Free Beauty's Beast by Amanda Ashley

expected.
    And then he heard her voice, soft and shaky. “I’m lonely, too, my lord husband.”
    He froze, one hand on the latch. “Lonely?”
    â€œYes, my lord. The days are very long with no one to talk to. And my nights are longer still.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Kristine. I did not think . . .” He shook his head. It had not occurred to him that she might be lonely, too. But, of course, she would be. She was imprisoned in this place, as was he.
    Kristine took a deep breath, steeling herself for his rejection. “Will you not stay the night with me?”
    â€œI cannot, Kristine. I cannot lie beside you and not touch you.”
    â€œYou are my husband. It is your right to share my bed.”
    â€œI vowed I would not touch you again!”
    â€œI release you from that vow.”
    He stood there, unmoving, hardly daring to believe that she had spoken, certain he had misunderstood.
    â€œKristine, do you know what you are saying?”
    â€œYes, my lord.”
    Slowly, he turned toward her, his gaze searching her face. “Are you certain?”
    She nodded, her green eyes luminous in the light of the lamp.
    On legs that trembled, he moved toward the bed, his gaze fixed on her outstretched hand as he blew out the lamp.
    And once again, her delicate fingers closed over his gloved hand. Heart pounding, he sat on the edge of the mattress. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”
    She nodded, her eyes widening as he lowered his head to capture her lips with his.
    She was sweet, even sweeter than he remembered. He drank from her lips, heat and desire spearing through him as he pressed her back on the bed, his ungloved hand sliding up and down the length of her thigh, delving under her gown to stroke the warm, soft skin beneath.
    With a muffled groan, he removed her gown, baring her body to his gaze, to his touch.
    His tongue stroked hers, and she writhed beneath him, her body molding to his. He felt her hand caress his back and he jerked upright. “Don’t.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I forgot.” She gazed up at him, her dark green eyes filled with confusion and hurt. “Why can’t I touch you?”
    â€œI have my reasons.” He took a deep breath. “Do you want me to go?”
    â€œNo, my lord.” Her eyelids fluttered down, but not before he saw the single tear that welled in the corner of her eye.
    Cursing himself, Trevayne gathered her into his arms, his hands lightly stroking her smooth flesh, slowly arousing her. When, in the throes of passion, she reached out to touch him, he captured both her hands in one of his. He kissed her and caressed her until he was on fire, until her body was ready for his; and then, with a cry of mingled pleasure and pain, he sheathed himself deep within her. And for those few moments, he forgot what he was, forgot the fate that would ultimately be his. For those few moments, he was only a man. . . .
    She fell asleep in his arms, and he held her for a long while, stroking the soft, silky cap of her hair, wishing he could lie naked beside her, feel the warmth of her body pressed against the length of his own.
    But it was not to be, and wishing would not make it so.
    Just before dawn, he kissed her cheek, then slipped out of her bed and returned to the cold comfort of his lonely room.
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    â€œWhy won’t you tell me what he’s hiding beneath that mask?”
    â€œI cannot tell you.”
    â€œCannot, or will not?” Kristine asked.
    â€œCannot, my lady.”
    â€œBut you know, don’t you? You know what he’s hiding.”
    Mrs. Grainger shook her head. “I don’t know, dear. No one has seen his lordship’s face in almost four years.”
    â€œBut why?”
    The cook shrugged. “Rumors abound. I’m sure you’ve heard them all. Can I get you anything else, my lady? More tea, perhaps?”
    â€œNo, thank you.” Kristine rose from the table and left the