A/N: Thank you as always for the reviews. :) Glad you guys have been enjoying their reunion so far…and now…
Chapter LXVII
Once he swept all fragments of the mirror glass and disposed of it, the Phantom made plans to move Christine's belongings, confident that with the aid of a cart, hoist, boards and pulleys, he could transfer the furniture up and down the flights of stairs of the main lake room, the secret passage that led there too narrow to use. The mirrors of the dressing table would need replaced, a task also easily managed, using panes of reflective glass he kept in a storage chamber. Tall mirrors, hidden away, when he could no longer bear the sight they revealed.
Women of all ages seemed to enjoy gazing upon their varied reflections as they primped and fussed, a vanity certainly. But for Christine, her pure, angelic beauty reflected three times over would be an asset to the stark bedchamber, and well worth the effort to replace what he had destroyed.
That morning his entire focus had been for his bride, and he had shamelessly tantalized her, enjoying her coy, flustered outbursts. But he, too, shared her desire for privacy as a married couple and did not like the idea of Jacques and Jolene entering their bedchamber unseen and at will. When he chose the location of his bedroom, the Phantom did not foresee the possibility of intrusions, since he never believed that Christine would actually share his bed. His plan to abduct her had been only a germ of an idea birthed on his return to England from Persia but had not fully developed or commenced until after he had seen her attend the opera with that fop, sitting in Box Five.
It was still difficult to believe that his long held dream involving his Angel had transpired when the wisp of hope had fluttered away so often before, evading his desperate reach.
Upon returning to the main lake room and seeing that Christine was still absent, the Phantom took the stairs to their bedchamber.
She wasn't there either.
And neither was the dress.
In the next breath, the old terror surfaced that she once again betrayed him and escaped his lair. It was with difficulty the Phantom suppressed the instantaneous fury that tore through him and closed his eyes, fisting his hands near his hips and willing the darkness away.
Achieving aloof indifference had failed when in these last months he tried to use the method as a defense against his powerful feelings for her, mocking each fierce attempt. But in matters of his rising fury, he equally found the technique a viable shield of sober calm to which to cling. Odd that she had been the impetus to employ restraint when hate was extreme, and now that love made its tenacious foothold, she was still at the core of his desire – this time to curb his destructive wrath.
Christine had not changed him or his irascible fits and wild swings of mood, but both in hating her and in loving her, she had given him the motivation to change.
He had far to go to achieve flawless results, and for one so scarred inside and out, perhaps never would attain such a lofty goal. He often still reacted before he thought, and allowed violence free rein, her destroyed furniture from the opera of an Austrian empress testimony to that. But after all of what occurred last night, he must somehow attempt to find trust inside his shadowed heart for his Little Angel, now his true wife. She was once again everything to him; a veracity that had been callously hidden but never altered…and he would do anything for her and to keep her.
At a sudden, distant splash that came from the bath chamber, he realized his implicit mistake, now grateful to have surrendered to hesitation before throwing himself into the sudden tumult that had previously raged inside him.
Turning softly on his heel, the Phantom allowed Christine more time for her soak and returned to the main lake room. He approached the boy who sat with his back to him on the organ's staircase, but paid no attention to Jolene who stirred something on the kitchen stove.
He had not willfully spoken to the maid or once looked at her since he unveiled the truth of his affliction, loath to see any remainder of terror or disgust in her eyes. He did not care what she thought of him, lumping her with the rest of humanity and its intolerance of ugliness; he simply had no desire to see fear's existence. A fraction of his mind knew relief that she had not suffered unduly from the Curse of the evil eye, but certainly she must be having horrific dreams of his macabre countenance. He should not care but oddly did and supposed he would always feel responsible for the girl, in part due to his long-ago transgressions against her. At the time of his unmasking he acted out of maddened frustration, forcing her retreat, to put a final halt to her unceasing and unwelcome hostility toward Christine and her ignorant pursuit of his physical companionship. A lesson now surely learned, however brutal.
Perhaps he should take pity and also give her the drug to compel forgetfulness, if it was not too late to induce that haze of mind. Or, he could persuade Jolene hypnotically. After Persia, he'd sworn never to use his skills as a tool to manipulate or a weapon for punishment again, but if he decided to aid her in this, his voice would be used as a method of consolation, as he had also once broken that vow out of necessity, in his lullaby to comfort a distraught Christine.
"I must go to market," he heard the maid say in quiet uncertainty behind him. "Jacques wasn't feeling well earlier and I did not wish to leave him."
It was their second exchange of curt words spoken since the night before the Bal Masque. Since then, the sum of his words to her composed the order to take Christine's clothes from her trunk he'd brought down hours before the masquerade and hang them in the wardrobe.
Without turning to look at Jolene, he spoke in curt acknowledgement. "You have the coins I left and the key to the secret door?"
"Oui, monsieur."
"Do not lose this one."
To Jacques, he smiled with genuine affection, bending his knees to lower his body at eye level with the boy, who sat on the second step. Jacques looked up with an answering smile as he stroked Faust, who for once seemed tolerant of the boy's awkward ministrations.
"Stay here. Do not leave this room. You may play with the cat until luncheon," the Phantom ordered and signed slowly.
The boy nodded and the Phantom tousled his hair. "Good lad."
He stood to go then paused.
"On your return from the market, you and the boy will be moving from your rooms into what was Christine's bedchamber," he directed the maid, over his shoulder, again without looking at her.
What sounded like a silver platter hit stones, producing a strident ring. Like a black lightning bolt of fur the cat sped for the passage of corridors leading out of the main room. Jacques darted up with a protesting grunt, eager on the little beast's heels. The Phantom slowly turned with narrowed eyes of irritation and looked at Jolene for the first time in two days.
Flustered, she held eye contact for scant seconds before awkwardly dropping her gaze to the ground and the platter with figs strewn beside it.
"Begging pardon, monsieur," she mumbled. "You are throwing us out?"
He compressed his lips at her sheepish, timid behavior, disgusted by such fear. Knowing from what source it truly stemmed.
"You may remain within these caverns, if you wish it, or if you prefer to find other lodgings above, that is your privilege." His voice was cold and clinical. "Jacques always has a home here, under my protection. Regardless whether you choose to stay or go, you both will be transferred to a new location within these caverns. Is that clear?"
"Oui, monsieur," she said, her voice sounding flat and lost.
"I assume I have no need to tell you that if you choose to make a home elsewhere, you are never to speak of my secrets to anyone outside these walls, and especially never to speak of this lair and its location. If you defy me once more, mademoiselle, you will never again see your brother in this lifetime."
Her eyes grew huge as she swiftly brought them up to look at him. "You would keep Jacques from me?"
"He belongs with me," he said through clenched teeth. "The citizens of Paris do not extend kindness toward those who carry imperfections. You have not only borne witness to this – but have proven you are one of them."
His snide words came icy in their delivery and low with apathy. She gasped, but the Phantom turned his back on her and strode up the staircase toward his bedchamber, paying the maid no further heed.
She had reacted to his unmasking as expected and still regarded him as a beast, so that is what he would give her. He no longer felt obligated to soothe her feelings or alleviate any dread or anguish she may be having. Indeed, perhaps she deserved to remember the horror of his face, a reminder for her to keep her distance and a weapon through which to maintain her fearful loyalty.
The Phantom stood in his bedchamber, still absent of his bride, and looked toward the twisted sheets of the empty bed. Warmth soothed the chill that had swept over his heart.
She had reacted nothing as expected, bearing no adverse consequences, which had mystified Erik and made him question all he assumed true. Despite her sweet persuasions, he still found it difficult to believe there was no curse involved with his afflicted face since the Persian's immediate demise challenged that idea.
Perhaps his Little Angel suffered no ill effects from looking at his gross deformity because she and Erik truly were once one being, as Christine had delightedly informed him of her sudden conclusion. She could not fear what was at one time a part of herself, could she? And certainly she could not die from it!
It made the only sense he knew to devise, not of logic learned from his studies, but of the soul whose foundation was at the heart. He had been unable to forget her and cease from loving her, as she now knew that secret too, though he had tried to purge such feelings from his heart as if they were poison – God, how he had tried! He even fooled himself into believing he wanted her with him in these dungeons solely out of revenge, demanding marriage as a penalty to inflict torture. But with last night's demonstration of her unconditional and unceasing love for him, the frail dream he once trapped in the deepest crevice of his stone cold soul had tenaciously struggled free to surface and blind his mind with the true basis of all his motives with regard to Christine…
Even three years ago, when he first conjured his hateful plan to ensnare her, his heart subconsciously yearned to regain the companionship lost and obtain her as his willing bride, belonging to him in every way possible. Not because of hatred but out of love.
It was as yet inconceivable but for whatever purpose, God at last granted him that mercy. The Phantom had achieved his fondest aspiration, a lifetime with the woman of his heart, who loved him in equal measure.
And it was for that astounding occurrence he chose to forget what made no sense. To forget that part of the past that branded her faithless and cruel, an instigator to his demise, in all likelihood an unknowing accomplice. He must forget what was told him, all of what he overheard, and pretend that part of their conflicted history never existed. It was the one thing he must never bring up – the one essential secret he would keep from her. All else he would reveal, as he had with so much already, but this he must keep buried if he was to have the destiny he craved with Christine and the resolve to begin anew…
They had both suffered enough.
His Little Songbird had shown fearless audacity to change his opera and give Don Juan what he most desired, much as she altered the endings to the tales of princes and ogres they acted out as children. She changed their own story from what he miserably thought it was always destined to be. Hence, he too could change the dark tale of vengeance he had begun in this opera house. For her.
Somehow, he must forget. Somehow he must try…
.
xXx
.
Christine soaked in the heated water of her bath, eyes closed in bliss, and dwelled on all of what recently occurred.
She was so elated to be with Erik at last, wanting to mend all mistakes at once and pretend away the lost years as if they never existed – but of course such hopes were futile. They did exist. Damage had been done to them both, and nothing could go back to being what it was, no matter how she wished it. No genie would appear from a magic lamp to grant three wishes. It was up to her and it was up to Erik to repair the injury they inflicted. After last night's heartrending disclosures, at least they were well on the path to doing so.
They had both changed, but in ways remained the same. She had earlier been embarrassed by their awakening to the dawn and the focus of one small boy. But now that those awkward moments were behind her and Erik worked in a far bedchamber to ensure they never again occurred, she could relax and appreciate a facet of her beloved she never thought to see again – the gentle teasing and mocking banter shared with her, as he had done at The Heights, both familiar and different, with all they had been to each other these past months. Such exchanges had exceeded to a far more intimate level that both aroused and embarrassed, making her feel equal parts wanton and shy.
Things change like the seasons change… but some things, some things are not meant to change. They are meant to stay eternal …
With wry wistfulness she recalled her former words to him another lifetime ago in a stable and on the moors. How apt those words turned out to be! Nothing was the same, and yet not all things were different. An element of fragile, new trust had blossomed between them since the upheaval of their emotional revelations, which perhaps was the basis for this new ease. And she would do all she could to nurture it.
Yet for all that, the inscrutable curtain of doubt had not completely drawn away from his eyes, appearing at moments she expressed her heart or introduced the past. How she wished to thoroughly expunge what put such foul reservations there!
Somehow she must uncover what still troubled him. Somehow she would…
.
xXx
.
The Phantom entered the bath chamber and stopped dead in his tracks. His heart ceased to beat then sped up, keeping pace with the rush of blood in his veins.
Beauty lay there in peaceful repose, clothed in silken water that did nothing to shield every glistening nuance of her form. With her eyes closed, she lay with the back of her neck against a piece of rolled toweling, the hair she had loosely piled atop her head in danger of falling into the water, a few long dark ringlets having already done so and sticking damply to her skin.
On silent feet he moved, doffing his frock coat and cuff links and laying both on a table next to where she'd placed the missing gown. Picking up a stool he quietly set it beside the copper bathtub and took a seat. As he pulled up his sleeves past his elbows, his eyes leisurely traveled over soft mounds and gentle valleys of cream and palest rose, certain that no landscape of greater splendor existed. A distant memory of a loft in a stable and how she indignantly persuaded him to look at her form and acknowledge her as a woman came to him. Then, he had hesitantly done so with an equivalent mix of desire and reluctance.
Now, he could not cease from looking or wanting…
He would love to craft her figure into statuary like the opera house goddesses and angels, to pay eternal homage to her physical charms, for his pleasure alone. He could not abide the foul thought of another man looking upon her unclothed, even in stone decades into the future when neither of them walked the earth any longer. Perhaps such a statue could stand beside their bed in his undiscovered underworld, in place of the absent Nyx, and he grinned to think of her flustered reaction if he were to manage that.
One of his harshest deceptions had been to strip away her presumed conceit and convince Christine that she held no appeal for him, when she was truly the essence of his every desire. His burning gaze lit upon her arm, and a rush of tenderness brought his fingertips to ghost over the ghastly scar put there by the wild cur that once tore into her. Even this blemish did not diminish her beauty, instead oddly enhancing her appeal – an emblem of jagged rose and snow white that set her off from every other woman breathing and would forever remind him of her strong will and spirit to struggle and survive.
As much as he despised that Christine had been made to suffer and always bear the terrible damage that marred her smooth skin, in a bizarre sense it was another facet of what made them alike, more so after her unqualified acceptance of him last night, as if they now bore their scars of anguish together.
He recalled her whispered endearments as she had kissed the scars from his own torments, saying how they reminded her of his refusal to surrender. For the first time, he dimly began to understand how she could see something worthy in him when no one else could and look at him with eyes that did not condemn, since despite her outward imperfection he saw only beauty … though he would never be so absurd as to use that term of perfection to describe himself.
But then, despite her insistence to engage in fairytales no longer, he knew his Christine would always be a dreamer…
She had to be, to love a beast.
Tilting his mask to free his mouth completely, he leaned down and pressed gentle lips to her parted ones. He felt the warmth of her breath in a soft gasp and sensed her eyes blink open.
Pulling away, he regarded his bride. Her eyes quickly flicked down, sudden awareness of her vulnerable state and surroundings bringing a flush of coy pink to her skin. She loosely covered her breasts with her hands and bent one knee to act as a shield, looking at him in timid uncertainty.
"Again, we change the tale," he whispered, "the fairytale princess not roused from her slumber by the honorable prince, but by the wicked beast."
She smiled faintly. "A worthy change. It makes it all the more enjoyable since the first prospect bores me. The Phantom is my preference, but I am hardly a princess."
"Was that not your costume from last night?" He leisurely stroked his fingers down her shoulder to her elbow, noting the water had grown tepid. Leaning down to the right, he pulled the stopper at her feet.
"It was," she agreed, "though that costume has long been discarded. I prefer to be plain and simple Christine."
"Hardly plain. And far from simple."
Her dark lashes brushed against rosy cheeks. "More compliments? That is so unlike you."
He nodded in solemn acknowledgement. "I didn't appreciate you enough, in England, and when I lost you I regretted every flattery that you required and I withheld."
She frowned softly as if disturbed. "Erik, you should never feel obligated to offer me approval. I was childish to attack you that last day on The Summit for such petty trivialities. I have since learned that those things don't matter compared to the significance of other things, such as the truth, and I would prefer your silence to any admiration insincerely given."
"I am never insincere, Christine." He spoke in earnestness. "I never give praise where it is undeserved. I have not changed in that regard."
She smiled at him. "Good. It means so much more, when I do receive your praise. And when you gave it after I sang well, it made me strive even harder to hear more of the same from you. If you were flip with your approval, I might have gotten lax with my lessons."
"Then I shall be sure to dole out my glowing appreciation in tidbits of the scarcest morsels, scattered so as to be rare, to keep your voice in the most exquisite condition."
At his dry words, she huffed a giggle of mock affront, just refraining from slapping his arm. "You needn't go to extremes either. Now, will you please hand me a towel?"
At her quiet request, he grinned devilishly.
"I think not."
"What?" Her eyes again met his. "What do you mean? Oh!" She gave a little gasp as he stopped the hole and pulled the lever to bring more heated water in the bathtub. "Erik, what are you doing?"
The demure quality left her tone which had grown firm in its bewilderment to understand.
"Something I have fantasized about for ages," he quietly stated as he took the slab of scented wet soap and lathered his hands with the creamy residue.
He stopped the flow of water and Christine stared up at him. All her absurd bashfulness dissolved in the heat of the water, her eyes now wide with wanting. Nervous expectation made her heart flutter within her breast, and she wondered if he could see its movement beneath her pink-tinged skin.
He placed his large soapy hands on each side of her neck, running them slowly over her shoulders, lathering her in cream and flame. He did not simply stroke the rose paraffin mixture against her; instead his long fingers and hands massaged every bit of her wet flesh, gradually moving down the instrument of her body in a musician's caress, leaving no area untouched and drawing from within her soft notes of sheer longing.
Christine gripped the sides of the copper tub to stay upright as desire swirled, hot and potent, each point of contact by his hands on her flesh making her lightheaded with need and each breath a mild struggle. He worked his way down her legs, to the soles of her feet and each sensitive toe then moved his way back up again. His hand slid along the inside of her knee to her thigh – but she could take no more.
Grabbing his shirt she pulled him down to her hungry kiss, pushing her tongue into his mouth to churn in a passionate fervor with his. With his hands braced on the bottom of the tub, he pulled slightly back then used one hand to smooth water over the residue of cream on her shoulders.
"I've not yet finished," he said huskily.
"I've gotten you wet," she breathed in reply at the same time and kissed his chin while noting his damp shirt and drenched sleeves above the elbows. Wishing to get him even wetter, she pulled his shirt from his trousers, and he broke away briefly to discard that. Her palms and fingers stroked down hard, scarred muscle, but when she reached for his trouser fastenings intent on stripping him naked to join her, he closed his hand over hers to stop her frantic fingers.
"Not here…"
"But why – oh!"
For the second time he startled her words to a close with his abrupt actions, as he lifted her from the water and onto his lap while she clung to his shoulders. Holding her tightly against him, he smoothed one hand along her back to her hip and thigh before answering.
"Because, my sweet Christine, I intend to taste every inch of your silken flesh before I make fervent love to you, and our bed is the best place for that."
His eyes branded her with their fire, his voice a seductive flame of promise….
Blushing head to toe like the fragrant rose that scented her skin, Christine shivered with warmth and held fast to her dark Phantom as he carried her to their bedchamber.
.
xXx
.
Later that evening, Christine kneaded dough for bread while Erik sliced vegetables into manageable portions to add to the kettle simmering on the stove. Jolene was packing away her belongings into crates, so Christine had told Erik she would make tonight's supper. She had yet to speak to the girl, had not even seen her, and wondered what she might say when she did. Their last conversation had been cordial enough she supposed, for two rivals over one man's heart, but Christine wanted no further discord in their underground dwelling. She strongly hoped that Jolene would concede defeat and they could all live together, if not in harmony, at least without the constant strain that tightened nerves and at times produced a dull throbbing at the back of her head.
Christine pounded and pressed the raw lump of dough. The entire time they worked, she and Erik exchanged furtive glimpses and secret smiles when their eyes by chance did meet, the memory of their latest interlude of passion vivid on their minds. The transfer of furniture would be undertaken tomorrow with too many hours lost to this day, all of them secreted away in shared bliss within the velvet curtains of their bed. However, thankfully her old bedchamber sat prepared and waiting for little Jacques and his sister, and seclusion was at last Christine's and Erik's to claim.
"I cannot believe it," she said in amusement after what Erik just told her when she again questioned if they were safe from discovery. "Not that you came up with the idea of the pretense, of course. That is entirely believable. But I am astounded that you actually got away with it and no one was the wiser!"
"I am The Phantom," he replied with a wicked grin.
"Yes, and how well I do know that," she replied just as wryly. "But that the entire ballroom of guests believed every part of what happened, thinking last night was staged and that you were an actor and I simply went away with my teacher, as before."
"I understand Madame Giry was very convincing."
"She must have been, to convince Raoul," Christine said carefully, trying to gauge his expression beneath the mask that he insisted he wear when they were not alone, though at present they were the sole occupants of the kitchen. "He can be very insistent and mule-headed when he believes something is amiss."
The Phantom's lips twitched with satisfied glee at her less than noble assessment, and he waited, sensing she had more to say.
"I did not choose to stay at the hotel with him and his cousin these past weeks." Her voice grew very still and serious. "He knew that you murdered Buquet, despite the police's findings, and feared for my safety. Of course I couldn't tell him your identity, so as to convince him he had nothing to fear and you would never harm me. The only manner in which he allowed my return to the theatre was only to sing there and to remain under his protection at all times."
"He is an idiot." Sneering, the Phantom brought the cleaver down hard on a head of cabbage.
She thought it wise not to argue that the Vicomte was only misinformed, feeling a degree of empathy in recalling how once, more than that, she had also been a victim of withheld information.
"I was always under guard while I was above, did you know that?" She glanced at him then back to her task. "I told you in the note but when you didn't respond I assumed you were still upset. Yet I know you often watched me from beyond the mirror – I felt you there."
He did not reply and she looked at him, "I am actually surprised that the Vicomte allowed me to attend the ball, what with his stubborn idea to keep me confined, but Madame Giry was most persuasive."
"As I told her to be." Her Phantom sat motionless, staring at her. "What note?"
"The first day of my return to the theatre I left you a note in Box Five." She sank to the chair beside him when his mouth parted in surprise. "Did you not receive it?"
"These past two weeks I conducted my business with Madame Giry in her office." He would be sure to question his aide, since he doubted she had ceased with the weekly habit of checking the box. "So, you discovered my hidden compartment?"
"I did," she said, her pride in her achievement superseding any nervousness to admit her action that he might construe as intrusive. "I was determined to get my message to you. When you didn't show up at the chapel, I was worried –"
"You went there ALONE, after what happened last time?"
At his sudden anger, apparent only in the rising strength of his voice, she quickly spoke, "Meg came with me. I was safe. And Father Dominic was there. We had a lovely visit."
He laid the blade on the table and sat back in his chair, effectively disarmed of his darkening mood as he shook his head in disbelief. "Father Dominic. The priest who married us in the church in the woods. He was at the opera house chapel?"
"Yes." At his reminder of their bizarre wedding, she lifted her chin, "and you should be utterly ashamed for making the good Father an accomplice to your deceit." When he failed to respond, she added, "You did, didn't you?"
"No." He viciously scraped the cut vegetables into a pot. "I instructed him to speak in French, his native tongue. That is hardly a form of deceit."
"There! That you know exactly what I meant proves your guilt –"
"Alright!" His eyes flashed. "I am guilty! What the hell was I supposed to do, Christine? Had he asked you in English, so that you could understand, if you 'take this man, Erik, to be your wedded husband,' you would have then known the truth."
Tingles went up her spine at the words she wished she had heard, and she nodded. "Yes, I would have known," she answered softly.
He admitted deceit; she had guessed correctly at his masquerade. It was a bridge already crossed, and to speak of the matter was futile though she was glad to know the truth.
"He is a nice man," she continued, "so much different than the minister in Haworth. He heard my confession, well, in a sense, and it felt freeing to my soul."
He snorted in derision and she rolled her eyes.
"Perhaps it might help you to speak to him?"
"I need no man's help and have no intention of leaving the safety of my underground den to ride into the woods and bare my soul to an interfering priest."
"Fine." She pounded the edge of her fist into the dough. "Forget I mentioned it."
She only thought it might help, to secretly bare his conscience to a man of the cloth as it had helped her. Irascible fool. She sighed and changed the subject to a matter that piqued her curiosity, ever since he spoke of last night.
"With regard to the Bal Masque," she watched him intently, "before you made your entrance in that dashing red costume, did you appear two hours before that dressed head to toe in black?"
His lips twisted in wicked amusement. "What puzzles me, my dear, is why you so often ask questions, to which you already know the answers."
Her lips thinned and she crossed her arms on the table, leaning closer. "Why did you dance with Raoul's cousin?"
His eyes again flashed sparks of fire. "Why did you dance with Raoul?" He said the name with acerbic distaste, like bitter venom on his tongue.
"I had no choice – but you did. Does she know who you truly are?" She recalled hearing of his first meeting with Arabella, when she found the secret entrance and wandered into his cave – and he held the woman captive against him the entire time. She frowned. "She kept hidden from me all knowledge of your attempts to visit me while I stayed at The Grange, did you know that?"
He scowled but did not look surprised. "I did try to warn you about their kind."
"Yes – but I came straight out and asked you on the day of my return, at The Summit. You led me to believe that you only peered through windows, hiding in shadows as you always did and still do – I never knew you actually came to the door! And that first night of my fever – you were in the room with me and would have carried me away back to The Heights!"
"Would it have made a difference had you known?" His tone went flat and he avoided her eyes. "You had already made your choice."
"What choice? I was in recovery." She frowned. "And yes, it would have most certainly made a difference."
"Would it," he scoffed. "Your head was so filled with the lust for wealth and position and pretty things, none of which I could then give you. I highly doubt my visit, had they allowed it, or your knowledge of my initial arrival through the balcony window would have mattered."
Christine winced, realizing that perhaps he was not yet ready to hold this conversation, even worse, realizing neither was she. A ring of truth she had no wish to acknowledge grimly resounded in his cold statement.
She had been so young and foolish, a dirty and wild little hoyden who'd found herself suddenly thrust among the posh nobility. She had been unaccustomed to being pampered and showered with beautiful gowns and hats, partaking in feasts with delicacies aplenty, and attending elegant parties with attention lavished on her for her songs – with which she then entertained the Vicomte's guests – and she had been given all else she never had and could ever desire. Without Erik near the luxuries soon paled into insignificance, of course, but at first they had been to her a shining lure.
"Why did you dance with her?" she insisted, to drown out the old guilt of her childish pettiness.
He narrowed his eyes in surprised mockery. "Certainly I do not detect a note of jealousy in your tone? Over two bloody years you spent living with the de Chagnys, more recently the past month, and you are upset that I engaged in one dance at a public ball with the fair lady?"
She frowned in displeasure. "You think she's fair?"
His lips twisted in a half smile. "She does possess a lovely figure…"
Incensed by his response, Christine stormed away from the table, but he caught her around the waist and pulled her down to his lap before she could get past him.
"Let me go, you fiend," she struggled but he only held her tighter.
"You are all I could ever want, my spirited vixen," he growled against her neck. "I wish for no other woman but you."
"We both know THAT wasn't always true," she shot back, pushing at his arms to no avail. "You forget – I have cause to be jealous." She glared at him. "I learned the truth of your nighttime trysts my very first day in the opera house, within the first bloody hour – "
He grumbled something unintelligible. "I danced with the Lady de Chagny to enlist her aid. No doubt her intervention helped to prevent her fool cousin from hacking through the trapdoors to follow us."
"Arabella agreed to help you?" she asked in surprise, momentarily diverted by his swift change back to the original topic.
"I was astounded as well. She was angered by my threat and offered to help of her own volition."
"You threatened her again?"
"Not her, the boy…"
Before she could respond, the strident and distant scrape of what sounded like metal dragging over stone made them both look toward the passageway. Curious, their argument all but forgotten, Christine rose off Erik's lap. He grabbed her arm before she could take more than a step toward the sound and also stood, moving partially in front of her in protection.
Suddenly the cat darted into the main room, as if a hound of hell chased at his heels. Mozart stopped, biting at the gauzy ribbon of rose tied around his neck and trailing a few feet behind his tail, batting at it with his front paw in an effort to remove the adornment while making little mewling growls and hisses of displeasure.
Christine recognized the décor of her costume from the Bal Masque at the same time the continual ring of metal striking stones grew louder and Jacques appeared in the entryway. Draped in the crimson tunic of Red Death which trailed at his ankles, he backed into the room while pulling the sword he had broken loose from its scabbard.
"Oh, my," Christine murmured, unable to quench an embarrassed laugh that the boy had found their costumes discarded in the heat of passion.
"Bloody hell," Erik swore under his breath.
He hurried toward the boy and divested him of the sword, then laid a firm swat to his backside, while Christine chased the irate cat, finally cornering it near the stove. It glared at her with angry yellow eyes and growled low, the rose satin and gauze ribbon twisted around its neck. Not wanting to get slashed by claws or bitten by tiny sharp teeth, Christine kept a short distance between them and hummed a gentle lullaby that had always calmed Henley during his teething. After a time, the cat's hackles smoothed, its eyelids growing languid and half closed until it rested its chin on its paws. She stared in wonder to see what she had done.
Erik silently came up beside her, his hand going to the middle of her back. "Only an angel's voice could soothe the savage beast," he said quietly, not seeming the least bit surprised by her unexpected skill.
Her Phantom approached the sleeping cat and with swift precision cut away the ribbon the boy had tied around its neck. His stealthy movements did not rouse Mozart, and when Erik returned to her side, she rewarded him with a full kiss on the mouth. Conscious that they had a small audience, she pulled away and retreated a step.
"Thank you for saving Mozart. He never was partial to being restrained in any manner."
"Faust and I have that in common."
Christine wrinkled her nose in distaste at the loathsome name.
"And we both became slave to an angel," he chuckled at her reaction, placing his hands atop her shoulders to give her another kiss.
"You have more in common than you know. I was drawn to him because he reminded me of you."
She withheld saying more, not yet ready to bring up that dark time and wondered if she ever would be able to speak of it. Perhaps the year of her black madness was better left forgotten.
"You drew me in from the moment I laid eyes on you." He brought the long satin ribbon he still held along her back and hooked her around the waist, using it to draw her even closer.
She curbed a grin, pressing her flour-covered palms to his shirt but not fighting his containment. "That long ago? The little ragamuffin I was, all boast and bluster, you were drawn to me?"
"Every feisty … dirty …"
She scowled.
"Delectable inch," he finished with a light kiss to her pouting lips.
"Hmph. One would never know it, with the way you treated me for weeks after Papa brought you to The Heights. You would have little to do with me. I had to practically fall on top of you to get you to acknowledge me after that first night we met."
"No practically about it," he agreed with a quirk of his lips. "My trust is not easily won."
A shimmer of doubt clouded his eyes and Christine grabbed the long, loose ends of satin ribbon trailing from his fists and brought the slack ends around his waist, linking them together and tying the ends at his back on a whim. "I did so then, I'll do so again. You'll never be rid of me, Erik."
"A prospect I could easily endure until the end of time."
"Don't think you'll be rid of me that soon either."
He laughed as if caught off guard, and she smiled at the delightful sound, nestling her head beneath his chin and pressing her cheek to his solid warm chest. Idly she watched Jacques, who flopped the loose sleeves of the red tunic as he walked beside the lake, involved in whatever pretense filled his mind, but that is not what suddenly caught and held her attention.
Jolene stood in the passageway leading to the outer corridors. She did not look at the boy draped in Erik's militia costume of an emperor, but stared directly at Christine literally tied in embrace to her Phantom.
It wasn't the expression of stunned hurt or even bitter envy that troubled Christine.
It was the sudden look of grave determination hardening the girl's features that chilled her soul.
At once, Jolene spun on her heel and disappeared back through the passageway that led to her new bedchamber.
.
xXx
A/N: Next chapter, a few more mysteries of the past will be cleared. ;-) Thanks again!