A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews! :D ...And now...

V

Christine sat before Erik on his mount, her mind awhirl, her body damply chilled from without and singed by a living flame within, an echo of that warmth solid against her back where his hard body met hers.

To have struggled for each breath, fearful it would be her last and be sucked beneath the dark water, entwined and held captive as if by some vindictive water sprite using a vine as its shackle – then in the next instant to find herself so sinfully crushed against her rescuer, his body as naked as hers but for the thin hose that provided a poor barrier to all she'd felt – it had been hell followed by heaven. And stunned, she had felt him. Felt every inch. Every hard plane and muscle, felt his thickness that defined him as a man flush against her inner thigh – dear God, she had never felt so much of him before. Never felt such intense heat despite the icy water, a heat that rendered her helpless, not in a manner to avoid but to covet. She had wished to burrow into him, like a helpless kitten, drape herself around his strong body. He had touched her above his cloak, touched her in a way she'd never been touched, his lips searing flesh.

Scandalous creature that she was, in that illicit moment, she would have given herself over to anything he asked. Be it as simple as a kiss or as complicated as her virtue…

A short time later, absent from his arms, common sense prevailed as they stood facing one another inside the tent.

Christine nervously drew his cloak tightly around her nakedness, swimming in the male scent of him, her wide eyes unable to look away from the masculine sight of him. Bare-chested, his pale lean form muscled and wet, his blood red hose darkened by water and barely concealing details of the manly bulge she'd so intimately felt against her most sensitive flesh – she snapped her eyes up to his intent ones, the mask, as always, somehow still in place. His slick dark hair hung in wild strands about his neck, dripping onto his broad shoulders.

"I…um…" She struggled to find her voice. To thank him for saving her life. To point out her immediate need and his for clothes. To beg him to take her in his arms and continue what he'd begun at the lake…

Overwhelmed and uncertain, she had no idea what would have tumbled from her mouth had he waited to speak.

"You cannot swim?"

His words came rushed and angry, as if he knew the answer and merely wished to hear it from her lips. At a loss, she shook her head.

"Then why in God's name did you take a dip in the ice-cold lake in the dark of night? Do you wish for death to claim you?"

"No, of course not." His clipped question spiked her own ire. "I wished only to bathe. Before that nasty current took off with my dress, I was managing well enough."

His jaw clenched and his eyes closed briefly, as if to seek calm.

"Behind, you will find all that you need." His voice was a dark velvet rasp. "I have little knowledge of such things, but Eustace is familiar with the requirements of a woman and has assured me that everything is there. I hope it meets with your satisfaction, damoiselle. I shall return shortly."

Before Christine could respond, he moved toward the flap, exiting through it, and she gasped to see the numerous stripes of a lash spread across his back. The abused tissue was scarred white, the skin puckered. Old scars. How had he come by such evil punishment?

Instantly she remembered her fight with Raoul over the ring she'd left with Erik, and Raoul's demeaning words that the man had been raised by heathen gypsies – caged, whipped, and beaten by them, later murdered his jailer – hoping to turn her favor away from her Maestro and open her eyes to the monster, the wild, beastly "thing" Raoul called him. Instead, the unexpected plight of the child Erik brought tears to her eyes and pain to her heart…

A heart that was in danger of being ripped asunder again. She craved his touch, and tonight proved to them both how much. But she would not receive him as anything less than what he'd been – a man who once loved her and gave everything in his power to prove it, even if at times his agendas were twisted in carrying out that love. She did not wish to be his conquest, a passing fancy that once thoroughly met would soon be discarded and forgotten. That was all she was to him now, since he saw her as no more than a stranger, a maiden he desired and thought fair and wished to bed – but still, a stranger.

Sighing at her lot, Christine cast her eyes to the bed of pelts and the two layers of folded cloth. The uppermost material was a light linen, much like a long chemise, and below that, a soft woolen kirtle in moss green with a round neckline. Near this lay a long chain of silver links and a linen headpiece. Cloth shoes sat near them. Bewildered, she studied the clothing provided for her. No corset. No crinoline. Not that she would miss either restrictive undergarment, but this reminded her of a costume from an opera in which she once danced. She'd spent a great many of her years wearing costumes from former centuries, in practices and performances, so did not think much of the peculiarity. Perhaps it was all Erik could find to steal, and she remembered that he and his men also wore costumes from that same opera.

It should bother her that he was such an accomplished thief, but that was the least of her qualms. After the life he'd been dealt by others' cruel hands, she could hardly blame him for doing what he felt he must to survive.

She slipped the long chemise over her head, noting it dipped a few inches beneath her collarbone but modestly covered her bosom, exposing no cleavage, and hung almost to her ankles. But the thin ivory linen gently clung to every curve from shoulder to hip, following the fluid lines of her body, unlike her loose chemises, and a blush rose to her face at the snugness of the fit, clearly a size too small.

The sudden rustle of material behind caused her to swiftly turn and cross her hands over her breasts.

Erik entered, his shirt replaced and hanging loosely about his hips. He carried her cloak, shoes and his doublet and sword. He looked at her a long moment then turned and set her shoes down on the mossy ground, laying the remainder on a wide log that stretched almost from one tent wall to the other and acted as a bench. He then proceeded to sit on the ground to struggle with the lacings and removal of each boot, a small pool of water trickling to the ground with each one discarded.

His actions were clear. He was staying.

Christine swallowed hard as she watched his profile with wide eyes. As much as she wanted him near, ached for his closeness, she did not want whatever could happen to be like this.

"Phantom," she said softly, "if I may speak?"

He stared into the fire a moment then looked over his shoulder at her.

She slid her hands from pressing against her breasts to tuck fingers into armpits and cross arms over her bosom, in a weak attempt to continue covering herself for modesty's sake, all the while trying to appear strong. She desperately pushed away the fact that he had seen and felt every inch of her skin short minutes ago.

"I was taught to guard my virtue, to give myself only to the man to whom I am bound through holy vows sanctioned by a priest. I…I thank you for saving my life, but I cannot give myself as payment or reward – and allow you to take what by rights should belong only to my hu-husband."

Her words came progressively more frantic when he swiftly rose after she spoke "reward", and covered the scant ground between them. His eyes glittered, his scowl dark.

"Did I ask for your virtue?" he hissed. "Did I demand it?"

She forced herself not to look away from cold eyes of silvery winter blue as they narrowed and dropped indifferently over her form then returned to her anxious eyes. The gleam there belied his disinterest.

"Lie thee down, wench. I have no stomach for rape. I seek only a bed. My own."

She backed up until her foot touched a silky pelt.

"But - where will I sleep?"

"You may sleep where you stand or take your chances outside by the fire. Mayhap the one here is more amenable." He casually motioned to the fire pit behind him. "I have only the two pelts, one upon which to lie and one for cover against the cold. Make your choice."

Christine painfully caught her breath at his words – those words. Words that once altered the very course of her existence, and when she had chosen him, her choice had been snatched from her, as if it was of no account, forcing her down another path not of her choosing.

Yet once again, what choice did she have?

In vexation she looked at the hard ground near the fire – laden with twigs and tiny stones that would make a prickly bed indeed, and she would never take the risk to lie outside, unguarded, after remembering the leers of the men. Most of them clearly did not like her or wished her for foul intent. Erik had thus far protected her. He was her safest choice, even if he wasn't the man she remembered. By his words, she felt he still must retain some ideals of a gentleman – even if he was a thief, murderer and scoundrel. She almost laughed in nervous irony at such an absurd thought. Her Erik of the Opera House had desired a wedding before making her his to own. It seemed, this Erik did not wish for a bride, but vowed not to take what was dear to her. She had to trust in that belief, even if to do so was extremely naive and foolish.

"Very well," she said with as much haughtiness as she could muster.

She took another step back and sat down, quickly seeking to bury herself beneath the top blanket of silky fur. Turning her back to him, she scooted to the tent wall until her forehead and knees touched canvas and she could go no further. Behind her she heard the unmistakable sound of clothing removed, the thick wet splat as a garment was thrown to the ground – dear God! He was naked. And she clenched her eyes tightly shut, desperately trying to block out the image of what that would entail. She had seen enough of his lean body and the outline of those private details to leave little to the imagination. The pelt above stirred as he settled down beside her, but true to his word, he did not cross the invisible line she had drawn to touch her.

An inexplicable surge of warmth flowed through Christine's every limb. Soon, added to that, the natural heat of his body radiated against her back and legs – even without touch, so intimate. It was a comfort and a lure, making Christine want to inch her body back and be enveloped in his warmth, be enveloped by him….

She lay as taut and still as a washboard, hardly daring to breathe as the night waned on.

xXx

Secreted within the trees, Le Masque stood a little ways off from the campfire and watched the damsel, Christine, sit near the low flames and talk with young Tobias.

"The men would have me speak with you," Eustace approached. "About Marcel."

"Marcel disobeyed my orders," Le Masque said brusquely and held up his hand, signaling a quick end to the matter and his impatience to continue the conversation.

"And will you leave him to rot in de Chagny's dungeon?" Eustace asked, both incredulous and anxious.

"Nay, but neither will I give succor to the wily young upstart! You said that he did not appear to be unduly suffering. I daresay a few days confined to a cell will improve his bad temperament. I will not be crossed. He must be made an example."

"You do plan to initiate his escape, in time?"

Le Masque gave an abrupt nod. "In time. From your report, supplies are needed to make that possible."

Both men suddenly looked toward the fire upon hearing the tinkle of Christine's light laughter at something the boy said. Eustace fidgeted, clearly upset, with something on his mind.

"The men would have me speak on their behalf, my lord." Eustace cleared his throat. "Some think, since the wench is de Chagny's intended, that we could demand a fair exchange…"

"An exchange?" Le Masque's eyes narrowed.

"The girl for Marcel."

"Never!" he roared, drawing every eye in the camp his way. "I'll hear no more on the matter." He spun on his heel, and Eustace followed him further into the thicket.

"What is she to you?" the older man asked tersely, the only man Le Masque allowed to challenge and speak to him thus. Even then, Eustace usually knew his limits. "She has shared your tent since we brought her four nights ago. You allow her to roam freely through camp and without bonds. I also thought the idea of her as hostage handed over for trade would solve our problems, but mayhap the matter has become personal…?"

"Have a care, Eustace," Le Masque growled. "Our acquaintance may cover years, but that does not give you leave to intrude in my affairs."

"Aye," the man said uneasily. "If I may ask, what plan have you for Marcel's rescue? Perhaps if I have something to tell the men…"

Le Masque considered the request and gave a twisted grin. "You have heard of the black powder?"

Eustace's smile was slow, ending in a great bellow of a laugh. "Oh, aye."

"First we must procure more horses. Tomorrow, in the second watch of the night. After that, three of us will ride to Paris to look into the matter."

"You mean to leave the wench at camp under guard?"

"No, Eustace. Mademoiselle Daaé will come with you and I and whomever else I choose."

His aide gave him an uncertain look, but nodded, saying he would inform the others of the plan, then strode away.

Concealed in darkness with the shield of the thicket for a cover, Le Masque moved through the trees to find a sizeable gap that acted as a window and once more studied his lovely captive. Her face was aglow with the firelight dancing there and bringing a treasure of bronze, copper and ruby out of her dark wild curls. He frowned to see that she had omitted the headpiece to help conceal the stirring sight of her beauty.

The wench was a conundrum he wanted solved.

In the mists of what memory he could claim, he'd known few women, never longer than a night and always under cover of shadow. But when he first held Christine Daaé naked in the lake, a tremor coursed through his body, as if he'd never before touched a woman intimately. The sole time he'd felt her body against him since, the feeling only intensified that she was the only one he had known. The first.

Lying next to her the past three nights had severely tested his mettle. She kept as much space between them as allowed, and he had not once breached the distance. Somehow, he'd always found a few hours of slumber and stumbled away before dawn, his mind still glazed with sleep before he could fully become aware of her presence. But last night he had awakened to find the damsel sound asleep and curled against him, every supple curve of her warmth felt through the thin undertunic she wore, her slim arm wrapped around his middle, her fingers edged beneath the long gap of his loose shirt. His loins had stirred, his flesh hardening with need. All he had wanted was to draw her closer, to bring her beneath him and press himself inside her – and at once he'd quit the bed and the tent, this time giving no considerate heed to quiet or caution, certain he had wakened her with his abruptness to get away. He had stormed through the forest like a crazed barbarian, stripping off his shirt and rushing to lose himself in the chill arms of the icy lake.

Christine made him feel sensations he'd never known, yet so oddly familiar. He wanted to shield her and know her and make wild, passionate love to her – tup her 'til neither of them could move from the experience – and it frightened the hell out of him.

Not many things in life brought fear. He had known the bite of a lash, the cut of a blade, the despair of a cage – hatred and loneliness and wretchedness his bosom companions the entirety of his unnatural life. These things were common to him. But the novel emotions roiling within his breast that somehow felt ancient and an instrinsic part of him all along – and all connected to this woman – these feelings made him wish to jump on his horse at a mad gallop, far and fast, and leave the damsel behind. At the same time he knew that not to see her again might wound his soul for eternity.

It made not a breath of sense.

He could never invite any woman into his life, into his secrets. None had gotten close of the few he'd known, no matter how they tried and pleaded, especially to see beneath his mask, and he soon turned his back and forgot each face. But Christine…

Ah, she was different, if only he could determine why.

He grabbed a low-hanging limb before him and gripped it hard, leaning his weight into it as he watched her bedazzle the young Tobias with her dimpled smile and a laugh like the gentle chime of distant bells.

Such madness, this. She was his captive, only until he decided what was to be done with her. A menace in his camp and a disturbance to his men with the potential to turn them against each other and wage a civil war. He had no need for Eustace's warnings to apprise him of danger – to his annoyance, he could see the lust and suspicion inscribed on every man's face.

Christine had a rare loveliness of countenance, each feature unique. Not classically beautiful when judged on its own merit – the slight tilt of the small nose, the wide full mouth, the haunted dark eyes – but the whole of it when put together composed a breathtaking masterpiece. Her form was pleasing to the eye, slender but nicely rounded, and he could well remember those bare, soft curves pressed against him, God help him. She was too damn alluring not to be under a father's watch or husband's care – for her own protection. A brute like de Chagny did not deserve such a wife; he would bruise her tenderness with his arrogance and shatter her fragility with harsh demands. Le Masque sensed in the young woman an underlying strength, and he'd experienced her spirit firsthand, but she was still an innocent. The unwanted task had fallen on him to ensure she remain that way. Daily he struggled with the attraction he felt in her presence, physical and emotional – not understanding the why of any of it, but determined to ignore what could only magnify into a problem he did not need. Once in Paris, he would relinquish the young woman over to her family and put this odd interlude behind him.

In any event, after what Christine Daaé had unknowingly revealed in her slumber, he would be foolish to risk anything more.

xXx