A/N: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews – I'm glad you guys are enjoying this…chapter deserves the rating. ;-) Enjoy!

Chapter XIV

Fearing the worst, with no idea of what that could entail in this unfamiliar century, and forcing her mind not to conjure up ghastly images of barbaric weaponry, Christine hastened through the dark corridor lit by one torch. She had heard his distressed cry come from outside the window, so knew Erik was not in the building and searched for the nearest exit door on that side of the wall.

Had the cruel Vicomte of this era found him? Was her beloved new husband being tortured even now?

Thankful no servants were in the area to evade, Christine sped along the inside corridor. At last she came across an iron gate leading to what appeared to be a courtyard in that it was outside and surrounded by four stone walls. But rather than be filled with open space, as she had seen most, this one was dense with high bushes, almost as tall as she, and looked more like a spacious overgrown garden. Not a maze, the pathway appeared straightforward and simple, and she walked along its narrow trail peering left and right down the rows that branched off, attempting to see what the shadows there concealed. A pair of torches were mounted to the far wall opposite, the distant light producing the faintest orange glow on the path she took and those areas not blocked by tall shrubbery, the darkness opaque where the torches' glow did not reach.

"Erik – Phantom – are you out here?" she called in a stage whisper.

After several uncertain steps, she hesitated. Only the whir of night insects filled the answering silence. The sun had barely set, not a soul within sight, unlike the Paris of her century where night's descent brought the citizens to congregate to public areas of entertainment, such as the Opera House. In this era the entire city felt deserted after sundown, as if a curfew was being followed. She wished she knew her history, but Madame had instructed her sparingly in such knowledge, her girlhood teachings selective and dating only as far back as the seventeenth century, with the emergence of the first opera.

Christine felt adrift in this unknown epoch.

The complete silence gave her an eerie feeling, as if she were all alone in the world, and intensified her fears that perhaps she was. Had Erik been pulled forward through the rip in time, even without the stones nearby? Is that what the dreadful shout had been about?

Briefly she closed her eyes in disgust. She could not allow herself to think like this. Surely there was a more valid reason for his distress, and she prayed that truth was not just as appalling. She continued her search, straining her eyes to see. Ahead, in the distance, she heard a faint groan, and her heart skipped a beat.

Erik?!

She hastened her steps, looking side to side toward each opening between bushes. She almost missed him, his ebony clothing and hair bleeding into the thick darkness. Had he not lifted his head, so that she detected the pallor of his face, she would have hurried past the enclosure where he appeared to have fallen.

In bewildered fear, she looked to where his dim form half sprawled – half sat on the ground near the end row, concealed by bushes on three sides. An overturned bowl lay near his feet, berries scattered, and as she drew closer, she could see that he was clutching his head in pain.

"Oh, dear God – Erik! Are you hurt?"

She ran the last several steps and fell to her knees beside him, putting her hand to his shoulder. He gave no response and she clasped her other hand to his opposite shoulder, moving him in an attempt to see his face. He kept his head lowered, his fingers clutching his hair at his scalp.

"Erik - please!"

At the insistence of her hushed plea, he groggily lifted his eyes. They could barely be seen, but she recognized the shimmer of tears and felt his despair.

"Swear to me…"

"Anything," she agreed, "only tell me what you need."

"Never to tell… secrets…of the Angel in Hell…"

She sat back in surprise, never releasing her hold on his shoulders. In his faint stilted words she recognized the tortured echo of what now seemed ages ago, in the lair.

"Erik…?" she asked with a mix of hope that he had discovered the truth and desolation to see him in such torment at doing so.

His eyelids flickered harshly as if he was losing consciousness and she shook him.

"Erik!"

He let out an agonized moan, calling out hoarsely on the Divine to release him from his damnable punishment and fell forward, his brow flush against her shoulder. Feeling no sharp ridges of leather press into her skin, she realized he had torn off his mask, it being too dark to tell at first, also realized he must be suffering from another of his horrific spells. The anguish he suffered was palpable, the memories that tore at him clearly trying to get a foothold and bringing with them the most excruciating of physical and mental torments. She had never seen him in such distress as when these black experiences overtook him.

If such evil attacks were the result of the onset of regaining his memory then she no longer wished for the occurrence. Perhaps it was best he remain ignorant of the past, always Erik of the Forest, never again her Maestro and teacher. She never wanted him to suffer, wished only to relieve his pain, but felt helpless to understand what that would entail…

Of one thing she was certain. They must leave here before they were discovered. She could not rely on their continued solitude and must get him back to the relative safety of the bedchamber.

She cradled her hands against his skull, lifting his brow from her shoulder.

"Erik, please listen to me." He could barely hold up his head and she continued to hold it, trying to get him to look at her. "We have to leave this place before someone hears you and finds us. Can you stand and walk?"

His eyes were heavy-lidded, as if he had difficulty keeping them open, and he gave no response. She trembled so in fear of the mystery of what was happening to him that she could not give him aid to stand.

"Oh, Erik…" She drew him back to her warmth and held him close.

Fearful to lift her voice and be heard should anyone enter the vicinity, she resorted to humming softly near his ear, though in the nocturnal silence, even that seemed extremely loud. She hoped the servants kept to their rooms and their beds, where she assumed them to be, and had no preference for open shutters at their windows.

After a time, she felt him gradually begin to relax, his low groans less frequent.

"Christine…?"

At his faint whisper, the first he truly acknowledged her presence, she felt a measure of relief, but would not be entirely at ease until she had him safely back inside the bedchamber. A fleeting nervousness tinged with expectancy warmed her blood to realize that from this night forth they would spend all evenings together, engaging in the mysteries of what men and women did in the marriage bed. But the realization of her imminent womanhood – wifehood – soon burgeoning into bloom wasn't enough to eclipse her present concern for her Angel. All girlish anxieties instantly fled when she heard the distinct sound of a step on the paving along the perimeter of the building…

Footsteps that were coming closer.

Fear for her beloved had her grasp him more tightly in her arms.

"Why?" he whispered. "Tell me! Why…?!"

Christine did not think he was talking to her, at least not in the present in which they lived. His next words confirmed it.

"The world showed no compassion to me!"

His tone grew strident, grating words between his teeth as he had that long-ago night, and she looked sharply toward the entrance of the deep alcove, fearing at any moment they might be found as their past played out in his mind.

"Shhh," she tried to hush him, her entire body trembling and tears glazing her eyes. "Please, say no more."

A dark shape blocked out the dim orange glow of their sole source of light, and Christine inhaled in shock, not having heard the footsteps draw so near. Her arms instinctively tightened around Erik, though in the face of danger she could do little to protect him.

"Madame?"

The unfamiliar title stunned her, to hear her addressed as Erik's wife, and it was a moment before she realized the identity of the newcomer.

"Père," she whispered with a measure of relief and uncertainty to see the kindly cleric there.

"I saw you run past and followed. Is he unwell?"

Loyalty to Erik kept her silent, but she had to say something to explain their presence at night, in this dark jungle of a garden.

"He gets pains in his head. They can be severe, and strike quite suddenly."

Silently she pleaded with Erik not to speak out, fearful that his frantic words of the tragedy he caused in their century would cast suspicion on them – especially if he mentioned the opera and other things that did not yet exist.

"I have herbs that can help," Père Arnould said, coming closer. "I, too, am oft troubled by pains that beset my eyes, and will make a poultice."

"Merci, you are very kind…" She hesitated but knew with her slender weight she alone would never be able to get Erik to their room. "If you could assist me in helping him inside?"

"Of course, Madame."

Together they managed to bring Erik to his feet, each giving support with one of his arms around their necks. Thankfully Erik had slipped into a semi-awake trance, speaking nothing, only moaning low when jostled too sharply. As they brought him to the main path, the glow of distant torches cast dim illumination upon his bare face. The cleric winced at the damage and deformity wrought to tender flesh, but his reaction seemed to stem more from sympathy than disgust.

"One moment." Christine carefully pulled Erik's arm from around her neck, leaving the cleric to support him while she retraced their steps to the darkened end of the row. On hands and knees, she felt along the ground until she found what she was searching for and returned to the path. The cleric grimly looked at the mask she held.

"He doesn't feel comfortable without it," she explained, unsure why she felt a need to defend her action.

"But you are undaunted by his appearance," Père Arnould said more than asked.

"It took a tragedy to realize the truth." She again wrapped Erik's arm behind her neck, holding to his hand. "I foolishly listened to those who wanted only to harm him. I thought I lost him, that I would never see him again, and having miraculously found him I soon understood such flaws didn't matter."

Together they struggled to the chamber room, Erik insensible between them, barely able to move his legs and needing to be partially dragged. He bore no spare flesh on his bones; she could feel his ribs against her palm she pressed there for balance. But he was trimly muscled, his height considerable, enough to make the task difficult for a slight woman and a frail priest.

"You are wise for one so young," their host said, continuing their conversation.

"I wish that were so, Père, but such knowledge came at a heavy price, and in so many ways I am still ignorant and uncertain of what to do."

"Trust in your heart and trust in God. It is from there all love stems. Neither will fail you in understanding the path you must take."

Somberly she pondered his instructions as they approached the bedchamber. They struggled to lay Erik on the large pelt she had spread across the floor, and the cleric excused himself to see to the poultice, promising to return soon.

Christine knelt beside her insensible bridegroom and undid the clasp of his cloak, pulling it away from his body to try and make him more comfortable. She unlaced his boots, pulling them from his feet and brought the heavy blanket from the bed over his prone body. He wore no doublet, only the loose black tunic he had donned for his nocturnal exploits, and she noted it laced at the top near his throat. She pulled at her lower lip with her teeth in nervous consideration, before unfastening the ties and slightly edging the material aside to allow for easier breathing. Not wishing to move her hand away, she felt drawn to touch him and lightly traced the pads of her fingers against the strong column of his throat. Such a beautiful instrument, his voice, and she wondered if he felt this same tingle of warmth when he had held her onstage and so softly stroked her neck, if he felt also that he was caressing her voice as she felt she caressed his.

She smiled and did not stop, her fingertips gently dipping into the hollow of his neck, brushing against the steady beats of his pulse and drifting further, along his chest, tantalized by the heat of his skin and the short dusting of hairs that curled there, touching him until the linen of his shirt stopped her.

The faint knock at the door made her start in guilty shock before she recalled that she had every right to touch her husband…though perhaps not without his knowledge.

Wishing for a breeze to blow through the room and cool her hot cheeks, she hurried to the door to let the cleric inside.

He stood on the threshold and handed her a damp cloth bundle that emitted the aroma of musky herbs and mint.

"Forgive me, I cannot stay. I only returned tonight to collect something I left behind. Will you be alright here alone?"

"Yes, I have dealt with these episodes of his before." Now that Erik was safe within the room, away from any prying eyes, she felt more at ease. "Again, thank you, you have been of great help to us."

"You are to the monsieur what Esmeralda was to Quasimodo," he said pensively, "though your heart is not as vain, and I sense there is more than benevolence or fondness that leads you to care."

"In that you are correct, Père. Much more...I-I love him." It was the first she'd admitted it aloud.

He nodded sagely. "I advise you to tell him of your feelings."

She nodded and looked down, away from his intelligent eyes that very well may see through her.

She could not tell him, not when Erik no longer returned her love.

"I will keep you both in my prayers."

Once he left, Christine closed the door and went to Erik. She was thankful that at least the pain had eased enough for her Angel to sleep, as he seemed to be doing, and knelt down beside him, brushing the hair from his eyes. She laid the damp poultice over his brow. He did not stir.

Wide awake and uncertain what to do – perhaps she should take the cot so as not to disturb him? – she rose to her feet and removed her cloak to use for a cover. In the light of one candle, she was dismayed to see that soil had soaked into the cloth where she had crawled around on the ground. There was nothing for it, her chemise was filthy, and she could not lie down in such a state.

Casting a quick glance toward the bedding to confirm Erik still slept, she pulled the thin gown over her head, shivering from the sudden chill to her flesh. Quickly she donned her cloak again for modesty and to provide warmth. Using the basin of water earlier brought to her and a cloth, she perched at the edge of the bed and scrubbed at the caked-in dirt to the best of her ability. She also noted a tinge of blue – no doubt from the berries Erik had been collecting when the pains struck him. She wished for a bar of the fragrant soap from the Opera House and wondered if they even had such things in this era.

At last, reasonably satisfied with the results using what little had been provided for her, she put the wet cloth aside, noting her chemise was now just as wet – too wet to wear certainly. After brief consideration, she hung the garment over the open shutter of the window, hoping the night breeze, though chill, would dry the thin linen quickly. Was that even possible without heat? There were women hired to take care of such mundane matters at the Opera House, Christine had never needed to learn, but now wished she had taken more interest in how such tasks were accomplished. To sing, to dance, to act, she could manage that well, but with regard to the little matters of daily importance she was sadly ignorant.

"Christine..."

His voice came as a thin whisper but shook her as if he had shouted in her ear. She whirled away from the window to face him, clutching the edges of her cloak close against her breasts.

.

xXx

.

"You're awake," she said nervously. "How do you feel?"

The Phantom pulled the damp cloth away from his head, thankful that the upper part of his body remained in shadow, the moon's glow not reaching that point. A candle burned near the cot but was too far away to shed light on his greatest shame.

"My mask."

She hesitated. "You don't need to wear it for me."

"My mask." He held out his hand for the covering, his tone more insistent.

"Really, you shouldn't wear something so constricting tonight. Are you still in pain?"

"Christine!"

She sighed. "It's behind you."

He struggled to raise himself on his side enough to grope behind him, his fingertips brushing the strip of leather which he grasped eagerly into his hand. However, his head still ached, though not as viciously as before, and he took her words to heart, refraining from slipping the mask around his head. It was dark enough that she could not see.

He looked across the room to the window where she stood, noticing she still wore her cloak.

"Why do you stand there? You're shivering. Blow out the candle and come to bed."

"I…alright."

She moved toward the cot and bent to extinguish the flame. He did not instruct her to close the shutters, not wishing for her to stumble in the dark, the moon's glow present but not intrusive. She approached the bed of fur pelts and stood at the opposite side of where he reclined. Puzzled by her reluctance, he waved to the empty area.

"Take off your cloak and lie down, Christine."

In the block of moonlight where she stood, the dim glow painted her face in blue and silver shadow but he swore he could see her blush.

"I prefer to keep it on."

"Nonsense, you cannot sleep in comfort in that."

"I…" Her unease elevated. "Can't."

"Why the devil not?"

"My undergown was soiled," she whispered, "I found it necessary to clean it."

His eye caught something white that fluttered, and he glanced toward the shutter and what hung there, coming to the full realization of what she did not say. The knowledge made him burn, but he managed to retain his calm and turned his attention back to the woman who hours ago had become his wife.

"Take off the cloak, Christine." His directive came out as a gentle murmur, a silken entreaty she could hardly refuse.

She clasped her cloak frantically at her throat and breasts to keep the material flush against her.

"I will turn aside," he somberly reassured and did so, presenting his back to her, though every heated instinct within bade him to watch her disrobe and unveil her sylphlike beauty, to then take her in his arms and hold her close against him. The stimulating memory of the night in the lake taunted, and after an eternal silence followed by the swift rustle of cloth, his words came out sharper than he intended.

"Are you at last finished?"

"Yes," she replied softly, shyly. "I'm sorry."

Her apology had no place and made him feel worse. "Never mind," he said more quietly. He shifted to lie on his back, the pain less pressing that way, and brought the poultice against his eyes, more to curb temptation than for comfort.

"Is the pain any better?" she asked after a moment.

"It is manageable."

Another brief silence elapsed.

"Would it help if I sang to you?"

"You need your rest."

"I don't mind…I sang to you in the garden, and it seemed to help."

"I remember. I also remember you calling me Erik, more than once."

She gasped as if caught in a misdeed.

"Yes…"

"It did not seem a mistake. You addressed me as if you believed me to be that man."

"I…I'm not sure what you want me to say."

"The truth. Never anything less."

He pulled the poultice from his eyes and turned his head to look at her. In the shadows, his eyes were sharp, able to see more than most, and he noticed the tension on her face, sensed her struggle within herself. She lay on her side, holding the blanket up to her chin and stared at him, eyes wide and unblinking. He squirmed inside, hoping her eyesight in the darkness was not as precise. True, she had seen his face twice now, but that was twice too much.

"Why do you persist in calling me by that name?" His words came quiet and confused.

"You remind me of him," she said after a slight hesitation. "I've explained why. It just comes naturally to call you that. I never meant to offend you."

"This Erik…your Angel of Music?"

"Yes," she answered quietly.

"And when you call me by that name, do you see him? Or do you see me?"

"You," she replied, her voice sincere. "Only ever you."

"Very well." Strangely the name had begun to settle with him, as it had when she first called him Phantom, relatable and no longer offensive.

"You mean - you don't mind?"

He detected the hopeful note in her voice, light with what sounded like relief.

"If it is your wish."

"Thank you. It does come easier than Phantom."

"Go to sleep now. We could both use the rest."

She wriggled slightly beneath the blanket as if to get more comfortable.

"Goodnight, Erik. Sleep well."

"And you."

He watched her large, dark eyes fall shut, watched her for some time, before he too closed his eyes.

x

Christine kept her eyes closed but remained awake, guilt eating at her for not telling him the truth of his identity when given the perfect chance. Belief that she was doing the right thing, for his sake, compelled her decision. When she had earlier stood by the window she recalled that his last black episode in the forest occurred when they'd been speaking of the past. A past she continually brought up, especially since they arrived in Paris, in the hope of sparking a memory. Now she feared that stirring such recollections brought about the torturous spells...and yet…

He deserved to know. He desired the truth, wanted nothing less. Yet it was doubtful he would even believe her claims, after his reaction when she told him she came from a life nearly four hundred years into the future, so wasn't keeping mute the best option?

At some point during her bitter self-chastisements and hopeful reassurances she at last fell into a fitful sleep. Even in light slumber she was aware of the chill air, burrowing deeper into the furs, until at some point, she felt the chill no more, only a heat that branded her bare flesh. She moved closer to the welcome warmth, stretching out her arm to embrace the heat and draw it nearer...

And came fully awake when a large hand slipped around her waist. She could not see even the tiniest detail of his face in the shadows, the moon in its course having traveled lower along their bedding, but she sensed he was awake. Embarrassed that she had made him into a pillow, she began to scoot away.

"No," he whispered, tightening his hold on her. "It is alright. Need I remind you, Madame Phantom, we are married."

The reminder and teasing moniker served to put her slightly at ease and made her smile.

"But this is rather odd – me like this and you…" She broke off in sudden realization of what she said, very aware of his large hand searing her waist against the blanket.

"I can remedy that if you wish." His voice was raw silk, dark and seductive, and her heart raced a nervous beat.

"My dress?"

"I was referring to a change in my appearance."

"Oh…" Her reply came as a faint breath. "Oh!"

It wouldn't be the first time she had slept in bed with him naked – the night he saved her from expiring in the lake he had stripped down to nothing then too, but even with the blanket she now used as a barrier held between them, she felt vulnerable and uncertain in her own nakedness. Nonetheless, as strangely as it had begun, this was their wedding night. She was foolish to feel as if she must hide her body from him. Certainly he had seen her nude before, at the lake, but she might feel less inhibited if he at least removed his shirt and wondered if she was bold enough to suggest it…

"Christine, I want you." His husky whisper tore through her every nerve ending, leaving tingles that raised the fine hairs on her body as their slumberous mood abruptly altered to one of scintillating heat. "I have lain here beside you, unable to sleep for wanting you and having you so close, knowing you are now mine…"

His words elevated her pulse and she found it difficult to draw a steady breath.

"I need you like I need air to breathe…" His lips brushed her temple. "Tell me, Christine, tell me you want me as well."

What seemed ages ago at the Opera House, she had run in frightened confusion from such encounters with him, when she could think to run, once the drugged state of mind his seduction caused had faded. She had been anxious about the mysteries of the flesh of which she'd also been curious, taught by Madame that she should never engage in scandal that could get her with child, at the risk of being dismissed from the chorus. But this was no affair, he was her husband, and she would be a liar to state anything contrary to what lay locked securely within her heart. There was no longer a reason to run, no longer a reason for secrets…

No longer a reason not to learn the mysteries of what lay beyond the point of no return that so deeply tantalized…

"Yes, Erik, I want you," she admitted quietly, closing her eyes.

"Is it to me you speak, Christine…?" His words were laced with frustration and doubt. "For I will have you no other way. I hunger for you, but will take the place of no other man or Angel, in your bed or in your heart."

The heart of which he spoke quickened at his earnest plea. Was he declaring his love? She was too nervous to ask, in the event that she was mistaken and did not wish to deal with the disappointment. She had not gone into this union ignorant; he had stated his expectations before they were wed. He wanted her body to possess, wanted to shield her body with his in protection, but he did not require her heart that, unknown to him, had always been his. Nor did he wish to give her his heart in return. She must content herself with only what he offered, and request no more than that.

Slowly she opened her eyes. "It is to you I speak, the man from the forest. My captor and protector, and now my husband…"

The words scarcely left her throat when his cool lips covered hers, softly urging her surrender. She needed no such persuasion, letting go of the blanket to press her hands to the back of his head as she opened to him.

The Phantom smoothed his palm over the thick blanket and along her slender form, his senses filled with the very essence of Christine, his fair damsel. She was so beautiful, so desirable, her kiss as fragrant as honey, her lips and tongue shy yet seeking and warming to his exploration.

From what she told him, he knew her to be untried, but oddly, though he only had hazy memories of the very few and brief former trysts and none with virgins, her silky skin beneath his hands felt like nothing ever experienced until she entered his life. He could almost believe that those secrets of the flesh had been concealed from him as well, his only knowledge of physical intercourse that which he somehow retained in his mind that had so often propelled the dreams he had played out with this enticing woman...fantastical dreams of which he would now indulge to a most satisfying extent. His palm tingled with the sensation of her satin flesh, chilled, but quickly warming to the strokes of his hand along her small shoulders and down her slim arms.

He drew his lips against her jaw down to her neck, gently suckling flesh, and brought his attentions still lower, dipping his head beneath the blanket to capture one rosy nipple in a kiss. He felt her tremble and opened his lips to slip the fragile bud into his mouth, the taste of her sweet, while gently cupping the smooth globe that fit so perfectly into his hand. If he thought her softness earlier explored could not be exceeded, the skin of her breasts was impossibly softer, like the petals of a rose, and he took her deeper into his mouth, relishing her taste and the feel of her beneath his tongue, the pearl-like bud that grew so hard yet remained so soft…

She gasped, her legs parting slightly in invitation. Never had his dreams to possess her felt so tremulous, so tender as the reality of lying with her. He had the oddest sensation that he had known her for all of one lifetime, desired her for one small eternity. How could that be when he only met her a little over a fortnight ago?

Christine was lost to the whirlpool of sensation Erik aroused inside her. With each gentle pull of her nipple, with each firm suckle of her breast, she felt an unfamiliar pressure build low in the center of her body, a mild, twisting sort of current, and felt warm moisture seep between her thighs. She had experienced the latter sensation before, when in his seductive embrace, but never to such an intense degree. At one point, she felt she might come apart and pressed her hands along his upper back, pressing him closer, as if that would help to hold herself together. He had taught her the existence of passion in his lair and onstage, and now in their marriage bed he was teaching her to understand its deepest precepts…

And she wanted to know everything, wanted to feel the fire he had so often promised, to burn in such bliss…

His hand, now warm, slipped along her waist and stomach, his fingertips brushing her most secret curls, and her eyes went wide when he slipped his touch along her hidden entrance. She felt him shudder against her, matching the tremors of her own body.

"God, Christine, you are so wet for me," he rasped and she moaned when his finger slid all the way inside, then let out a sharp gasp as he softly moved within. "Do not fear, my dear, I feel as new to this as you are…"

She sensed confusion in his voice, but was not surprised. Erik had cried out to her that final night in his lair that he had been denied all joys of the flesh, contrary to what he falsely believed in his escapades as Le Masque. And then she could no longer form lucid thought of such things that failed to matter as his finger slowly danced within, continuing its sweet torture.

"Ma belle damoiselle," he purred huskily, "I want you…I need you…I need to make you mine…"

In answer, she pulled him closer, tightening her grip on the back of his shoulders. His lips covered hers, and her tongue brushed against them, seeking entrance, entrance he readily gave a short few moments, before pulling away to shed his black linen hose. Nearly as naked as she, but it wasn't enough – and insistently she tugged the bottom of his tunic upward, any modesty for herself or for him long forgotten. He helped her, wrenching the clothing from his body and throwing it aside with the same disregard before again joining her beneath the fur blanket.

Her face and body flushed with a shy nervousness, but more than that, a burning need. In the shadows she could not see him well, only the outline of his face and form, but the heat of his body drew her to him and at last, pressed flesh to flesh, they both swiftly inhaled: She - in welcome surprise to feel his hard, toned flesh once more pressed to her and not one bit cold as it had been in the lake. He - in hungered want to realize the extent of the silkiness of her skin and finally have her lie willing beneath him.

His palm cupped beneath her slender thigh, pulling her leg wider to admit him entrance, and with little thought or presence of mind he positioned his shaft at the doorway to heaven and pushed deep and swift inside.

She cried out at the same time he acknowledged a barrier had been broken, the path into her body snug and warm but resistant at first. He looked at her in troubled shock, feeling her entire body tense and seeing the lines of pain that crossed her brow.

"I have hurt you," he whispered in remorse.

"I expected it."

"You expected me to hurt you?"

At his wounded words, she opened her eyes to see his were full of confusion.

"It is the nature of these things, the first time. But surely you knew…?"

Erik of the Opera House must know such things, he knew so much about the ways of passion – surely he would know. She had learned that bleak tidbit through eavesdropping, and surely he also must have overheard such information at some point. But in his persona as Erik of the Forest, perhaps he had never been told? Or perhaps he no longer retained the knowledge, as he had forgotten so much else.

"I'm alright." She smoothed her palms against his cheeks, and felt him rear back a little in shock to feel her hand upon his damaged flesh. His defensive action did not deter her and she kept her hands firmly in place. "Please, just be still a moment more." The ache was intense, a burn that seared inside her flesh, his fullness stretching her unmercifully.

She felt his thumb brush away the tear that had leaked from her eye, and oh so slowly he dipped his head, not moving any other part of himself to caress her lips in gentle kisses.

"You are so brave, so beautiful, ma damoiselle…" he whispered, pulling back. "I can see this hurts you. I have no wish to do that."

Fearing he might leave her, she clung more tightly to his shoulders. She had waited too long for this night to surrender it to a pesky bit of distress that she knew also from eavesdropping would soon fade.

"It is natural for a virgin," she stated again. "The chorus girls spoke of this. It will pass."

The Phantom wondered if anyone had ever told him such a significant truth, wished he could remember, but should have known with how delicate and soft she was to exercise more caution. In his eagerness to claim her, he had not thought clearly, had not thought at all. Repentant for hurting his gentle bride, he remained as immobile as possible, though every fiber of his being urged him to move inside her tight walls, to discover the extent of such heated bliss…

Discover? Had he not known such intimacy before? The hazy recollections of the past suggested it, but he could no longer recall the experiences, those vague accounts feeling more as if they belonged to someone else's memories…which made no sense at all.

He dipped his head to her neck below her ear, suckling flesh, and was rewarded with her gasp, not of pain but of pleasure. Carefully moving his head, keeping his lower body as still as possible, he traced a trek to the breast he had not yet tenderly ravaged and remedied the oversight.

Her hands clutched his shoulders, her fingers moving to thread through his hair, and he felt her tension melt away, her desire again evident. Her lyrical moans were the most beautiful music, and slowly he began to move, pulling away and pushing back into her, creating a sensual rhythm that her hips soon matched.

She was fire…she was heaven…he knew bliss in taking her and hell in the sure knowledge that he was too near the edge. He wanted this to last forever, this intertwining of their secrets, this heated passion, and cursed his wretched body when his release came sooner than expected. His entire form tightened and convulsed as he plunged into her warmth a few final times, then collapsed against her, still managing to keep much of his weight on his arms so as not to crush her.

When he collected himself to speak, he lifted himself enough to look into her face, noting her breaths came just as heavy. She looked a trifle confused and uncertain, but smiled softly up at him.

"Are you alright, sweet wife?"

"I think so. Yes…" She pulled at her lower lip with her teeth. "Did I please you?"

He drew his brows together, thinking instead he should ask that of her, though the answer was quite clear – he did not. And as he slowly withdrew from her body, he noticed her wince as if the action brought pain.

"Immeasurably," he said at last, pulling the blanket away.

"What are you doing?" she asked in sudden shyness, gripping the blanket before he could move it past their waists.

"I want to ensure that you're truly alright."

"Oh, but no – really, you mustn't -"

"I am to blame. I will see what I have done."

"Erik!"

He won the tug of war with the blanket, ripping the edge from her tightly curled fingers and pulling the cover the rest of the way down. The darkness was not absolute, his eyes sharp and well adjusted, and he frowned when he saw the result of his desire…

He had expected to see a bruise or two, but never blood.

Horrified by what he'd done yet not wanting to alarm her, the Phantom reached for the bowl on the floor beside the bed and dipped the cloth he had used for a poultice in it, wringing it out. Gently he tried to position her legs a little wider though she resisted.

"Christine – allow me to do this for you," His warning note ended in a plea, and she went completely still.

He tenderly stroked the cloth along the inside of her thighs and at her thatch of curls, cleaning away all evidence of his cruel desire.

"I swear I never meant to harm you." He lowered his head to brush his lips against the inside of her thigh.

She gasped and the muscle in her leg tensed, though she did not pull away.

"I would never willfully harm you, Christine."

"I – I know that. Please don't think…oh!"

Her words trailed away into a sharper gasp as he brushed his lips against the bottom of her short damp curls in a second penitent kiss. Her fragrance combined with his seed and the tang of herbs from the poultice filled his senses, the aroma satisfying and one he would wish to experience often. He climbed up the pelt to stretch out beside her on the fur.

Her eyes shimmered like dark glass as she turned on her side toward him, her head nestled on the long pillow they shared, the look on her face one of dazed wonder. He brought the blanket up over them both, and clasped her hand, raising it to hold against his lips.

"I hope you have not come to regret taking me as a husband," he whispered against her knuckles.

"No," she reassured him swiftly.

He looked at her a long moment.

"It happens only the first time, this…discomfort for a virgin?"

"Yes…" her response came bold, yet still shy, "but I need not remind you, I am no longer a virgin."

Another span of silence elapsed.

"Would you be willing again, perhaps tomorrow night…?"

"Yes, Erik." She shifted her body closer, bringing her other hand up to cradle his unflawed cheek. "I would."

And with that tender and earnest response, she pressed her lips to his, silencing any further doubts in his mind.

xXx

A/N: Ah, dear Erik…he does have a lot to learn (difficult when he has very little memory to call his own), but I'm confident he will succeed. ;-) And look- no cliffie! Aren't I nice - it's my Christmas present to you - haha. Thank you again for the reviews! If at times Erik seems a little OOC from the way I first wrote him, there is a reason, it is deliberate, and in the next chapter much of the mystery that has many of you scratching your heads will be revealed… ;-)