A/N: thank you for the reviews - please keep them coming! :)
Chapter XXVII
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Christine's wait lasted much longer than she could have anticipated.
Jolene soon returned with news that the Maestro was nowhere to be found. Christine then waited in vain for his return, and though she heard him speak to Jolene in the lake room, he did not come to her that evening…
Or the next…
Or the next…
His calculated distance sharpened her ire. Apparently his absurd command for her seclusion now extended to all living beings, including himself! After Jolene's slim disclosures, the girl did not open up to her again, keeping all tasks that involved Christine brief and hurrying away once they were accomplished. The boy remained absent, though at times she sensed him peek around the corner at her, only to scurry off when she would turn her head and catch his eye.
The days and nights were sequenced by the meals Jolene brought. After being served three times with morning's clear broths and evening's thick stews, Christine reasoned that three days must have passed. She slept most of the time, slowly regaining strength. On the fourth occasion Jolene brought her broth, she asked and Jolene confirmed that it had indeed been four days since Christine woke from the fever.
And still she waited for the elusive Phantom to make an appearance.
He remained frustratingly absent, showing no inclination to abide by her wishes to speak with him, though she knew Jolene had delivered her appeal for an audience with the man. Ten times she had asked the girl to deliver her request - each morning and afternoon and the past two evenings.
Upon hearing the reverberating strains of the organ, as she had at the close of each day, Christine pressed her mouth into a thin line and pushed aside her empty stew bowl.
She had endured enough.
With her courage bolstered, she rose from his bed, limbs still shaky from being bedridden. She had built up strength walking to the privy chamber a few times each day and felt she could undertake this too. With nothing but her shift and no wrapper, she pulled the sheet from the wide bed and draped herself in its generous folds.
Moving to the entrance, she looked toward the rock dais and glared at the back of the stubborn man seated at the massive pipe organ.
x
The Phantom kept his attention on the unfinished musical composition spread before him, forcing bare concentration on the recent addition of escalating notes.
She made no noise, but he knew she was there. He sensed her close behind … as he had sensed her throughout the past four days … throughout the past two weeks, from the moment she had opened the back stage door and entered the opera house and he watched her make her way through the chaos of performers. As he had always been able to sense her presence in all the time he had known her.
Once he considered such a facility good fortune. Now it was only a curse.
Since he'd brought her to his private chambers, in the early morning hours before each dawn's arrival, and against all better judgment, he had slipped into his bedchamber to watch briefly while she slept. To ensure she was alive. Then had forced himself to move away. Storming through hidden corridors and into the sleeping theatre to the height of exhaustion, only to return and fall into fitful slumber. Harsh memories of when she tangled with feverish death from a cur's attack had been his constant torment. Their last encounter, culminating in a desperate embrace and coming on the heels of almost losing her again, had shaken him and his well-ordered plan to its cracking foundations.
Indifference had been harder to recapture, but his feelings did not revise what he knew to be true. About her. About that fiendish boy with the wretchedly perfect face. The Vicomte would arrive soon enough, he was certain of that, and when he did he would know hell for what he'd done. It was imperative to keep detached and distant in order to persist with the scheme to keep her trapped here. If she broke again, God help him, so might he… He could not relent! Damn it! He had worked too hard to reach this point.
But he had underrated her tenacity to speak with him. And though he kept his attention fixed ahead and could not see her, he felt her silent approach, the experience almost tangible.
Over the past four days, Jolene's messages of Christine's desire for an audience with him had changed from - "The mademoiselle would like to speak with you, Maestro." - to - "She says to tell you she must see you at once."
From all he knew about Christine, he should have known she would not yield, his unspoken refusal an impetus to her wretched stubbornness in compelling her to seek him out.
With a terse breath he lifted his hands from the keys and scratched out another notation with his pen. He cursed his hand that trembled.
"Monsieur Phantom."
He stiffened his spine at her curt address coming from the foot of the dais.
"You should be in bed," he said abruptly without turning.
"Since you have so obstinately refused to acknowledge my request, I had no choice but to leave it." Innumerable seconds of tension elapsed. "At least have the courtesy to look at me when we speak."
A chill swept through him at the unwanted memory of such words, words from another lifetime - of that last day he had been with her, spoken to her. He had heard all of what she said to him - then…
And enough of what she spouted to her maid later.
With a scowl he turned on the bench and regarded her with blatant disapproval.
"Well?" he snapped impatient to be rid of her.
"Why is it that the children run from me?"
He stared, undergoing a momentary lack of comprehension. That was why she was so adamant to speak with him? Because of the children?
She stood perilously close to the edge of the bank, wrapped in maroon silk with at least a yard of sheet trailing behind, her hair a chaotic mass of curls hanging to her waist. The bloom of roses again had entered her cheeks and her haunted eyes sparkled with new fire.
God, she was exquisite…
"Will you not answer?" She took a step forward, stumbling a little on her ridiculous attire. Her hand shot out from draped maroon and grabbed the statue of a phoenix, saving her fall.
With an oath he exploded up off the bench and down three steps, grabbing her arm before she pitched head first into the cold lake.
"Let me go." She tried pulling away.
Had he released her, she would have fallen into the water.
"Be quiet," he rasped.
He put his hands to where hers clutched silk around her and forced them away, then ripped the silk from her shoulders. She gawked at him, silent for once as he threw the sheet from her body.
With great effort, he forced himself not to look at sensual curves and shadows, her slight figure outlined in the near transparent ivory shift - and rapidly lifted her into his arms.
"Wh-what do you think you're doing?" she whispered, her hand instinctively going to his shoulder to hold on. She did not struggle to be free of him, did not even move, and in mild confusion he studied her face.
Her eyes were wide with shock, a hint of remaining sparkle lighting their dark depths. He could make out every feathery lash that framed them. Her lips faintly parted, trembling…
The desire to press his mouth to hers and relearn their supple lines overwhelmed him, the faded memory of her sweet taste a cruel enticement to know it so powerfully again. His wounded heart knocked hard against his ribs, her softness and warmth clouding all sense. Fire ignited his veins to bring erotic dreams into reality, to carry her up to his bedchamber and lie with her in his bed.
A shimmer of alarm rippled in the twin pools of her eyes before they lowered and focused on his mouth. A tiny whimper of protest sounded at the back of her throat even as her fingers dug into his shoulder.
He hardened his jaw, his muscles tensing. She had no knowledge that her fright could not begin to amount to her horror should she glimpse what lay behind the mask, for more reason than one…
She feared a Phantom, a criminal, both of which he was, not knowing he was also the gargoyle she had spurned and no more than a monstrous appellation to humanity. Unworthy of love from such a beautiful creature. Himself, a scarred animal that belonged obscured in shadows and hidden behind a mask. For a brief time he once foolishly believed he could know and have what every man wanted, love with a woman. With her. But she had deceived him in her selfish pretense and ripped that glimmer of hope from his heart, as surely as if she had ripped away his mask.
This was always what he had been, always what he would be. Nothing could change that.
Snapping his attention ahead of him, the Phantom marched with her up the short staircase to his bedchamber. All the while he felt her wide stare fixed on his face, her body frozen in fear against him. Did she expect him to beat her and treat her no better than that boy had done? Had he not proved again and again that he would never harm her?
The knowledge angered him, even if her reaction was conceivable given her bad experience - and his blatant, damned desire.
Desperate to regain distance he tossed her to the soft mattress with little regard for caution.
"I'm saving myself the trouble of having to fish you out of the lake," he clipped, answering her almost forgotten question.
Christine frowned, rubbing her hip. He grabbed the coverlet from the foot of the bed and flung it at her. It landed partially over her head and she pulled it down with a scowl, trying to blow the misplaced hair from her face. She gave up and whisked the tangled strands away with one impatient hand.
He regarded her with a bitter smile. "You are a danger to yourself and to the children, mademoiselle. That is why I told them to stay away from you."
"I would never do anything to cause them harm!" She pulled the cover up against her, tucking it beneath her arms.
"By attempting to bribe them in helping you to escape these caverns, you would endanger their lives. They do not know of all the traps, below and above. Nor do you."
"Above?"
He stared hard at her. "Pardon, mademoiselle. You could not possibly understand. The world is full of snares for the unfortunate, chiefly those who are not perfect creatures and are without influential friends."
"I've had my share of troubles, as you now know!" she insisted in a hiss and he winced at the reminder. "And why should you think my life was so privileged?"
"I watched you those first days in the theatre. The manner in which you speak and compose yourself. You behave as no victim of society's rebuke but a lady well bred." He sneered the words as if they were a curse. "It causes one to wonder why you would deign to lower yourself to the position of a cleaning woman…"
The issue confused him, that her vanity had allowed her to agree to such a lowly position.
Unable to challenge his derisive words without admitting she was also a fugitive, she ignored his caustic sketch of her character that ended in an unasked question.
"One takes what is available when the need arises, monsieur. Sometimes there is no place for pride."
Before she could gather his intent, he closed the distance in swift strides and grabbed her wrist, forcing her hand up to display her palm to both of them. He softly ran the tip of his finger over the hardened lumps below the inside of her knuckles and felt her shiver beneath his touch.
Taking perverse pleasure in her revulsion, he narrowed his eyes at her.
"Again you attempt to deceive? These are not the calluses of a maid of three days but a worker who has endured hard labor for months, even years. Do you deny it?"
She snapped her wrist from his grip and straightened her spine, glaring up at him, all spit and fire and angry determination. "First you claim I must be a lady then state otherwise? Make up your mind, monsieur."
"I said you behave like a lady. There is a great difference."
"I deny nothing, nor will I explain, since it is no business of yours who I was or what I did before I came to this miserable place!"
Frustrated by her tenacity to challenge him, yet relieved to see the fight had not gone out of her, he found himself wishing to incite her innate fiery nature. Then wondered why the hell he should care.
His last contact with his well remunerated spy had been half a year ago. Since then, his informant had seemed to fall off the face of English soil, or perhaps lay buried beneath it, not that it mattered any longer, with Christine here and right where the Phantom wanted her.
Through the wily man, he last learned that she moved back to The Heights, though his spy had not uncovered the reason. Once he heard the news, the Phantom assumed Christine left her pathetic lover due to a sudden attack of morality, to try and rectify the scandal she'd made of her life, though he was also informed the wretched boy often visited and the two were engaged. Her departure from The Grange had evidently been due to keeping up false appearances so people would cease to talk.
The activities of the "handsome young Vicomte and his beautiful mistress rumored to be a little mad," had been public knowledge. Their travels bandied about in every North England tavern with no small interest and greater ridicule, and the first news the Phantom had unwittingly stumbled across after his harrowing escape from Persia. He wondered if Christine's mysterious return to The Heights had more to do with fiscal struggle and less with moral conscience, though why the damned Vicomte had given her no aid posed its own maddening question…
With a curt bow in reply to her adamant refusal to air past affairs, he silently swore to leave them to rot and turned to exit the chamber.
Christine unconsciously leaned forward. "How did the children come to be in your possession?" She tossed out the questions that had burned in her mind for days. "Did you know their mother?"
The Phantom narrowed his eyes. Apparently his past was to be open for forthright discussion, but her previous affairs were forbidden. Her contrariness did not surprise him.
She huffed an irritated breath. "I hardly think to tell me will endanger anyone's life!"
He moved slowly to face her and took even longer to answer. "I came across them one night. They needed aid. I helped them."
She waited for more but he remained silent and she realized that was all she would learn. Nor did that answer her previous question about their mother. She pouted.
"How much longer must I remain here?"
"I have told you the conditions of your release."
"No," she shook her head in frustration. "I mean here. In your bed."
Uncomfortable warmth singed Christine's skin, her body a traitorous villain to her desire to be free of him. His touch and embrace had aroused sensations that stunned her, terrifying in their response. Only one man before this had ever sparked such raw feeling, and she assumed her brief closeness with the Phantom days ago must be confusing her into again drawing a comparison between the two men.
She could not exist like this! Not any longer. She would no longer remain a victim to the past and all its trappings. It was time to move forward and attempt to take the only path she could see out of this madness.
"When you are stronger and able to stand without falling, you may return to your own chamber," he answered curtly. He looked at her another unsettling moment, then swiftly turned away.
Before he could exit, she again leaned toward him.
"Monsieur, I have decided."
The Phantom halted, her quiet words striking him immobile with shock.
Once more he slowly pivoted to face her…
xXx