A/N: Hello, my phriends! For over a week, FF had a huge glitch that made it impossible for many of you to read ch. 26 or review it – (though some of you could see it in the brief times it would appear like a ghost before it again disappeared, repeatedly, throughout each day) I don't know what was wrong (maybe because I posted on Halloween? lol) – I repeatedly tried to share this news thru my profile, every day, but it always kept changing back to the old message – previous to when I posted ch. 26 – but anyway, the problem appears to be fixed now, the chapter has been up and solid for a week, with no reversions - and anyone who was previously unable to access it can click back and read chapter 26 now. :) Please note: Any link FF sent through email won't work (I deleted and immediately reposted the chapter the first day this happened, when a few of you contacted me that there was a problem, thinking that would solve the issue. Because of this, the original link FF sent thru email is bogus, and they didn't send another email notice when the reposted chapter 26 was up, probably part of the glitch)… So, yeah. lol It was quite a week! … one last note: this chapter deserves the rating.
And now, I take you back to our beloved couple and this twist of a tale you have come here to read…
XXVII
.
Christine laid her shoulder to the wood, feeling the door move inward.
"Erik…?" she spoke softly as she pushed it open, suddenly uncertain if she should proceed. The torchlight from behind slanted across the massive wooden four-poster that stood along the far wall. The bed curtains had been left open, the bed still made up, as if never slept in. The remainder of the room lay buried in thick darkness.
With a sigh she shut the door and returned to her bedchamber, pensive with what to do next. A glance out the dark green velvet drapery that covered the tall window proved it was still night, whether in the hours before dawn or deep into the evening she didn't know. But she could find no further sleep, the feeling of unrest never dissolving.
Quickly she dressed in bodice and skirt, fastened on boots and brushed out the tangles from her long ringlets. She didn't bother with pinning them up as decorum demanded of a married woman, preferring to leave her hair down, especially in the chill weather. But more to the point, not wishing to take the time. Before she left her bedchamber, her gaze went to the medallion Erik believed would protect her. She fingered it in indecision before pulling it over her head and pulling her hair free of the chain.
It was Erik for whom she felt true concern; she failed to understand what caused her to experience this horrible disquiet, but Christine knew he was in trouble. Perhaps it was only a residual fear, related to their escape from Paris and whatever madman sought to do him harm, but she would feel no ease until her husband was again in her presence.
She hurried downstairs, to find the throne room, the library, and his music room empty. The chambers were still lit, the ever-present fires burning in all three hearths of the main rooms.
"Hello...? Can anyone hear me?"
No one heeded her call, though Christine cried out more than once.
It felt strange, disturbing to walk through empty rooms lit by torchlight and candle and flame, as though everyone had disappeared from existence while she slept and she was all who remained…
She moved toward the adjoining wing lit with the occasional torch. Up ahead, she caught the waver of shadows, whatever presence that inhabited the chamber most certainly alive. She hurried ahead, coming into the banquet hall just as a slight figure tossed something high into the air above his head and caught it as it came within reach...
The boy from the train.
He flipped the token high again, lowering his eyes from the air above and moving to catch his prize – at the same time catching sight of her as she came into view. His aim went off, hitting the airborne object with his hand, instead of catching it, and sending the small item skittering across the floor to land a short distance from her skirts.
Christine stepped forward and bent to pick the object up, her heart skittering madly to see that she held what looked like a button made of ivory carved in the shape of a bone.
"Archer, where did you get this?" she asked in soft demand for a greeting. "Were you at the maze?"
"The maze, my lady?" He swiftly pulled his cap off as if recalling he wore it indoors. "I only just arrived. Don't know of no maze."
"Then where did you find this?"
"In the alleyway." When she shook her head in puzzlement, he added, "Near the Opera House. You was there."
"The Opera House," she repeated dumbly. "In Paris?"
"Aye, that be the one."
"I was there…" she repeated his words pensively and caught on to the rest of what he said. "The man in the alley."
"Yes, mistress. Nicolae."
So, the frightful scoundrel had been given a name.
"This…" Christine glanced at what she held, struggling to understand, "…was his?"
"Came clean off his sleeve when you sliced him but good."
She felt almost lightheaded with the news. She had seen the twin to this uncommon button once – found in the maze and left behind at Montmarte.
What did this mean? Had her attacker – Nicolae – been to Berwickshire as well as to Paris? Certainly such a button was uncommon for a man's frock coat…She felt a wave of shock as the truth hit her with full force – Nicolae must be the man who threatened Erik and from whom they had fled! Of course, that made the greatest sense. First he attacked her in the alleyway then, at some point, later threatened her husband. She recalled that wretched day and the uneasy feeling that the two men had previously met from the familiar and vulgar words her attacker had spoken. Nicolae must have visited the shire here, on England's border...
The boy approached. "Might I have it back, my lady?" He came to an abrupt halt a short distance away as if he'd walked into an invisible wall. His eyes went wide as he stared hard at her face, his attention dropping to her bodice then to the floor. If possible he seemed to have gone paler than the bone-white cast of his skin.
"Archer, whatever is the matter? Are you unwell?"
"I do feel a bit queer, mistress."
"Have you eaten today?"
"Er, I found something before I arrived." He swallowed hard and stuck out his hand across the space. "May I have it back?"
She hesitated. "Not until I show this to the Count. It might be important. Do you happen to know where he is?"
"No mistress, Haven't seen him." His request denied, Archer took two steps backward. "Said when I got here I was to work in the stables. Might you tell me where they be?"
Christine hadn't the faintest idea where the animals were lodged, but it couldn't be too difficult to find. The stables would be located outdoors, likely somewhere within the large courtyard, just as at Montmarte.
"Come with me."
She led the way to the foyer, first calling out in the event that someone might be nearby to hear. But save for her and the boy, the castle appeared empty. Of course, the other servants were probably in another part of the fortress and simply out of earshot.
Opening the tall arched door, Christine took the wide steps in descent, past the large bowls of fire that provided a beacon in the dark, and entered the courtyard. The boy trailed far behind, and she wondered why he kept such a great distance – perhaps he did not trust that Christine knew her way around the grounds, and he would be right, since thus far, she had kept her investigation to chamber rooms inside the castle. Yet she moved with determination, scanning doorways and stone structures that looked promising within the curtain wall.
Fortune favored her when a whinny came from inside one of the enclosures they passed.
"There!" Christine said, feeling a bit of pride that she'd been successful even if her discovery could only be accredited to sheer dumb luck. She swung open the heavy door. "It's as dark as a tomb in here. You'll need light to see."
"No, mistress. You needn't trouble yourself."
"But of course I shall. We cannot have you stumbling about and falling on a pitchfork or any such thing." She hurried to collect a sturdy twig from bushes that grew outside and retraced her steps to the nearest open flame, hurrying back with the lit taper.
"There must be a lantern in here somewhere…ah, here it is." Swiftly she lit the glass receptacle that hung from a hook, grateful it held oil and she didn't need to go in search of that too. A whinny from nearby had her turn to see - and nearly drop the flame.
"Mist!" Hurriedly she shook out the lit taper and moved to the stall that held the gray. She rubbed a fond hand against the gelding's muzzle and between masked eyes. "Have you been here all this time, dear friend? Oh, I'm so glad you're alright!" She had thought the horse would have run back to Montmarte the night he'd broken free from her and was surprised to find him stalled comfortably at the castle.
A deeper snort came from a stall further down. She glanced that way, startled to see Erik's massive black stallion there. Had he left his horse behind and walked to wherever he had gone so late at night? How peculiar… but that made no sense, as often as he warned her about the dangers of nocturnal treks through the forest. He must have returned and somehow she had missed him. Eager to retrace her steps indoors and see if her presumption was correct, she addressed the boy.
"Is there anything more you need before I go?"
"No, my lady."
"Once I find the Count, I shall tell him of your arrival. Welcome to Castle Dragan, Archer."
The boy nodded, his gaze dropping from her face and quickly away. Again he seemed leery of her – why? What had changed? In the blink of an eye he had gone from affable to ill at ease in her presence. Christine puzzled over the strange lad as she retraced her steps to the door of the massive castle keep. A crescent moon hung low over the treetops, piercing the low-hanging misty clouds. Soon dawn would arrive, pushing aside the night and bidding the dark hours a transitory farewell.
Suddenly weary and the day not even begun, Christine took the wide steps back into the castle. Upon opening its heavy door, she sensed a difference in the air, an awareness that she wasn't alone…
"Erik?"
Hopeful, she hurried past the foyer and into the throne room, finding it empty as before, as was the music room and the library. Moving back toward the stairs, she saw a blur of motion high above. At the top of the uppermost staircase and going into the corridor, she caught sight of two men. One was Gregor, and on the other side of him was her husband – his shirt bloodied?!
"Erik!" she cried out in horrified shock.
Both men disappeared into the corridor and out of sight.
"Erik…?!"
Christine rushed toward the first staircase, finding her way instantly blocked by Anton.
"My lady, may I be of service?"
"Anton, let me pass. I fear something has happened to the Count!"
"You have no cause for alarm," the boy said calmly.
"No, you are mistaken. I saw blood."
"I am sure that all is well. In the shadows it is easy to see only what you believe might be true. Not what is really there to be seen."
She blinked, disbelieving of his cool nonchalance. Disbelieving that he attempted to handle and manipulate her, as if she were some incompetent child or a woman with frail sensibilities. Well, she was none of those things! He stood taller and had muscle on his lean form, it was true, but she would not be deterred and doubted - hoped he would not use physical force to try and stop her.
"Stand aside, Anton." She summoned the boldness to use her new title. "As Mistress of this castle and the Count's wife, I command you to let me pass."
He hesitated, as if he might actually refuse, but grudgingly stepped back from her path. She hurried past him and up the stairs, as fast as she was able, impeded by her long skirts and tight corset. Once she reached the corridor she saw the men disappear into, she took a moment to collect her breath, dismayed to find the long hallway empty.
Hurrying down its length, past many closed doors, she finally came to his bedchamber and knocked. "Erik?" She waited but heard nothing and put her hand to the knob. "Erik, I need to see you. Are you alright…?" Gradually she opened the door, determined to enter yet nervous he might deem the intrusion unwelcome, and found the room as it was each time she previously looked – dark and empty, with his bed still perfectly made.
"What…?" she breathed in confused dismay, not knowing where else to look for her wounded husband. Where would he go if not to his room?
She turned to stare at the myriad of closed doors that stood on either side of the long, dimly lit hallway, as far as she could see, wondering if he was behind one of them. Her gaze went ahead, dropping to the floor, and she stared in horror at the dark drops on the grey stone that formed a sparse trail she had not first noticed. Anxiously she followed what she could see of it, until it abruptly ended but with no door on either side to explain its cessation. She stood, uncertain what to do next, when a door in the distance creaked open behind and she looked over her shoulder to see Gregor emerge from a room. She retraced her steps down the corridor toward him.
"Gregor, where is he? Where is the Count?"
To her shock, the stooped man swiftly locked the door with a ring of keys he pocketed as she came to a breathless stop before him.
"You should go back to your chamber, my lady," he said with clear disgust.
Earlier she had hoped and prayed and searched to find a servant nearby; now she wished they would all disappear. With the young Anton it had been easier to exert boldness, and she forced a self-assurance she was far from feeling, especially with Gregor's cold eyes of disapproval chilling her soul.
"I know he's hurt – I saw him! There's blood on the floor." She swept her arm back, pointing to the area from which she had just come. "Do not tell me otherwise, Gregor. I'll not be refused." She quickly sidled past him, surprising them both with her swift dexterity she attributed to the dance, and stopped before the door. She stared at it a moment before turning to look at Gregor and holding out her hand. "Give me the key."
He shook his head dourly, his thin lips turned down in a frown.
"No, mistress. I will not."
Christine blinked, not having expected disobedience and clueless how to deal with insubordination in her new role as Countess. She had no idea what to say or do to make him succumb to her order. With the exception of her husband, and then only when it pleased him to do so, when had any man ever submitted to her wishes in her entire lifetime?
"Gregor, I only want to ensure that he's alright. Please do not refuse me."
"The Master is well. He is in his bathing chamber." He glanced toward the door that barricaded her.
"His bathing chamber?" This was a different room than the one to which Mihaela previously escorted her. "I…" She hesitated, not wishing to intrude on his personal bath time ritual, and felt her face flush warm with the mental image that brought.
Embarrassment took a back door to the urgent need to hear for herself that he was truly safe and well and unharmed. She knocked on the door – then knocked again.
"Erik? Can you hear me…? Are you alright?"
"Yes, Christine." His voice came from the other side, weary but stable. "I am well. Go back to bed, my dear. It is late."
Her eyes fell shut with a relief that drained every bit of her bluster and strength. Had the change in their relationship not been so new, even fragile, had the door not been locked with a key being held captive, she might enter or ask to enter or even insist on being given that blasted key. But as things presently stood, and with his manservant watching grimly like a vulture nearby, she felt it best to do as Erik directed and return to her bedchamber.
"If you're sure…"
"Yes, Christine. I will speak with you later."
"Alright then... goodnight."
Avoiding eye contact with Gregor, she turned and retraced her steps down the corridor to her room.
xXx
Erik settled back in the recessed tub of black marble. Patterned after the Roman baths, it took up almost half of the chamber room. He took a long drink of the life-sustaining liquid upon which he was forced to exist, feeling the deep gash above his ribs close up.
As he waited for Gregor's return, he thought about the night's success. Two more newly-turned vampyres obliterated from the earth – yet the head count was constantly rising. He would no more than destroy one, and another would appear. If he could locate their individual dens, he could wipe them out when they hid from the sun and were weak to defend. Though even with the protection of his father's ring to keep him from burning to ash, he could never produce a strong offense by daylight, himself weakened. Only by the shadows of night could he exert true force with the vampyric power granted him.
His actions would not be blamed by the other two leaders of the Order for exterminating those who were a danger to their kind and especially to Christine, though of course those men would never know it was truly for his young bride that he acted. Vlad Inecatul preferred to keep council in his own district, unconcerned by what transpired outside its boundaries, and the contemptible Vlad III, their sovereign leader, had been missing for more than a century, purported to have been captured and locked away in a coffin by a Van Helsing. And so the mantle of leadership had fallen to Erik, the last surviving heir of the House of Florin. The deformed son, unwanted and unloved, had taken control of the secret sect that branched off from the original Order of the Dragon, a complete contradiction to that faction's beliefs and begun by those two immortals and his father. What damnable irony!
Erik was ruler but had no army; he trusted none of his kind, resolved to attend to matters alone and as he saw fit. The older the vamypre, the stronger his power, and he and Nicolae were near evenly matched in strength and wit, the ring Nicolae coveted giving Erik a decided advantage. Erik was sure the bastard son of Vlad III was responsible for turning the newly formed monsters in his vendetta against Erik and in his hunger to be supreme ruler, but from what he could tell, the rogue vampyre had remained in Paris. He was both grateful, for Christine's sake, and disgusted, wishing to put an end to the scoundrel's life.
Should he do so, all those Nicolae turned would cease to exist…including Archer.
On the train while Christine lay sleeping, it had been a rare sense of guilt that made Erik refuse the boy's wrist in an offer of much-needed blood. How could he take from the youth he had given no thought to protecting? He favored few, mortals and vampyres alike, but was somewhat fond of the scruffy lad he first helped two centuries ago, enough to take him on at Castle Dragan.
As leader, Erik was expected to put the Order first, certainly not value the life of a slayer, their enemy, over the unnatural existence of a vampyre. But Christine had become all that mattered, like Daria once had been to him. Christine was more to Erik…so much more – once the orphaned child he taught and protected and for whom he experienced a quiet and tender affection, like Daria, Christine had then become a woman of gentle beauty with hidden depths of passion, and the wife he never thought he could have.
Daria had been a child of five when he first came across her path a decade after he'd been turned. Soon after that her mother died of a fever, leaving Daria alone in the world. Erik had regarded himself as a father to her, since he could never sire a child of his own in the mortal sense, having then had no concept of whose child she truly was. The medallion originally had been fashioned for Daria as a safeguard, until the day she needed it no more…
Sweet little Daria … his second grave mistake.
He frowned and forced away all doleful thought of tragedies from centuries past, dwelling instead on the more pleasurable reflections of his young bride.
With Christine he shared a bond like no other experienced, which grew more powerful the closer they became. It was not unheard of for vampyres to form deep attachments to their pet mortals, though he did not think of her as a pet. This, he could not name because he never knew of its existence: a bond that tied his soul to her heart and made him aware of the gentle beats of it, even from a distance…
In bed, she'd given him warmth, abundant warmth, much more coveted than this steaming bath in which he now sat immersed. His every gesture of fondness and passion had been accepted and reciprocated, and in recalling her soft, creamy skin and the wet heat of her, he wanted her against him now – almost wishing he had not turned her away at the door…
Though should she enter the chamber and see the bath of red-tinged water she would be horrified.
"Master…? We brought what you requested."
The query came from the corridor.
"Enter."
The sound of the key in the lock preceded Gregor's entrance as he led the way inside, Anton following with a steaming vat of the clean water Erik had ordered. The boy bowed and left. Gregor, however, remained behind and Erik sighed not to be given his privacy.
"Is there something you wish to discuss, Gregor?"
"You gave her the medallion. Do you think that wise, given its effect on you and your kind?"
"The medallion is necessary at this time." He did not bother with explanations, his servant having no idea that Christine was a slayer.
"The boy Archer arrived tonight," Gregor stated gruffly. "He said you sent him."
"Yes. Archer will sleep and work in the stables. Was there anything else?"
"She disrupts the household," Gregor complained, again turning his grievances against Christine. "She corrupts Mihaela into dining with her, though it is strictly forbidden, and has arranged with the girl to prepare enough dishes to feed a small army!"
"What the devil for?" Erik hoped she had no thoughts to entertain, uncertain who would be on that list since he forbade the pesky Vicomte's presence, the earl was unwelcome, and Lucy rarely left the manor but then always in her father's presence.
"The Yuletide," Gregor clipped. "A holiday never before celebrated in this household. Exactly what are we to do with all that food?"
Erik snickered quietly at his wife's girlish enthusiasm for the change of season, a trait she'd carried with her from childhood, and waved the old man's trivial concerns aside. "It is not that I cannot eat mortal food, Gregor; it is that I do not require it to exist."
He could still taste; indeed, flavor was enhanced as intensely as his other four senses. He simply did not have a true desire for the mortal palette of courses he once ingested, and had partaken of meals in Christine's presence only to appease any suspicion she had when he continually declined to sup with her.
"Hmph," Gregor mumbled. "If that is not enough of a trial, she told Anton that she requires him to collect greenery from the forest to drape about the castle! She even suggested he chop down a small tree! All of this is a foolish waste of time…"
"Give her whatever she asks. She is mistress here and should be obeyed."
Gregor looked disgusted, as if he thought Erik would actually side with him, but gave a curt nod. "As you wish, Master."
His manservant must learn quickly that given a choice, Erik would always support his wife.
When Gregor still failed to go, Erik having no desire to remove his mask with anyone present for the final cleansing of his bath routine, he looked at him impatiently.
"Is there something else?"
"We are running low on supply. With Archer now working at the castle, I assume the need will only increase."
Erik scowled at the burden of the essential task cast upon his shoulders.
Once, he had given no thought as to whom he took as victim, a mere sacrifice to his thirst, and gorged on his bitter revenge and on those fools' blood. Daria had changed him; Christine, as a child, had changed him… and he had slowly come to realize there were those men and women innocent who did not deserve to suffer the penalty of death for his curse.
Battles ended with the mortally wounded left to expire on the field and amply provided more than enough provision. Yet in times of peace, other methods had to be devised, and due to the rising panic in the village, it was more difficult to safely find quarry to sink his fangs into. The barrels of blood, once used as an alternative or a reserve in times of crisis, had become more vital.
With the murders discovered in Berwickshire of late, he dared not select his victim from the district. He would need to proceed with caution, take a few hours and go to one of his other two homes and the city there. Whereupon he would find a man deserving of his punishment by death, usually the worst of criminals fallen through the cracks and released by a faulty court system or perhaps convicted by one, or even a felon not yet apprehended. It was little surprise that a portion of them turned out to be so-called men of noble rank.
The world would not miss those thieves, rapists, and murderers. In truth, Erik was doing those lands a service by secretly taking the fiends off their hands. He brought each back, barely breathing, a victim to Erik's lasso and his bite, and Gregor bled the torpid scoundrel dry, storing the lifeblood into barrels kept chilled and fresh, like wine. The remains were dumped into another barrel, weighted down with stones, and tossed into the nearby sea.
From recent correspondence, the Count had his prey in mind: an evil marquis who used violence as his voice and murdered for his title, raping the staff of women in his household, his meek wife also a victim to his brutality. Gold had exchanged hands of those who should have imprisoned the brute for his crime of kicking an old, lame beggar to death, also shunned for his imperfection, and though it meant a return to Paris, the marquis offered the best choice for provision.
"I will tend to it soon," Erik said wearily.
Gregor nodded and finally left. Only then did Erik pull the lever that activated the drain and remove his mask to upend the clear hot water over his head and cleanse all traces of blood away.
No matter that those fiends branded for death deserved a complete bloodletting, no matter that he must consume the life-giving liquid to survive – he despised the animal he had become. No amount of steaming hot water would wash away the centuries' worth of blood and sins he had perpetrated.
He did not deserve the pure bride he had taken, nor the blissful moments of fulfillment found in her embrace, though he grasped each second of each hour to him greedily, desperate to hold onto those cherished moments in the darkness – to all the time he had with Christine, as long as he was able - certain she would one day leave him …
And though the pain would be fierce, he would let her go.
A life of solitude and misery was all that a monster deserved.
xXx
Christine half reclined curled up in one of two wide-backed chairs of the music room, with her stocking feet tucked beneath her skirts, and stared into the low fire.
After leaving Erik locked in his bath chamber, she found some solace in sleep, but briefly, soon waking again to concern when he did not answer her scratches at his bedchamber door - upon opening it, again finding his bed made up as if it had never been slept in, though certainly hours had elapsed since they'd last spoken through the door.
When Mihaela came with fresh water and to help her dress, she questioned the girl, but received no satisfactory answer, Mihaela uncertain where Erik had gone.
The memory of his shirt colored in blood haunted Christine's every waking minute. In her investigation of another area of the castle, made as an attempt to force her mind from the horrid image, to run across a chamber filled with nothing but weaponry – daggers, swords, and spears and other types of armaments just as frightful looking –only darkened her worry. He collected weapons as he did musical instruments, one of each kind and in great number. Had a vicious weapon such as one displayed been the cause of his injury? – for she knew she had seen blood despite that he had assured her from beyond a closed door that he was well.
"Christine?"
At the silken tone of the beloved voice she had waited much of the night and all day to hear, she swiftly uncurled from the cushion and looked to the entrance where he stood seeming surprised to find her there.
"Erik?" Instantly she was on her feet and moving toward him, not taking the time to don her slippers left by the chair.
Her eyes did a frantic appraisal of his form as she walked, the pristine shirt he wore un-bloodied, unlaced and un-tucked beneath a long robe of black velvet. Black silk lounging trousers completed his attire, his appearance more casual than she had ever seen him.
"You are truly alright? I saw blood on your shirt. Quite a lot of it in fact…" She pressed tentative fingertips to that area, near his ribs. "There."
"A mere trick of light and shadow played upon your eyes."
"Shadows are not colored red."
At her sure words and uncertain manner, he covered her hand with his. "Would it put your mind at ease to see?"
Her heart skipped a beat at so unexpected an offer and she nodded softly, eyes intent as he moved her hand away and lifted his shirt to expose skin as pale as parchment and ribs somewhat pronounced – little surprise since she rarely saw him eat. What she could observe of his torso was unblemished, save for a few old scars, and she found her hand moving without permission to press the tips of her fingers along one white stripe that curled around from his back. She had felt the scars there against her hands, long and puckered like this one, which must be the tail end of such a stripe, proof he had been horribly and viciously whipped at some point in his life.
At her gentle touch, he hissed a quiet breath through his teeth but remained motionless as curious eyes searched what inquisitive fingers touched, never having been given the privilege to see.
"How did this happen?"
"I was rebellious in my youth."
"In your youth?" she teased, flicking her eyes upward, having never known him to be anything but defiant. Her relief was great to find that her mind had indeed tricked her and he was truly alright, no stab or puncture wound in sight.
"I have never been one to conform," he agreed and took her hand from his side, bringing it to his mouth briefly in a kiss while lowering his shirt. "I am rigid in my routines, preferring the structure that I set. With that said, it is time for your lesson."
She nodded, somewhat reluctant, having wished to see his body further bared as she brought the familiarity of touch to the exploration of sight. The thought brought heat to her cheeks, and he looked at her somewhat oddly as he took a seat at the bench while, blushing, she moved to the bend of the piano.
Exactly like their last lesson, she got no further than several practice scales before he ceased playing and let out a heavy sigh. His eyes turned up to her.
"After knowing my preference, you laced it more tightly?"
"The bodice fits better when I do," she admitted.
"Come." He crooked his finger, beckoning her approach.
Expecting the same course of action as last time, Christine did as requested. He remained seated and she was surprised when he did not order her to turn around, his hands going to her buttons and popping each tiny disc free. He did not draw the bodice down from her shoulders, instead sliding his hands inside its loosened folds and around her corset to the back. Through touch alone, he manipulated the knot, loosening sturdy laces, until her lungs could again expand to breathe more easily.
He brought his hands around to her front again, and she waited, expecting him to refasten her bodice. Her eyes widened when instead they went to the top hook of her corset, popping it free of the eye, and did the same to the next…
"Erik…?" she exhaled his name on a wondering breath, her pulse skipping a faster beat with each hook released.
"The device is unnecessary and an impediment to your lessons," he explained, his voice deep. "I would prefer you not burden yourself with such bondage to culture's conformity during the training of your voice."
"Alright," she barely breathed as he undid the last hook and pulled the corset away, dropping it to the ground.
He stared at what he unveiled, her chemise clinging damply to skin, and lifted his hands to grasp her waist, bringing her slowly forward to stand between his legs. She gasped at the sudden press of his masked face beneath her breasts and felt his lips kiss above her belly through the thin material. In bewilderment, she clutched his shoulders, the stirring of desire growing stronger.
After a moment, he tilted his head so that golden eyes caught her in their sultry glow.
"I should like to postpone tonight's lesson," he said quietly, "if you are agreed."
She barely was aware that she nodded, in no doubt to what she was in agreement.
His lips lifted in the wicked twist of a smile. With a swift flick of his fingers, the flames extinguished from the candelabra beside the music stand. The sole remaining light of the dying fire in the hearth behind her painted his mask with a pale orange glow. But it wasn't fear that prompted the hiss of her breath in a lengthy inhalation.
"I sense that you no longer shy from the darkness…," he mused, rubbing his thumbs in gentle motions against her ribs, "…and have learned to perceive its hidden qualities. Indeed, I question if there is not a part of you that craves its mystery, eager to claim what it holds as your own."
"Yes." She could not deny it, but only if that darkness had Erik at its core, and bending down she pressed her lips to his, her action telling him so.
He shook his head in awe once she pulled her head away. "You are all that is pure, your beauty celestial, yet you want me. How can such a wondrous thing come to pass?"
She smiled with lifted brow. "Celestial? I am hardly connected to the heavens."
"Are you not?" he tenderly scoffed. "Who but an angel could bestow acceptance to one such as I? Not only your outer appearance can describe such beauty, but your voice, Christine – it is angelic in tone, needing only expert tuning and crafting to make it worthy of opera. You are my Angel of Music."
His voice was soft, liquid gold, but his eyes bespoke of devilment. His hands dipped beneath her skirts, running up along her legs and moving to her ties which he unbound, tugging down the drawers over her hips to let them fall to her ankles. Obediently she stepped out of them, her face afire as she looked to the entrance that possessed no door.
"Erik – here? And with no bed?"
He darkly chuckled. "My little ingénue, still such an innocent…"
His chill hands again found sanctuary beneath her skirts as he stroked up along her stocking legs, bringing them to bare hips and around to cup her bottom. Drawing Christine against him, his fingers formed patterns against her flesh. He undid the top buttons from within her skirt to give them greater span up her spine and down again to the backs of her thighs.
"The servants went to the village, each to their own task. I do not expect them back until dusk...and we need no bed." He craned his head upward. "You look at me so strangely."
She swallowed. "You take my breath. I never know what to expect when we meet."
"And does this quirk in my nature displease you?"
She slightly shook her head. "It excites me," she admitted, feeling another wave of warmth at her admission followed by another course of shivers elicited through his wandering touch.
"Indeed."
Another wicked smile he gave as he brought one hand up to the back of her head to pull her down to meet his lips, kissing her more thoroughly. His cool lips warmed to hers as his heated tongue delved between them. Once she pulled away for breath, she felt unsteady and clutched his shoulders more tightly uncertain she would be able to continue standing much longer.
As if sensing her dilemma he pushed her back so that he could stand, and took her hand, walking with her to the curve of his piano. She looked at him in confusion as he removed the prop and lowered the lid so the top lay flat. Her eyes widened and she gasped in shock as he grabbed her about the waist and lifted her to sit atop its glossy surface.
"You are my most prized instrument, your voice to shape, your body that gives such pleasure, such passion ...to see, to touch, to know…" His hands went to the hem of her skirts, lifting them to her knees. "Shall I play you and achieve some of the most beautiful music I have ever heard?"
"I…" At his shameless and provocative words, she could bring nothing more past her numb lips and only nodded, feeling her face flame again.
His mouth twisted in a roguish grin and with a flick and wave of his fingers, the hearth fire gave a loud whoosh and blew out, leaving behind only glowing red embers. They, too, quickly faded, colored specks that provided no true light. All was in darkness, the entrance to the throne room a dark gray archway and nothing more.
Christine rested her weight on her palms, leaning back as she felt her skirts lifted away from her legs. Against her thigh, she felt the sudden brush of his cheek – his bare cheek – and her eyes opened wide on a swift inhale as she realized he had removed his mask! She tensed with expectancy, wishing to imprint every sensation of his features against her skin. Lest he take her act of surprise as one of disgust, she brought her palm to rest against the bulge that was his head buried beneath her skirts.
He kissed along her thigh, his tongue trailing along her limb. Still she did not understand his intent, even when he pushed her knees further apart and kissed her groin.
Innocence fled as passion reared up in a hot torrent at the first brush of his lips and his tongue that laved wet flesh, eager to add 'taste' to the sensations he'd named...
The sounds for which he had sought sailed from her lips in pure cries of ecstasy.
Christine fell back on her elbows and then her shoulders as Erik introduced her to an even more profound level of pleasure. With each suckle that came from his cool lips, each slide of his hot tongue, she felt drawn deeper into a place of profound sensation, the familiar coil twisting headily within – until abruptly he pulled away and bowed his head between her legs. She felt the strange warp of one temple and the smooth curve of the other against her thighs and welcomed both. His fingers at her hips dug into flesh as her fingertips pressed heavily against the slick wood of the grand piano.
Twice before in the heat of passion, each time they had shared in physical intimacy, this sudden and strange distance occurred. On both occasions, he had come back to her from whatever so overwhelmed him, and she waited again, her ragged breaths all that filled the silence.
At last he stirred, gently drawing her calves down from over his back where he had brought them as he moved from beneath her skirts.
"Erik, are you alright?"
His answer came in the sudden press of his lips to hers, and she tasted her desire on his tongue before he pulled away again, this time to bring her to sit up.
"Wrap yourself around me," he ordered roughly and she moved to comply, winding her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. He strode confidently in the darkness and she clung to him in complete trust. When he knelt to set her down, beneath her hands she felt the softness of fur that still held trace warmth from the fire and knew he'd brought her to the rug before the hearth. He tore away her bodice from her arms, and she pulled away his robe with equal fervor. He laid her back and placed one knee outside each of her legs, covering her with his body, so cold, but she knew from experience soon to be warm again…
Drawing the straps of her chemise from her shoulders, he kissed down her neck to her breasts. She gasped at the feel of his mouth against sensitive skin, at the press of his face there without the mask. Touch painted a picture he would not let her eyes see, and fingers ached to explore, but she allowed them only the satisfaction of cupping the back of his head and lacing through his hair as he played her to his heart's content and to her great pleasure.
He released her nipple with a gentle suckle, kissing up to her neck and jaw. Christine shifted her head, her lips seeking his - instead finding rippled flesh. He flinched, immediately drawing back, but she reached for and grabbed his shoulders. "No!" And her hands slid up his neck to cradle his face, this time giving them what they desired.
"There you are…" she whispered huskily.
It was a foolish thing to state; she didn't know why she said it, but his tense muscles began to relax and he did not wrench away from her again. Nor did he prohibit her continued touch, and with her fingertips she learned this forbidden part of him. Of dips and bulges, the warped skin was like cold wax and as she gently brushed her touch beneath his eye, the skin there fragile and papery thin. Her heart caved to feel a drop of moisture wet the tips of her fingers.
Suddenly he grabbed that hand and kissed its palm and fingers.
"No one has ever touched my face." His voice came hoarse.
"Then I am privileged you have given me the honor."
She could not see his reaction to her breathless words in such darkness, but sensed his astonished disbelief.
"I think you must be a true angel, and I am but a feckless demon at your mercy and under your command."
Christine shook her head at his low words. "You are my husband and my Angel of Music. And I missed having you in my bed last night."
He brought his lips desperately to hers and eagerly she returned his kisses. His hand moved to her skirts, wrenching them upward. He brought his knee between hers, and she opened herself to him.
Mapping her hands down to his waist, she found the tie that held his trousers. Of fine silk, they provided a thin veil to what they covered, and gently she stroked the bulge there. His inhale was swift, and he took hold of her hand bringing it with him beneath the shield of his clothing. She gasped as he wrapped her fingers against the solid length of him, his hand atop hers showing what gave him pleasure. Eagerly she complied, feeling his hardened flesh, silken to the touch, twitch beneath her grasp.
When next he moved, it was to rid himself of all but his shirt that hung past his hips. And yet, once he stretched atop her, still he was not satisfied and pulled back again. Christine felt him take each of her thighs in turn, quickly pulling away stockings and baring more of her flesh. Once more he lay between her legs, one of his hands going to her calf and wrapping her leg around him while she did the same with the other, cradling him within the warmth of her body.
He slid deep inside her velvet heat, groaning to feel such bliss. His strokes came slow and languid, the increase of speed and strength a gradual incline neither of them wished to quickly travel. She matched each hungry plunge, her hands going to the edges of his open necked shirt and pulling them wide, wishing to feel as much of his skin as possible against what he had revealed of hers.
In the darkness there was only pleasure and ache and need to be claimed and found and grasped. Cold was abandoned as he melted into her, and they seized and shared greedily, with utter unselfishness, in the heat of their indulgence…
xXx
A/N: Things are about to take a wild (wilder?) turn… are you ready? ;-)