Chapter 21: Duplet

Christine had traveled often with her father. They had traveled across western Europe in whatever matter suited them… and their pocketbooks. More often than not, they joined a band of willing travelers; there was safety among others. Sometimes, they rode on horseback if they were lucky enough to find a pair. Often, they walked.

Once, Charles was given a pair of train tickets as payment for playing at a tavern. The two-hour trip across Britain had been one of the most thrilling moments of her life.

At least, until she had met the man riding behind her.

She never could have imagined a month ago that she would be crossing the French countryside with Erik, the one she had decided she wanted in her life more than, well, than she had wanted anything selfishly for herself.

It had not taken long for the white stone of Martel's chateau to fade behind the tree tops.

Erik rode the horse hard, especially over open fields. She had little time to ponder over her decision to return with him as she dodged branches and clutched the saddle horn for fear of falling off. Erik's hand was a heavy weight upon her hip. His other arm curved around hers to grip the reins, which she had conceded to his charge earlier.

She did not miss the way he glanced behind them, especially when they were outside the cover of trees. His waist would twist ever so slightly, his shoulders turning so he could look at their backs. His paranoia was palpable, a feeling she could almost taste in the air. She remembered the multiple locks that separated his home from the sewer tunnels, and the complex path one had to take to approach his house from above. This was someone used to danger. She surged with desire to ease that constant tension from him.

She did not know how long they rode before he stopped before a thick stream. "The Essonne," he said, "if I have my bearings correct. It flows into the Seine, which should be to the east. We could follow the Seine back to Paris, but I would expect too many people to congregate there. Better we make our own path, yes?"

"I should say so," she agreed.

He dismounted behind her. The stirrups were adjusted for his own lengthy legs, so she could not use them. Instead, his hands clasped about her waist, so she could swing her leg over without fear of falling.

"Take a moment to stretch your muscles," he said, pulling a cast of water free from his pack. "I should think we can ride another hour before dusk."

He nudged the horse ahead to drink, then passed the canteen to her. As she sipped, she saw the way he gazed around them, his head tilted to the side as though listening.

"Are you worried we are being followed?" she asked, handing him back the cast. He did not drink, instead tying the canteen back to the pack.

"I did expect Martel to send someone."

She gave a shrug but regretted it. Her shoulders were already too tight from sitting upright on the saddle. "I didn't."

"Pardon?"

"I did not think Martel would send someone after me. I do believe he knows where I am."

"Does he."

"Yes. It was Nadir Khan who told me where you were."

Erik paused in the middle of checking the straps of the saddle. For a moment, his eyes fell into shadow within his mask. Then, he took up the stallion's bridle and urged the horse back from the water's edge. "I thought Daroga might have better sense than that."

She frowned. "Erik, that is not at all – "

"Come," he said, cutting her off smoothly. "We need to find a place to cross before nightfall."

She puffed an annoyed breath, but she allowed him to help her back onto the horse. He swung himself up behind her, his hips again fitting against hers in that way that made her shiver. She supposed a month ago, she would have been terrified at the very idea of crossing the countryside alone with such a man. He had killed three men the moment he had been freed in the basement, and he had killed again yesterday.

She glanced down, enthralled with the leather-gloved hand braced upon the juncture of her hip and thigh. This hand had killed, but it had also saved and stroked her face and pulled her close. Any fear she might have once held for him had dissipated along with her reluctance to ignore the feelings settling low in her belly and throbbing deep within her heart.

She wanted this man, so desperately. Perhaps she even lo – no, she was not ready yet to explore such an absolute. Not until he was ready to stop pushing her away in his own manifestation of fear.

They crossed a shallow portion of the river, the frigid water splashing up the stead's flanks.

"What a magnificent animal," she said, stroking the velvety black shoulder.

Erik shifted behind her to take the reins with both hands. "Lean forward and hold tight to the saddle. The bank here is steep."

Christine did so and managed to keep from being pitched backward as the horse leapt up the short incline to finally finish fording the river. They settled back into a trot, the pace less rushed now. She wondered if Erik had relaxed once he knew that she had not simply disappeared from the chateau grounds with him without telling anyone of her whereabouts.

"Indeed, he is magnificent," he said. "The payment for him will not be inexpensive."

Christine found herself flushing with pleasure. "I thought perhaps you had stolen him," she admitted.

"In the past, I would have done so," Erik grunted. "However, I learned how you vouched for me with Martel. Repaying him with theft would dishonor your good name, no?" His hand had returned to her hip, and he briefly tightened his grip upon her, pulling her back flush against the tall line of his chest and belly. "You extend your kindness to others too quickly, my sweet Christine, especially to one such as myself."

She did not argue with him, not wanting to have this conversation when she could not see his eyes. For now, she enjoyed the brief moment of leaning into him before he straightened once more.

Luckily, Erik brought the subject back to the horse. "His name is Cesar, or at least that is what his placard read. A stallion of his caliber may not enjoy the opera stable and cobblestone streets of Paris. I shall have to eventually find a place for him to roam freely outside the city."

"That does seem best. He is quite a wild creature, isn't he?" She leaned forward and patted the beast's broad neck. "How much longer are we to ride him today?"

"Not long. I am satisfied enough with the distance we covered, and I do not want to risk his injury this close to nightfall."

They rode on, soon entering another copse of trees. Here, beneath the spanning branches of oaks and pines, the golden light of sunset dimmed to a dull throb of blue-filtered color. Erik slowed Cesar to a walk, then swung off to walk himself, leading Cesar by the bridle. His black cloak fanned behind him, a shadow melding into other deepening shadows pulled darker by the falling day.

Finally, he stopped in a clearing and tied Cesar to a tree on the outskirts of the area. "This will do," he said, helping her down.

"Do?"

"For the night." He gave her a long, searching look. "I cannot go into a town, mademoiselle, not without at least some villainy on my part. Neither of us have funds on our person, do we?"

No, she did not. And she did not to make it seem as though she dreaded the thought of staying outdoors for the night. Charles and she had spent more than a few nights under the stars when they had no other choice.

She gave a little nervous cough. "I need to, ah… take care of private matters."

"Of course." He waved a hand toward a grove of shorter trees beyond the clearing, then turned swiftly away from her to attend to Cesar.

Night was swiftly approaching. As she stepped away from Erik, she could hear the sounds of insects stirring in the darkness. Snapping twigs and leaves under her feet sounded much too loud. After spending a few months in the city, she had forgotten just how quiet the outdoors could be, every sound magnified in her ears. Even her breathing sounded hurried.

She rushed through her business and made her way back, perhaps hurrying a little too quickly. Cesar was munching happily into a feed bag. Erik had dragged a short log into the clearing, no doubt for them to sit upon. A thick blanket was spread near the other side of the fire, likely for sleeping.

"Shall I gather kindling?" she asked, needing a distraction.

"Please," he said. "Though I fear the ground is still too damp."

At least searching the brush helped fill the awkward silence that spanned between them. Christine had so many questions, so many things she wanted to discuss with him, if only she could gain the opportunity. She did manage to find some sticks that seemed dry enough, and she brought back an armful to find Erik kneeling over a ring of stones, hands spinning a puff of smoke to life upon a piece of bark.

"That is marvelous, Erik! How did you learn to do such a thing?"

"Out of necessity, my dear."

He bent closer, lifted his mask, and breathed upon the wisp of smoke, stirring it into a flicker of flame. At her angle, she could see none of his exposed face, and he replaced the mask just as speedily. Sooner than she thought possible, he had a roaring fire built within the stone circle. The heat from the flames cut through the chill in the air. With fall in full force now, the temperature at night would likely continue to drop.

Erik gestured at the log. "Have a seat, if you would. I did manage to snatch a meager ration of food. It is enough for me, but I was not expecting company."

The last he said with more than a little fondness in his tone, softening the guilt she felt. He fetched a parcel wrapped in what seemed like a clean kitchen towel. Settling beside her on the log, the length of their thighs almost touching, he offered it to her.

"Erik, I could not possibly eat your food, especially if you have had little. I did eat earlier."

He did not relent. "We have a long way yet until we reach Paris tomorrow. Another meal will be difficult to come by unless we steal it."

Not something Christine was keen to do. She reluctantly took half the bread, noticing he gave her a larger portion, and half the dried piece of meat. She began to nibble; truthfully, she had been hungry.

Beside her, Erik stoked the fire, not eating his own share.

"Are you not hungry?" she asked after swallowing a bite of cheese.

"I will do so later."

This again. "If you are worried about me seeing your face, I will look away." Without waiting for a reply, she did just that, turning upon the log so that her back was mostly to him.

For a while, he did not move. Then she heard the rustle of clothing, and the soft sounds of food being consumed. She busied herself with eating her own until she heard water sloshing in the canteen, and Erik nudged her shoulder, offering her a drink. That hated black thing was back upon his face when she handed back the water.

The sky overhead had deepened to a dark blue, and the first stars were visible in the open space of the clearing.

Christine took a deep breath, let it out in a steadying stream. "May I ask you a question?"

"Yes," he said, resting his elbows on his thighs, his hands dangling between them. It was a relaxed posture, but his ever-expressive eyes gave away his tension. "However, I may not give an answer."

Of course. "Why were you upset to learn that Nadir had told me where to find you?"

Erik was silent for a moment, then said, "The Daroga knows very well who I am – what I am. By sending you to me, instead of urging you to take Martel's offer, he went against his better judgment. I may have to start questioning his mental capabilities."

"He didn't. Send me to you, I mean. While he did not expressly say I should join Monsieur Martel, he certainly did not discourage me." She studied him as she added, "I went to you despite his insistence otherwise."

"Ah. The Daroga may yet live then."

A joke? Christine drew her cloak more tightly around her to drive out the chill beyond the fire. "May I ask another question?"

"I do believe it is my turn, little bird."

He wanted to make a game of it! She was more than happy to comply. It had been what seemed like ages since she had been able to sit with him and simply talk. If he was willing to engage in conversation with her… she tried not to seem too eager, turning more toward him, their outer knees touching briefly.

"Go ahead," she urged.

His voice turned soft. "What was in your father's security box?"

Her heart clenched. Maybe this would not be as effortless as she thought. "Monsieur Martel explained that he had known Papa since before I was born. When we moved to Paris, he was willing to keep a few of my father's things safe for him. There were some papers within, which I was not able to read yet, and a family photograph. Inside a small box were my parents' wedding rings and my mother's perfume. The bottle broke when Raoul threw it."

"Daffodils and orange blossoms," he murmured.

She looked at him, startled. "Yes, exactly. H-How did you…?"

"When you brought me food," he said. "I could smell the faintness on you. It was quite… appealing. I should have told you then."

Her face heated at the expression in his golden eyes. "We were otherwise preoccupied with saving our lives, were we not? I managed to dab a little on my neck, but the whole bottle was lost to me."

"A shame."

"Yes." She cleared her throat. "My father's violin was also in the crate. And yes, I thought he had sold it, but as it turns out, there were some actions that even my father could not do in his grief."

"The music calls, even when one's heart is not ready to receive it."

"That is one way of looking at it, I suppose. I was shocked to see it lying there in that case I knew so well. I felt as though I was grieving for him and my mother all over again. I think, if it had been different circumstances, I might have been angry with him too, for deceiving me. In the end, my longing for him is all jumbled up with my relief at seeing his instrument again."

To her surprise, Erik laid one of his hands atop hers. He had removed his gloves to eat, and his grayish skin glowed pale in the firelight. His cool, calloused palm brushed her knuckles before settling there, warming against her hand.

She needed to continue. The words, when she spoke, were barely audible, squeezed by the sudden lump in her throat. "My turn, right? This one I have not been able to deduce: how did you know where to find me in that garden in Paris? Did you follow me? How did you even know that I had left the Palais Garnier?"

"I believe those are multiple questions." He squeezed her hand and her heart flipped. "I must implicate Madame Giry for this explanation. She came to me after she had delivered your note."

"She told you?" Christine frowned at that, thinking the ballet mistress a confident.

His thumb swept over the back of her hand, trying to smooth away her distress. "She did what she thought she was best. I do not want to think upon what might have happened should I have arrived too late. As such, I had hoped to arrive before he did, but I was too late to do anything but watch him threaten and then hurt you." His other hand lifted to touch the edge of the bruise on her cheek, but she felt anything but pain from the caress. "If he had not possessed that pistol, I would have torn him apart."

She put her free hand atop his, felt the tendons there shift under her palm. She never would have met Raoul alone if she had known he was capable of such cruelty. She had thought to handle the key on her own, but now she understood that confronting Raoul had been as much Erik's catharsis as it had been hers.

"Why did you not tell me he was the one who imprisoned you?"

The skin around his eyes tightened. Oh, how she wished she could see his face, to be able to read his full expression.

"It is my turn for a question, is it not, my songbird?"

She puffed a sigh. "All right."

"Would you sing upon the stage, if you had the opportunity?"

She blinked, not expecting such a question. "I… have not given it much consideration."

"You have the natural talent," he said, leaning forward in sudden earnestness. "I have told you this many times, have I not? With a little training, you could become the most magnificent prima donna the world has ever seen. I do not say such things lightly."

"I do not know," she said, looking at their interloping hands. "I used to want this, back when my parents performed and I would join in with them. My soul felt empty without hearing music every day. But when my mother died and it all faded away… I finally felt that stirring, that longing again when I moved to Paris, when I met you. And now that I can visit my father's grave without fear, and I can hold his violin in my hands again, perhaps eventually I might find that drive within me again."

She let her thumb stroke up his wrist, careful to avoid the healing red marks left from the chains. "Am I making any sense at all? My head feels so muddled about this, and I have had little time to think on it."

She heard him draw in a breath and let it out slowly against the lower curve of his mask. He held very still, as though his entire focus was upon the movement of her thumb. When she stopped, he shuddered.

"I understand," he said at length. "It is too soon for me to be asking such of you."

She shook her head. "I want to know what you are thinking. So often I feel as though you are hiding things from me, that you are still trying to protect me from yourself. I want you to lean on me, to let me in. After everything we have been through, Erik, I hope you have realized that I can handle whatever you give me."

Her cheeks flamed after her confessions. How could she have said those words aloud? Not only calling into light his avoidance of growing closer to her, but also desperately revealing that she wanted him to trust her own strength.

Her hand pressed down upon his lest he try to draw away. He had grown very still.

"I answered your question," she pressed on. "Will you answer mine? The night my father was murdered, you had realized that the man I had been seeing was the same man who had ordered those chains on your wrists, but you kept that knowledge from me. And again at the opera, when you saw him, you did not tell me your connection with him. Why not? Why keep that from me?"

"Must you, Christine?" he said with more than a little despair. "Must you know?"

"Yes, I must." Because if she was to pursue this direction, she needed to know that his heart beat toward the same path as hers.

His hands trembled under hers. "While I was imprisoned, I did not know he was yours until it was too late. Had I put the pieces together sooner, I might have saved your father from his fate. After that… anything that happened between us, I needed know it was not because you were running away from him but because you were running toward me."

Oh, Erik.

"How could I know your intentions were true," he continued, "if you had no other option?"

She saw him clearly then. A man who did not truly believe that she wanted him. A man so used to rejection that he needed to open all paths for her to leave him before he could believe that she would stay. What could she do to prove to him otherwise? How could she ease his fears while also circumventing her own?

She found herself lifting her hand from atop his and reaching to cup his masked cheek. He leaned into the touch he could not feel beyond warmth and pressure. Willing her fingers steady, she eased her hand until her fingertips found purchase on the edge of the linen, her thumb gripping the curve that fit his cheek.

Immediately, he jerked his hands free. One spindly hand flashed to her wrist, while the other came up to secure his mask in place.

"No, Christine!"

"I told myself I would wait until you wanted me to see," she said, voice quiet and calming, a contrast to the frantic thudding of her heart. "I wanted you to be the one to do it, to reveal yourself to me, to finally let me see your face." She swallowed down rising tears and replaced them with a rush of anger. "But then he stole that moment from us when he forced you in the garden! I had to give him the reaction he sought with the hope that he would stop his malice toward you. I want a chance to reclaim it back from him, Erik."

She moved to grasp the mask again, and his fingers allowed her to do so. With both hands, she eased the mask from his face, taking care not to pinch or disturb his wig, sliding it along with the tie off his head. Her attention remained focused on the mask itself, following its black shape as it settled in her lap.

Erik had let go of her entirely, and now his bony knuckles were white as he dug fists into his clothing. His breath panted wildly, painting her forehead with its freed warmth, his face now bared for her perusal, but she did not look up, not yet. She took each of his hands in hers, coaxed the spidery fingers to relax, bent and kissed each hand before holding onto each.

"Christine," he said, and oh, the sound of her name upon his naked lips.

"Say that again," she said, her lips breaking into a gentle smile. She bent and pressed her lips to their entwined hands again, and two splashes of her tears fell upon them.

"Christine," he said again. And then, in a whisper of courage: "Look at me."

She did. Her eyes first met his, those wondrous golden depths swimming with fear and pride and anger. She saw the way the sallow skin at the corners of his eyes drew together as he frowned, and two lines appeared between his thin brows; she wanted to smooth them immediately. She swept her gaze from one eye to the next even as he took in her every reaction, and then she allowed herself to shift to the black hollow in the center of his face, the gaping yawn where a nose should be, and oh, her poor beloved, how he must have suffered.

The dart of a tongue caught her attention, the flash of pink between two thin lips. As she watched, those lips that had once pressed to hers parted to emit one hissing word as she watched, entranced.

"Satisfied?"

No, not at all, she thought. She bit the inside of her own lips, drew in a shaky breath. "I feel as though I have been yearning for something my entire life, and I am only beginning to sense its reality."

Chasing her urge, she touched one sharp cheekbone with a finger. Those brows drew together and lifted, and his eyes widened. His lips opened in an expression she could not quite place.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, worried.

"N-Not physically, no. Not beyond the chafing of the mask."

God, to hear his voice free from that linen shell! It was all sonorous melodies that slid over her skin and rumbling baritones she felt deep within her bones.

Emboldened, she carefully palmed his other cheek until she could take his face within her hands. His face, his, and she wanted so desperately to claim it as her own. His skin felt rough, the texture a mixture of ribbons of raised tissue and the smooth spaces in between. She had felt this beautiful flesh before, and now she wanted to map it with her eyes and place the memory of this moment somewhere where she would never forget it.

She arched up, slid one of her hands to cup the back of his neck, and gently put her lips against his.

He broke away with a gasp, chest heaving. She thought he would pull away from her now, and she had a protest formed when she found herself jerked back to him. His lips crashed upon hers almost painfully as teeth clicked against teeth, until she shifted the angle. More, she wanted more. She encouraged him by feeding a moan from her mouth to his, wounding her arms around his neck to drew him closer still. Their knees knocked together – what a bother – and then his arms wrenched her up and she was sitting upon his thighs, her legs swung to one side across his lap.

She held onto the mask, not wanting it to fall into the dirt. One of Erik's hands dove into the looser hair of her chignon at the base of her neck, the other splaying across the base of her corset to keep her close. She kissed him like her life depended upon feeling his lips upon hers. She clutched him to her, his broad shoulders flexing under her hands, his chest surging against hers whenever they both gasped for a breath.

They kissed and kissed, desperation driving their passion, the longing between them finally coming to a crest that had no choice but to break. She wanted – something more, her body beginning to feel like it was on fire. She would have burrowed her way beneath his skin if she could have, settled for digging white teeth into the bottom edge of his lip and God how he groaned.

She swept her palms up and down his arms, all sinew beneath his thick overcoat. She felt his hands upon her, exploring as she did. Their mouths gentled against each other, slowing into a slick slide that did not help ease the ache that had stirred within her. His hands clutched her arms, spread their great widths across her upper back, encircled her hips. Between her legs, she felt warm and damp, and she squirmed upon those firm thighs, seeking something she had never felt before.

Erik broke away and hid his face in the juncture of her neck and shoulder, his breath hot above her collar. She felt him press soft, nipping kisses just beneath her jaw, and she tilted her head up to give him easy access. His hips rolled beneath her, and the sudden pressure below made her gasp aloud.

"Exquisite creature," he breathed into her skin. "What a gift you have given me, but here we must stop."

She lowered her head to look at him, to ask him why. But he had already scooped up the mask on her lap and hidden his face from her. Seeing that barrier between them made her eyes flush with tears that she would not let fall lest he misunderstand them.

She felt him lift her easily into his arms. In a moment, he had laid her atop the blanket spread near the fire. As he pulled back, his eyes glittered in the low light.

She found a bit of courage. "Stay with me?"

"No," he said throatily. "No, I think not. You need to sleep, and I need to keep watch."

Did he not need to sleep too? She did not argue further, sensing that she was venturing into a territory she had never yet explored.

Tomorrow, they would reach Paris, and she would once again join him in his underground home. As her body slowly cooled and her eyelids closed to sleep, she thought about what might happen if they had not stopped.

And she knew she wanted to find out.