A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) And so, let the games begin…

IV

The man who called himself Le Masque strode with confidence through the camp, seeing to minor issues and learning the whole of what had transpired from his aide, Eustace, including information collected on the scum, de Chagny. Arrogant bastard, thought he could flaunt his privilege and reap no justice for his wrongdoings? How pathetically ignorant of the reprehensible noble. If it was up to Le Masque, the whole detestable lot of his family would pay the toll for their many infractions against Brittany, against the Crown, and more personally, against himself.

Eustace again spoke of spotting their captive as he had been spying on the chateau, the mention of the damsel pulling Le Masque from murderous thoughts.

"She was there, as bold as you please, walking alone at the goblin's hour and 'neath the fullness of a witch's moon. Don't forget it being the Midsummer Solstice," Eustace added deliberately. "She came from the north, from the direction of the stones, and was headed for the chateau."

Le Masque scowled at mention of the stones. The Megaliths of Carnac. Ancient standing stones that wove their history among the Celtic Druids, a place where rites of magic and divination were performed coinciding with the sacred days of the festivals. The same stones at which he'd been left as a newborn to die.

"What are you saying, man?" he studied his aide in wary disbelief. "You think the woman is a witch?"

"Stranger things have happened. I need not be tellin' you that."

Le Masque's own cloudy past was indisputable proof of the bizarre, and Eustace had accepted the whole of it, accepted the curse of his affliction, one of few who'd seen the truth and still respected him as a leader. Le Masque looked toward his tent where he'd left the girl. His eyes narrowed in pensive reflection.

The name by which she first called him and the title she later claimed for him – both had stirred a strange awareness, a distress in his soul even, to hear her speak such names. Why, he could not fathom. Perhaps because he did not like to hear another man's name on her lips. For, even more incredible, once he had entered his tent and first looked down at his beautiful captive sitting at his feet across the low fire, had watched her midnight dark eyes take in a slow account of his form then lift to his eyes – one word had suddenly, inexplicably roared inside his head:

MINE!

And when she had kissed him, the matter was sealed.

She now belonged to him.

Mayhap the damsel was a witch and had woven a spell of enchantment around his soul…

As for the name Phantom that she insisted on calling him, he immediately identified with the mysterious title and could even grow to favor the ghostly address over his current designation.

"The others, what do they say?" he asked.

A scurvy lot of bandits and outcasts, the majority of his band hailed from France. Three were from other lands, like Eustace, but all of them clung to old world superstitions and ideals.

"A few are wary of her. More than a few wish to tup her."

Hearing this, rage simmered to a boil inside his blood and Le Masque – who at that moment felt more like a deadly Phantom than the disguised rebel leader – snapped his attention to his aide. "No one is to touch her or go near my tent! Tell them I have commanded it so. Upon my word, he who does will answer to my blade…"

Eustace winced at his leader's ire, so quick to burn, and swallowed hard. "Ye cannot blame them, milord. They have no' seen a wench in more than a fortnight, and she's more comely than most. For her to stay here, within camp, and them be denied their pleasure...Well, not many are pleased with that either."

"I care not. It is my decision, and they will abide and obey. The damsel remains, and she will be given the respect due a lady of her breeding."

"Think you she is de Chagny's intended?" Gruffly Eustace changed the subject.

"I have no doubt of it," Le Masque said with a frown.

He did not fault the men their recreation and rarely interfered, especially with those inborn needs involving a woman, though he made clear to all his men he would not tolerate rape. His own intimate encounters with the fairer sex were obscure, as if belonging to someone else's memories and he was no more than a casual observer to them. As always, the greater part of his recollections grew vague after a prolonged period of darkness, when the fearsome dreams would take hold, and he was never the same afterward.

But if anyone was going to tup the fair Christine, it would be him alone doing the tupping, and a memory well worth keeping. Preluded by a lengthy seduction, but that went without saying. He wanted the lass willing and wet or not at all. Recalling her reaction to him upon their first meeting, he felt reasonably certain he had nothing to fear…

As long as she never looked beneath the mask.

He pulled from within his shirt a small leather pouch of coins and shoved them against Eustace's chest. "Take my horse, ride to the village and find suitable clothing for the woman. Maude will help. Take Galen with you. While there, see if there's word from our contact."

"Aye, milord, consider it done." His aide nodded once and hastened away.

Perhaps if the fiery young damsel was appropriately and modestly dressed his men would have less cause to think her a witch and be far less susceptible to tainted thoughts of tupping her. He withheld his opinion of her character, for now, but one startling fact he knew to the marrow of his bones:

He would protect Christine Daaé with his very life if it came to that.

.

xXx

.

It took approximately one hour before Christine felt calm enough to face whatever new horrors awaited on the other side of the tent. The berries her masked captor had brought helped to ease her hunger, but she'd been chagrined to find no source for her other immediate needs. He had advised her to stay, but surely he must realize she could not remain in his tent indefinitely.

Outside, in the light of day, she took quick note of her surroundings, now that she could see them. They were in a clearing…and they were not. Here the trees did not grow so closely together as they did throughout most of the forest she had encountered, but they were still scattered throughout, leaving patches of open space. Living in an opera house nearly her entire life, she had no idea what the types of the many trees were, only that they were diverse and towered to a leaden sky. Their graceful canopies of leaves dappled the area in shadowed green, a cover of moss lightly furring practically everything in sight. The width of some trunks were thin as poles while others were massive, larger even than the thick colonnades towering in the front of the opera house. Near one of these, directly in front of Erik's tent, a young ruffian stood, a quiver of arrows at his back, a dagger in his short boot.

Christine moved past him and toward a perimeter of dense trees. He pushed back from leaning against the tree and began to follow.

"Don't even think it," she snipped. "I require complete privacy. You don't really think I could get far and outrun you in this dress, do you?"

He dropped his dark eyes to the black bell-shaped skirt billowing out from beneath her cloak. "Did you have a bad tussle with the starch, milady?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, noting he was quite young, surely no more than fourteen. Peach fuzz lined his upper lip, his cheeks baby soft. Wondering at his ill attempt at humor – really! She knew she was a dreadful sight but did he have to twist the blade of her humiliation? – she marched away without a word.

A short time later, her mood greatly improved with her morning ritual accomplished, she found the lad still leaning against the tree where she'd left him.

"I don't suppose you have coffee?" she asked hopefully.

He looked at her oddly.

"To drink?" she prodded with a little smile.

"Oh, ye wish a drink. Aye, milady. This way." He swept out his hand with a courtly little bow.

She rolled her eyes at his boyish teasing but followed him to the area with the campfire she'd seen the previous night, now banked, and past that to a cart that held three large casks. Grabbing a wooden mug from where it had been tossed to the ground, he unstopped one of the casks and filled the mug halfway to the brim then handed it to her.

She eyed the dark golden liquid – clearly not coffee – and tried not to think where the mug had been, her thirst too great to care. She found a relatively clean surface and sipped, grimacing at the stout flavor but not denying herself a second taste. At least it wasn't the throat-scorching devil's brew Erik had in his flask.

"Mead," the boy answered her unspoken question. "Sometimes we take ale. On occasion we lift a cask of wine."

"You mean you steal them?"

"Aye."

He regarded her as if hers was a foolish question, and she supposed it was. Had she not already guessed that these men were outlaws and brigands? They abducted her from the castle grounds without batting an eye, for heaven's sake. And Erik surely had taken what he wanted from the theatre, to furnish his lair. Thoughts of the past made her melancholy, and she forced her mind to the present and her plan to unearth what information she could.

"How long have you known Le Masque?" she asked, managing not to grit her teeth and stumble over the name.

"Since two summers past," the boy said eagerly. "He invited me to join with him after me da died. Bertram is my brother and was already a member of the band."

"Really…and your name?"

"I am Tobias, milady."

"Call me Christine."

A flush colored his cheeks. Tobias clearly was uneasy about the idea, as if he might be breaking a cardinal rule among hooligans. He studied his boots, toeing the ground with one of them.

She did not think it wise to state that she was no noblewoman as the lad clearly thought, afraid if Erik's men knew her to be less than titled, they might treat her accordingly. She shuddered at the notion of what that might entail.

Christine furtively watched a group of six men not so surreptitiously study her from across the tree-studded clearing. In fact, boldly staring. Having spent nearly a decade performing on the stage, she was accustomed to being stared at and paid them little heed though she did feel a thread of nervousness to be ogled by half a dozen men of ill repute.

"Does Le Masque ever spend his days away from the camp, say for a week or more at a time?" she asked casually, determined to learn the mystery surrounding Erik, knowing at least one thing for certain: he could not have been at the Opera House and in this forest at the same time. "I think I might have seen him once before," she added hastily to waylay suspicion.

"Oh, aye, he has, but never alone. Leastways not much. We never travel in less than pairs. Except when the black moods hit, then he goes off alone and we're forbidden to join him."

"Does he disappear for long?"

"Sometimes."

Tobias looked suddenly uncomfortable, as if he shouldn't have spoken, and she felt a little shiver crawl down her spine. Such behavior could certainly describe her Erik of the Opera's volatile moods. But she needed a smaller window of time to determine if Erik of the Forest could have been at the Don Juan performance.

"A week ago…" It had been that many days since the disaster in Paris, though it felt like centuries. "…Was he off alone, during one of his moods?"

"I cannot say, milady."

"Oh, but it's alright. I won't tell –"

"I must be getting back to my duties."

She sighed. From all appearances, guarding her had been his duty. Yet she could tell from his suddenly closed expression and wary eyes she would get no more from him. At least she'd gotten that much, to learn of this Erik's dour moods and need for solitude, a mirror to the behavior he had exhibited at the Opera House.

"One more thing I require – please. Is there anywhere I might find some water to wash with?"

He cocked a curious brow, as if to ask why she would even bother. Taking note of his dirt-smudged face, fingernails no better, and greasy lanks of hair, she felt sure the boy rarely had a rendezvous with soap and water.

"There is a lake over that rise, but I cannot be taking you there."

She knew it would be futile to set out on her own, as heavily as she was guarded. She doubted she could convince him she wouldn't run, especially if he had talked to her two captors and learned of the fight she'd put up to flee from them. Of course, those were all in the hours Before Erik, but she could say nothing without raising a host of questions and increasing suspicion with regard to why she would so suddenly change her mind and wish to remain in a camp of hooligans and bandits. They might think her no more than a weak hostage, but she felt oddly in control since it was her choice to be there.

Finally, she was given a choice no one could take from her. Even if it was disguised within the folds of captivity.

Her skin felt gritty beneath the dress – what she wouldn't give for a tub into which she could immerse her aching limbs, or even a pitcher of cool water, a bar of soap, and a cloth would do nicely! He must have read the reason for her miserable little sigh, for a look of unexpected empathy came into his brown eyes.

"I forget wenches tend to need those sort of things. My sister was the same. Said cleanliness and godliness were next to each other or some such thing."

Christine thanked the unknown sister though she wasn't sure how she felt about being called a wench, which sounded suspiciously a lot like witch, but she forgave him everything when he gave her a brusque nod and said what she'd been hoping to hear.

"Later, milady, I will take you to the lake."

.

xXx

.

Equipped with the necessities the young damsel would need, Le Masque entered his tent. He scowled to find it empty and quickly dropped the purchased items on the fur blankets then retraced his steps back through the flap.

Tobias was nowhere in sight, and he cursed the boy to realize it. The lad better have a damned good reason for not being at his post. Le Masque was not overly concerned with Christine Daaé's absence. Even if she had foolishly run away, she was no match for his tracking skills.

His determination did not stem from his desire to keep her as his captive; it had become much more than that. Night had fallen and she put herself in danger by setting out alone, wild boars and wolves only two of many perils she faced. Unfamiliar with the forest, she could become lost, perish from exposure or starvation, or find her path crossed with a mortal beast with ill intent. De Chagny's soldiers certainly could not be trusted in the company of a beautiful woman.

Leaving his men to enjoy their ale, Le Masque studied where her trail led and mounted his horse. They would need to procure additional horses before the next raid, a matter too long ignored, but tonight he had only one graceful little filly in mind and led his stallion through the darkness in the direction of the mystical lake.

Almost there, he came across Tobias. Sitting near the foot of a gnarled, ancient yew tree, the boy nervously looked up at his approach then hurriedly stood to his feet. A strapping youth of three and ten, he was still innocent to the ways of a woman, more boy than man, and the only member of his band, besides Eustace, that Le Masque could trust to guard the lovely damsel. He may be only a stripling lad, but he had a wicked way with a bow and arrow.

"Milord – she wanted to come here. To bathe." His face grew ruddy. "You told me to guard her and see to her needs." Tobias shrugged, his hands uplifted. "I told her it was too late in the day and we must wait 'til the morrow, but she is of a strong mind, and I, um, feared, from what she said, that she would take off alone if I refused her."

Le Masque nodded curtly, noting the lad's nervousness in anticipation of his anger. Strangely, he felt none. With Christine Daaé's ravishing feminine assets and that dazzling smile she could turn on the unwary, she would hardly need witchcraft to persuade the boy to flout his orders.

"Go." He motioned behind him with a twist of his head.

The boy scurried off, back in the direction of camp. Le Masque set his sights before him and prodded his horse to the cliff overlooking the lake, the distance between land and water two stories in height.

The moon waxed near full and glowed in an ethereal mist upon the rippling black water. Even without it, his eyes were uncommonly sharp in the darkness, a trait that served him well as a thief, and easily he caught sight of the willowy figure in the lake before him. Like a siren she stood with her back to him, her pale lily-white shoulders emerging from the water. As she worked her fingers through her masses of long wet ringlets, she quietly hummed a tune that barely reached his ears, what he heard of it enchanting.

He willed her to turn around, to bob higher out of the lake so that he might steal a glimpse more of her sylphlike form, and watched her for some time.

"'Tis not difficult to believe enchanted beings inhabit these waters when one comes across such a vision in the night…"

At his first words she spun around and brought up her hands to cover her breasts, shielding them as she slipped lower in the water, up to her chin. Heat flickered through his loins at the glimpse he'd been given.

"It is said to be the place, purported by legend, where the queen fairy Viviane gave King Arthur the sword, Excalibur. Can you not feel the magic stir the air, damoiselle…?"

It was a long moment before she called up to him. "How long have you been sitting there watching me?"

He smiled to himself, a wicked little smile, choosing not to answer.

"You're not just planning to sit there all night, I hope?" she fumed in high dudgeon.

"I have come to provide safe escort back to camp," he said offhandedly.

"What of the boy – Tobias?"

"Tobias had other duties to attend." He shifted slightly on his mount when a strained silence followed. "I would imagine the water bears quite a chill. I hope you don't intend to stay in there overly long?"

"I cannot very well leave the water with you watching, Monsieur Phantom!" A fiery little outburst, a pause and then a plaintive, "Would you please turn around so that I may?"

He was greatly tempted to ignore her plea, to see what she would do, but at last yielded to her surprising coyness and dismounted from his horse. Turning his back to her, he secured the reins over some nearby bushes.

"Oh no!"

At her horrified cry, he whipped around, instantly on the alert to see what malady had befallen her, his intent gaze scouring the dark waters for signs of a predator.

"My dress!" she pointed toward a heap of ballooning material that drifted away atop the lake waters.

He stared at the incongruous sight for a few seconds and could not prevent the bellow of laughter that flew from his lips. "It would seem the faeries are up to their nightly mischief," he mused.

"Don't you dare laugh at me!" she seethed, sending him a glare the heat of which he could feel from the distance. "Oh, but what am I to do?" she wailed, looking again after the tented dress floating further away. "I laid it safely on the bushes. There is no strong wind, only a light breeze. I don't understand…"

Before he could bid her not to worry and inform her of his recent acquisition, she swiftly waded in the direction of the disappearing garment, using her arms to stroke the water at her sides for balance. Having often taken advantage of the waters to refresh and cleanse his own body, he knew the layout of the lake floor on this side of the shore and that she edged dangerously close to a deep drop-off where the current flowed strong. His jocular manner swiftly deflated on the sharp edge of concern.

"Christine – stop! It's not safe…"

Too late – he watched her body submerge as she gave a surprised little cry and splashed about. He waited tense seconds for her head to break the surface. It did – but barely. She gurgled out a wet cough, only to disappear along with her groping, outstretched hand beneath the water a second time.

Christ, she could not swim!

He sped down the cliff, tearing away cloak, doublet, and shirt as he went, watching as she broke through the surface a second time, and a third time went down with a choked cry for help. Not bothering to take the time to strip off his boots, he raced into the water and at the drop off made a shallow dive beneath the surface.

The soil stirred, swirling about, making everything too murky to see, and he swept his arms out, relying on touch to find her. His hands at last brushed a pair of smooth hips and he pulled her to him fast and hard. It was then he noticed the resistance that kept her bound to the waters – she was caught on something. A rapid search of his hand down her leg and he found a vine entangled around her ankle. Brutally he tore it from her then held her fast and kicked strongly to the surface, breaking through the water. Christine coughed and wheezed, desperately sucking air into starved lungs. Her hands clutched his back, his neck and shoulders in a panic while he struggled to find solid ground and brought them both to stand.

With the peril of a watery grave now behind them, he became acutely aware of her naked breasts pressed flush against his bare chest, her chill-hardened nipples, his hand clasping her soft, round buttocks, his other arm draped solidly around her slender back. Desire, hot and potent exploded inside his loins, and his hands clutched her more fiercely to him, grinding that soft, secret part of her against his growing need. She violently shivered and gave a feeble little whimper, burying her nose against his neck.

He struggled within himself, the temptation stark and overwhelming to tear away the flap of his hose – all that stood between him and paradise – and bury himself deep inside her. Certainly any of his men would follow through with the desire if given this position, but he held back. Just barely. Having no wish to take her when she was so vulnerable…

She trembled all over, her teeth beginning to chatter.

"Can you walk?" he asked, his voice hoarse with want.

She tried. Instantly her legs buckled, and he swept her up in his arms before she could go under a fourth time. Again she hid her face in his neck in embarrassment. He carried her naked to shore, like a siren caught and abducted from the black water. Locating his cloak, he set her on her feet. Assured she could stand, he plucked up the discarded woolen, swathing it around her from the back. Her head remained bowed, chin to chest, arms held there, her hands clasped at her neck as if in prayer, her hair rippling wetly to her and clinging like a shroud. She had yet to look at him or say a word. Bringing the cloak around her shoulders he pulled her carefully back into his embrace.

"Ma belle fille," he whispered, "You should not feel shame…"

She lay her head back against him as if she could not prevent doing so and shook it helplessly. His arm encircled her waist holding her more tightly to his chest, his senses alive with her.

"You are exquisite."

His palm smoothed along a fold of his cloak near her ribs to the slight curve of her stomach, hungry to touch her, to know her. The act felt strangely familiar, as if he had stood like this before, pressed close behind, and touched such feminine softness, but not with just any wench. With her. It made no sense. Had they met in the past, the memory dissipated into the void of his beleaguered mind like all the rest?

He dipped his head, brushing his lips to the side of her neck where it met the slope of her shoulder.

She mewled out a gasp, pressing her bottom boldly against him. He shuddered with emotion, spreading heated kisses to the soft lobe of her ear, his fingers trailing lower along the cloak, gently pressing over the softness of her mound, and she whimpered.

A sudden gust of chill wind battered his drenched flesh bringing him to sanity and the knowledge of what he'd been about to do. He pulled his fingertips back from where they had just met the edge of his cloak and fumbled back a step, lifting his hands to clasp her shoulders. Turning her around, he met the slow lift of her eyes.

"You are quite recovered?" he asked, his voice a low thread.

"My shoes," she whispered, and he looked down to see her bare toes.

Not wishing to hunt out her possessions, intending to return later and find them, once more he took her in his arms and carried her up the cliff to his waiting horse. After she was seated on his mount, he swung up behind her and headed to camp.

"The others," she said timidly. "Please…I-I don't want them to see me like this."

"I shall take a path that leads along the east side of the tent. No one can see the entrance from the campfire."

She nodded faintly but otherwise gave no reply.

With her curvaceous rear wedged tightly between his strong thighs, his lust was far from cooled, and his continued anguish was certain. Le Masque clenched his teeth for the ride back, wondering what more torments this night would hold and if he had the fortitude to bear it.

xXx

A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) One thing I forgot to mention for those who don't know – damoiselle is French for damsel… "Le Masque" might seem a little OOC for Erik, but there is much more to this than is apparent…Yes, it's different (nothing new there, when it comes to my bizarre tales! lol) but I hope you will like where this is going…