Paladin60

Philippe's eyes grew heavy the longer he sat with Sophia. She assumed that his lethargy was a result of his pain. Using the towels and water basin Citrine had brought into the room, Sophia took her mind off her own pain and tended to her brother until he grunted and asked her to stop fussing.

"Citrine should be looking after you. Where has she gone?"

"I'm not sure," Sophia answered, keeping her voice low and soft. She glanced at her bedroom door, which was ajar and heard no sounds from the hall or beyond.

Philippe caught his harsh tone and frowned.

"Have Gabe help you to your room," she said lightly as she sat beside him. "Your head looks simply terrible."

"I don't need anyone's help." He sat up and began rubbing his eyes. The pain made him stifle a curse. "I will not let you out of my sight again. As soon as you are able to travel we're leaving this place. It's clearly not safe for you here."

Sophia remained quiet, the lump in her throat growing.

With no voice remaining, she turned away and held her breath, willing herself not to cry. She didn't want her life to change again, to memorize the details of another house and grow accustomed to different people.

"You know it's true, Sophia. I would feel better if you were with Aunt Ann and Cousin Meg."

"What will I do?"

"I'll find work and make enough money to support us both. If we live with Aunt Ann we'll able to save more money. Perhaps in a few years we may move into the country again if you wish."

Sophia turned to Philippe again, her eyes brimming with tears. "But you were offered employment here…as a partner."

Shaking his head, Philippe placed his hand over Sophia's. His touch startled her but she didn't pull away. She wanted to prove to him that she was competent and strong, that she could endure these hardships without her brother punishing her for her mistakes.

"Your place is not here," he said firmly.

A sob escaped without Sophia realizing how close she was to crying. Burying her face in her hands, she turned and lay on her side, unable to face Philippe. Though she wanted him to stay near her, she didn't want him by her side. The muddled thoughts in her head frightened her, as she didn't know what to think or how to act around her own brother. Ashamed of herself, her sobs turned silent, her body trembling, insides twisting in agony.

In an attempt to comfort her, Philippe placed his hand on the middle of her back and wrapped his arm gently around her.

"Don't!" she cried, wriggling away. Fear was replaced by anger, a fiery rage she'd never felt before took a strong hold on her. "I don't want anyone near me!"

Philippe rose from her bed and supported his weight by leaning on the bedside table. "Sophia, I won't hurt you."

"I said I don't want anyone near me," she yelled. The urge to bury herself beneath her blankets and pillows overwhelmed her. She wanted to escape from her room, from her clothes and her skin. Everything near her felt like a burden, like an agony she could no longer tolerate. Perhaps Philippe was correct; perhaps she needed to leave. The only part she didn't understand was how she could leave herself and these acidic emotions.

"I can't leave you alone," Philippe insisted. "It's not safe."

"Nowhere is safe," Sophia croaked as she glanced over her shoulder. Her brother was staring at her bruised neck, his concern for her palpable. "Not at night, not during the day, not when my eyes are opened or closed."

Philippe sat in a chair by her bed. He nodded but Sophia knew that he didn't understand what she was saying. He would never know her true feelings, the shame she felt for opening the door and allowing danger into her home, the terror she felt when the leather belt slid around her neck, or the panic that paralyzed her heart when she felt her skirts being ripped away and felt him—the part of him she never saw but knew existed—threatening her flesh and her innocence.

Her hands began to shake, her mind gathering the tiny shards of memory she thought lost forever. Suddenly she remembered the way his legs felt against her hips, how hot his thighs felt against her bare skin. It was a strange detail to remember, but she focused on it, mulling it over in silence as she stared at the wall.

Glancing down, she saw bloody handprints across her night shift and remembered biting his hand. Odd, she thought, as she didn't recall the taste of blood or what he had done in response. All she remembered was Karl sitting on her, attempting to wrench her legs open as she fought him.

"Sophia?" Philippe whispered.

Startled, she blinked and looked up, finding Philippe leaning toward her.

"I need to change out of these clothes," she said absently.

"I'll have Citrine draw you a bath," Philippe answered. His lips quivered, his dark eyes appearing glassy. Her heart broke when she looked into his eyes, her voice abandoning her once more. She couldn't tell him what she felt, what she had experienced. She couldn't tell anyone.

"My God, Sophia, I don't know how to apologize to you for this," he whispered, his voice breaking.

Sophia couldn't bear to see her brother cry for her. Through two funerals and the loss of their land he'd not once shed a tear. Stone-faced and proud, he did what was necessary and led the way for her.

But he'd lost himself somewhere in the night. Perhaps not even Philippe knew what had become of the stern, gruff young man. With his hand over his face, Philippe was suddenly vulnerable, hateful of the world but especially his own weaknesses.

At last Sophia sat on the edge of her bed so that her knees touched Philippe's. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she clung to him, to the one strength she knew would always be with her, to the only anchor she could allow near her.

"Don't make me leave here," she begged. "Please, Philippe, don't punish me for this."

"I'm not punishing you." He pulled away and looked into her eyes. "I want what's best for you, Sophia, but I don't know what that is." With a sigh, Philippe gently placed her hand in his and studied the cloak draped over her legs.

"Sophia," he whispered.

-o-

"Both hands, Monsieur."

Monsieur Belmont stood in Sophia's kitchen and watched Citrine pump water over his spread fingers. Neither of them spoke as she lathered a bar of soap and rubbed her fingers over his knuckles and the front and back of his hands until all the blood was gone.

He was trembling, though Citrine was uncertain if he was cold or upset, though judging by his reddened nose and his vacant expression, she assumed it was both. She wondered what went through his mind, as he had been the first to find Sophia—save for of course, Dublin.

As she handed Monsieur Belmont a towel, she did her best not to stare at his exposed face. His scars were terrible, but Citrine couldn't help but think that she had imagined far worse. She expected his face to be skeletal, raw skin barely covering bone. From the rumors she had heard her first few days of employment she was led to believe that beyond the mask wasa fleshless, skeletal nose and cavernous temple.

Considering his appearance, the wounds he kept covered looked as though they were the result of burns. Gruesome, yes, but not so terrible that she couldn't meet his eye. With the manner in which he reacted, Citrine felt as though he were much more uncomfortable with his appearance than she was when looking at him.

Clearing her throat, Citrine handed him a damp rag. "There is blood on your cheek," she stated.

Monsieur Belmont sucked in a breath before he turned away and brought the rag to his face. His shoulders bunched, his back hunching as he shielded himself from her sight. As she watched him, Citrine wondered if he would return to silence once again, resuming his life as the ghost upstairs.

"Philippe's shirts are too small for you, yes?" she asked. She glanced at her dog, who was content to lie on the kitchen floor with a beef bone between his front paws.

Her employer didn't turn or offer a reply. He was still adamantly scrubbing his face with the washcloth.

"Monsieur?" Citrine questioned.

He shook his head.

"Then shall I find you something clean to wear?"

"I'm fine," he said under his breath.

"Good," she said without emotion. "Help me with Dublin. It doesn't look as though he'll need stitches, but I don't want to risk it."

Before Citrine could continue, their conversation was ended by Sophia's shouting. The rag in Monsieur Belmont's hands fell to the floor, his body drawn toward her panicked voice. The dog immediately abandoned his prize and gave a low growl at the closed bedroom door.

"Philippe is with her," Citrine told him. "Sit down a moment."

"I can't."

The sound of his voice startled Citrine, the desperation and remorse she sensed left her speechless. Standing behind him, Citrine waited for him to turn.

-o-

Erik stood outside Sophia's door, torn between his need to see her and his longing to obey her words. Hearing her voice had stirred his desire to protect her, to do whatever he could to erase the events of this night.

His heart thumped in his chest, the anxiety he felt unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. Erik knew then that his worry for Sophia was genuine, that the emotions he felt were for her and not himself.

As though understanding the situation, Fidelio trotted to the door and nudged it open.

"Dublin!" Citrine scolded.

Erik glanced back at her. "Fidelio, here."

No matter what name they gave him, the dog had his mind set and walked into the room, his tail slowly wagging.