A/N: That black widow spider has been fighting me and my story lately, but I hope that by the time this shows up, all corrections that I had promised are posted.

Thank you to those who have taken the time to review; your kind words inspire. I will say that this story might get a little rockier before it gets better as our characters have a lot to work out. But I do promise hints of sexiness; oh yes, much sexiness.

The Dreaming

The journey home had seemed long and arduous, given the large power of Erik's limp body and the relative miniature of Brigitte and Christine. The two had muddled through, one lost in the fantasy of rescue and the other in a nightmare of her own making. Brigitte and Christine had awkwardly slung Erik's body upon Christine's bay mare, Christine mounted behind him, clutching his body to her chest. Through the thick bush and bramble, they had raced home at a break-neck speed, knowing that at any moment, someone could discover them. Discover what I had done, Christine thought dully.

Only once they had broken from the forest and were again heading down the path at the creek's shore did the two women slow their horses. The journey was made in absolute silence, for even Brigitte knew that Christine needed brevity after what she had done.

Brigitte had always been taught not to judge and to hear the other person's side of the story before making her own conclusions. She was filled with hundreds of questions: from the moment Brigitte had told Christine of this entrapped man, a change had come over the vicomtess. She radiated a stillness that Brigitte did not recognize, for so lively and content Christine appeared at most times.

Then there were the tears. She had cried and longed for this man with her body; Brigitte had felt it when Christine had held her close to her. She had felt the quickening of her heart and the heaving of her lungs, the stiffness of her muscles. She had even felt her shiver.

There was more than that, more that Brigitte wished her madam had not had to experience. She had killed a man for the life of a stranger. With this thought, Brigitte felt as if the clouds had parted. Was he a stranger?

Brigitte had seen in Christine's face that she held many secrets in her heart. Even with Raoul home, Christine often sought moments of solitude. With an almost impossibly precise frequency, she sought the quiet vigil of the veranda upon the setting sun. She requested that she be left alone to think. When she was finished, she always looked wearier than she had before. No one who did not have a great guilt weighing on their minds would find the solitude of their own thoughts so harrowing, Brigitte thought.

Despite her waning eyes, Christine smiled eloquently after her inner views, but Brigitte was not fooled. She longed to ask Christine what it was that plagued her mind, rotting her from the inside out, but the sadness in her eyes caused Brigitte pause.

This was a mask Christine wore, for whatever reasons they might be. Brigitte could only hope that one day she would be free to live without it.

At the house, they recommenced their weighty task of transferring Erik from the horse into their arms and then into the house. Christine thanked God wordlessly that they did not have many servants, and all had retired to their homes downtown Bordeaux for the night. Christine again resumed her spot at the man's head and carried him under his arms with a reverence that caused Brigitte's mind to wonder. Again, she felt as though these two had been acquainted before. It was ludicrous, her mind told her, but inside her, she could not help but feel it was true.

Once inside, Brigitte, her voice shaky from the strain, asked "Where shall we put him."

Without thinking, Christine immediately said, "In my room."

Brigitte did not say a word, but the blush that coloured Christine's face bid her smile. "Forgive my impudence. He shall stay in the spare bedroom upstairs."

Flushing, Christine tried to hide her face from Brigitte's prying eyes. She had given herself away, she was sure, but Brigitte said nothing (and Brigitte was not one to hold her tongue). Christine did not know whether to be relieved or frightened.

Once in the spare room, the two women, breathing heavily, placed Erik on the bed. Immediately, Christine was struck with responsibility and ordered Brigitte to fetch a bucket of hot water, a cloth, laudanum (should he need it) and bottle of brandy to temper his wounds and warm his paled lips. She had contemplated calling a doctor but knew it was far too risky. Besides, Brigitte was proficient in healing wounds as her mother had been a nurse.

Erik was property of the gypsy, she thought angrily, and her own social stature – it was unthinkable. For the hundredth time, she cursed her position as the wife of a nobleman, but was immediately regretful. Raoul. Oh, if only he knew. What would he think of her? It was too much to bear.

The moment Christine was alone, her shoulders sagged. The façade of stoic repose that had seized her in Brigitte's presence fled and once again, she was assuaged by a torrent of thoughts. Pressing her lips together tightly to suppress her sobs, she cried silently as she looked upon Erik's wretched form. Wretched for what had befallen him, all at her hands. Though she knew it was foolish to blame herself for the actions of the gypsy, she could not help being overcome by waves of guilt. Her soul felt black, blacker than it had the day she'd walked away from him. She had bequeathed him torture. A torture he didn't deserve.

Brigitte returned, as did her idle prattle.

"Here you are, Madame. You should clean the wounds with the hot water first – he's mighty filthy by the looks of it – and then use the brandy. Sparingly, though. Rub it on his gums, that will restore color back to his cheeks. Here, let me start at his legs, you begin at his face."

Christine sighed, grateful that Brigitte had relieved her, slightly, of her bane. She washed his face with careful veneration, watching that she did not cleanse too hard or too softly. Inside, she wept, for his physical lacerations ran deep. She touched his head gently, and came away with blood. Blood stained the pillow around him in a great pool and Christine gasped. Fool, she admonished, how could I forget this? It was only then that she noticed the great stain on her blouse where his head had rested. Turning him over, she pressed the washcloth to his head, watching with morbid fascination as it became scarlet.

Brigitte had seen the blood stain the same time Christine had and fled from the room briskly. She returned with yet more cloths, a bandage and needle and thread. Sensing that Christine wanted to tend to this man's pain, she handed her the cloths which Christine took up quickly. She had pressed three cloths to his head and they came away stained without a trace of white peeking through. On the fourth cloth, she felt the pressure abate and said a quick prayer of thankfulness.

"It is stopping," she breathed. "Oh, thank God it is stopping."

The evident relief and gratefulness that lit Christine's face troubled Brigitte and she could not contain herself from blurting out, "Who is this man?"

Wiping a stained hand across her jaw, Christine feigned confusion. Her heart had skipped a beat at Brigitte's words. Was it that obvious upon my face? Did I wear it like a scarlet letter? "I don not know what you mean," she replied, straightening. She did not meet Brigitte's gaze, instead concentrating on the cloth at Erik's head.

Brigitte got up and took the cloth from Christine's hand. She inspected the wound with great scrutiny, a frown on her face. The wound was already showing signs of healing as the spurting of blood slowed down to a trickle. She did not like that Christine was lying to her, but more important things were at hand.

"Good. Keep this pressed to his head while I work on cleaning his wounds," Brigitte said shortly. Turning the man back over, she unbuttoned his shirt and slid it down his shoulders without pause.

As Christine watched her wrestle with Erik's shirt, she was struck with shame. She did not mean to lie to the child. She would tell her – in time.

Her eyes moved to Erik's nearly naked form and she blushed. Despite his limited mobility in the cage, he had kept his muscled build. His chest was a golden brown and flecked with a soft matting of dark hair. His chest was as smooth as his stomach was hard. Christine swallowed stiffly at the sight. She had almost forgotten his unmarred beauty. He was handsome and masculine and she immediately felt a familiar warmth between her thighs not unlike the first – the last! – time they had kissed. Again, sorrow maimed her passionate response. Shaking her head delicately, she pushed these thoughts away and rested a hand on his strong shoulder.

It seemed like hours had passed before they were done. Brigitte had stitched up Erik's wound once it had stopped bleeding with the expertise beyond her years. Christine had put brandy to his lips, gently rubbing his lips and gums and sighing as a little colour returned to his face. She had undressed him shyly, carefully averting her eyes, but still a bolt of excitement shot through her. She bid it farewell and adorned him in a spare dressing gown. She covered him with quilt upon quilt and ordered Brigitte to have the fireplace blazing.

When she was satisfied that all had been taken care of, she collapsed in soft sofa near the bed with a groan. She did not want for food or sleep as she took up vigil beside him. She refused all of Brigitte's offerings and sweetly, but tiredly, asked to be alone. As Brigitte began to close the door, Christine called to her, "Wait."

Christine got up and approached Brigitte tentatively, as a child approaches its mother after behaving badly. She looked into her eyes, and Brigitte smiled. The concern, fear, fatigue and sadness nearly broke her heart. She reached out her arms to Christine and she hugged Brigitte fiercely. "Thank you," she whispered. Brigitte pulled away and nodded, clasping Christine's hands in understanding. Christine felt her silent acquiescence and was grateful.

"Now, I order you to go to sleep, my dear," she said firmly, a trace of humour still left in her voice.

"As you wish, Madame," she replied seriously. She smiled at Christine and left, a sadness in her heart that she could not fathom.

When the door had closed, her arms fell to her side. She took a deep breath, ready for s long night, knowing she would not sleep while Erik's future was still uncertain. As she turned, she was stopped by something that froze her soul to its very core.

"Christine."