A/N: Since a few of you asked for it, here's a longer chapter. ;-) (Though I can't promise it will always be that way)...
Chapter IX
.
Much later than he would have liked, once significant issues were dealt with, including the inspection of Nigel's wound at Eustace's request and making the poultice to fight the infection that could spread through his blood, Le Masque informed his men of his imminent plans. One of the rare occasions he did not use Eustace as his mouthpiece.
He picked two of his band to journey with him, the remainder to stay behind, giving those men duties and commanding them to steer clear of the chateau and attempt no rescue until he returned. He cast a stern eye at the grumblings of Marcel's close companions, Aubert and Richard, warning those men that if they chose to disobey, whatever problems they incurred were theirs alone to bear. Marcel's fate was the first and final warning.
Both men remained silent, Aubert giving only a stiff nod, though the stubborn anger of insubordination burned dark in their eyes. Let them act falsely. If they would not heed his words, they would rue the day, and for once he would not be the instigator of that threat.
As he issued orders, Le Masque could not help notice Christine near his tent at the edge of the clearing, her eyes never leaving him. He felt her to the marrow of his bones…had ever since the past night he could scarcely recall. The blackness had come, accompanied by the usual dreams from hell and heaven, and with it, her song. That too, he'd had little recollection of, only remembering the pain had eased with her gentle voice, a pure voice such as he'd never heard, giving him a strange sense of completeness, as though something missing had been found.
He had awakened abruptly from the void to find her sound asleep, halfway draped over a low moss-furred rock and holding him loosely in her arms. Her luxuriant dark curls had been fanned out in silky ripples all around her, thin ribbons of silver painted by moonbeams lending an ethereal cast to her delicate visage, and he had stared at the vision she made, spellbound.
Remembrance of the recent week with her had not been vague, the memories with her more fixed in his mind than those memories retained from the two former blackouts. The men thought them only black moods, knowing to keep their distance, and he preferred to leave them in the dark as to this new caste of torment he first suffered a fortnight ago. Her offer to sing intrigued him, and the moment he heard her voice, aside from its rare beauty, he had the oddest sensation that it called out to him, as if to remind him of something he should know. He vaguely recognized the voice of his dreams, heard her sorrow, had seen her tears, and though it distressed even angered him to know she wept for missing the man she acknowledged in restless slumber, Le Masque had gone to her, as a needy moth to her sweetly burning flame, unable to prevent what, like the unassuming moth, surely must be the commencement of his demise.
The kiss had been spontaneous, as necessary as the next breath, a token meant to comfort. Whether her or him or both, it failed to matter. It developed into much more than that. The moment she yielded, he possessed her with no thought but to make her his own, until the memory of her softly crying out her lover's name in dreams came back to haunt him, along with the certainty that she likely imagined herself to be in that man's arms.
Would that he could forget her presence, but the passage of each day made such an undertaking impossible and the wanting of her stronger. Five days and nights she had dwelt within his camp, and the bizarre truth of it was he felt as if never a moment elapsed in his lifetime that he did not know her. She called to a place deep within his soul, a place he feared to travel…
Already his worst foe, the Vicomte de Chagny would demand blood once he learned that Le Masque had stolen away his newly intended, though that is not what lent to his qualms. The Vicomte's recent spurned marriage offer for the Lady Anne, the youngest daughter of a Marquis, had flayed the fool's pride. While Le Masque certainly did not fear the pompous noble, he was not so foolish as to wish to invite further harassment. Under the Vicomte's orders, his soldiers had seized their horses, found and destroyed their camp, twice, when Le Masque and his band of fugitives were absent, and now imprisoned one of their own in chains. This act of keeping Christine with them, sleeping in his bed, would surely see them all severely punished.
And yet, to relinquish the lovely damoiselle, as he must, weighed heavy on his soul.
She had been mutinously silent since he delivered his warning at the cove not to cross him. He could not yet fully discount that she might be a spy, and the mute nods and curt shakes of her head in response to any questions asked did not help convince him otherwise. Certain that this day would test his mettle to its limits in more ways than one, he ignored her as he walked past where she stood and approached the newly reclaimed horses.
He was not surprised to hear the rustle of grass as she fell into step behind him.
"I fear none of these mounts are gentle enough for a lady," he said, stopping before one roan mare and cautiously stroking its velvet nose. The wild look in the beast's eyes gave Le Masque cause to wonder if the horses had been mistreated while in the Vicomte's captivity. "Can you sit a horse well?"
He turned to look when she gave no answer.
Her eyes had gone wide as she stared at the roan's blunt teeth then dropped her gaze to the wide iron shoes. Nervously she shook her head.
"When last have you ridden?" he asked a question that necessitated speech.
She hesitated. "I never have."
Cheered to hear words, he regarded her with dry amusement. "Ah, so you do still have a tongue in your head. I was beginning to wonder. I understood all ladies of breeding are taught to ride."
A fiery glint sparked in her dark eyes though her voice remained calm. "I never had the need," she said dismissively. "Nor did I feel a need to speak when you have already judged and found me guilty of sorcery or espionage or both!"
He sensed the deep hurt that lay beneath her low words though he failed to understand the reason.
"I only asked, I did not accuse, and as to the other, I have no concept what you mean." He blew out a terse breath, struggling to retain his composure. "Never mind. You will ride with me."
Her chill calm disintegrated before his eyes.
"Oh but, I can learn to ride…"
He scowled at her sudden evident desire not to be near his person and walked toward where his own stallion pawed the ground, eager to be off and already saddled as he had asked Tobias to do. Christine followed, keeping a few steps between them.
"I have not the opportunity to teach you, nor the time to loiter at the pace of a slug while you learn the fundamentals that would ensure you don't end up thrown to the ground and crack that stubborn head of yours wide open. The horses are excitable and need the hand of an expert horseman."
He took a step her way. Only then did she realize she had backed up.
"Come, damoiselle, the time is upon us. We must reach Paris with all haste."
Christine watched in wary regard as he took another step until he stood a breath away and she could see the gleam in his eyes, one of arrogant mischief and command she had witnessed before. She sidestepped to the right, he to the left to block her.
This was ridiculous.
"Really, monsieur, I -"
Without warning his large hands spanned her waist and hoisted her into the air as if she were a feather. She gasped, clinging to his shoulders for balance while he carried her the short distance, then tossed her up to the broad back of his stallion.
Christine landed heavily on her derriere and scrambled to get a handhold. The saddle was hardly a saddle – a makeshift composition of folded blankets beneath connected strips of leather – and she grabbed and clung to the stallion's coarse mane to stay atop, having no wish to haul up her gown to her bare thighs and straddle the beast or topple to the ground as he inferred she might, which seemed a long way down.
Erik put his foot in the stirrup and swung up easily behind her, one arm going around the front of her waist and holding her against his chest, before he took the reins Eustace handed up to him. Her hips rested snugly between Erik's muscled thighs and the burn of a blush seared her skin when she remembered the night by the lake.
They began their journey and she wriggled, trying to put a more modest distance between them. Suddenly his arm tightened beneath her breasts, his lips moving near her ear, his breath warming the cold rim.
"Damoiselle, I cannot vouch for the continuance of your virtue if you persist in like manner." His words came soft as silk but dark with meaning.
The fiery heat of embarrassment again flooded her face, and Christine froze, suddenly realizing the hardness she felt at her backside had nothing to do with the rudimentary saddle but everything to do with the mystery of Erik. She had no wish to encourage him to instigate forbidden acts - and especially atop a horse! Nonetheless, absolute immobility was a difficult feat. Nearly impossible when seated on the walking beast.
"Relax," he said after minutes of this torture. "Hades will not bolt or throw you. He is well trained under my hand."
"You named your horse Hades," she said through stiff lips, "and that is supposed to reassure me?"
He chuckled, and her back and shoulders eased slightly to hear the agreeable sound. It was rare that she heard Erik laugh.
"Unless your name is Persephone, you have nothing about which to be concerned," he quipped.
Apparently he had not forgotten his mythology, those intriguing tales of gods and goddesses he shared with her in her girlhood, and Christine dwelled on that. She had been kidnapped and held his hostage twice, though in this forest masquerade of which he had no control, he did not instigate her abduction and she doubted from things said that he even wished her to remain in his company. Her plan was to take him to the Opera House, hoping an encounter with Madame Giry could spark his memory. Her ballet instructor had known the Phantom the longest, since they were children, and might know of some manner in which to bring him back to the knowledge of who he truly was, where Christine had failed. It was the last hope she had to cling to.
As they journeyed, she concentrated on their surroundings and soon all but forgot her discomfiture to be pressed against him. The warmth of his solid body against hers was a pleasurable comfort, the urge to lean back soon impossible to suppress.
The trees seemed far greater in number than what little she remembered on her journey with Raoul to Brittany two weeks ago, the road clearly a different one. She had stared out a carriage window but scarcely took notice of the countryside, her mind caught up in ceaseless worry over Erik's fate and the tragic events of the Don Juan.
Now, with Eustace and Tobias riding behind them, Erik blessedly alive and with her, Christine studied the vista, enjoying the crisp, clean air and the trees in such abundance and so widespread, even once they left the dense part of the forest. She did not regret one moment of her life at the opera, but had never been given this kind of freedom to roam. Outings with Raoul were scheduled and precise, covering the social niceties and little else – museums, soirees, and similar gatherings held in noble homes. The random occasions she visited the city with Meg and Madame Giry had been to shop for trinkets and necessities. This journey reminded her of the first years of her life, traveling the countryside while entertaining with her Papa, and only now did she realize how much she missed its nomadic appeal.
Near the noon hour, with the sun directly above and dappling gold coins of light through the branches and onto the dirt path, hunger began to gnaw at Christine. They passed under the low-hanging boughs of a row of similar trees, and she was intrigued to see the fruit they bore dangling from branches that hung well within reach.
"Go ahead," Erik urged, seeing the direction of her eager gaze.
Delighted she lifted her hand high to grasp a ripe golden-red morsel, plucking it loose as the horse walked beneath. She bit into the skin, closing her eyes in pleasure at the sweet juiciness of the soft fruit as she chewed, then took another bite without swallowing her first.
"I take it you are pleased?"
"Mmm," she answered, her mouth too full to give a coherent reply. She ignored his clear amusement of her less than ladylike behavior.
Away from the de Chagny entourage, servants and family alike, her actions were no longer held under a magnifying glass, and it was…exhilarating. Without a thought or a care, she turned and held the fruit near his mouth for him to take a bite. He stared with surprised question into her eyes. Realizing what she'd done and now feeling a bit self-conscious, she wondered if she should apologize for her impulsive act.
Before she could withdraw, he leaned in and bit down. His lips lightly edged her fingers with the action, and she almost dropped the fruit at the tingles of sensation that warmed her hand.
"Delicious indeed," he said, his eyes intimating more than the fruit.
Suddenly shy, she surreptitiously licked the juice from her lips and studied him from beneath lowered lashes. He watched her, his breath hitching on a barely audible gasp. With the intensity in which he stared, she thought for one wild, reckless moment he might bend his head and press his lips to hers, was stunned by how much she wanted him to, but he only whipped his focus back toward the path and did not look at her again.
Quietly she finished the fruit, the joy of the act gone. The ensuing silence became her enemy. It gave Christine too much time to think, always a litany of the same questions, all which offered no answers.
In the late afternoon, they stopped near a stream to water and rest the horses, then continued on until evening. The western sky was aglow with crimson, gold, and violet ribbons of color, lulling her into a weary kind of enchantment, by the time Erik finally broke the silence. At the unexpectedness of his deep voice above her ear, the stirring rumble of it felt against her back, she jumped against him. Immediately he tightened his arm that had grown lax around her.
"I-I'm sorry – what did you say?" she whispered.
"I said, we are a short distance from the city. However, darkness will cloak it long before we arrive, and I dare not travel by night. We shall camp here and enter by the left bank come morning."
Uncertain why they should wait, she shook her head. "Why not go now?"
"We must avoid the nightwatch and cannot light a torch at risk of being seen."
Christine barely nodded, feeling foolish and confused at the same time. After the opening night of the Don Juan two weeks ago, the Phantom was a wanted man in Paris. Though with the tall iron lamps scattered along the streets and boulevards, the lamplighters surely fleet of foot in their task, she failed to understand why they would need to carry their own source of light.
"What if you're recognized?" she whispered, suddenly anxious for him and now certain this was a very bad idea.
When he gave no response, she turned her head to look. He stared at her as if she was a puzzle he wished to solve.
"You sound as if you care."
She felt unsure of how to answer. "Perhaps it was a mistake to ask you to take me."
"You no longer wish to find your friends?" he sounded surprised.
"No, I do. But I think you should just deposit me outside of Paris. I can find my way to the Opera House."
She had no desire to part ways with him, but the thought of his arrest chilled her blood, and surely they could find a safer way to meet later.
"Deposit you…" He looked at her oddly then shook his head. "I have no intention of pushing you off Hades to leave you anywhere, save for the destination I plan to take you."
At the steel of his tone, Christine did not persist. He thought her his captive. She doubted she could convince him to remain behind while she strolled alone into the city. If not for concern of his safety, she would dearly welcome his presence, insist on it even, though she couldn't tell him that either. And so she took the coward's way out and slipped back into silence.
x
Once they made camp, Tobias and Eustace disappeared on foot into the trees, the boy armed with his bow and quiver of arrows. Erik tended to his horse while Christine surveyed her twilight surroundings. All around loomed trees and hills, with no sign of a city in sight.
She kept her distance, sensing Erik required his and watched idly as he gathered twigs and small branches to start a fire. He did not look at her once, his bearing rigid, his face, what she could see of it, as blank as the mask he wore.
Tobias and Eustace returned after dark, each man carrying the carcass of a small mammal. While they skinned and prepared the meat, Erik stood a short distance away, leaning his shoulder against a tree, arms folded as he stared at a remote hill. Christine wondered what lay so heavy on his mind and only just prevented herself from approaching him to ask.
They supped around the fire, the other two men conversing with one another, and Eustace commended the lad for his sharp eye in gaining them a decent night's meal.
"A finer hunter than Tobias ye'll not find," Eustace praised. To Christine's surprise the words were addressed to her.
"Did you not also take part in the hunt?"
"Oh, aye, but Tobias is quicker with the arrow, and has the eyes of a cat, much like our leader. I like a good dagger, but throwing it falls short in the hunt for small game. Though for a boar, only a crossbow will do."
She looked toward Erik, who sat a little apart from them and had maintained his silence.
"And do you hunt with a crossbow or with a dagger?"
He took a moment before answering. "When I hunt, I prefer to use traps."
His quiet admission brought to mind the many perilous snares beneath the Opera House and the trap door they had fallen through to get there.
"My Papa tried to teach me to fish once," she said, "the summer before he died, when we lived by the sea." She wrinkled her nose. "I wasn't very adept at the task." She detested piercing the worm on the hook, though digging for them with her fingers in the cool, wet soil had been rather nice, at least in the mind of a five-year-old child. Trying to remain silent as they sat on a rock with their sticks for poles had been nearly impossible, when all she wanted was to lift her voice in song to the rushing and receding lull of the waves…
"Do you sing?" she asked Erik suddenly, and he looked up from his serving of roasted squirrel in wary surprise.
"I have never found cause," he said slowly, watching her. "I am no bard and would not fit into your Opera House. The lad, he is the one with the voice for such things."
In frustration that he should speak so falsely, and actually believe the ruse, when he had a voice to rival the angels, she urged, "Will you not try?"
"No." He focused on his meal and took the last bite from the bone.
"Very well then." Christine pasted on a tight smile and turned to Tobias. "Would you gift us with a song? I welcome a night's entertainment."
The lad squirmed in prideful embarrassment but nodded. "Anything for you, milady."
The boy sang a hymn, his voice a sweet tenor, still childlike, gentle and clear and bringing a sense of comfort. Afterward, Eustace chimed in with his own off-key tune, a bawdy song of a milkmaid and a wanderer. Accustomed to the risqué lyrics associated with the lewd operettas performed at the opera house, Christine did not bat an eyelid at the ribald words, though she did cringe a bit when he seemed to try for a B sharp and went unerringly flat.
She noticed with satisfaction that Erik also winced.
"Are you sure you don't want to chime in with your own tune?" Christine tried once more to interest him. She dearly missed his voice and wished to hear him sing again. It would also help solidify her belief that this was her Angel, for surely no two men could share the same heavenly voice. Though she no longer harbored any real doubts of his being Erik, his stubbornness another trait she remembered only too well.
"We must rise before dawn." He rose to stand. "I advise you to get some sleep."
She watched glumly as he strode to his horse and grabbed a bundle he had strapped there. Rolling it out, he laid it on the ground, and she noticed the blanket of fur pelts.
"I must tend to nature's call first," she said stiffly. "I trust you have no objection?"
"Do not wander far."
Christine turned her back on him, disgusted by his obdurate nature that would not allow him to bend the tiniest bit to give her a simple song. Eustace certainly possessed no true talent, but had offered no restraint to sing. Erik's voice was more masterful than any she'd ever heard, inside the opera or out of it, and again she toyed with the notion of telling him who he truly was…
And again disposed of the notion for the same reasons that held her back before.
One, he would think her mad. Or two, he would think her a witch up to some sort of sorcery. After all, she had 'come from the standing stones in the dead of night beneath a witching moon.'
She rolled her eyes at such superstitious twaddle. Either scenario would cause him to distrust anything she said. If she told him and he thought her a witch, it would surely arouse his suspicions, perhaps remind him of the old woman who he believed had raised and treated him so shabbily–and he might then regard Christine with loathing, as most of his men did. She could not bear such a prospect and felt doubly grateful they no longer burned witches at the stake, having dispensed with that dark practice in the eighteenth century. She remembered that from her childhood studies of the history of France. And while she did not believe Erik of the Forest would harm her, not after putting his own life at risk in that ghostly lake to save hers, his men showed no such scruples.
Once she returned to the bed of furs, she noticed Eustace and Tobias now sat with their backs to her at the campfire. Discussing something in low, serious tones, they paid her no heed.
And Erik, wretchedly elusive Phantom-Ghost that he was, stood nowhere in sight.
With a disgruntled sigh, Christine lay down, using her cloak as a cover. Thoroughly chilled without the heat of Erik's body to warm her, she realized how she had grown too wretchedly accustomed to having him lie beside her, and it took some time for sleep to come.
x
She was startled into wakefulness and sat up, uncertain what had alarmed her.
Her eyes widened with terror as the sound came again – a low mournful howl from somewhere nearby. It raised the fine hairs on her arms, and she looked toward the campfire, relieved to see steady flames still highlighted the area. What gave her true cause for alarm was to see the men were gone.
Clasping her cloak hard beneath her chin she scoured the darkness beyond the flames. Thick gray clouds slipped with slow stealth across the sky in a gradual reveal of the moon's bright beacon, no longer full, but complete enough to give off light. And suddenly washed in that light, standing at a distance nearly in profile to where she sat, stood Erik.
Weak with relief, Christine struggled to rise. Never taking her eyes from his tall, lean form, she approached him. He did not acknowledge her presence, but instead looked down at something he turned over in his hand.
Her eyes followed the direction of his, and she halted in stunned disbelief, the beat of her heart a wild, slow pounding within her breast. The moonlight glinted off what he held between fingers and thumb. She stared hard and moved forward, almost without realizing she did.
"What is that?" she whispered.
He glanced sideways at her, taking in her tousled appearance with one indifferent sweep of his eyes then returned his attention to his hand. "Could you not sleep?"
"That awful howling woke me. What is that?"
"Wolves."
She shivered at his low reply. "I thought it might be. What is that you're holding?" she asked a third time.
He turned to face her with deliberate regard then held the sparkling object out for her to see.
She swallowed over a suddenly dry throat. "May I?"
He nodded once, and she took the ring from his fingers.
A collection of small diamonds, eleven to be precise – the largest in the middle slightly raised, ten smaller all around, a woman's ring – it hung from a strand of knotted leather, and swept clean any morsel of lingering doubt from her mind.
This man was no twin, his presence no coincidence. This was Erik. Eustace and the boy had been lying about his whereabouts in Paris two weeks ago, possibly to protect him. He, himself, admitted his memories were faulty due to the blackouts, so could have been uncertain of times and dates and not guilty of again deliberately deceiving her.
She looked up from the ring and beyond the mask into his eyes, shimmering a darker blue in the dim moonlight. She prayed to see something of her Angel there, the man she had barely come to know.
"How did you come by this?" she asked, willing her voice to remain steady, though both her hands trembled as she held the thin band.
"I have no recollection. I woke one morning, after my mind's journey into darkness, and that was around my neck. Is it yours?" he asked in curious surprise. "I assumed I had gained it on a raid."
She had never been partial to the size of the ostentatious ring, designed to flaunt wealth. She preferred her jewelry to possess a delicate simplicity, but that had not been her reason for giving this ring to Erik.
She studied the cluster of diamonds one last time then handed it back to its rightful owner. "No, it's not mine. It's much too flashy for my tastes."
He nodded softly. "It is not without 'flash' as you say, but when I hold it, there is something about it that is…reassuring. It gives me a sense of calm." Instantly his expression went guarded. "That must sound foolish to you."
"No," she said very softly, willing herself not to cry. In the giving of it, she had meant it as a little piece of herself. Even perhaps, a promise, though she did not acknowledge that purpose at the time. "So it is your good luck charm?"
"My…what?"
"You know, something you keep with you for good fortune."
"A talisman," he said with a slight nod, slipping the ring back over his head and into his shirt. "Mayhap it is that."
"Why would you not sing?"
The words slipped out before she could stop them, the need for him to know who he truly was burning painfully through her, the wish to jolt him into remembering as vital as the blood that pounded through her veins.
He seemed taken aback by the question and narrowed his eyes. "Why is it so important to you?"
"You ask to hear my song, but will not return the favor? Where is the fair play in that?
"Ah, but you have said so yourself, damoiselle – you are a singer. It is the profession you chose and that which by people know you. It is expected of you to sing."
She floundered for an answer to such inane logic.
"I have never met anyone who refused to sing. Music has been my life, from the time I was a little girl and sang to my Papa's violin. When I was sad and needed comfort, when I was joyful, in celebration, in distress – no matter the occasion, music has always been there for me to hold on to and possess…"
He lifted his brow high at her impassioned speech, and she threw her arms wide.
"It's only a song for pity's sake!"
He stared at her as if he wasn't sure quite how to answer or what she expected of him.
"And you wish for me to join my voice with the wolves?"
A howl in the distance split the quiet again, as if in protest.
At his dry question, she shook her head in weary disgust.
"Oh, never mind. I don't know what it is I wish for…"
"That is a lie." His whisper-soft words made her heart again beat a little faster, as did the hand he lifted to smooth back the messy curls from her face where the breeze tossed them. He tucked them behind one ear. "Something tells me, Christine Daaé, you know precisely what you want."
She held a breath, unable to deny it.
He looked her over, from slippered feet to uplifted face, then took hold of her arm, walking back with her to the camp. "We must draw near to the fire. The beasts will not trouble us there."
"You think they'll come?" she whispered, his reminder of their feral nature again causing concern.
"I have no doubt. They will circle and lie in wait, but will not approach with the presence of the firelight." He looked at her once they reached the fur pelts. "Rest easy, damoiselle. I will let no harm come to you."
His voice soothed, his eyes steady, and she believed him. God help her, had always believed him. No matter that he long deceived her about his identity as an angel, he never once failed her in his protection. Joseph Buquet was proof of that, though her Angel's method of murder had appalled her. She had caught the loathsome stagehand watching her disrobe from twin peepholes in the wall of her dressing room, and from his lewd comments when she angrily confronted him, strongly sensed he had something more sinister in mind. Her mistake had been to share that encounter with Erik, who then she thought only her Angel, though she could not truthfully say she wasn't relieved Buquet was no longer a hindrance to avoid.
"And you?" she asked. "Do you not also need sleep?"
"I am accustomed to little slumber. You need not be concerned about me."
He may be accustomed to it, but that failed to mean he did not require it. "What of the others?" She wondered at their absence. "Are they off hunting again?"
"I sent them on an errand. Go to sleep, Christine. I will keep watch, and tomorrow you will again be with your friends at your Opera House."
She settled into the furs, but for a long time did not close her eyes against the image of him, sitting before the fire and stirring it with a stick, his sword absent of its scabbard and lying within easy reach on the ground.
Your friends, too, Erik, at least one of them. And hopefully tomorrow, you'll remember that.
xXx
A hand on her shoulder shook her awake.
"Ten more minutes, Meg…" Christine groggily muttered.
"It is time to rise, damoiselle."
At the rich, familiar voice, she opened her eyes, blinking the film from them. At first she assumed she still lay in depths of slumber. Erik crouched above her, his appearance unlike she had ever seen him, the mask gone. In its place he had tied a scrap of burlap to cover half his face and wore a cloak of coarse brown cloth with a large hood. With the bristle of shadow that lined his jaw, he resembled a beggar from an old opera. Or perhaps a monk.
"Erik…?" she asked, her mind still dulled with sleep to know better. The harsh lines appearing near his mouth instantly informed her of her error.
"No, damoiselle. Le Masque – or, as you would call me, Phantom."
"I'm sorry. I thought I was still dreaming."
Her mumbled apology did nothing to erase the hard set of his jaw.
"We must leave," he ordered. "The time is upon us."
Christine struggled to rise. He hesitated then held out his hand. She looked at him, trying to gauge his mood and finding it impossible to decipher, then clasped her palm to his, accepting his aid.
"Why are you dressed like that?" She asked the question most prominent in her mind.
"A disguise we must implement before entering Paris."
"We?"
He motioned beyond her. She turned to see a wagon stacked with myriad straw baskets. He quickly strode toward the conveyance and she followed, watching as he pulled out a similar robe and handed it to her.
"You must wear this. We want to attract as little attention as possible."
Christine hardly thought that wearing monk's clothing would do that on the elegant boulevards of Paris, but at the warning light in his one exposed eye she did not argue and took the scratchy robe. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the faint odor of manure and sweat coming from the cloth though a hurried inspection showed that nothing foul spotted it.
"I apologize, but it was all my men were able to procure."
She looked around, noting their absence, and he added, "They rode ahead."
"And this is really necessary?" she asked, hoping he would relent and allow her to resume their journey without disguise.
"With your rare beauty to turn every head our way, yes, this is necessary."
She flushed with warmth at the offhand compliment delivered so sternly, and almost felt he expected an apology for the way God made her. A foolish thought, she chided herself. A great deal must weigh heavy on his mind to put him in such a boorish mood.
Given no recourse but to wear the foul thing, Christine frowned and slipped it over her clothing. He moved to wrap the belt firmly around her waist - stared at the change made, as did she, noting the curves of her breasts and hips were made more prominent - and with his hands still holding the sash just as quickly untied it, throwing it to the ground.
"Better that those who look are left in doubt as to your gender," he offered in careless explanation.
With a frown, she nodded, her wrists and throat beginning to itch where the coarse wool brushed skin. He was a master of disguises, so should know the extent of what was needed, but oh how she could not wait to be rid of the wretched thing!
Soon they were on their way, by wagon this time, pulled by a tired looking mule, and Christine wondered what had happened to Hades. One glance at the Phantom's dour expression, and she decided she didn't need to know. Attempting to ignore the tension coiled tight between them she allowed her mind to wander to the diverse chirruping of morning birdsong.
An eternity seemed to pass before Christine caught sight of colored rooftops through the trees, and she sat up on the bench seat, craning to see. She frowned as they broke from the dense wood and drew nearer to the bridge. True, she had not entered Paris from such a height, not that she could remember as she'd been an orphan of six at the time, and she and Raoul had left its boundaries by night, in a closed carriage, her tears warping any last view of the city she might have taken.
But something seemed different somehow…wrong, all wrong. She had not recalled so many rooftops being conical and had thought there were more domes in the architecture, any domes...
"I should tell you, I will not be taking you to your Opera House directly."
Erik's voice cut into her thoughts like a knife, both the unexpectedness of it and the words causing her to turn to him in alarm and put aside her first view of the city.
"May I know why?" She asked.
"I have a meeting to attend, and my men were slow to return with the wagon. It is nearing the noon hour. Later, upon my return, I will accompany you then." He glanced her way, his voice softening a fraction to the silken tones she preferred. "You must be hungry, and I apologize for not taking time to break the fast. We will take refuge at the home of my friend and find a meal there."
After seeing him in the company of his men it should offer no surprise that he spoke of having a friend. Still, this version of Erik was so changed from the Erik of old who shunned all social interaction…and yet, so much the same, since he did not invite others' company, only tolerated it, from what she'd seen in the six days she had been his willing captive.
"Is this wagon stolen?" she asked. "Is that what your men were doing last night?"
"Merely borrowed. It shall be returned once I no longer have need of it."
He stared at her as she watched him, his riveting eyes making a slow perusal of her face before he looked sharply away. "You must pull that hood over your head so no one will see, and try to hide that wild spill of curls if possible."
Distractedly she obeyed, her heart hammering though she was not entirely certain of the cause. Fear of his capture, yes, the nearness of his proximity, but there was more. She took a few deep breaths for calm.
Unfortunately, the hood also impaired her range of vision to see only what lay directly ahead.
Irritated, she scratched the side of her neck and then her wrists where they harshly tickled. He must be mad if he thought she would wear this horrid costume indefinitely.
The wagon creaked slowly downhill and onward, the wheels soon sucking through mud, and she heard the sound of other carts and horses, amid the stir of people bustling to and fro. A short time later two men darted across the road, temporarily coming into her line of vision. Behind them, the cathedral of Notre Dame appeared in the distance, and again she was struck by something being…wrong. She lifted her head sharply and craned to look around, at the buildings, at the people, several who also looked curiously at her. The hood fell unnoticed to her shoulders.
"For God's sake, put that hood on and keep your head down!"
At Erik's terse order, Christine dazedly complied, though her heart and thoughts raced pell-mell in baffled disbelief of what she'd seen. She clutched the edge of the narrow bench hard enough to cause pain and force herself to remain aware, all the while questioning her own sanity.
xXx
A/N: Thanks for the reviews! :) Things are about to get a wee bit wild...are you ready? ;-)