Disclaimer: The characters of The Phantom of the Opera belong to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any new characters are the product of my feeble imagination.

A/N: Many thanks to my friend LaDon for reading all of this that I have written, and for reminding me that it was the aristocratic families who seemd to have the most trouble dealing with less than physical or mental perfection. Also, there is a short passage with some sexual content.

NO ONE BUT HER

Chapter Seven—Your Darkest Dreams

"It's the truth, I tell you!" Christine's cook paused in her preparations for lunch and pointed her big chopping knife at the butler, who stood shaking his head in disbelief. "I was a scullery maid for his parents, the Count and Countess of Charlesbourg. Except for the scars, he is the very image of his father, with that black hair and those eyes that can stare a hole straight through you."

"If that's so," the butler countered, "then why is it that I have never heard of him or his parents?"

"Because the baby was scarred and they gave him away, and both parents died within a few years of it without other children." God forgive me, she thought, for not being brave enough to speak up for the poor babe.

"I think Raoul's business manager had something to do with that man who tried to kidnap me."

Her quiet statement made Erik's head snap up and he abruptly stopped playing the song he'd written a few weeks ago. "What? Why do you think so? Has he said something to you—tired something else?" He got up and went to her, sat next to her on the sofa and took her hands in his.

Since the attack two weeks ago, every time she had driven out to his house, he had accompanied her when she went home. She hadn't protested, although he'd been certain she would; he'd told her he would simply follow her anyway, whether or not she wanted him to.

"Why?" he asked again. "Why do you think he's involved?" Erik had done some investigating on his own and had discovered nothing.

"I—I was supposed to meet him in the library, to discuss some plans I found in Raoul's desk for an orphanage, and—and I was early, and—the door was open and I heard him speaking to someone in a very low voice. He said—he said—Oh, God! He said now that they'd gotten rid of Raoul, they would have to try again to get rid of 'her' so they could use the money set aside for the orphanage for their casino and brothel instead." For a moment she sat in stunned silence then she sprang up and paced to the windows. "That bastard!" she raged. "He—he murdered Raoul!"

"And we'll find the proof and send him to prison for murder," said Erik evenly, despite his own growing anger. "Let me help you, Christine. Don't try to do this by yourself." Then something she'd said struck him. "Orphanage? Raoul was going to build an orphanage?"

Still enraged by what she'd discovered about the business manager, she swung back to him. "Yes, so children won't have to be sold to the carnival."

"Don't pity me, Christine." His tone was icy, but she was too angry to pay much attention.

"I don't," she replied bluntly. "You've managed quite well for yourself, despite the horrible things that happened to you when you were a child. We simply hoped to be able to provide some form of stability and education, and yes, perhaps even love, for as many children as possible. And yes, I was the one who suggested it to him. Now, about that bastard of a business manager—I think we should lay a trap for him."

"What kind of trap?"

Chewing on her bottom lip, she paced for several minutes then she came back to the sofa and sat beside him. "We use me for bait, and then have the authorities waiting at a place and a time that we choose, and they arrest him for attempted kidnapping, and then we can explain—"

"You stubborn little fool!" Angrily he surged to his feet and stalked a few steps away. Turning back to her, he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her roughly to her feet. "He's already tried to harm you, and now you want to the bait in a trap for him?" Pulling her up on her toes, his face mere inches from hers, he gave her a hard shake. "No! I won't permit it!"

Her dark eyes flared with anger, her chest heaving as she tried to control her temper and wrench out of his grasp. "You 'won't permit it'? You are not my master, Erik. You have no say about what I will or will not do." She tried again to break free, only to be hauled against his chest.

He stared deeply into her eyes, and she felt his gaze move slowly over her face. So softly that she almost didn't hear him, he whispered, "I can't bear to lose you again, Christine." She struggled, but that only served to tighten his arms around her.

Stunned, she watched as the heat of anger in his eyes changed to desire. Her breath caught in her throat. You know you've always wondered what it would be like to kiss him again, and to have him kiss you back, a sly voice in her head taunted her, making her almost giddy at the thought.

Slowly, giving her time to turn away, he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was gentle, as the only other kiss they'd shared had been, but this one had an edge of hunger, of desperation that was different. Heat exploded in her veins, making her cling to him tightly, and she tangled her fingers in the dark hair that curled slightly at his nape.

All too soon he broke the kiss and released her, holding her by the shoulders until she was steady. "I'm sorry. I had no right to—"

She grabbed the open ruffled collar of his shirt and pulled him to her. Staring up into blue eyes darkened to turquoise by passion, she kissed him deeply. Oh, Erik, please kiss me!

His surprise lasted only a few seconds then he crushed her to him, matching her kiss for kiss, hot and hard, deep and demanding. His hands roamed over her feverishly, down her back, cupping her bottom and lifting her until her legs went around his waist and she cradled the hard length of him against her. He moaned softly at the contact and tightened his hold.

Trailing kisses down the side of her neck, he followed the lace edge of her bodice to the tops of her breasts. When he had kissed his way to the fragrant spot between them, he stopped and raised his head. "Christine?" There was a lifetime of hope and longing in that one word.

"Yes, please! Oh, God, Erik, don't stop!" Reluctantly, he let her slide down to her feet. She reached between them and pulled his shirt free of his trousers, jerked it open and ran her hands over the hard, sculpted muscles of his chest, delighting in the triangle of dark hair that covered his breastbone. Reveling in the feel of his heart pounding as hers was, she leaned into him, and pressed tiny kisses to as much of him as she could reach.

Knowing he must stop her before this went too far, he caught her chin and tipped it up with one finger, forcing her to look him in the eye. "Angel, why? You know that I love you, have loved you for years, but . . . Why are you doing this? Is it the heat of the moment, or . . . something else?"

She averted her gaze, a flush of embarrassed color riding her cheeks. "I—I don't know!" One hand pressed to her mouth, she whirled around and tried to run from him.

He caught her before she'd taken three steps, pulling her gently back against him, spoon-fashion. His arms folded across her, pinning her to him.

"Oh, God!" she cried, "I've never been so ashamed!"

"Shhh, Angel, it's all right. Actually," he said, a teasing note in his voice, "I'm flattered that I could make you forget him, even for just a moment." Carefully he let her go and turned her around. "But, can you forget all of it, Christine? Can you put what happened between us completely in the past?" Will you ever be able to look at me, let alone make love to me and not remember those things? Will you ever be able to love me for who I am?

Receiving no answer, he caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, wiping away her tears. "It's all right, love," he told her softly. "I still hope that that day will come. When it does, believe me, it will truly be a dream come true." Shrugging, he added, "I can wait a little longer."

"Madame Germont, may I have a word with you, please?" Marie Giry spoke quietly to the cook, who nodded and wiped her hands on her apron. After giving the two young kitchen girls instructions to turn and baste the chickens in ten minutes, she led the way outside to the breezeway between the kitchen and the main house.

"In what way may I help you, Madame Giry?"

Marie chose her words with care, knowing she was treading on shaky ground. "I understand that you think you recognized the young man who rescued the Vicomtesse a few weeks ago?" Her calm expression belied the excitement she felt; deep down, she had always known that Erik was an aristocrat. And whether or not he would be pleased to know it, she was determined to find out.

"I don't think it—I know it, madame. As I told M. Rivière, the butler, I was working as a scullery maid for the Count and Countess of Charlesbourg, some thirty years ago or more, it was. The countess was pregnant and had not had an easy time of it, and when the babe was coming, she was in labor for a long time. The midwife who was attending her knew she was in trouble, and she sent for a Gypsy woman she knew who was supposed to be a healer of sorts.

"Well, the babe finally came, but the countess nearly bled to death, and was quite frail for many weeks afterward, unable to nurse the poor child, or even to hold him. Another girl working there at the time and I came from large families and had quite a bit of experience with children, and we took turns caring for the poor little mite. He was quite strong, actually, and had a tremendous appetite. But . . . " She paused and shook her head, sighing deeply.

"Please, go on."

"Ah, the poor babe, he was the very image of his father, except . . . the right side of his face was, I don't know what you would say exactly, but there was a scar or birthmark or something—it fair broke my heart to look at it. His father . . . was . . . shallow, I guess is the nicest thing I can say, always worried about appearances; you know what I mean." At Marie's nod, she continued, "Well, when the countess was so ill and the count refused to have anything to do with the poor babe, why, those of us below stairs knew what was going to happen."

She took a handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose. "It still tears at me, even after all these years. He was such a happy little fellow, always smiled at me when I took care of him—he loved to be held and rocked—and most of the time his eyes just . . . sparkled." Blowing her nose again, she exclaimed, "And his father just gave him away, like he was . . . rubbish!"

"And to whom did the comte give him, madame?" Marie held her breath.

"The Gypsy woman who had attended the countess, she took him. I—for years I wished I had had the nerve to speak up, to offer to take him but I didn't, and I have regretted it all these years." Shrugging her shoulders, she added, "That's all I know, madame."

Thanking her, Marie went into the house, thinking carefully. "And how did he get from the woman who took him, to when I saw him at the carnival" she mused, "and how do I find that out?"

A/N: Thanks so much to those who have written to say that they like my "softer, gentler" Erik. It's a great relief to know that somebody else sees that side of him besides me! Keep reading-- there's plenty more to come.