, and with it an end to his guilt, and his pain, and the hideous curse that, in its infancy, had made grown men turn away in revulsion and caused women to flee in horror.
Kristine sat with her back against the carved headboard, the thick woolen blankets pulled up to her chin. Staring into the inky blackness that engulfed the room, she fought the urge to weep. This had been her bridal night. She had not expected love nor sweet words nor tenderness from the enigmatic stranger she had wed, but neither had she expected him to take her with such blatant disregard for her feelings.
She sighed into the darkness. In truth, she hadn’t known what to expect. She had never bedded a man—had, in fact, killed the man who had tried to take her by force. Ironic, that she should marry a man who had, in his own way, been more brutal than Lord Valentine.
He was a strange one, was Erik Trevayne. He had said he wanted nothing from her but a child. The bowels of a filthy prison seemed a strange place to look for a bride. But then, perhaps he didn’t like women, didn’t want a wife to share his life, but only a fertile belly in which to plant his seed. Strange, how that thought hurt.
She wondered what lay beneath the glove he had worn, why he hid himself from her in the dark, why he would not allow her to see him or touch him. She knew little of the marriage act, but surely it was not usually accomplished with the man fully clothed. What was he hiding?
Perhaps the rumors regarding the Demon Lord of Hawksbridge Castle were true after all. He had certainly taken her like a beast. She felt her anger rise, fueled by hurt and disappointment as her girlish dreams of love and happily-ever-after evaporated like morning dew.
Despair settled over her. She was his wife now, his property, the same as his lands and his horse. As such, she was subject to his every whim. He could do with her whatsoever he wished. He could abuse her, beat her, even kill her, and no one would say a word against him. Why had she let herself think she might find a measure of joy in this union, that he might come to love her? Surely no normal man went hunting for a bride inside prison walls. What a ninny she had been to think she might find happiness in this huge old castle with a stranger. Her determination to make the best of her marriage suddenly seemed ludicrous.
Overcome by a wave of self-pity and remorse, she pulled the covers over her head and cried herself to sleep.
The two silent women attended her in the morning. One brought warm water so she might bathe while the other stripped the soiled linen from the bed. Kristine felt her cheeks flush when she saw the dark brownish-red stain on the rumpled white sheets, visible evidence that the marriage had been consummated, that she had come to her husband pure and undefiled.
After she bathed, the women powdered her, then dressed her in a luxurious gown of deep green velvet. Nodding their approval, they curtsied and left the room.
Kristine stood there for a moment, fingering the ragged edges of her hair and wondering what was expected of her now. At length, she put on a white ruffled cap trimmed with green ribbon and left the room, slowly making her way down the narrow stairway to the first floor. The aroma of freshly baked bread drew her toward the back of the building.
A tall, painfully thin woman wearing a blue dress and a crisp white apron hurried to meet Kristine as she stepped into the kitchen.
“My lady, what are you doing in here?”
“I’m hungry. Is it all right if I fix something to eat?”