II
Christine struggled to maintain the guise of simpering adoration like Madame Sophia had taught her. Difficult considering the Vicomte's gloved hand was like a hot manacle around her wrist. Difficult considering his green eyes were as hot and bright as molten glass and her tongue felt frozen in her mouth. Bruno—the Madame's muscle—stood with his long, ropy arms folded at the bar, flat black eyes tracking their progress across the parlor. Gooseflesh stippled her skin.
When Madame Sophia had brought her here over a year ago, she had graciously allowed Christine to heal and adjust free of charge—for a while. Gently, but under the explicit understanding that she had no choice, the Madame had eased her into the business with a few carefully selected men. Her first customer had seen her degenerate into a sobbing mess and stormed out. When Madame lost her second regular customer to Christine's screaming hysterics, Bruno had stepped in. In a low-voiced, almost pleasant tone, he had outlined just what he would do to her if she scared off another customer, all the while his thumb worrying the pommel of his knife.
Now . . . now this prowling predator was dragging her up the narrow flights of stairs. The Vicomte threw open the door to the richest, most sumptuous suite at the end of the hall. Christine flinched at the rosebud wallpaper, the remnants of which covered the walls of her cell. The Madame was thrifty with her coin. A panic attack would only make him angry. An angry customer meant Bruno and his soft threats. Cold sweat slicked her skin, the pathetic little creature that lived in her soul shivered in fear. Christine was only scant months removed from hunger, and she remembered it well.
The Vicomte released her and peeled off his gloves. Christine pressed back against the closed door, struggling to master her breathing. Mesmerized, she watched as the Vicomte shed his cape with a graceful, swooping twist, draping it over the fire's screen to dry. In the time from his arrival to when he dragged Christine up the stairs, Madame Sophia's staff had set a fire in the grate and a tray of soup and bread steamed gently on small table.
"Very efficient," The Vicomte observed, nodding toward the table with a faint smirk. Even this small smile held a note of sadness. His voice was like smoke and honey and the mournful echo of church bells . . . Papa would have called it the voice of a Dökkálfr, a dark elf featured in his stories.
Christine nodded, trying hard not to stare at the mask, so white. The shimmer of rainwater transformed it into pearl. Strangely, the mask comforted her. In a world where monsters masqueraded as men, this visible imperfection soothed her. The Vicomte smoothed his raven black hair, combed severely back, long enough to reach his collar and shifted uncomfortably on his feet.
"Can you speak, girl?" the words burst out, like the crack of a whip. Christine flinched, her hands bunched in the heavy green silk of her gown. She stared at him stupidly, feeling the walls close in with those ugly, florid pink roses.
"Parlez-vous français? Italiano? English?" he asked sharply, draping himself across one of the plush chairs.
"Français, Monsieur. I'm . . . I'm sorry." The Vicomte nodded, mollified, and an elegant unfurling of his fingers gestured to the seat opposite him.
"My apologies, Mademoiselle. I find myself in a very ill temper," he said, kneading his temple.
Christine saw an opening and approached him, walking as the Madame had taught her, a subtle sway of her hips drawing the eye to all that made her a woman. At least she looked the part now; months of fine food had banished the pale scarecrow that had arrived on the brothel's doorstep. She circled the chair and laid her hands on his shoulders. The fire cast them in a pool of golden light and she could no longer discern the pattern on the wallpaper. A weight on her chest eased.
"Perhaps I can help," she whispered. The tone was off. Not a sultry purr of a woman secure in her role as seductress, but the reedy whisper of a frightened girl.
She forgot her awkwardness when she touched him. He was so warm! His heat blazed through his clothing, warming her freezing hands. Christine began to knead the wire-taut muscles of his neck and shoulders, trying not to notice the lithe strength in them. If she closed her eyes and didn't think too much, it could be Papa's shoulders she rubbed after a long day of travel.
Silence settled between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the faint, soothing drum of rain on the roof. A low rolling sound that could only be described as a purr emanated from his throat and Christine found that her hands had wandered from his shoulders to tangle in his hair, gently massaging his scalp. This was not Papa. And even her hands knew what her mind did not. Papa was dead and she was now a whore, bought by this man to do with what he wished for an entire night. It felt as if she had supped on broken glass.
"Don't stop," the silken drawl shivered over her skin. God and all His angels, surely that voice was a tool of sin!
The shape of his skull under her stroking fingers was pleasing, solid and well-formed, his hair thick and black and glossy. The other men Madame had chosen for her were doughy banker types: well-paying who spent themselves quickly with little stimulation from her. The Vicomte was something else entirely. His animal warmth—or maybe it was the fire?—undid hidden knots of tension and Christine relaxed. She was almost . . . enjoying herself. She enjoyed the deep purring vibrating through her palms, and how the prickly energy softened and dissipated. It was an empowering sensation, much like petting a lion, she imagined; holding all that danger in her hands and feeling it calm under her touch.
Suddenly, a large hand, warm and smoothly callused grasped her wrist. He gently disengaged it from his hair and nestled his cheek against it before placing a soft kiss on her palm. She could not contain the gasp at the hot, damp press of his lips. He craned his head back to look at her—not a hardship for him, given their relative heights. His eyes, skin and mask were kissed and refined by the fire into jade, bronze and pearl. In that moment, with his hair tousled and his cravat loose, he was . . . not beautiful, but there was something devastatingly sensual and uniquely compelling about him.
"Thank you, Mademoiselle. You were a great help. I find myself very much improved," he rumbled.
"My pleasure," Christine replied in a vain imitation of a brazen retort.
His lips curved and he gently tugged at her captive hand until she stood in front of him. Another gentle tug found her in his lap. His green eyes studied her and he drew a handkerchief from his sleeve.
"Here. Wipe off the cosmetics. I would buy a doll if I wanted to see a perfect face." His dry tone made her giggle. Laughter? Not the practiced, professional laugh designed to flatter and entice, but a true laugh. Lines and rules were blurring much too quickly for Christine's liking and she took shelter in the fine muslin of his handkerchief for as long as she could to compose herself.
"There," he murmured in approval, plucking the pins from her hair with deft fingers. Her mane of curls sprang free from their imprisonment into its original shape. The Madame bemoaned her wild, unmanageable mane and she expected the Vicomte to react similarly. Instead, his breathing quickened, his eyes dilated to pools of midnight edged with the barest film of jade.
"You are an exceptionally beautiful woman." Christine bit her lip at the onslaught of his voice, now husky and warm, a living thing of intimate secrets and the press of naked flesh.
"T—Thank you, Monsieur." The Vicomte leaned back in the chair, eyeing her speculatively.
"You are new at this, yes?"
"Yes," Christine said, ducking her head to shield her face with her hair. Surely it was some sort of censure on her performance. He merely nodded, accepting her answer.
"Where are you from? I cannot place your accent."
"Sweden, originally. My Papa was a musician."
"Ah, ja. Vackra land. Varför lämnade du?" A shiver of joy raced through her hearing the words of her childhood.
"Ja! Ja!Mycket vacker! Hungersnöd, er I mean, famine. So many were migrating to America, but Papa did not want to leave Europe. So we came to France. Where did you learn Swedish? Your accent is very good." Again, that sad smile.
"Thank you. I once had a tutor from Sweden. He taught me. He also had a passion for drawing, and his work has always resonated with me." Christine nodded politely, while inwardly puzzled. Surely he could find better conversation amongst his own social circles. Why come to a brothel to simply talk?
"You are wondering why I am here," he said with an arch of an inky brow.
"Ja . . . I mean yes."
"Well Mademoiselle, contrary to the popular consensus, I am not a complete villain. I do not relish the thought of breaking my marriage vows, nor forcing my appetites on a frightened young girl. If we continue, it will be because you ask me to. If not, we simply share a meal, conversation, and warmth as we sleep. The Madame gets her francs either way." Christine released a breath she did not know she had been holding. If his words were true, this man was a gift from God. He chuckled, shifting her weight in his lap to a more comfortable position.
"I can see you have questions. Ask away."
"Monsieur . . ."
"Erik," he corrected, "if we are to spend the night together, it would be easier if we set aside formal address."
"E—Erik. My name is Christine . . . in . . . in case you forgot," Christine stuttered clumsily. Erik smirked. His fine-boned hand rose and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her lower lip, almost accidentally.
"I had not forgotten, Christine." His voice vibrated through her, like a note struck on a tuning fork. His voice was an elemental force of sound and color. Her name was a poem, each letters a song on his lips. A fey, dark creature, she thought. More dangerous than any lion.
"Your questions?" he prompted.
"Yes. Well. Ah . . ." she cleared her throat, and tried again, steeling herself against an outburst of anger, "do you not have a . . . er a . . . wife that could offer you, as you say, a meal, conversation and warmth?" Erik exhaled heavily through his nostrils.
"An honest question, Christine. But my marital life has been . . . strained. The match between Claire and I was based solely on family connection. I was seventeen when I married her. It was a bloodless transaction devoid of love, or even liking. Not a death sentence, of course, many marriages have flourished on less than what we had. But . . ." he closed his eyes, a muscle clenching in his jaw speaking of years of frustration.
"Claire is a delicate woman in both body and mind. One ill-said comment could send her into histrionics and my temper leaves much to be desired on that score. She rebuffed any of my attempts to share her interests or pursuits and I held grudges. I hoped, maybe, a child would settle her and anchor us both. And then when . . ." he paused, slamming a fist on the arm of the chair, "when we lost our son Thomas to fever when he was only three . . ." at this, his voice broke and something in Christine writhed at the naked grief howling in both the words and the silences.
"I hoped we could have another. Mend the void yawning between us. But it was not to be. Two more miscarriages and two more stillbirths and we still strove to fix what had been broken. Our youngest, Marguerite . . ." those green eyes shone with unshed tears, "she didn't live to see her first year. Whatever could have been between Claire and I died with our children. She blamed me for it. She said I demanded too much, expected too much. And maybe I did. I wanted it so badly. In my father's eyes, I have spent twenty years with Claire and have nothing to show for it but six dead babies and a stack of lined paper." He sighed, staring beyond her into misty memory. Lined paper . . . ah! Sheets of score. He was a musician too!
"Now we are both trapped, nursing our grievances. She has turned to her family for comfort. She dotes upon her younger brother. He reminds her of our Thomas, I think. And I . . . I find comfort elsewhere." He cleared his throat and tried to smile and failed.
"So that is why, Christine. There is also a perverse sort of pleasure in making tongues wag upon entering such an establishment then spending the evening over chess."
That one sentence spoke volumes to Christine. Covering up what was too painful to dwell upon with a dark, roguish humor. Also the desperate, lonely trust in confiding so much in a woman he had known for perhaps an hour, and a whore at that, whose mistress might pay well to air a Vicomte's dirty laundry to the right listener. Christine smiled.
"I imagine so," she replied. Erik idly toyed with one of her curls, watching in absorbed fascination as it rebounded when tugged.
"So. You have heard my sad tale, now you must tell me yours." Erik looked up at her expectantly and Christine felt the fragile ember of contentment die in the cold wind of grief.
"Please, Monsieur . . ."
"It will help to talk about it, Christine. I feel years lighter," he said softly.
Christine heaved a sigh that sounded too much like a sob, feeling the threatening pulse of the pink roses. Then Erik's arms drew her gently down, tucking her head under his chin and stroking her back. She relaxed into his embrace, persuaded by the music of his heartbeat, the tender stroking fingers, his solid male strength that soothed rather than intimidated. Before, such closeness with a man would send her spiraling into panic. Now it was . . . nice.
Her confession was halting, and in Swedish: "My papa took ill. We were too poor for medicine. I cared for him as best I could but it . . . it wasn't enough. He died and I was left alone. No family, no money. I sold my mama's ring to see Papa buried." The words were coming faster now, a flood of pain that she had kept bottled inside and was now surging free. She addressed the velvet lapel of Erik's coat, reassured by his steady heartbeat.
"My Papa's friend, Madame Giry, she was supposed to come. She was supposed to come for me! But she didn't. I begged from the church, but when they could no longer take care of me, I was back on the streets. When days passed and I couldn't find any food, I stole. And . . . then . . . then one night, a man found me sleeping in a doorway. He . . . he . . . he raped me and I . . . and I . . ."
"Christine." Her name halted the tide of words and she crumpled against his chest, fearing the disgust and irritation in his eyes. Surely he didn't want to pay to hear about her troubles! A hot knot choked her. No tears. Just this suffocating knot and this insufferable, perplexing man who pried out these painful memories.
It didn't feel any better. No, it was worse! With his inexorable strength, he peeled her back and forced her to look at him. There was no disgust, but some indefinable emotion that had him quivering like a plucked violin string.
"Perhaps my Swedish is not up to the task, but I thought you said you were raped. Is that correct?" Christine managed a mute nod.
"The Madame found me after. She said she would give me food, money and a place to stay. I thought she was an angel." All of those promises were conditional on her plying her trade. Erik patted her thigh, gesturing for her to rise. Christine floundered a little with her full skirts, but found her feet. She backed away until the other chair hit the backs of her thighs. She sank into it, closing her eyes to block out the pressing walls and horrible roses.
"Do you remember a name? What he looked like?" Erik demanded in that sharp, whip-like tone. Christine opened her eyes, and found him pacing like a lion in a cage. Christine shuddered viscerally away from remembering any details of her ordeal. She could not. She could not look back and live.
"N—No-" she let the sentence hang. The 'why?' echoed in the still air.
"If you gave me some sort of description I could find him. Turn him over to the authorities. Or, if you wish, hurt him very badly. That's what I'd like to do. I know some very bad people. I'm one of them. Vestiges of a misspent youth."
Christine stared at him in wonder. He would start a search for a man and do him harm at her word? For what? Out of his own sense of revenge? Or justice? Christine didn't know whether to be frightened or touched. Erik stopped his pacing and looked at her. He knelt before her chair and took her cold hands in his.
"Now I've frightened you. Forgive me, Christine." Ah! That voice! She wanted to crawl inside that voice and hide there forever.
"It's all right. I don't remember anything specific anyway," she whispered.
"You poor child. My poor, dear lamb," he crooned, chafing her cold hands between his. His face showed an expression of such vexed misery that her heart went out to him.
"I—I want so much to hold you, but I cannot imagine what it must be for you. What did you think when I chose you?"
"I was afraid," Christine admitted, deeply moved by his concern, "but I'm not anymore." It was on her tongue to mention how much she enjoyed rubbing his shoulders, and how good it felt listening to his heartbeat, but she refrained. She must remember some modicum of dignity.
"And I dragged you into my lap and touched you as if it were my right! Please accept my deepest apologies."
"It's all right, Erik. Really. I am an employee here, after all. You are not the first man I've-" Christine stopped, heat rising to her cheeks, belatedly realizing how crass that sounded.
"Please do not try and reassure me, Christine," Erik said gently, his face creased with misery. Silence stretched between them and Christine was at a loss. Finally, Erik cleared his throat and rose.
"Perhaps we should eat, hmm? The Madame's cuisine is always superb."
xxxxx
A/N: So? I know the AU-ness is hard to adjust to, but buckle up and hang in there! Tell me what you think!