XII
Christine nestled against Erik's side under the coverlet, resting her head in a spot between his shoulder and chest. She fit. She fit there as if God had designed them to be together. A pleasant ache pervaded her body, a latent thrum of pleasure surging through her veins as her heartbeat slowed. It made her crude reality that much more heinous when she knew what beauty could exist between a man and a woman. She breathed deep of Erik's musky, masculine scent of sage and smoke and sweat, one hand smoothing over his sweat-dewed chest, palm tingling with delight at the rub of his body hair and the pert bud of his erect nipple. Likewise, his callus-roughened hand slid down her back, his face nuzzling her hair.
"What's this?" she asked drowsily, plucking at the locket resting in the hollow in the center of his chest. A flat, silver rectangle groaning with slithering, vine-like embellishment etched into its surface, pleasantly warm from his body heat, Christine could see it was slightly tarnished at its corners.
"Hmm?" Erik grunted, opening one eye. The stroking hand wandered up and began lazily toying with her fingers. Christine made a soft sound of contentment watching their fingers weave and braid together.
"Oh that? It was my mother's. An old Moreau heirloom. My mother put a lock of my hair in it. She said she could keep me safe if she wore a part of me close to her heart. When she grew ill, I added a lock of hers to keep safe. I would have put my children's hair inside, but it didn't seem fair when some weren't even born when I lost them. I wrote requiems for them instead." His beautiful voice had so many textures and colors. In those few sentences, she tasted the salt of tears and bitter sorrow.
"I would like to hear them sometime," she whispered, bringing his hand to her mouth for a kiss. That hand cupped her chin, his green eyes the warm water of a lagoon she could bathe in.
"I'd like that," he replied huskily, drawing her close for a lingering kiss.
Christine hummed in pleasure, enjoying the dance of lips and tongue, the scent and taste of him. Love you, want you, love you . . . When they broke away, Erik kissed her forehead and Christine nuzzled his throat, loving the throb of his pulse under her lips. His voice vibrated against her face: "I . . . would you . . . may I have a lock of your hair? I would . . . I would very much like to keep you safe in my heart."
Christine sucked in a gasp, arms tightening around him. She sat up, needing to see his face. A stray thought marveled at how easily she had accepted his mask. It was as much a part of him as his graceful hands. The visible half of his face was as inscrutable as his masked side and she could see the tense, wary hope that gripped him. His words edged close to a declaration of love, and being madly in love with him as she was, Christine longed to say yes. She frowned.
"Your wife . . . ?" she trailed off, hoping he would divine her meaning. The small, sad smile she knew so well quirked his mouth.
"No. Claire never asked about it, but I didn't offer, either." Christine released the breath she didn't know she was holding and nodded, feeling guiltily relieved.
Pecking a quick kiss on his mouth, she slid from the warm haven of bed and rooted through their discarded clothing for his waistcoat. Brandishing his sheathed dagger, she returned to bed and presented it to him. Erik's smile was like the sun rising. Christine selected a curling lock near her nape, so Madame wouldn't notice. The dark steel of his dagger flashed in the candlelight and Christine didn't even feel the pressure as it cut. She watched him gather the unruly lock with something like reverence and secret it away in his locket beside two slender black loops: his own hair nestled next to his mother's. Her happiness dimmed at the thought of his mother's repugnance at choosing a whore to grant such an honor to.
"She would have adored you, I'm sure of it," Erik said, cupping her cheek and Christine treasured it as at the compliment it was.
Christine swallowed the lump in her throat and glanced at the clock. Three in the morning. Panic unfurled in her chest, three measly hours and he would leave. And she would die. She would die without him. He was breath and life, blood and freedom. Erik's face mirrored both her despair and naked fear. Christine contemplated the naked blade and seized a wild thought. Christine dragged her thumb over the blade, watching as blood welled from the cut with a faint throb of pain. Erik cursed and leapt up to retrieve a handkerchief.
"Christine, why did you do that?" he demanded, face creased with concern as he cradled her bleeding hand with the snowy lawn. She watched dark red blood stain the linen and was dimly grateful for Erik's quick thinking. If she stained the bedclothes, Madame would take the price of new ones from her already meager pay.
"I want something of yours to carry with me," she said, offering her bleeding thumb. Erik considered her for perhaps half a second before he raked his thumb with the dagger and pressed it to hers, their blood mingling. She could feel the pulse of their hearts and she fancied they beat as one.
"Blood of my Blood. Flesh of my Flesh," he whispered, eyes shining. The moment thickened and heated, like sun-warmed honey. Christine felt the now-familiar ache of desire grow in her belly.
"Erik," she said huskily, "please." Erik surged forward with a soft growl, pressing her down into the mattress and capturing her mouth. The locket swayed between them and Christine closed her bleeding hand around it. She wasn't alone anymore.
XXX
Erik found himself fighting tears as the sun's gentle rays pierced the iron lattice covering the windows. Their souls had woven together, how could he leave without rending them both into tatters? He'd lost his mind making love to her, tender strokes reduced to an animal branding his mate with his touch. Seized by the same wild, desperate imperative, Christine urged him on with feverish kisses, clawing nails and thrusting hips. Their mutual climax blasted sanity into nothingness and redefined the words pleasure and unity. But alas, soon their souls were housed in two bodies once more. In the aftermath, she clung to him and he to her, willing time to stop.
When time proved deaf to their pleas, Erik settled on a plan. He questioned Christine on every minute detail on the layout and workings of the brothel. The talk warded away despair, provided direction and action and they both clung to it.
"I will get you out of here. But I must be sure I can do so with your complete safety." Her smile was heartbreakingly brave.
"As long as there is hope I'll survive."
A declaration lurked between them and Erik pursed his lips against it. He'd be damned if he offered her words of love while she remained a slave! It would be too cruel. Any promises he made would be empty. They would survive, goddamn it!
Bruno's pounding knock broke the illusion of safety. He watched her flinch and felt a savage desire to slit the brute's throat here and now! But he wouldn't be doing Christine any favors being thrown in prison.
"He'll die slowly if he touches you." Erik couldn't stem the savage oath from leaving his lips. Christine swallowed hard, looking down at her hands, the wound of their blood-bonding on her thumb crusted over.
"You should . . . go." The halting cadence of her words shattered his heart.
A cry rose in his throat, the cry of an animal shredding its flesh trying to escape a trap. They rose and dressed, not looking at each other. It hurt too much. It hurt too fucking much! Erik turned toward her, shifting awkwardly on his feet. He wanted to hold her so badly . . . Seated on the edge of the bed, Christine wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth, eyes clenched tightly shut.
"Go," she whispered. And God help him, he obeyed. He stepped out of that room, smiled and traded ripostes with the girls, paid the Madame with obsequious admonishments, all the while dying by inches.
It was easier to breathe outside, each step taken with a distant sort of wonder that he was still alive away from her. The air was cold and clear, a thin veil of fog muting shapes. The film of ice from frozen puddles crunched under his shoes. A flash of blond out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and he beheld Raoul with something like relief.
"Raoul!" he shouted. The boy, laden with what looked to be half a dozen bridles draped over his person, halted and turned. His puzzled wariness gave way to genuine pleasure when he saw who had called him. He held up two fingers.
"A moment, sir. I'll have your black out in a thrice, sir."
"Just a moment, Raoul. I'd like to speak to you." His brother's blue eyes—the same piercing blue as their sire's—were wide and startled. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
"I'll be right back," Raoul said, disappearing into the stable's dim recesses.
Around the corner out of the brothel's view, Erik found two overturned buckets on which to sit and took his ease. He would not turn around and try to glimpse her through the windows. He would not think of her shattered expression. He would not touch his locket through his shirt . . .
The hesitant crunch of boots on gravel captured his attention and his eye traveled up Raoul's thin, dirty form. His left eye was black and swollen and Erik somehow knew it was not from a simple scuffle with another stableboy. There was a sort of nervy readiness in the lad's air that suggested a brutal, uncertain life. Erik marveled at the gruff protectiveness that rose in his breast.
"Have a seat," Erik said, gesturing a gloved hand toward the bucket opposite him. Raoul sat, nervously chewing on his thumbnail.
"What happened with that?" Erik said, tapping beneath his left eye, "did someone jump you?" Raoul's blue eyes narrowed.
"I can take care of myself, sir."
"Erik."
"Huh?"
"You may call me Erik. If you like," he tacked the last on as an afterthought. Suspicion weighed heavily in the boy's expression. His entire manner screamed: What do you want?
Erik truly didn't know. He wanted to enlist Raoul's help in keeping Christine safe. He wanted to ask why he hadn't seen Raoul more often during his visits here. He wanted to know how many of Méchant's boys would come to Bruno's aid when Erik attempted to free Christine. He wanted to know what manner of man his father would raise to the rank of Vicomte simply at the word of a whore and a pair of blue eyes. Erik wasn't sure which he wanted most, or if deep down, he wanted to know Raoul as his brother. Forthright dealings seemed vastly preferable to his father's complex machinations.
"Erik," Raoul said, tasting the name on his tongue, "where'd you learn to fight?" Erik arched a brow, hearing the doubt in the younger man's voice. A brittle smile touched his lips.
"I had already bested the emperor's fencing master before you were born. I am a decent hand with a knife as well." Raoul eyes gleamed with a clean, almost innocent admiration.
"I've heard," he said quietly, then dropped his gaze to a piece of gravel he nudged with the toe of his worn boot. Erik shifted uncomfortably. Elise and Jacqueline also indulged in a manner of hero worship where he was concerned, but that was built upon years of teasing and cosseting and spoiling. Raoul was a kicked dog who adored the hand that gave him a cursory pat.
"I've heard other things too."
"I had an . . . intemperate youth," Erik remarked, unwilling to explore which rumors—or truths—he heard from whom. Raoul nodded sagely.
"I hear you've taken a liking to the new girl, Christine."
"You hear a great deal," Erik said very dryly. Raoul shrugged as if his shirt was too tight. It was an insecure little gesture that reminded Erik piercingly of himself.
"Yes," Erik answered, "Christine is-" words failed to describe her! "-singular."
"She's nice," Raoul said in tepid agreement.
An awkward silence fell between them and Raoul shivered in the stable's shade. The sight pierced Erik and he cleared his throat.
"I could show you a couple things. To keep this from happening again," he offered with another vague gesture toward his face. A wary, fugitive joy stole over Raoul's expression.
"Really? Knife-fighting, like you?" Erik shrugged, as if the matter was of little import and didn't charge him with the same quiet sort of pleasure.
"Knife-fighting, fist-fighting, whatever you like." It was his right, after all. No de Chagny should disgrace their illustrious name by getting his arse beaten—no matter which side of the sheets he was born on.
"What—what if there's more than one? Could you teach me how to get away?" A niggling, maddening twinge of curiosity piqued in the back of Erik's brain. Who would be pummeling this unobtrusive and assiduous lad—and for what reason?
"Of course," Erik said. Raoul smiled, revealing small, even teeth, offering his hand for Erik to shake.
"Deal."
When Erik returned to the Château several hours later, clothes torn and muddied and bleeding from a cut on his lower lip, he was thankful all of the family was busy with their morning tasks. Claire found him an hour later, washed and tended, seated behind his desk managing the townhouses' accounts for the last quarter.
He glanced up at her slender form in the doorway and offered a cursory greeting: "Good morning, Claire." Claire closed the door with a sharp snap and Erik silently prayed for patience. Since she never sought his company for pleasurable reasons, his only deduction was that she wanted to pick a fight. Erik finished out the column and set the ink to dry before turning his attention to his wife.
"I spoke with Madame Dupont at length. She is one of the few noble ladies who keep their word. Etienne's venture is safe on that score." Not that the boy has the sense required to keep an ambitious naval contract afloat. Erik mentally snorted at the inadvertent pun. Claire's thin, unsmiling mouth told him she was unappeased.
"This must stop, Erik." Anger gathered in his belly, a hungry, defensive thing.
"Explain." Claire's eyes shone with enraged tears.
"These . . . visits you make! To that horrid brothel." Erik exhaled heavily through his nostrils, slouching into a position of louche insouciance.
"I've frequented such establishments for years, Claire. Why the sudden protest? Are you jealous?" The last phrase he layered with a particular blend of petty malice and scathing doubt. Claire stiffened, long white fingers plucking at her skirts.
"Jealous of those harlots? Never! It is my husband who lacks all sort of mannerly consideration for my needs!"
Erik's raised one inky, eloquent brow. A smile toyed with his lips.
"Your needs?" he repeated, adding a sinuous sensual flavor to the words. A ripple shivered through Claire's unbending form, her face set in a moue of disgust.
"My need for a husband who respects me," she retorted with a hint of petulance. Erik's faint amusement dissipated. He scowled.
"I have been suitably discreet. I never return smelling of perfume with smudges of rouge on my collar. Your precious Etienne has no less than three mistresses he gallivants about with, for fuck's sake! And you accuse me of being inconsiderate?"
"Do you have any idea what they say about me? You're making a fool of me!" Erik's jaw clenched. This revolving carousel of futility typified their marriage. He would do or say something, or not say something, and it would hurt her.
"Why must we continue this farce of a union, Claire?" He paused, swallowing a hot knot of years-old pain. A flicker of emotion danced over her face, settling on quiet despair.
"Please, Erik."
"Please, what? I've tried for twenty years to please you and failed. I want this to end." Something like panic settled over her and she reached across the chasm of his desk and gripped his arm.
"No! You can't!" she said. Erik shook off her grip and paced the length of the room.
"Why do you want to stay? I cannot make you happy, no matter how hard I try. You are entitled to half of what I have. You would be comfortable. Why stay trapped here?" Her face twisted into a familiar expression of loathing. His wife's laugh was a harsh, brittle thing.
"Oh yes, can you hear what everyone would say? There goes Claire. The poor dear, even her deformed wretch of a husband doesn't want her!" the venom in her voice seared him.
A part of him wanted to retaliate, to rend her to pieces with his words and watch her crumple into a sobbing heap at his feet. Instead, he spoke calmly: "Is your fear of public censure so great that you would spend the rest of your life with a man you hate?" Claire tilted her chin, thin lips pressed tight together.
"Unlike you, I put my family's welfare before my own selfish needs."
"Good for you," Erik shot back acerbically.
He yanked open the drawer to his desk holding the slender folder his father's lawyer had drawn up for him. He tossed it with a trifle more force than necessary, sending it skittering across the desk and landing with a faint thud at her feet.
"There are my terms. One signature and you are free. Consider it, at least."
A/N: Angst abounding! Hang with me dear readers! More soon!