X
Three days after the disastrous salon, Erik reined César toward Madame Sophia's brothel at a quarter past five o' clock. The setting sun peeked through chimney stacks and peered over roofs, washing the de Chagny townhouse and its neighboring residences in jaundiced triangles of light. César's snorted breaths came in vaporous white clouds and Erik tucked his chin against the wind's frigid chill. The combined weight of his father, Claire and Raoul burdened him grievously. He longed for Christine: her voice, her sweetness, her shy, honest nature. A small parcel was tucked in the vest pocket over his heart, but wooing his shy Swedish rose was not his only objective tonight.
Test the weak points, Nadir had said. Stealth had always been a skill of Erik's; through most of his childhood to be seen and heard meant the ridicule of hard, staring eyes or barbed words.
He quartered César in a livery stable several streets away from the red-light district, paid the hustler, and ducked into an alley. There he traded a vagabond his trademark cape and fedora for a heavy brown coat smelling strongly of acrid sweat and cheap beer and slouch hat. As he moved on, he drew his knife. The textured hilt brought with it a dark, unspeakable thrill, a memory of live steel in his hand with naught but his strength, wit and speed between him and death.
For a handful of wayward years after his son's death, he had left Claire's bed not for the embrace of a paid woman, but for the camaraderie of a gang of broken men who fought and stole and killed for a paltry coin. Erik looked at that angry, frustrated young man he had been with pity. The restless yearning to stifle the guilt screaming in his ears had not been appeased by those dark desires. Years brought experience and wisdom, but memory slumbered in muscle and sinew, nerve and bone. It waited in hibernation for a time when society's polite dictates would no longer hold sway and men fought for what was theirs with their fists. Erik could sense such a time in the air, not only in the pitched battle for his Christine, but on a larger scale. A vicious, ugly monster of war that would devour all of France. When it came, Erik would be strong enough to protect his own.
Erik crept through the alleys and ruins with remembered ease as shadows reached their cold hands out to embrace him. He affected a slight limp, projecting what he privately called 'the grey man.' I am nothing. I am no one. You don't see me. In this mindset with the right posture and dress, he could be invisible in plain sight. He could feel the gaze of the wretches and thieves, the orphans and the drunks slide over him, accepting him as a part of the landscape of their world.
Madame d'Avrigny's brothel was a wholly unremarkable building from without. A simple brownstone of four floors, pierced with few windows. Upon closer inspection, one saw the iron lattices covering the windows, the heavy doors, the sharply slanted roof, denying any purchase of hand or foot. The monster in the form of Bruno and his unknown number of underlings were another matter. His revolver only had six shots.
Erik slipped closer, circling the building, pacing like a tiger in a cage. The cold pierced the threadbare coat to curl against his naked skin and Erik welcomed it. It was the deep, tranquil cold of moonlight, not a warrior bleeding out his warmth onto a thirsty battlefield. His mind churned out plans, scenarios, contingencies. Fear hardened into determination. He would do this thing and count it the one good thing in the balance of his soul before God. Even if he had to maim and murder to do so. A light beckoned him within. A light with a face and a name . . .
Christine.
XXX
Their stilted conversations birthed an infant kinship between Christine and Raoul. They smiled and nodded to one another when they crossed paths throughout the day. It felt good knowing there was one person in this wretched place she was happy to see. She had forged no acquaintances. The other whores were quick to disparage her hair and her accent as well as snipe over Erik's preference for her. While all of them despised her for commandeering his attention, Louisa took particular umbrage to this fact. Christine sat apart from the others and ate her meals in isolation. If the painful hell of her imprisonment didn't kill her, loneliness would.
Had it really been only five days since Erik's last visit? Her hands fisted in the fuchsia-hued gown she wore, a matching rose pinned in the nest of her unruly hair. Oh God, if she had to wait another sixteen days until she saw him again, she would surely go mad! Christine heard the door open. She sought the vacant, smiling facade that carried her through encounter after demeaning encounter.
Tonight the brothel was busy; Christine and Pauline, a sumptuous woman of leonine coloring, were the only whores available. She heard the indistinct murmur of the Madame greeting the customer. The voice that answered washed her ears in liquid gold, the voice that lifted her from the mire of her existence and cradled her in loving hands. His voice.
It was all she could do to sit still and not fly down the hall into his arms. She could hear the faint thud of his step on the carpet; soon, soon, soon, she would see him . . . there! Her eyes devoured his lean form, saving the sweet agony of meeting his gaze for last. Clad in his traditional black evening garb, she saw the burgundy waistcoat beneath his coat patterned with subtle patterns in dark thread. Where was his cape and hat . . .? Such trifles were forgotten when she saw his beloved face and the familiar white mask. Erik did not smile; he was a much better actor than she. The exposed half of his face betrayed only a Vicomte's casual arrogance edged with boredom. But, oh!—electricity arched between their locked gazes, a sharp, thrilling jolt that she felt down to her toes. He broke the connection to bow at Pauline.
"Good evening, Pauline. I hope you are well this evening," he purred. Was that part of the charade too? Christine did not have time to consider it, because Erik's eyes were on her again and something inside her melted.
"Shall we?" he said softly, offering his hand.
They did not speak again until they were in the room Christine would forever consider 'theirs'—the Green Room over the kitchen. Erik closed the door behind him and Christine could no longer resist the impulse and flew into his embrace. His arms snapped closed around her and a harsh sigh of mingled pain and pleasure escaped her. She buried her face in his chest, taking great lungfuls of his masculine scent of sage and smoke and horse, nuzzling the fine fabric of his coat. A square lump in his coat pressed against her cheek, making this tight grip uncomfortable, but she didn't care. His voice rumbled from deep within, warm breath stirring her hair.
"I missed you," he rasped.
"I missed you too," she replied and meant 'I love you.' She knew this perfect moment would end soon and mourned its loss.
He peeled back only far enough to cup her cheek.
"You've been well?" he asked as she hungrily studied the bare left side of his face. Thick, expressive brows, those vivid eyes, his lean, freshly shaved cheek. And lips, full and soft . . . Christine rose on her tiptoes and pecked a kiss on his mouth. It was a simple, glancing kiss, the kind she imagined were exchanged between husband and wife when greeting each other after a day apart. She treasured the hope that such casual touches would soon merit more . . . She shrugged.
"As well as can be expected. I find my day has greatly improved," she whispered. He chuckled.
"You flatter me," he murmured, kissing her forehead.
He offered her his handkerchief with a smirk, green eyes dancing with mirth. Christine giggled and wiped off her cosmetics. Erik plucked the pins and garish rose from her hair and tossed them negligently in the direction of the table. There was a strange sort of freedom in the fact that he wanted her bare, it confirmed that he wanted her for herself.
"That's better," he said.
An awkward silence settled between them. A sharp knock at the door startled her. Erik opened the door and allowed a maid entrance, bearing a tray with their meal.
"Thank you," Erik said. The maid curtseyed and left.
The two of them sat before a roaring fire, slipping into the well-worn grooves of dining and conversing together. Intimacy flavored their exchanges: Erik's hand stroking the back of her wrist after pouring the wine, Christine fussily buttering his bread and having him nibble from her hand. The way he rolled his eyes in exaggerated ecstasy made her giggle.
He spoke of Elise and Jacqueline and their lessons. The way he described them, Christine felt she knew them already. She confided in him of her conversation with Raoul and something like regret danced across his face.
"Poor, unlucky Raoul," he said with a hard edge to his words. Christine faltered, fear beginning to flicker in her belly. Had that been the wrong thing to say?
"I give him a damned book and he thinks I hung the moon. I gave him a book and conveniently forgot he existed. I should have taken better care of him." A leaden pause filled the space between them and Christine knotted her hands in her napkin. She'd gone and spoiled it!
"Had our positions been reversed, I'm sure he would have tried to save me. He seems disgustingly sincere," Erik snarled, then caught a glimpse of her face. The stern planes of his face softened as he grasped her hand and kissed it.
"Christine, darling, you shouldn't fret. The kinship and history between Raoul and I is . . . complicated. I am glad that you have found someone to talk to. I apologize for my bitterness." Christine released the pent up breath she had been holding, relief stealing through her.
"Good. I thought I'd done something wrong." Erik shook his head.
"Of course not. Never be afraid to speak your mind with me."
Conversation diverted to the safer territory of their shared love of the arts and Christine delighted in the opportunity to teach him some of the dark stories of home her Papa would tell her.
"I have a gift for you," Erik said during a lull. An almost childlike glee at the promise of presents raced through her and she couldn't wipe the smile off her face.
"A present? For me?"
Erik removed a small parcel from his vest pocket, wrapped in homemade paper pressed with the delicate filaments of flower petals. Christine accepted the parcel with reverent hands and gently broke the wax seal with her thumbnail. Peeling back the paper, she beheld a small blue-covered book, roughly the size of her hand. She smiled radiantly, peering at the spine for a title. She felt a flicker of puzzlement when she saw none.
"Open it," Erik urged.
Christine pried back the freshly-bound book and breathed deep of the subtle perfume of adhesive, paper and leather. She gasped as she saw the inscription in elegant, looping scrawl: 'May all of your songs take flight. With all my love, Erik.' Her heart beat a little faster at the word 'love.' The next page was beautifully illuminated with vines twining around the first letter. Her eyes roved over the familiar stanzas of Shakespeare's sonnets. Written with his own hand in neat, precise lines in her native language! A knot rose in her throat, of pure emotion.
"I apologize if the translations are a bit crude. It has been many years since I've written Swedish. I wrote the French translations on the back of each page. I thought it might help you learn to read French." Christine stared at this thoughtful, painstaking gift in rapt wonder, struck speechless.
"Do . . . do you like it?" she heard the insecurity in his mellifluous voice and felt that surge of womanly power. She could break him with a wrongly worded phrase. The knot in her throat made it hard to speak. Christine had to swallow a few times before any words would emerge.
"It's . . . it's the finest gift I've ever received. Thank you," she whispered.
His entire attitude relaxed and a small, innocent smile touched his lips.
"I'm glad."
Christine set the book carefully on the table and rose, decision hardening into resolve. She marched to his chair, noting from a distance the puzzled discomfort and almost unwilling arousal in his face. In one fluid motion, she climbed into his lap and bent to claim his lips in a kiss. Oh, each kiss was a new discovery! The first was fueled by lust, the second by tenderness, and this . . . this existed wholly in love. Christine was madly in love with this man . . . in love with the beautiful, sensitive soul, the brilliant mind, the texture of his lips and the taste of his tongue and the feel of his hair knotted in her fingers.
Soon Erik seized control of the kiss, hands threaded in fistfuls of her hair, tongue dominating hers with wicked, soul-stealing skill. Heat and pleasure mingled and bloomed through her body, pooling in her breasts and between her thighs. Time ceased to have meaning as they lost themselves in the give and take of their kiss. Lips sometimes wandered to map the fresh territory of cheek and throat, only to return to that life-giving well of sensation. Minutes or hours could have passed without her notice.
In an almost drugged languor, Christine surfaced for air. The fire's heat throbbed against her back. That combined with Erik's animal warmth around and beneath her drew a film of sweat on her skin. She could feel the hard length of him trapped in his trousers, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Erik turned his amorous attentions to her throat. Soft, feathery kisses . . . oh God, a warm, wet rasp of tongue tasting her neck drew a low moan from her. She looked down at him, panting. The white mask glowed like a slice of moonlight.
"Take me to bed, Erik."
XXX
Erik closed his eyes against the husky plea in Christine's voice, made all the more devastating with her position astride his lap, her lips swollen from his kisses and dark eyes afire. By force of will, he disengaged his hands from the warm, silken haven of her hair to knead her upper arms. He would not have a repeat performance of his previous lecherous behavior. Would this ever stop? This beautiful, burning magic that surged between them and obliterated any thought beyond the primitive desire to claim her in every way possible?
"Christine. . . " her name was prayer, plea and demand all rolled into one, "please do not construe my gift as some sort of bargaining chip to-"
"I don't," she cut in quickly, "I know you wouldn't expect that. You're not like the others. You're a good man," she said with childlike faith.
Crippling remorse filled every corner of his blackened soul. Before Christine, he took his pleasure in brothels at the expense of a whore's dignity and his wife's pride; he had killed and stolen simply because he could, simply because he needed darkness to conceal this horrible, horrible guilt. And she called him a good man.
"No, I'm not. Christine, if you only knew what I've done, you'd curse me as a monster."
As Claire and my father do, was the silent addendum. Christine's smile was gentle.
"You love your sisters and your children. You have enough honor to regret not caring for a bastard brother that the rest of the world, including your father, cast aside. You care enough for my soul to take considerable pains to ensure my dignity and sanity. That sounds like a good man to me." Her hands fisted in his coat and kneaded his chest like a cat. A desperate light burned in her rich brown eyes.
"I want this, Erik. Please." In a gesture of defeat, he drew her down and pressed a trembling kiss to her forehead. He wanted it so badly. He wanted her, and was a selfish enough man to grasp what she offered with both hands.
"I cannot deny you."
A/N: The business with the will merits some explanation, if my beta's thoughts and my (ahem) lack of reviews indicate.
Michel is concerned first and foremost with the continuity of the de Chagny line and keeping the wealth and position he has accrued over several decades. He knows the obstacles Erik faces in his marriage and has the sneaking suspicion that Erik will die childless. Primogeniture is still in play and as such, Elise and Jacqueline will inherit nothing or very little. Michel's plan is to make his bastard son Raoul legitimate by a forged marriage certificate and have him inherit the title of Comte should Erik die without an heir. As an added measure, this plan also serves as a controlling measure for Erik, forcing him to keep the title so he can train Raoul in the ways of nobility.
Whew. Sorry for the long-winded-ness of that.
E/C smut coming up soon!