VII
An expression of endearing surprise penetrated her wine-muddled relaxation. He saw fear dart across her features and regretted the loss of the easy camaraderie, the fragile promise of friendship winding around them like skeins of golden silk. Perhaps the wine was going to his head, or he was drunk on her beauty. The armor of her makeshift wrap was slipping off her shoulders; the sapphire blue silk of her wrapper shimmered in the firelight and Erik imagined nestling his face in the cradle of her shoulder and inhaling her scent.
Christine had not released his hand, nor had her grip gone limp and passive in his: an encouraging sign. Her hands were so small and delicate . . . Erik marveled at the graceful taper of her fingers, the soft, secret warmth of her palm and the echo of her beating heart. Her little finger was slightly crooked at the second joint. This tiny genetic anomaly pleased him.
"S—Sing for you? But why?" she sputtered.
Erik straightened in his chair in an attempt to sober up. There was something tense and strangled behind her words. He selected only the gentlest tones to speak, a medley composed of the drum of rain on the roof or the croon of a lullaby.
"It was an innocuous request, Christine. We are both musicians; I wished to hear your instrument." He paused, then added, "If it rouses too many painful memories for you, please forget I mentioned it." Christine's fingers braided with his, her chocolate brown eyes darting over his face.
"Oh no! I was . . . I was just taken aback. It's been so long since I've sung, you see. I really don't think I could impress you. I mean, you're . . . you're . . ." Erik was charmed to see a blush staining her cheeks, a pink rose's kiss on planes of cream. His shy, Swedish rose, a vision of such spectral beauty!
Yes, Erik thought ruefully, the wine is definitely going to my head. Erik grinned. Flowery speech aside, he found her manner bewitching, her earnest speech refreshing.
"I am ill prepared, that's all," she finished glumly, plucking at the hem of the pristine tablecloth.
Erik rose from his chair, drawing Christine up with him. The coverlet pooled in the chair, slithering down to the floor with a soft sigh. Her upturned face was sweet and open, embroidered with a heart-breaking, instinctive mistrust. The world had taught her cruel lessons that men only wanted to demean and crush and fuck. How could he show her tenderness and not have it construed as some sort of clumsy foreplay? How he longed to bend and kiss the plush pillow of her lower lip, trace his tongue over the maddening bow of upper lip, sink his hands in that mane of curls . . .
"Perhaps if I bare myself to your scrutiny, I could put your worries to rest, hmm?" he drawled. Those tormenting lips parted at his incendiary words, he could see the incensed throb of the pulsebeat at her slender throat, an innocent, unbidden rush of arousal. When had he moved closer to her? Control, he told himself sternly. He could not afford to seduce and beguile. If she came to him, it would be of her own will, and only then.
"That . . . that might be best." Erik stepped back, releasing her hand with a fond squeeze.
"As you wish," he said with a bow. A fragment of a thought marveled at the man who now teased and flirted and charmed. How often had he thought himself too old, too jaded, too ugly for such simple banter?
Under Christine's rapt focus, Erik began to sing. It was a common hymn with a simple melody, giving Erik's voice room to soar. It was rare for him to sing for an audience since both his father and his wife abhorred it, usually César or the open sky were the only receptacles for his most cherished treasure, so to sing for Christine gave him a unique pleasure. The array of expressions ranging from ecstatic to breathless that moved over her features enthralled him. When the last note faded into silence, Christine dropped her face into her hands. Ice slicked his skin.
"I hope I did not upset you," he hedged. The reaction to his voice was always unpredictable, whether he spoke or sang or shouted. Such a powerful result of merely exercising his vocal cords!
"No," she quavered though her eyes were free of tears, raising a hand to forestall him, "Your voice is . . . a miracle." He felt the compliment all the way to his toes. He stepped forward, intending to embrace her, then thought better of it. God, this was hell, longing to comfort her and being unable to do so!
"I—I'm afraid I will never compare," she said, gnawing on her lower lip.
"I don't want to hear my voice. I want to hear yours," Erik said simply, sinking back into his chair, "Please. Sing for me." Her solemn nod tasted like victory and he eased back in the chair, prepared to be quiet and respectful regardless of her skill.
"I . . . I know a few French songs. What would you like to hear?" Erik flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture.
"Choose your favorite. Sing in Swedish if it makes you more comfortable."
It would be enough just to look at her, he thought, just to watch as she was absorbed in something she enjoyed. A nostalgic air enshrouded her, a sort of dreamy abstraction of thought that filled him with a potent longing to know her: her thoughts, aspirations and fears. To know and possess utterly.
When she opened her lovely mouth and uttered the first trembling note, so vulnerable in its infancy, Erik knew he was lost. His eyes fluttered closed at the sweet, startling clarity of sound, as pure as driven snow. How was this talent wholly untutored? How could such concentrated beauty be possible in a single mortal soul? The cadence of words and notes fell over him like drops of cleansing rain, washing away years of loneliness and grief. In lyric Swedish, the song spoke achingly of loss and the miracle of hope. Oh, he would willingly enslave himself to that voice and the glorious soul that gave it wings; he would worship her for the rest of his life!
As her siren's song ended, his joints turned to water and he slid from the chair to his knees. A wild, inarticulate joy rose in his chest. Words were such inane, wooden things. There were none to articulate what he felt, the magnitude of what had occurred in this sumptuous bordello room.
"Oh Christine," he breathed.
XXX
Her name had never sounded more beautiful than when spoken by the man kneeling at her feet. Erik liked her voice? If his posture was any indication, he was just as enraptured by her voice as she was by his. Music bound them together at their innermost being. Song was her most prized joy and singing her sole talent. Her knees suddenly felt too weak to hold her, so she sat heavily on the foot of the bed, the ropes squeaking in protest. Both she and Erik sat in that ringing silence.
For her part, Christine knew it was because she was unsure of how to come to terms with the fact that she had found her soulmate in a brothel. Christine stared at her hands, held limp and loosely curled atop her thighs. She felt like a dishrag that had been wrung out of every drop of water and hung wilted on the lip of the sink. Oh, how could she contain this burgeoning well of feeling and act with any modicum of dignity? When he left her in this hell, she would die. The ghostly tie that bound her soul to his would snap, and she'd take to bleeding inwardly. She wished she could shed some of this burning emotion in tears, but it just sat in a hard knot in her chest, refusing to loosen.
"Your father was right, Christine. You possess the voice of one of God's angels and I am awed and humbled by it. You have . . . utterly shattered me." She felt likewise. She almost wished he would kiss her. Then she could draw him down onto the bed and saturate herself in him before the lock clicked shut behind him.
"What do we do now?" she asked.
Erik moved close and knelt at her feet, clasping her limp, cold hands in his. She could not read what she saw in his eyes, the flat curve of his mouth. Was it despair or joy that moved him? Christine could hardly identify her own feelings.
"I don't know. I don't know what will happen to us. There is so much in the way with the Madame and my . . ."
"Your wife," Christine said, without heat. He was going to leave. Wash his hands of her, go and find a less troublesome prostitute to share his bed.
"Yes. My wife . . . and my father. And the emperor and his court. My decisions are not my own, unfortunately. Any slight I make against the emperor would affect Elise and Jacqueline." The list of obstacles was entirely insurmountable. Why would he risk the loss of his entire life for her?
" . . . But I will do it for you. I swear I will find a way to free you from this place." All the breath left Christine's lungs and she was transfixed by this man, this mad, wonderful, honorable man.
"You . . . You would do that for me?" she choked. The knot in her chest throbbed like a hot coal. His hand twitched and Christine recognized the impulse for what it was. She captured his hand and nestled her face against it as she had longed to do, dropping a kiss on the center of the callus-roughened palm. A soft sigh escaped him and the air thickened and pulsated between them.
"Yes," he replied with infuriating simplicity. Yes? As if it was so easy?
"But Madame will never let me leave. She has Bruno and . . . and-" a strange fire lit in his green eyes but, strangely, Christine was not afraid anymore. She supposed finding one's soulmate dispelled much of life's uncertainties.
"You needn't worry yourself over Bruno. He will not touch you. I will make sure of it." Inwardly, she shook her head. How could he protect her? How, when he would leave her here?
"Do you hear me, Christine?" his tone sharpened, his grip on her hand tightened.
"He will not touch you. Believe me." Oh, how she wanted to! She wanted to believe Erik would sweep in and take her away from this horrid prison. How badly she wanted to believe!
"I don't know how I will do it or how long it will take, but I will find a way, Christine. I will!" he swore. Christine surged forward, pressing her lips to his in a clumsy, awkward advance. She pulled back just as suddenly.
"Thank you," she whispered. His eyes widened, holding to her face unblinkingly. The hand against her cheek stroked, his thumb curling gently around the hinge of her jaw.
"May I kiss you, Christine?" he asked, his voice threaded with a delicious richness, like cream and sugar. Her heart soared. He asked instead of took, wooed instead of raped! She rejoiced.
"Yes," she sighed, tilting her chin up meet him.
This kiss was so different from their fevered clinch; God was that only three hours ago? Christine felt as if she had lived and learned a lifetime's worth in that span. What they shared now was a true first kiss: a meeting of equals prompted by the stirrings of affection and discovery, sharing breath and soul and taste and pleasure. She knew now why the Madame charged extra for kissing. It was so . . . personal, in a way a more explicit connection was not. Whores learned how to detach, enshroud themselves in protective mental armor while men took their pleasure. You couldn't disconnect from a kiss. Nor, at the moment, did she particularly want to.
It felt so good, pleasure trickling down from their joined mouths to pool in her chest, between her thighs. He knelt perfectly still between her knees, hands braced on the bed, coaxing her mouth open with long, languid caresses. Christine sought his tongue, seeking that strong, slippery muscle and inviting it to join hers. So good . . . her hands kneaded his shoulders, glorying in the strength she found there. Strength he would bend to protect and shelter her, that would submit to her needs. For the first time in her life, Christine felt power. His animal heat pulsed underneath the fine white lawn of his shirt and Christine was assaulted by the potent desire to touch his naked skin. A strangled moan left her lips, vibrated against his.
She opened one eye, wondering why he was so still, so rigid in her embrace. Those long, graceful hands were locked into white-knuckled fists in the sheets, only his mouth engaged as her hands plunged into his hair, controlling the depth and angle of the kiss. A sound that could be only described as a whimper left his lips.
"Touch me, Erik," she said. Her voice was a stranger's. Sultry, husky with desire, breathed in between biting kisses along the swollen cushion of his lower lip. She would take her fill of him. Take, take all he would give.
"Oh God," Erik whispered, his breath wafting moist and warm over her face, "Mercy, Christine. I don't know if I can control myself. It's been so long since-"
"I want to. Please," she urged.
"No, darling," he insisted, grasping her shoulders and peeling back, "We need time. There is no need to rush." Christine felt something crumple inside her.
"Please! I need to know that it can be different! I need to know I can choose! Me! And I want you." Her gaze strayed to his lips, those full lips that offered such delight, the voice and soul behind them that was so bewitching to her. His hands rubbed her upper arms soothingly.
"This is different. You can choose. I understand, I do. But a handful of hours ago, I felt I was taking advantage of you, forcing you. I was no better than the man who raped you. To make love now . . . it's too soon." She wanted to cry and wail at him for denying her.
"What will I do when you leave?" she asked, sounding like the forlorn child who wept at her father's shallow grave. Erik made senseless crooning noises, ceaselessly rubbing her arms, kissing her forehead.
"I will return soon. I swear I'll find a way to free you," his voice shook with the force of his passion and she loved him for it. Spent of all emotion, Christine heaved a harsh sigh and leaned her forehead against his chest.
"Hold me, Erik. Please."
Erik rose and retrieved the coverlet and soon the two of them were burrowed beneath it. Christine clung to his warmth and solace until she slipped into a deep, restful sleep.
XXX
Erik spent the night suspended in a state of torturous bliss in Christine's embrace—fully clothed and perfectly chaste except for the long, sleepy, drugging kisses she initiated. Oh, the sweet pleasure of her mouth, the heavy pound of his heart in his chest and their limbs caught in a delicious tangle!
Sleep, if it came at all, was thin and fitful. Even on the infrequent occasion that he and Claire occupied the same bed, such pleasures were never indulged. Thus, the experience of a beautiful woman's sleep-heavy limbs twined with his, the warmth of her stale breath and the tickle of her hair under his nose was a novel one for him, even at his ripe age of thirty-seven.
Good God, he had been seconds from taking her when she said those words: Touch me, Erik. It was a heady thing to be wanted; whether it was a whore's professional desire or not. And Erik thought not. His and Christine's odd accord struck him as entirely frank. Christine simply did not possess the ability to be disingenuous. Only a lingering shred of sanity tinged with gut-clenching shame held him in check.
If it were not for the title foisted on him by Fate and his father, he would return this very night and quench the fire she'd built in him. But alas, there were the social demands of an aristocrat to consider. His skill as a musician was in demand for those who considered themselves sophisticated, such as the Comtesse de Chambourg's boorish husband, Comte François, who were to host a salon the day after tomorrow.
He paid the Madame, providing the necessary pleasantries, and stepped into the autumn sunshine. This time, Raoul's mellow voice did not greet him as he crossed the threshold into Monsieur Méchant's musty stable.
Typical. The moment he acutely needed the boy's presence he was nowhere to be found!
A quick scan of the area found it void of any bipedal life. Erik tireless brain presented him with a passing riddle. While this was not the only brothel Erik had frequented, he had also been a patron long enough to form a rapport with the ladies and Madame. Why was it that his and Raoul's paths had not crossed more often? His unconscious explanation was that Madame had her errand boy run ahead and attempt to suppress any awkward meetings with embarrassing family connections, but the answer didn't satisfy. Erik inspected the thought, turned it onto another angle, and promised to give it greater contemplation at a later time, filing it away with the uneasy political climate and the feasibility and logistics of fixed-wing aircraft means of travel.
A scrawny boy of roughly ten years of age who Erik did not recognize interrupted his musings with a discreet cough—or perhaps the beginnings of croup. Typical stable rat, undersized, skinny, dirty with that faint look of mingled awe and cool hatred for one of higher class. Also, that flicker of gaze that indicated staring at his mask and the unwilling fascination at what it might hide.
"My horse," Erik said with a terse gesture, accustomed to such looks, "the black stallion."
"I know your black, sir. I'll have him out in a thrice, sir!" the boy piped, scurrying away. Presently, the boy led César out to the yard, expertly holding the stirrup iron so he may mount. Once astride, Erik tossed the boy a coin.
"Raoul, the blond lad about ye high," Erik said, gesturing with his crop to a height roughly even with César's shoulder, "Do you know where he is? I must speak to him." The boy bit the coin to test its worthiness.
"Boy!" Erik snapped. The stable lad snapped to attention.
"Raoul. Where is he?" Erik repeated. The boy's eyes grew wide, all the color draining from his face beneath the smudges of dirt.
"I don't know nothing about that, sir! Good day to you, sir!" with that, the boy scuttled back into the dingy safety of the stable. Erik watched him go, easing back in his saddle with a faint creak.
The riddle merited more of his attention than le Bris and his glider.
A/N: Curiouser and curiouser. What do you think? Like it? Hate it?
FYI (a la Wikipedia): In 1856, Frenchman Jean-Marie Le Bris made the first powered flight, by having his glider "L'Albatros artificiel" pulled by a horse on a beach.
Christine's reference to the tie and subsequent internal bleeding (romantic and gruesome at the same time) is from Bronte's Jane Eyre.