A/N: Thank you for the great reviews - I laughed outright, I smiled, I chuckled in a wicked way ;-) - you guys are the best! And now…
XLVI
.
This time, the Phantom was prepared for her approach and aware of her presence the moment Christine moved through the entrance. He turned from the table, his dining mask firmly in place.
Days had elapsed since the unusual Christmas dinner, and though she had become more cooperative in her practices, the tension remained an impenetrable barrier between them; nor did he wish it away. It was the sole defense he had left. His capricious heart and tormented mind, both steeped in memoirs of the past, had betrayed him with her talk of their holidays spent together - even before that, in these last weeks leading up to the moment when she became his bride. He could no longer rely on blind abhorrence; nor would cold logic aid him in his task. Bitter distance was the only weapon in this silent war he waged, and often of late he had to practice stern diligence and remind himself of his motive to continue. He must continue! There was no other choice, not if he wanted to keep her with him for the remainder of their days, and beyond even that…
"I'm much too early again, aren't I."
When she at last spoke, the question came as a resigned statement. She stood on the threshold, her hands tightly clasped in her skirts. Flushed from her hurried arrival, her hair having slipped from its velvet ribbon, a few tendrils curling damply about her face, she was the picture of dewy freshness and beauty. A willowy fairy creature come to call.
"It is better to be precipitate in timing than to be slothful." His words were curt.
"Of course," she said demurely, casting her eyes down to the stones.
The Phantom huffed an impatient breath, curiously suspicious of her suddenly docile behavior. He looked her up and down from head to toe.
"Well, why do you loiter like a new housemaid at a palace? Come then," he ordered gruffly and moved toward the kettle that was kept warm on the stove.
"Have you ever been to a palace?" she inquired softly as she joined him.
He gave a brief nod and poured water into a teacup.
"In France?"
"In Persia."
"Oh. That's on the other side of the world, isn't it? Have they truly got housemaids there?"
Her childlike interest always to know more made him smile in spite of his desire to remain aloof, and he pursed his lips to appear unaffected as he sliced a lemon and squeezed half into the fragile cup.
"The shah has servants, but nothing to which you are accustomed. The women are devotedly servile to their masters, doing always as they're told, no matter the instruction given."
"Really."
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning at the clear aversion in her reply.
"How sad for them."
"Not at all. They consider it a privilege to serve in any capacity required."
"And - did you have your own personal servant? While living there."
He glanced her way to see her frown.
"A few did tend to my needs."
He knew what she meant by the stilted way she spoke, erroneously thinking him some desired Don Juan, and kept silent that he'd been greatly feared in his role to the shah. Especially feared by those servants who had seen beneath the mask - stripped away when he was first punished for his refusal to yield - and later witnessed a demonstration of his power. Word quickly spread of the deformed and scarred magician who dwelled within palace chambers, and superstitious in their beliefs that he must be a demon hiding behind a disguise, no servant woman would sacrifice herself to "tend" him. Not without terror or loathing or under duress of orders, none of which he wanted.
"How fortunate." She sounded disgusted. "Are all the servants women then?"
"There are men at the palace who work as guards unless they hold an official title. The women serve meals and keep things tidy. Trained servants are assigned to those guests highly favored, biddable to perform, shall we say, any private whim desired."
She snorted, her face achieving a rosy hue. "I assume you were one of the favored."
"Of course."
His smile came as mocking as the hostility in her tone. He enjoyed teasing her to observe her curious reactions, but that was not his only motive for such candid accounts. Better to have her detest him and alter the truth where his own requirements had been concerned. The young Persian women had done well to serve him his meals and launder his clothes and bedding, scurrying in and out like frightened mice at the sight of a rabid cat when he was within his appointed rooms.
"So I gather the women at the palace are nothing like the servants here?"
"No, neither in manner nor in dress. They clothe themselves from head to foot in colored veils of diaphanous silk - not in those hideous black dresses and coarse wool stockings that you were made to wear -"
Their fingers brushed as he handed her saucer and cup. A jolt of fierce current swept up his arm and through his blood at the contact, echoed in her gasp, and he jerked his hand back.
Her shock at his forthright and personal observation made her recall how he once removed each article of said clothing from her prone body - and rendered her numb to keep a firm hold on the china.
Both cup and saucer crashed to the stones between them, and hot water splashed the bottom of his trousers and the hem of her dress.
"Oh!" she took an abrupt step back, though with the thick layers of her skirt and petticoats she was not burned.
"Damn!" he expelled the epithet in a harsh breath and bent to retrieve the jagged pieces. She crouched down to help him. Their hands again collided while reaching for the same fragment. Instantly he drew away.
"With your wretched history, you'll cut yourself," he bit out. "Go. Pour yourself another cup. I'll tend to this."
"Alright then."
She sounded put out but did as told. The Phantom closed his eyes and took a calming breath before returning to his task.
Thankfully, the remainder of the day progressed in the orderly fashion that had become common. She sang. He played. They ate their meals and kept their respective distance.
Soon the time came for practice of the final scene. A duet. The duet he had been dreading…
Recalling her fiasco with a similar piece in the attempt to practice solo, it came as no surprise when she failed at this aria, too, without making it past the first stanza.
Heaving a quiet, reconciled breath the Phantom rose from the organ bench. Distance had its value, but the opera must transpire in its proper timing. As an overseer of the theatre he had observed and learned to excel in the art of pretense and would battle all damnable emotion of any personal nature to carry out what he must in order to achieve that purpose.
Like a startled doe Christine watched his approach but said nothing. He stood across the room and faced her, his stance making his intentions apparent. Still, she could not prevent her nervousness from airing in a pointless query.
"What are you doing?"
"We have reached your final scene of the final act. It is a duet, but you are treating it as a solo."
"So you'll be leading me around again, as if we were on stage?"
"I have little choice, since you must learn the blocking and correct steps before you are to go above."
She smoothed suddenly damp hands down her skirt. Both Jacques and Jolene had disappeared to the back chambers some time ago, and she and the Phantom were alone.
"You said final. Am I ready then, to go above - now that I know the entire opera?"
"Not quite." He didn't return her tentative smile, his expression one of a martyr about to confront an undesirable undertaking. "Shall we proceed."
It wasn't a question, and as his student she could hardly give any answer but the one he wished, reminding herself of her recent resolution not to challenge him in matters involving his opera. This rehearsal was characteristic of the stage. She was now an actress and soon must perform this scene, above, with a stranger whose name she did not yet even know. The Phantom had made a custom of shirking from her touch, his interest blatantly nil. There was no reason to be so nervous.
Her rational convictions did not help alleviate the erratic beating of her heart, and Christine caught her lip between her teeth as with agile grace he strode toward her, lifting his hand in the seductive motion of Don Juan, as per the libretto. And then he began to sing, and she was lost to all else.
His seductive eyes probed her own and shimmered like golden pools of liquid fire. His passionate voice, as smooth and sensual as a brush of silk against her skin, elicited the same shivering effect.
He lunged to stand behind her and she gasped when the heat of his hand spread softly against her throat, his other arm curling around her waist and pulling her hard against the length of his body. All of it choreographed and staged for the opera …yet the swift rush of warmth through her blood felt uncontrived. Once, high in the catwalks, he held her this close. She felt lightheaded then too.
Christine struggled for emotional equilibrium, the Phantom's song now a caress, his lips ghosting the shell of her ear, when suddenly he moved away. His hands lightly clasped her shoulder, his fingers trickling down her sleeve to stop at her wrist. He bent over her hand, his lips a breath from her fingers, his eyes peering up in devilish mischief, keeping in character with the infamous Don Juan. Her hand trembled in his grasp. As far as she could tell, the two men - one of fiction, one too real - were very much alike.
He straightened in retreat, taking her slowly with him, his every movement one of languid seduction. As his part of the song drew to a close she snatched her damp hand from his warm hold, per the instructions of the libretto, perhaps a bit too forcefully. His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
Her skin tingled, a chill left in the absence of his fingers where they had stroked fire against it. She would feel fortunate if she could remember her name, much less her cue.
The Phantom sang the last of his coaxing words, and she waited a brief pause, as the script said to, before Aminta's bold response of surrender spilled from her lips. At her feigned exuberance, a spark of approval ignited in the amber depths of his eyes - setting her adrift in a stupor - one from which she quickly recovered.
She sang with renewed confidence, the choreography intuitive as she moved in a semicircle that sufficed for the stairs she would ascend on stage. He mirrored her movements, joining with her in song, each slowly striding toward the other until they met, clasping each other's waists. He grabbed her hand and twirled her around, bringing her back flush against him. She weakened, melting into his strength, every muscle in his chest felt as he pressed against her back. His palms smoothed up her bodice to the backs of her hands, his fingers interlocking with hers, both of them splayed against her dress so that he guided her touch.
Her entire body trembled with the experience, and unable to prevent the need she leaned her head against his shoulder. Her song suffered, but he seemed not to hear the waver in her notes, his hands never ceasing to lead hers, one at her waist, the other moving up, over her breast. Her breathing grew taut and sporadic, a fog of rich sensation clouding her mind while every sense of his touch felt highly pronounced.
It was no more than pretense, an opera, an act, a story. It meant nothing to him, certainly nothing to her…
Nothing.
"I cannot!"
Snatching her hands from beneath his, Christine broke contact with the Phantom and spun around, taking several hurried steps and putting her hand to the wall. She fought to regain control of her labored breathing and calm her irrepressible shaking. The prickly silence that ensued accused her of her foolishness in the absence of his audible reproach.
She knew the latter wouldn't last long and was proven correct once he spoke.
"How many times must I say it?" His voice came harsh. "You must disassociate yourself from all personal feeling when you are on stage. You are an actress. Learn to behave like one."
She abruptly nodded. "Yes, yes of course. I don't know what came over me. It's all just - it's too much right now."
"We have worked past the time we usually conclude for the night. With the new opera underway in what now amounts to a matter of weeks it is imperative we take every opportunity to rehearse." His dissatisfied sigh was audible. "Nonetheless, it is late. Perhaps you are weary."
She grabbed at the escape he offered. "I am rather exhausted. I-I fear I've come down with something of a headache."
"Then go. Retire for the night. We shall begin anew tomorrow."
"Thank you, Maestro."
He gave an abrupt nod and turned his back to her, his stance remaining tall and dignified. She lingered a moment, watching him, then left the lake room, barely managing to keep a sedate pace, only again able to breathe properly once she reached the solitude of her bedchamber.
She stared into the looking glass, her countenance almost foreign to her, and lifted her fingers to touch flushed cheeks. Her gaze lowered to the rectangular box, with its red silk bow she'd again wrapped around it. Her fingers caressed the ribbon before she realized what she was doing, and she snatched her hand away.
She could not reason, could not think. Oh, what was wrong with her? Turning from the dresser she looked for Mozart, hoping to divert her scattered attention toward indulging the cat. Of course, he was nowhere to be found when she wanted him.
A heated bath did little to help soothe her beleaguered mind though it did ease the tension from her shoulders. Once she finally sought her bed, Christine tossed and turned for what seemed half the night, unable to find comfort within the linen warmth. The sudden accompaniment of his somber music fostered her distress while his notes resonated in the deepest echoes of her heart.
Long after the chords had stilled, she stared into the empty darkness.
x
A series of explosions startled Christine awake, and she jumped to a sitting position in alarm. Seconds of silence followed, the only sound the rapid drumming of her heart in her ears. Another distant explosion had her softly cry out and abandon her bed, thrusting cold feet into her slippers. She threw her wrapper around her shoulders and pushed her arms through the sleeves as she raced to the main lake chamber. The booming sounds that had become faint again grew louder.
Her imagination played every conceivable horror as she raced into the dimly lit cavern. The spacious area stood empty with nothing to suggest a tragedy had occurred.
She followed the infrequent blasts up the steps and halted in shock at the threshold near the light of one lone candle, to see the bed curtains wide open, the Phantom lying still in his bed.
She stared until another distant bang from somewhere beyond the rock made her gasp, and she realized the din must be coming from the interior lake room. Her heart lurched at his sudden movement as he sat up on the mattress and turned her way. His form was draped in shadows but even they did not hide the absence of a nightshirt, and she gripped the wall to see the pale gleam of his arms and chest. Breathless, she kept her eyes fastened there for several seconds before she lifted them to his face. In the dim lighting she made out the outline of his black mask.
"What the devil are you doing there?"
"I heard explosions- I thought we were in danger," she blurted in response to his irate question. "I had no idea you were in bed, no idea of the time at all."
Another series of blasts followed her terse words. She clutched the edges of her wrapper beneath her throat. "There! Do you hear? Surely all of Paris is under attack!"
"It is no more than the usual trite display of festivity for the occasion."
Trite display of festivity?
"I don't understand…"
He hesitated, as if undecided, then the sheet rustled and her eyes widened when she realized his intent. She spun away, focusing on the misty lake. To observe him in secret in such a state was one thing, but the thought of looking on with his full awareness brought the heat of mortification to singe her skin. She wished to flee, but her legs felt leaden. She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth and consolation, the attempt vain.
Seconds later, she heard his footsteps approach from behind.
"Come."
Slowly Christine turned, her eyes skittishly wandering to him. The Phantom had pulled on his velvet robe over black silk trousers and now tied its sash around his waist. He didn't touch her but walked through the back exit and corridor to the interior lake room.
She hesitated then followed, joining him where he stood by the water's edge. He motioned in a graceful arc with his arm, his attention going upward.
Baffled, Christine followed his gaze to the high ceiling of rock and the patch of dark sky.
"What are we doing here?"
"Be still and watch. There are often lapses of silence before another volley of flares begin."
"But I don't - oh my…" Her confusion gave way to amazement as twin sunbursts of ruby and gold exploded above their heads. "Colored lights that fill the heavens?" And so spectacular they were! A fusion of brilliant rays that fanned out in majestic panorama then faded, the sky returning to a serene canvas of velvet black. "But what does it mean?"
"The Parisians grand idea of greeting a new year." His words were ones of ridicule. "A foolish celebratory exhibit to mark the instigation of change."
"Foolish? But - this is extraordinary!"
"You have never seen a fireworks exhibit?" His words came softer.
"No - I…"
Another massive burst of red filled the sky, this one followed synonymously with bursts of green, gold, and blue - more intense than before - and she nervously clutched his arm.
The tensing of his muscle beneath her fingertips brought her to the awareness of what she'd done. She dropped her hand from his sleeve before he could move away, looking toward him at the same time his eyes went to hers. Seconds fraught with a strange sort of tension brought warmth all through her and she gripped her robe at her thigh.
"Then - there's no danger?" she whispered as the dazzling lights above cast a pale golden-red hue against his face, reflecting the fire in his eyes.
"No danger."
His tone came soft and steady, unlike the rapid beats of her pulse. A different kind of danger seemed to infuse the very atmosphere. He made no move to touch her, but she felt him in every cell of her being.
"I should go," she whispered, taking a step back.
"Yes, you should."
His detached agreement wounded, and she felt angry that it did.
"Well then. I'll go. At least now that Jolene is here to wake me, I'll no longer make the mistake of arriving too early." Her face flamed at the recollection of finding him half naked in his bed. "Well then - goodnight."
He inclined his head in a gesture of farewell.
Christine hastened through the rooms and along the corridors like the agitated canary that had drawn too close to the great sleek cat. Once in her bedchamber, she volubly cursed her ridiculous and infantile behavior for running from him yet again - then shifted blame to the formidable dark lord of the caverns. All the while she paced the short expanse of open area between bed and dressing table, her fretful trek continuing long after the distant explosions concluded.
"Damn his arrogant hide, damn his maddening mystique, and damn him!"
A knock at the door had her whirl around to face it and clutch the dresser's edge with one hand.
"Yes?" She barely recognized her voice for the huskiness in her throat.
The door opened and the Phantom entered. She was surprised he bothered to knock.
Momentarily diverted by his stride, no less masculine for its fluid grace, Christine watched his approach. His agility only added to the impression of lean, supple strength. An untamed panther - how many times had she equated him with that feral beast of the night? Recognizing her return to idiocy - and she was certainly no frail little bird! - she struggled to collect her wits about her.
"So you will always know the time." Rather than pounce, he halted a short distance away and laid something on her dressing table. A glance in that direction showed her that he had brought a small silver pocket watch.
"Is that why you came at…" she peered at its glass-covered face, "…a quarter past one in the morning? To give me this?"
He brusquely nodded. "Now you have no further excuse of being unaware of the time."
"You could have waited a few hours until I came for practice and given it to me then."
"I chose to come now, since you had already awakened me. You, too, are awake so I did not intrude on your slumber. And now I shall leave you to your rest."
Her rest…
The fiend.
Suddenly exceedingly angry, though for what logical reason she had no clue, Christine crossed her arms over her breasts. She glared at his broad velvet-clothed shoulders as he strode purposefully to the door.
"Why did you marry me, monsieur? And I want the full truth this time."
Her quiet demand stopped him in his tracks.
x
Christine stared hard at the Phantom.
He did not turn from the door.
"I cannot perceive a reason." She spread her hands in a shrug he could not see. "It's been three weeks since we were wed, and we go on as before with only one small concession to routine. I visit your chambers to learn your opera. Later, we eat supper. I return to my chamber, you remain in yours. And that is the sum of our days."
A breathless, tense moment elapsed before he moved to look at her. His eyes were as annoyingly impassive as his features beneath the mask.
"What precisely are you asking me, Christine?"
His quiet and rare use of her name brought the shiver of want along her spine to hear him say it again.
"Nothing has changed. Why even go through with a ceremony? Was it staged, like so much else in that bizarre theatre you run? Did you pay an actor to impersonate a priest and take me to the chapel when you knew it would be empty?"
His eyes glinted. "I assure you, Madame, it was all very real. You are bound to me for life."
She swallowed hard at his emphatic words and the dizziness they provoked. Once, such faintness sprang from dread, but the emotions she now felt were far from terror.
"Then I will ask again, Monsieur, what reason did you have for even wanting to marry me?"
He did not respond.
"You initially told me it was no more than a business venture to protect your interests, but I've thought long and hard on that. You could have easily drawn up a contract and allowed me to sign my assets over to you - as I once suggested. Perhaps even had Madame Giry oversee it, since she's your assistant. I may not be knowledgeable in matters of the law, but I have heard things and know such contracts are legal and binding. You could have taken all of what you earned as my manager and teacher and ensured that you receive a continual stipend. I even told you that the money wasn't a significant issue to me and you could have all of it if you did not force a marriage between us - but you refused."
"Need I remind you that you were the one who chased me down and begged me to marry you -" His words were cold, low and forceful. "- all to save the life of that meddlesome boy."
She narrowed her eyes, not about to be waylaid with more vicious talk of the Vicomte. This night, she would know the truth!
"I'm well aware of my reasons. But that doesn't change the fact that you have wanted a marital union with me from the start, since the night you first brought me here. Call it a business arrangement if you like - but I have just pointed out why that explanation makes no sense!"
She lifted her chin, regarding him with determination.
Standing motionless, he made no move to agree with or deny her claim.
"You certainly didn't marry me for companionship! Until I asked you to dine with me, we rarely conversed in a sociable manner. You have said that once you teach me all I must know for your opera you'll release me to go back to the world above - so, companionship wasn't the cause. And It makes no sense that you would marry me to protect yourself from capture. I swore to you I would never divulge your identity, even if you were to let me see behind your mask. Oh, I know you don't trust me, but you must realize how I've come to care about Jacques. You have no need - nor did you then - to fear me ever turning you over to the police or testifying against you. I'm glad you did what you could to save them from that wretched beast at the hotel."
His golden eyes did not once flicker beyond the mask. Not by expression or word did he acknowledge that he understood her admission - that she knew the details of that night and his deadly part in it.
"And you certainly didn't marry me for money. I came to the opera house with nothing but the clothes on my back and barely two shillings to rub together."
His silence was unnerving. She brought her arms in front of her, rubbing them a little in unease, her anger diminishing.
Yet she would not back down, not this time.
"I have no title, not that you covet one, since you'd rather hide yourself from the world and all who reside in it. And what I once thought might be the reason proved false …" The memories of her wanton dreams, both awake and asleep came to her, heating her face and strangely riling her anger again. "You never even kissed me after the vows we spoke until Meg asked if you would!" The accusation rushed out before she could prevent it.
When she understood her rash words, her face grew hotter still.
He tilted his head to the side in that sardonic manner that questioned. His intense eyes never wandered from her face.
"Not that I wanted you to," she amended quickly. "It was just - I was only surprised that you never once tried of your own initiative." She shook her head, frustration again seeding her words. "In fact, you do entirely the opposite. Since the time I was ill, you barely touch me unless it's absolutely necessary or has something to do with the opera – or you're upset – or I am – or hurt – but never for any other reason. When I have accidentally brushed against you or – or touched you, you recoil from me as if I have the plague and you cannot stand to be near me…"
She stopped her reckless diatribe to inhale a quick, necessary breath.
Not retreating now, he moved toward her with unwavering stealth, a strange light glowing in his unique eyes.
She lowered her own, the anger dying away in a rush of something warm and breathless that threatened to make her either implode with anticipation or collapse from unrest.
"Do I truly offend you so horribly?" she continued in a whisper as he came to stand before her. "You said upon our first meeting and others that I don't interest you in that," she softly cleared the sudden hitch from her throat, "that manner, but it doesn't change the fact that you were determined to have a m-marital union with me."
Dear God, what was she saying?! Wishing she could take it all back, with no idea how to do so, she felt helpless with what to do in the awful wake of his silence.
Nervously Christine moistened her lower lip and stared at the wall of his chest. He had often prowled close to intimidate, but this felt different. Still, she could not cease from foolishly digging deeper at her own grave. The blockage of doubts at last released, the questions poured forth breaking the dam of her desire to know more. Curiosity had always been her destruction, her rash tongue as effective as a battering ram to demolish all that she held dear.
"I just… I …well, I don't understand," she said, again determined. Why must she always be left in the dark? "And – and I'd like you to enlighten me. What exactly is it that you want in this bizarre arrangement you have ordained between us?"
He braced his hands on either side of her head against the wall, leaning close but not touching her. She swallowed hard, waiting for his response. Would he mock her? Berate her? Taunt her? At his continued silence, her heart beat out a staccato of protest and something more as she pressed her damp palms to the stones near her hips.
"Why will you not answer…?" Her words came out in a faint whine, a breathless plea she begged him to satisfy.
The heat from his body warmed her in the cool chamber, the nearness of him shocking and exciting and causing the blood to pulse through her head and swirl through her ears. Every nerve ending felt acutely aware of him, every fiber of her being alert to the slightest sensation of his movement. When she could no longer endure the agony of his silence, she slowly lifted her attention from the patch of glistening skin above his velvet robe and looked up into his darkly lashed golden eyes.
They burned her with their fire.
The message of want in them paralyzed her with shock.
"M-monsieur?"
Before she could take a steadying breath he leaned in slowly, his mouth the barest whisper from hers, as if he might yet draw back. His breath felt hot and unsteady against her trembling lips –
"Madame," he whispered, his smile as soft and wicked and darkly potent as his voice.
At once, his mouth covered hers hard, as if to punish her for her persistence. Stunned by the unexpected act, Christine offered no struggle, the thought to do so not even crossing her mind.
At the instant yield of her lips and body, the Phantom's behavior changed, the kiss becoming so possessively tender she was astonished it came from him. All the contained hurt of his former rejections and the inexplicable need for his acceptance came out in a soft whimper as she leaned into him, begging for more.
A second time his mouth grew demanding, fierce and passionate. His tongue forced her lips to further part and pushed inside, his long slender hands moving from the wall to press against her head and move it as he willed, so as to ravage the wet cavern of her mouth until she felt boneless. A wildfire burned through her blood as his tongue commanded hers into sweet submission while he kissed her with an expertise that made her dizzy with need, the taste of him exquisite, of cloves and spice and rich burgundy wine.
He tore his mouth from hers, both of them gasping with the need to draw breath into lungs starved for air.
"Is that what you wanted, Christine?" His voice, her name on his lips, came husky. Deep. Seductive. While his words were a mockery as if he didn't believe such a thing possible.
His low query gently rumbled through every pore and reverberated deep inside her reawakening spirit. The days of foolish subterfuge were dead and gone and good riddance. She could no longer deny the plea of her soul, of her entire body that ached for his touch alone ... did not even wish to try. She was nervous of what that might mean but so very weary of struggling against the heavy, constant pull between them, like endless weeks of trying to fight a strong river current, when to release inhibition and let the tide take her away seemed so much more freeing…
"Yes."
And in that faint whisper, Christine daringly crossed every recognized barrier between them, to stand at the precipice of the unknown, while with fearful anticipation she awaited his response.
.
xXx
A/N: Is that something like you guys were hoping for? ;-)