"Leave this church, you demon!" the boy screams. In his fury, he reaches for a sword he is not wearing. He is easily ignored.
I step closer to my angel bride. She has not taken her eyes from me since I appeared. I reach out to her as I had when we met.
"Come."
"Christine, NO!" He leaps between us and tears her away. Reaching beneath my cape, I remove the lasso from my hip, allowing it to rest easily in my hand. Some of the wedding guests gasp or cry out. Christine struggles against the foolish pest.
"Raoul," she pleads.
"Christine," he begins to protest anew, tightening his grip on her delicate arms. I wince with pain as I feel my beloved's rose-petal flesh bruise in his unwelcome hold.
"CAN'T YOU SEE YOU'RE DISTRESSING HER?" I bellow. He starts.
"Release her, now." I threaten.
"Raoul, please," she repeats. He studies her, disbelieving what he reads on her face. At last he relents, releases her. Brushing past him, she reaches for my waiting hand.
Turning to the muddled priest, I order, "Marry us."
"By God!" he gasps.
Simultaneously, her boy lover boy rushes us. Sheltering Christine against me, I extend the coiled rope toward him, halting his progress. The guests scream and huddle together.
"You monster! You've had your answer! She'll never be yours!" the hapless bridegroom exclaims, unable to accept the inevitable
"Oh, won't she? Stand aside, youngling. You are no more welcome at my wedding than I am at yours." Forgetting him, I turn back to the priest.
"Come, Father." Uncomprehending, he looks at Christine. She meets the priest's gaze solemnly.
"You see, Father, the lady makes her wishes clear, does she not?"
Once again the dimwitted comte asserts himself. He strikes me in the back, but he has never been a match for me. I have him wrapped in the secure embrace of my lasso in short order.
"I have no desire to sully this day with unpleasantness, my dear comte, but that my slight patience is fast eroding with your interference," I growl. I move my gnarled face even closer to his perfect one. "Surely you realize how much more I will despise you if you spoil this day for my darling bride. As it is, I dream nightly of wringing your neck like the insignificant goose you are." I jerk the noose tighter. "Will you continue to antagonize me?"
"Raoul, let it be. Can't you see?" Christine adds.
"Christine, what are you saying?" he demands.
"Raoul…" Something in her eyes persuades him that it's useless, and I feel him abandon the struggle as suddenly as he'd mounted it. I throw him away from me and seize Christine about the waist, snatching her to my side. Again the guests shriek. My heart churns in my breast at having to handle Christine so roughly, but there is an unfortunate method to my savagery. The boy does not lack courage; he would fight me to his death on Christine's behalf, but if I can make him fear for her safety, I know he will not threaten me again. Of course, Christine knows I would never hurt her, but still it grieves me to have to put on such a display in order that our wedding may proceed in peace. As I intend, the implicit threat freezes him in his tracks.
"She is saying, you idiot, that she will be my wife this day," I spit. "Father, if you will, please."
Christine and I move to face the priest, who asks for my name.
"Erik."
He speaks softly to the two of us, and in a few short moments, Christine is my wife before god, man, and her tiresome, weeping little comte. When we kiss before the witnesses, I see the tears in my angel's eyes and begin myself to weep.
As we back from the church, I warn the bereft boy and the little congregation not to pursue or otherwise interfere with us, or I promise to extract a horrible vengeance.
"No," Christine echoes, "leave us be!" My heart all but breaks with joy; my little bride wants me all to herself.
We ride back to town unmolested. Once we are safe in our home, I can rest. No one can pursue us here, and even if they should pursue, no one can prevail against me in my world. I have prepared a cold supper for us, but Christine is overcome by the events of the day, and will take only a bit of tea.
"What is it, my dear? Are you ill?" I worry.
"No…Erik," she replies. The first time she has called me by my name!
"Ah, I think I understand, my angel. It has not been the blissfully peaceful day you had imagined. I'm sorry; I wanted it to be perfect for you." Once again, I feel my fury burn higher. "It's that damnable comte, interfering once again!" I see that my anger upsets her further, so I struggle to calm myself. "There, Christine, don't fear anymore; he'll not trouble us again. Your husband has seen to it; and shall continue to do so, until death us do part," I soothe her, stroking her glorious hair as she weeps with relief.
"Would you like to sing, Christine?"
"Yes, thank you." We sing and share a bottle of wine. She begins to relax, and soon she seems more herself.
"Erik," she says suddenly. "You never told me your name." I have no answer for this. She glances at the clock and pales: it is half-ten already. She leaps to her feet, fretful again.
"I would like to have a bath," she blushes fiercely. It is as I suspected.
"Let me run it for you," I smile. When the bath is warm and fragrant with rose and muguet, I call for her. Her eyes flutter anxiously when he sees that I make no move to leave her. I slip behind her to unfasten the buttons of her gown. As I slip the gown from her shoulders, she darts away.
"Please, please…" she whimpers, clutching her gown to her breast protectively.
"You need not fear your little husband, my angel. Erik wishes to bathe you."
Tears spring to her eyes. "No!" She shakes her head wildly.
"Ssshhh. Ssshhh, Christine," I soothe. I kiss her cheek, and take her chilly little hands in my own, allowing her gown to drop to the floor. She whimpers again wordlessly. I move to unlace her corset. She protests no further and soon my bride stands before me, Venus-like. Instantly inflamed, I struggle for composure as I help her into the bath. I begin sponging her hands, wrists, forearms before moving to her neck. As I move the sponge from her shoulder just onto her chest, she whispers, "Please no."
The sponge travels inexorably between her breasts, around and up, teasing her; torturing me. I release the sponge and it drifts away unnoticed. My fingers glide softly as bubbles over rosebud nipples. Of their own volition, my lips travel to her neck. She dodges the kiss, sliding away in the oversized tub.
"Towel, please," she whispers. I wrap her in two warm towels from shoulders to toes and scoop her into my arms. When I lay her on the bed, she leaps up immediately, clutching one towel about her as she struggles to dry herself with the other. I remove my shoes, my shirt; it is damp, and stretch out on the bed. There is only one small lamp burning in the room, but I will not upset her by removing my mask just yet. She finishes drying herself and sees that I await her. She joins me timidly.
"Close your eyes, my angel. I will pleasure you."
"I'm afraid," she sobs. I caress her jaw and throat slowly; she is trembling.
"Close your eyes," I whisper again. "Just feel, Christine. Erik will not hurt you."
I guide her beneath the coverlet in case any of her trembling is due to the cool and damp in our home. She will be warm soon enough. She closes her eyes as I draw her into my arms.
"Christine," I whisper, stroking her hair, "tomorrow morning I will show you plans I've drawn up for our home. Yes, Erik will build a castle for his princess, anywhere she likes. Above, I mean; in the sunlight, will that please you?"
She nods.
"You must tell me honestly what you think of it; I will change it however you like, Darling." I kiss her, as much as the mask will allow, sliding a hand inside the towel to cup her breast. Her nipple swells against my palm, and my mouth goes dry. I douse the light; tonight I will not look at her, so that she will be spared the sight of me. I remove my mask, turning away briefly to slip it under my pillow.
"Erik?"
"I am here, Christine." I return to take her back into my arms. "What is it?"
"I thought you had gone," she says in a small voice.
"Oh no," I promise. I kiss her again, caressing her breasts to life. Our kisses deepen and I take my cue from her breathing as to when to explore her body further. She yields hesitantly to my touch until my hand strays onto her belly.
"I beg you," she whispers.
"Christine, I fear it is my turn to beg you," I confess. "Let me touch you. Let me love you." But she is so frightened; what a pure, good girl I have wed. My heart all but breaks for her as she struggles to press my hands away.
"No! No, I want to go home," she cries.
"But you are home, my angel. You are home with your loving husband." I remind her gently.
"Yes. I am," she says softly at last. "I am home with my husband." She accepts my touch obediently now, but I still feel her trembling in my hands. She tries to deny the pleasure I give her. She gasps and sighs, pushing against my chest as I claim her. She cries out; I feel a stab of sympathy for my precious bride. Why must I harm her to love her? I would sooner harm myself.
"I am sorry, my Love. I am sorry," I insist. My crisis comes quickly; so much the better for her. I kiss her, breathing love into her mouth. As I draw away to gather her into my arms, I feel Christine's tears on my skin.
"I promise it will be better next time, Christine. Forgive me." She nods silently. "I love you, little wife." She curls up against me and we fall asleep entwined.