III
What strange whim of Fate had brought her to him? This beautiful creature with that ridiculous hair and huge brown eyes filled with so much sorrow it wounded him. The soup was cold, but flavorful, the dark bread rich and dense spread with soft cheese. A pang struck him. He had never asked any of the women whose bed he frequented what their stories were. Surely there were others just like Christine, forced into selling their bodies when their world crumbled. He was just another man taking his pleasure at the expense of her dignity, her sanity. The fine food turned to stone in his stomach.
"Erik? Are you all right?" Christine's soft voice was faintly musical. He wondered if she could sing.
"Fine, Christine," he said, groping for words to say. What more was there after the most devastating secrets of their lives?
"You said your father was a musician. What did he play?"
He rose and added the last log to the fire, stirring the throbbing bed of red coals with the iron poker. His cape was dry and seeing Christine's discreet shiver, he swathed her in it.
"Thank you," she murmured, gifting him with a sparkling look. That she would be grateful for something so small made him feel . . . guilty, vaguely ashamed. Erik braced his hands on the mantle, staring pensively into the fire.
"Papa played the violin. He played so beautifully."
She quickly stifled the quaver in her voice and lifted her chin, her delicate features frozen in a moue of smiling coquetry. If he needed any further proof of her inexperience that was enough. The affected dance of expression and touch that composed a courtesan's web of seduction took practice, and a certain moral flexibility. The expression sat ill on her features, the expressive arch of her eyebrows and the plump, mobile mouth was too honest, too . . . pure.
"There is no need to put on airs for me, Christine," he said, "I'm sure your father wouldn't mind you shedding a tear for him after his death." Her wobbly smile struck him square in the chest.
"Thank you for being so kind to me. I did not expect that."
Erik grimaced. What was it about her that touched his heart, that made him want to maim and kill to avenge the wrong done to her? Those brown eyes, so rich and sweet like chocolate, maybe? The heartbreaking curve of her jaw? Maybe it was how slender and small she was; the crown of her head only reached his collarbone. It made him want to gather her close and . . .
"I beg your pardon?" he asked, realizing that he had been staring at her mouth. His eye traveled up the luminous white curve of her cheek to her eyes, framed by long, dark lashes.
"You . . . you said before, about the lined paper . . . I just thought you might be a musician too," she stuttered, imbibing a long drink of warm wine. Erik forced a tired smile.
"I am indeed. Music is the sole joy of my life." He had composed requiems for each of his children; even the miscarried ones the Church said didn't have souls. They were his, from the moment his and Claire's essence mingled in her womb.
Interest lit Christine's eyes.
"What do you play?" Erik dropped her gaze, unable to bear even another second in her brilliant regard.
"My preferred vehicle is the human voice. But I have long endeavored to broaden my scope: piano, organ, violin, cello, and others."
"I couldn't bear to sell Papa's violin, and it was so battered and old, Madame let me keep it. Maybe you could play for me sometime."
"I would like that," Erik whispered.
Even starving, she could not bear to part with her father's beloved instrument. Her fervid devotion and stubborn loyalty spoke of depths only hinted at in her fragile demeanor. Claire did not have Christine's strength. Like opal, she shattered under adversity where Christine shone like the diamond she was. Erik glanced at the clock.
"It's late. You should get some rest." A nameless emotion flickered across her features, gone too quickly for him to identify.
"Where . . . where will you sleep?" Ah. She was afraid. He gestured toward the chair.
"Erik! You'll freeze!" Christine protested.
"I do not wish to cause you discomfort-"
"You didn't. You don't." Erik eyed her, seeing soft rosy color stain her cheeks. Charmed, he found himself grinning.
"I am glad."
In silence, they turned down the bed's coverlet and Erik paused to pry off his shoes and socks, and shed coat and waistcoat. Christine raised an eyebrow at the heavy thud they made when he draped them over the chair.
"I never go anywhere unarmed," he explained.
"Oh," she replied.
Christine smothered the gas lamp and the fire's steady red glow was the room's only light. Ruby highlights caught in Christine's mane of brown curls. Teasing flickers of light and shadow danced into the hollows of her body, along the ripe curve of breast and hip. Desire unfurled in decadent languor. His primitive brain had no doubt as to what it wanted.
"Perhaps you should undress," he said huskily.
"What did you say?" Christine yelped, stepped back from the bed, eyes lost in shadow. She clutched his cape to her body in a vain attempt to obscure her shape. Erik almost bit his tongue. God, he sounded like a lecher!
"I mean, you would be more . . . erm, more comfortable." Her demeanor relaxed.
"You're right," she said, folding his cape and placing it with his clothing. Returning to the opposite side of the bed, she turned around and parted the delightful curtain of her hair.
"Could you . . . ?"
"Of course," Erik said, his throat hot and tight. He would not, could not ask for her favors however much he wanted to. After what she had been through, he would not take from her like all the others.
This was certainly an exercise in masochism.
XXX
A prostitute's trousseau had a few modifications, including fewer buttons and weaker seams, in the event a customer grew impatient. None of those customers had ever been the Vicomte Erik de Chagny. She could feel him there, his heat and his soft breathing, soft as a kiss. Christine didn't understand what this sweet heaviness was, why her breaths came quick and shallow. He dragged his knuckle gently down the curve of her spine and a shudder tore through her.
"Cold?" he purred.
"No," she replied quickly. Then, belatedly, she realized she just confirmed that she was shivering in reaction to his touch. He was offering her a gift. A night of sleep without her duties as a prostitute. A precious, precious gift. She wanted that.
Didn't she?
Those long, deft fingers grazed the skin of her back as he worked the buttons free, each touch gentle and deliberate, setting nerves afire.
"Finished," he murmured.
The emerald silk gown sagged, and after a moment's hesitation, Christine let it pool at her feet, leaving her in nothing but her black corset, slip and hose. She bit her lip, bracing herself for him to change his mind and grab her. Her feelings were a jumbled mess. Did she want him to? She had never wanted to before. Was this a reaction to his kindness?
Instead, she heard his almost soundless footfalls, retreating to the far side of the bed.
"You are a very beautiful woman, Christine." She bit back a cry at the sound his unbearable voice like drop of warm wax on her skin. Sweet pain and spreading, melting pleasure . . .
Without his warmth and with the fire dying, the room was growing very cold. Christine dove underneath the coverlet, clutching a pillow to her pounding heart. The gathering shadows obscured Erik's tall, lean shape, reminding Christine of her father's dark Northern stories about monsters and goblins. The bed lurched under his weight and Christine tumbled toward him. The mask was as pale as bone in the darkness. Monster . . . or man? His hands found her naked shoulders. Her breath hiccupped, her heart hammered against her ribs . . . his lips touched her forehead in an absent, grazing kiss, like one a parent would give a child when tucking them in for the night.
"Sleep well, Christine," he whispered. Breathless, fighting some unnamable emotion, Christine said, "Good night, Erik."
xxxx
She woke to a gentle shake on the shoulder. For a moment, she almost called out to Papa to give her a few more minutes. This bed was so soft and comfortable . . . then she opened her eyes and saw the pink roses on the wall. The window of her prison slammed shut, smothering even her dreams.
"Christine wake up, my dear. It is dawn and I'm certain the Madame's brute will be here to roust me from my pleasure nest at any moment." Erik voice was layered with so many different tones, crooning warmth and comfort when he said her name, the sweet oozing of chocolate when he said 'my dear,' then the sharp, dry tang of peppermint at the end.
Christine heaved a sigh and braced her hands underneath her. She slept best on her stomach, and blinded by her veil of hair, it often afforded her a few more moments' privacy. Slowly, she gathered herself to a sitting position, combing back her tousled curls. She found Erik seated on the edge of the bed, fully dressed and smiling. Christine smiled back sleepily. Her constant burdens of fear and loathing set aside, mind and body slipped into a deep, healing sleep and she felt refreshed.
"Thank you," she whispered. His elegant hand, draped over his knee, twitched as if to gesture. Christine raised a brow in question.
"No thanks are necessary, Christine," he said at last. The warm moment was broken by Bruno's pounding knock and the snarled threat of getting your trousers on or else. Erik hadn't even unbuttoned his shirt.
Perhaps it was the reminder of their circumstance and locale, but a degree of awkwardness pushed them apart. He helped her dress, and they nearly bumped noses as Christine stood on tiptoe to adjust his cravat. They shared a breathless, uneasy laugh. Christine stifled the absurd impulse to shake his hand. This man had treated her with dignity and respect, given her a precious gift, and . . . and . . . she was disappointed? What had this horrible place done to her that she did not understand a relationship with a man out of the context of a bed?
"When will I see you again?" she asked with feigned nonchalance. Those piercing green eyes saw through her front, however. Again, another abortive flutter of his hand. Did he want to touch her? What was stopping him?
"I will return when I can. A Vicomte's time is not his own," he said ruefully. Christine nodded, trying hard to stifle the wild fear rising up to choke her. Numbness punctuated with moments of terror started to feel normal after a while. Why then, did this hurt so bad? She could think of nothing to say, so she simply nodded. Erik donned his cape and fedora, cocking it at a rakish angle to hide the mask. He made a formidable sight: lean and dark and deadly.
"I will return," he promised her as Bruno opened the door. Christine froze a tight smile on her face, all the blood draining from her head, making her dizzy.
"I look forward to it," she said, throwing the words out in a practiced, sultry tone. The door closed behind him and Christine's ears rang with her own silent screaming.
XXX
"I must speak with the Madame," Erik said tersely to the brute Bruno. He had seen how Christine seemed to shrink when Bruno came in the door, the desperate gaiety in her smile. She was afraid of him. Bruno grunted and led him down the stairs to a luxurious office adjoining the parlor.
"The Madame will be with you shortly," growled Bruno, in a voice as coarse as gravel.
Erik sank into one of chairs across from the Madame's mountain of a desk. He directed none of his sharply honed deductive powers inward. No, for now he was a creature of impulse, instinct. Christine . . . she wakened something in him that he thought had died long ago. Tenderness, a fierce protective instinct, the primal pulsebeat of lust. Her smothered whimpers in her sleep broke his heart. Wandering in a prison within her own mind, he soothed her with his voice, crooning, "You're safe. You're safe." The low-voiced chant pacified her and her hand flung out, finding his. He didn't let go of her hand the whole night.
Claire, years ago when they were still sharing a bed—not for the joy of each other's company, but the hideous parody creating new life had become—despised being held. Said his embrace smothered her. Loss had made her brittle. Erik had never realized how much he hungered for simple touch. Even in a prostitute's most intimate embrace, there was a degree of distance, out of simple courtesy. Christine obliterated that with one soulful glance.
"Monsieur de Chagny! I hope your evening was satisfactory," Madame d'Avrigny cooed as she breezed in the door, aflutter with jewel-toned silk trimmed in lace.
"Most satisfactory, Madame. In fact, I wished to thank you personally for such a superb selection. It is as if you can divine the most secret desires of my heart."
Women such as the Madame were susceptible to flattery, and he used his voice, his one beauty, ruthlessly to his advantage. As expected, Madame visibly swelled with self-importance and flustered pride.
"It is my pleasure to see my patrons' desires fulfilled," she drawled, dragging her finger across her cleavage. Erik repressed a grimace of distaste.
"How may I assist you, Monsieur?" the faint emphasis on 'assist' held a wealth of insinuation that caused Erik to wonder exactly how one became a madame at a bordello without first offering her own wares. Erik knew he must choose his words very carefully. Above all else Madame d'Avrigny was a businesswoman with a miser's eye for coin who could scent weakness like a wild animal. He gave an affected little sigh, wringing his hands in what he hoped was a desperate gesture.
"I have something to confess, Madame . . ." a bright, malicious glow lit the Madame's clear, hazel eyes. Her lips pouted into a sympathetic bow.
"Oh? And what is that, my dear?"
A/N: So? What do you think? Like it? Hate it?
Thank you everyone for your encouragement
R&R