Disclaimer: Don't own POTO…honestly if you sue me for this…you'd need to get a life.
Okiday…launching right in to things.
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THE MAN BEHIND THE FOP
Brooke's sharp green eyes stayed fixed on the retreating figures—one short and bouncy, the other tall and stately—until the forest swallowed them up. She pondered for a moment, leaning against the solid, warm wall of Gerry's chest.
"I think," she began slowly, "That you actually made him jealous."
"Yes, I believe I did, though I never thought myself capable of it," he replied.
Brooke found Erik's slight possessiveness of Anna rather amusing, not to mention intriguing. She wanted to discuss the matter, dissect it, exam it from every angle, dice it and serve it with chips and salsa. In short, she wanted to gossip. However, the little brunette highly doubted that Gerry had the tolerance to indulge her sudden girlish urges. He might be affectionate and attentive, but he was still a Phantom and prone to irritability.
Stuffing the urge into a mental desk drawer, Brooke extended her body along the blanket for a quiet nap. The rush and roar of the waves washed over her mind and the warmth of the sun made her eyelids droop. As she dozed off, she heard Gerry's velvety voice gently humming in her ear.
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The sun had crawled past its mid-day peak by the time Brooke and Gerry returned to the inn. The young woman was gleefully aware of the whispers and stares that their appearance excited. Brooke's lavender day dress and brown hair looked pleasantly rumpled and Gerry had carelessly forgotten to put his coat back on. Not that any of this really matter to the other patrons or the landlady. They lived for this sort of intrigue.
A roomful of bright female eyes hungrily raked Gerry's muscular figure, but the Phantom shot up the stairs like a shadow, intent upon holing himself up in his room with a good book. Brooke, with her well-trained Phantom instincts, took this as a signal for 'alone time.' Most women would have found this sudden change in behavior insulting, but good phangirls like Brooke understood that it was simply a natural part of a Phantom's programming.
She traded her gown for a simple navy blue skirt with an apron front, a crisp, white blouse, and a peplum jacket that matched the skirt. Taking leave of Gerry with a kiss on his unmasked cheek, she trotted back downstairs.
The handsome Phantom smirked to himself as his stretched his long, thick limbs, like a cat unfurling itself from a nap. He had noted with smug satisfaction that Erik and Anna were still missing from the inn's company. Things were working out much more smoothly he had anticipated. Sauntering into Erik's bedchambers, which was now his own, Gerry nonchalantly picked up a stray music sheet. His brow as he read "For Christine" scrawled across the top of the page in red ink. Yes, there was still the issue of the soprano. Gerry shrugged the thought away with elegant ease. He'd worry about that later. For now, a nice, hot, steamy bath sounded heavenly.
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The continued absence of Erik and her cousin did not escape Brooke's notice. Now that the memory of Erik's little bout of envy had resurfaced, she was dying to pin it under a microscope for inspection. She glared around the common room.
Everyone here thought that she and Anna and Erik were all siblings. Therefore, Brooke appropriately sensed that it would not be a smart move to march up to a table of youthful aristocrats and blurt: "You-know-that-masked-guy?-No-no-the-one-that-y'all-think-is-our-brother?-Yeah-well-he's-not-our-brother-and-I-think-he-has-a-thing-for-my-sister-who's-really-my-cousin-What-do-you-think?"
Lord, she thought to herself, Sounds good enough for a spot on Springer. Finding the main buildings short on confidants, the petite brunette set off to search the stables.
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Pip hastily stuffed a jug of smelly toxin under a mound of moth-eaten blankets. Que bestirred himself from a catnap to find his friend staring at the hayloft's ladder with the intensity of a fox watching a rabbit hole.
"Wot es it, Pip?" he growled, his voice groggy but loud.
"Shh!" the other hissed. "Thought I 'erd sumptin down below." Que sat up to listen, too. The stable hands strained their sharp ears. All they heard were the snorts and stamps of the horses shifting in their stalls.
"Yer goin' batty, ol' chap," Que slurred, twisting about in search of the jug. Pip relaxed.
"S'pose yer roight."
"BOO!" came a clear, dooming voice. The hobbits squealed like piglets in a wolf's den, leaping five feet into the air. Hay exploded all around them and Pip nearly overturned the precious brown jug. When the flurry of prickly, yellow straw settled, the stable boys stood eye-to-eye with Brooke Leroux.
"Bloody 'ell, Miss!" Pip roared, red-faced and frantically digging straw from his trousers.
A sinister chuckle escaped her lips. "Sorry if I gave you a scare."
"Ye an' t'rest of yer family," he snarled. "Ow do ye all manage tha' sneekin' about?"
"Practice," she answered smoothly. Que had found the jug and was calmly picking straw from his teeth.
"What are you up to?" Brooke asked. Pip quickly tossed a blanket over his friend as he bit into a plump, red apple.
"Nuffin," he mumbled. Brooke arched a distrusting eyebrow.
"I know moonshine when I see it," she said. Pip colored for a second, then looked impressed that an upper-class lady would know about a thing as vulgar as moonshine. Deciding that it was safe, Pip withdrew the blanket. Que was curled up in a fetal position, snoring. Pip kicked him.
"Wot's tha' for?" the brown-haired boy snapped. His companion took no notice of the complaints as he situated himself beside a hay bale set up as a table. Brooke noticed the dirty, dog-eared deck of cards for the first time.
"Care fer a game, miss?" Pip asked. Brooke smirked and plopped herself down. They entered a heated round of poker. Brooke won. Que found this amusing, Pip was aghast at having been beaten by a girl.
"Maybe ye'd like a swig o'the jug, too?" Pip glowered, holding the container out to her. Brooke took it and sniffed the spout. She pulled a sour face.
"I don't drink stuff that smells like cat pee."
"Wimp," Pip scoffed as he took back the jug.
"Besides, I'm not twenty-one yet," she said, ignoring Pip's crudeness. Que sat up and stared blearily at her.
"Wot does bein' twen'y-one hafta do wiff it?"
Brooke blinked. They were right. Still…cat pee?
"Where's yer sister?" Que asked suddenly. Brooke brightened as she recalled her point in coming here in the first place. The stable hands seemed good enough confidants. She opened her mouth to explain the situation when the sound of soft foot falls caught their ears.
Pip dove to cover the jug as Que and Brooke crept to the edge of the hayloft and peered down at the figure standing in the door of the stable. Brooke inhaled sharply in surprise.
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Raoul de Changy strolled down the stable corridor, pausing to stroke the velvet nose of a particularly fine Friesian stallion. He soaked in the quiet, warmth of the stable, the strong, friendly odor of horse's hide and tack. Christine had begged him to accompany her and her friends to town for another day of shopping. He winced at the mere thought of being dragged through every shop and bombarded with constant female chatter.
The Vicomte stepped back to admire the animal in front of him. Here he was in his element. The quiet creak of shoes on wood made him whirled around in surprise. He blinked for a moment, his tousled head tilting to one side as regarded the young woman.
She was not much bigger than Christine, short, petite, but pleasantly plump in the right places. Her brown curls were haphazardly arranged, the majority slumping off to one side of her head while a few stray locks dangled over her forehead. Her tanned skin glowed with the healthy flush of youth and her face and blue eyes were very pretty. Raoul noted with some amusement that her clothes were dusted with strands of hay.
"Bonjour, monsieur," she said. Raoul started at the sound of her voice. There was something vaguely familiar about it. He remembered his manners, bowed to her, and returned the salutation. She curtsied.
"You like that horse, M. le Vicomte?" she asked. Raoul was not surprised at her knowledge of his identity. Most people were good at sniffing out nobility.
"Yes, he is a fine animal. Beautiful color."
Raoul shifted uncomfortably as an awkward silence settled over them.
"What is your name, mademoiselle?" he asked.
"Brooke," she replied. Raoul frowned at the absence of a surname. It wasn't proper etiquette, but he shrugged it aside.
"I have not seen you around much, Mlle. Brooke. Have you just arrived?"
"No, I have been here since the first of June."
"Curious that we have not met yet," he said. Brooke colored slightly, and then she smirked.
"Yes, very curious."
Raoul did not know why, but he felt as though they had met before. Perhaps he was mistaken for he was certain he would remember a face as pretty as hers. Suddenly, a wave of guilt washed over him. He shouldn't be standing here admiring a strange girl. He should be thinking of Christine.
But Christine isn't here, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. The girl had begun to back away, her face downcast, and if he wasn't deceiving himself, a little disappointed. To hell with propriety.
"Would you care to tour the gardens, Mlle. Brooke?" he asked, stepping forward and offering her his arm. A brilliant smile lit her features as she accepted. Raoul's heart jumped. He never knew he could make a woman smile like that. He rather liked the feeling.
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Brooke could hardly contain her excitement as she looped her arm through the Vicomte's. When he wasn't looking, she cast a quick victory glance up at the hayloft. Pip and Que smiled and waved goodbye.
Raoul de Changy was twice as handsome in the light of the setting sun than in the dim shadows of the theatre. His dark brown hair fell in his eyes and she had to grip her skirt to resist the temptation to brush it aside. He was not as tall as Erik or Gerry, but she could feel the thickness and definition of his muscles beneath the fabric of his coat sleeve. Brooke desperately hoped that he was nearly as foppish as she had always believed him to be.
"Do you come from Paris, Mlle?" he asked, his voice timid but masculine.
"Yes, and you?"
"Yes, though my family estate is farther north from here." They continued talking in this polite manner for some time, strolling beneath bowers of jasmine and roses and honeysuckle. Brooke felt somewhat miffed at the boring topics of conversation. She wanted to know what he liked to read, if he read at all; what historical figures inspired him; his interests and hobbies; his favorite color. Oddly enough, the same questions were in his mind.
Screw decorum, Brooke thought.
"What is your favorite color, M. le Vicomte?"
Raoul looked taken aback for a moment. He halted their walk to stare at her for a moment before answering: "Blue. And what is yours?"
"No, no…the answer is not so easy as that. What shade of blue? Do you like baby blue, sky blue, turquoise, aquamarine, cobalt, indigo…"
"Navy blue," he said. "Like the color of your skirt."
Brooke blushed delicately, though inside she was doing a happy hobbit dance. Score!
"Now what is your favorite color?" he asked.
"Blue."
"In what shade?"
"Turquoise. Blues with hints of green are the best. They are so fresh and deep."
Raoul raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You put a lot of thought into these things?"
"Details are important. Now, why do you like horses?"
Raoul stopped again, this time he gently guided her under the shade of an elm tree.
"I like horses because they are so beautiful and powerful. I envy their speed and swiftness. They are elegant creatures, almost ethereal when you look into their eyes. Yet, they are so earthy, their smell, their touch. I'll never forget my first gallop. I was much younger of course, but this horse and I had grown up together. It was his first time with a saddle and he was having some difficulty, being ornery and stubborn. Then, all at once, something just seemed to come together in his mind, and he forgot about the iron horseshoes and the saddle and he just flew. What a rush! It was as if he and I were one organism, one being. It was the most freeing experience of my life."
Raoul stopped suddenly. He blushed as he realized he had been rambling. Christine would have been crying from boredom by now. "Forgive me, I did not mean to bore you."
"Oh, no! I think that was the loveliest thing I've ever heard. I love horses, too, so I know the feeling," she replied, smiling up at him with something that looked like admiration and relief. Raoul was genuinely stunned, impressed, and intrigued all at once. Who was this girl?