A/N: To know you guys are liking this bizarre creation of mine makes my day. This chapter has a strong resemblance to WH - but don't ever look for exact duplicates to either classic - I'm doing my own thing, too.

VIII

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Berta regarded the pair of them with an expression of profound horror, Christine, especially, as she took in her wild, loose hair, now dripping to her waist, and the poor condition of the ruined silk gown that clung to her shivering form. Even the rain had not been enough to wash away the soil from where she'd lain on the earth beneath Erik. At the time, she had forgotten all about the dress.

She darted a glance to where he stood beside her. A look she couldn't read sobered his countenance, before Berta snapped out of her shock.

"Lord in heaven, child!" Berta rushed to Christine, throwing a shawl around her and drawing her near the kitchen fire to sit in a chair before it. "What have you done to put yourself in such a state? Sit. Sit. I will pour you some tea."

Berta's words brought back the memory of what she'd done. The reason for her condition brought heat not caused by the fire into Christine's cheeks and forehead. "Never mind, Berta. You must help Erik. That wretched cousin of mine whipped him then locked him in the stables. No doubt if he doesn't find him there come morning, his fate will be ten times worse!"

Berta's eyes grew wide and she looked toward the kitchen door as if afraid the master of the house might make an appearance and whip her too. She needn't have worried. There was as much chance of Henri lowering himself to visit the kitchens as there was of his new wife becoming the scullery maid!

"Berta!" Christine urged, ready to treat Erik's wounds herself, though her maid surely would have argued that it would be improper … but not as improper as rolling around on the moors with him in heated passion, ready to surrender her virtue by letting him, no, begging him in a fevered haze of silence to touch her so intimately … The memory brought a hot rush of that same desire mixed with a sobering amount of shame – had her Papa known what a wicked young girl she'd become, he never would have promised to send her any angel, though she had long stopped believing in the fabled Angel of Music.

"Miss Christine, you're sitting too close to the fire. Come away a bit. Your face is bright red." Berta regarded Erik, who still hesitated in the entrance. She retrieved a washbasin and cloth. "Alright then. Let's see what he's done to you this time."

This time? Christine's heart seemed to catch in her throat. Meaning there were other atrocities Henri had inflicted on Erik in the month and week she'd been absent?

Before she could ask, Erik moved forward and removed his shirt, throwing it down to the stones. Christine drew in a slow, shaky breath at the sight of him. She knew it wasn't polite to stare, that she should avert her gaze … but felt helpless to look away.

His chest was as magnificent and solid as his back, chiseled and lean, and she felt a second infusion of warmth that was also no cause of the fire. Fine tufts of dark hair sparsely covered his faintly browned skin, as if he'd worked without his shirt a number of days, his arms and shoulders as muscular as the rest of his form. Neither Berta nor Erik noticed how she stared, or how she tried not to, becoming more flustered with each passing minute that she could not avert her gaze from him.

Berta drew in a hiss through her teeth at the sight of Erik's back and set to work quickly, tsking sounds of grim disapproval. She applied a paste and bound him with strips of cloth. Erik didn't look Christine's way, not once. At first this relieved her, for she didn't want him to catch her gawking at his half naked body, but soon his avoidance became an irritation since he seemed determined to pretend she wasn't there.

"I'll try to save your dress, Miss, but I'm not sure it's possible, the cloth is so fine," Berta said, tying a last strip of cloth around Erik's torso.

"We had no expectation of being caught in the storm, no warning whatsoever." Christine's eyes never left Erik's lowered ones. "It happened so suddenly and took both of us … quite unaware." She willed him to look her way at her deliberate words and felt some satisfaction at the dull flush of color in his face and his knowledge that he knew she referred to much more than the downpour.

"Tsk. Tsk. Erik, it would be best for you to return to the stables now before the master knows you're here. Mind that ye try not to set him off to punish you again."

"The very act of my breathing sets Henri off." His voice, fluid and rich, startled Christine when he had so long been silent. He rose from the chair, thanked Berta and gave Christine's corner of the room a bare nod before leaving the kitchen and heading outdoors.

Christine blinked, her mouth parting in resentful surprise. Those same distant golden eyes of his had certainly taken in their fill of her a scant hour before! As had his mouth and his hands … and now he gave her about as much notice as a barn cat?

She seethed with anger, feeling spurned. Once Berta undid the tiny buttons along her back, Christine practically ripped the gown from her body to give to the servant, who draped a blanket around her shoulders. Christine threw herself back down into the chair.

"Dry your hair with this." Berta gave her a length of toweling then examined the gown more closely. "Whatever were ye doin' out there, child? The soil is ground in badly and covers the whole backside of the dress … did ye take a tumble?"

The fire of anger and embarrassment set her cheeks aflame again. "Yes, I took a tumble."

Fast and hard for a rake, an unfeeling cad who was more often than not as sociable as a mummy in a tomb!

Berta sighed at her clipped words as if she didn't believe them. "Tell me about your time at The Grange. I hope ye bided there well and passed your birthday with gladness?"

Christine managed a smile. "They were kind and hospitable." She launched into a brief recounting of her stay at the de Chagny residence. "Raoul - that is what he has asked me to call him - is quite pleasant. He insinuated that he wishes to further our acquaintance."

"Oh?" Berta's eyes regarded her sharply.

"Yes, he is all that a gentleman should be. Considerate and agreeable and polite."

"You sound quite taken with the Vicomte."

"Taken with him?" she snorted. "Don't be absurd, Berta."

"And why should ye not be taken, Miss? He is handsome, wealthy and titled. You are sixteen now, of an age to consider a husband. Henri would be pleased by such a match. You sound as if ye would be content with living there. I cannot see the hindrance."

"Then you are blind." Christine frowned, staring into the flames. "The greatest hindrance lies here!" She pounded her fist over her heart. "Or perhaps, here!" She slapped the flat of her palm against her forehead.

"And would Erik be the cause of this hindrance?" Berta asked in a knowing way.

Christine chose not to answer.

"Perhaps, then, your heart is already taken." Berta took a damp brush to the gown she'd spread out over the table.

"I don't know what you mean." The belying burn on Christine's face once again betrayed her feelings. Why must she have such pale skin that flushed so readily?

"Erik, Miss. Perhaps it is him that you love."

The damning words, so casually aired, gave her no little distress.

"Love Erik?" she gave a scoffing little laugh, her earlier annoyance with him fueling words that were no part of her. "How can any woman in her right mind love someone like him?"

"Miss Christine!" Berta breathed in shock at her fierce denial.

"It's true, Berta. He's cruel and insensitive and cold! He's brooding and dark and at times he frightens me. He always speaks of curses and other devilish talk. A woman would have to be mad to entrust her heart to Erik or consider him for a husband! He's such an insufferable boor! Sometimes I wish he'd never come to The Heights, that he'd just go away and leave me in peace!"

Her heart called her a wicked liar and she wondered where such false, hateful words had sprung from, a sickening geyser that burst from the depths of her misery. The words left a sour taste in her mouth and she wiped it with the back of her hand and dashed the tears from her eyes. She had been so happy when she arrived to The Heights such a short hour ago, so eager to see Erik and be with him.

Oh, what had gone so wrong?

Berta cleared her throat awkwardly. "Well, at least that would satisfy the master, since he's forbidden you to have much of anything to do with Erik."

"To hell with my cousin, too. I care not one whit what Henri thinks and will do as I bloody well please!"

Berta stopped whisking the brush over the gown and stared at her in horror, clearly at a loss. "But … I thought …"

Christine managed a slow intake of breath then gave her old nursemaid a weary, sad smile, now penitent for her sharp outburst. "Which is far more than I've been doing, Berta. I could no more separate myself from Erik than I could cut out my tongue and never sing again."

Berta shook her head. "But surely you were right to say you could never marry him. The master has brought Erik down so low from what your good Papa planned for the lad. What future could there be for the two of you, Miss? You would both be paupers."

Christine rubbed her arms, not wanting to hear such talk, feeling cold and wishing for his arms to warm her again, wishing he could love her profoundly, unceasingly, without measure. Not as a friend, but as … a wife. She could withstand anything then, even poverty. Yet he'd never spoken one word to her of that kind of love. Burning for someone was not love. Could that be the source of these strange, exciting, disturbing emotions she felt for him? Mere lust?

No, she did not even need to consider such an idea, not for a moment. What she felt for Erik was much more intricate and demanding than simple lust. It involved much more than the physical.

Calmed by that knowledge, all of what Christine felt in her heart forced its way through her tight throat. The need to speak the truth, at last, was more powerful than the urge to express the vile lies she earlier spouted.

"Strange as it may seem, I cannot consider giving myself to any other man," she whispered, almost to herself, and gave a humorless laugh. "I suppose, then, that makes me mad."

Berta looked at her sympathetically.

Christine sighed and sat back in the chair, holding the blanket more tightly around her. "For each of his faults, he has ten worthy qualities. Every misfortune Erik has suffered, I have felt as if it were my own and more deeply than my own pain, for he is always there to lessen my sorrows and help me forget … Yes, he is often moody and silent, and no one will ever understand all of his mystery. But I accept that, because it's a part of who he is. If anyone knows him as well as can be done, it is I; and I alone will ever understand him." She gave a helpless little self-deprecating laugh. "He's like the very air I breathe – necessary and invigorating to my flesh. And he's like the ground beneath my feet – solid and true. And he's like the moors – wild and passionate and full of beauty and life and music …" Tears filled her eyes, rolling down her cheeks as she looked up. "Without him, there would be no substance to my world. All would cease to exist and become void. My God, Berta, Erik IS my soul. We need no vows to join us – we are already one!"

Berta looked at her with astonished horror, as if she'd spoken sacrilege. She glanced toward the kitchen entrance in alarm, then back to Christine.

"What?" Christine sat forward. "Why do you look so queer?"

"I think he came back, Miss."

"Came back?" She struggled to understand then noticed his forgotten shirt lying on the kitchen flagstones. A feeling of dread rose, so strong, it suffocated her heart and she could barely form her question. "What did he hear?" she asked very quietly.

"I ..." Berta looked uneasy. "It was when you were yelling how you wish he would go away ... I heard the door softly close. And Joseph wouldn't come and go without stating his business here –"

"My God – why did you just stand there? Why didn't you tell me?"

Christine leapt to her feet and ran for the entrance.

"Miss, ye cannot go out there like that! You'll catch your death for sure!"

Christine wrenched open the door and ran into the rain.

"Erik! ERIK – WHERE ARE YOU?" She raced to the stables. "ERIK – I'M SORRY – I DIDN'T MEAN A WORD OF IT – I SWEAR I DIDN'T!" She threw open the door, but he wasn't inside. However Cesar, one of Henri's thoroughbreds, was missing from his stall.

No … Oh, God, no … no ... no!

Horror made Christine back away and whirl from the stable. Sanity fled as she raced out of the courtyard and the gate, ignoring Berta who stood at the door, begging her to come back inside. All that mattered was finding Erik and bringing him home. The mire of the road sucked at her flimsy slippers. She pulled them off and left them behind, soon discarding the cumbersome blanket as well.

"ERIK!"

Her hot tears fell in abundance, mixing with the cold rain. How could she have been so hard and foolish and cruel to speak such hateful words foreign to her heart, words she didn't mean? Could never mean? Words he had heard …

Dear God!

Her chemise stuck to her skin as she continued down the road, stumbling and sliding in the mud. In the distance, she could see the faint outline of a solitary horse and rider. She tried to run faster but the rain and deep mire acted as her adversaries.

"ERIK – COME BACK! … I DIDN'T MEAN IT … I LOVE YOU – ONLY YOU! … YOU HAVE MY SOUL … ALL OF MY HEART … YOU ALWAYS HAVE … ONLY YOU … EVER WILL … PLEASE … PLEASE … GOD, PLEASE … DON'T LEAVE ME!"

The wind snatched her words away. Robbed of breath, she fell to her knees in the mud.

"Please don't go," she rasped through a burning throat, knowing it was too late, knowing he could not have heard her … knowing she might never see him again.

And in that empty, black moment, she wished only to die.

xXx