A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) For those who asked for a little more honeymoon and E/C togetherness, this is for you (chapter deserves rating)...
And now…
Chapter XVI
.
"Why the devil are you here?" The Phantom snapped. "Are you spying on me?"
His eyes shot daggers at his two associates, who stood a short distance from the bedchamber that he and Christine had just left. She edged slightly closer to him, and he slipped his hand to her spine in reassurance.
"No, milord," Eustace was quick to reassure. "We would never!"
"No - never," Tobias parroted a stilted reply then looked at Christine and nodded in greeting. "Milady…"
Christine smiled at the lad in return. "I am pleased to see you are well, Tobias."
The boy's face grew ruddy and he bashfully grinned. Eustace looked on with clear disfavor and jabbed his elbow in Tobias's gut. The boy grunted.
"We only just arrived, milord. We saw the servants were absent and have sought you out to speak with you." Eustace glanced disdainfully at Christine then back to the Phantom. "Alone."
The Phantom's hand pressed a little harder against her back, slipping down and pulling her close to his side.
"Christine is not going anywhere."
Eustace frowned at the familiar use of her name and the possessive placement of the Phantom's hand on her waist. "I must discuss matters of our upcoming strategy for the rescue."
"Then speak."
Christine tightly clutched the edges of her cloak to her breasts, clearly ill at ease.
"It's alright. I'll wait inside."
Before the Phantom could detain her, she pushed away and darted behind him, opening the door and slipping back into the bedchamber.
He glared at Eustace.
"What the devil is this about?"
"Why is she still here?" Eustace countered. "I thought by now you would have returned her to her kin."
"I told you, plans have changed."
Eustace snorted. "I do no' like this. Ye need to let the girl go and come back with us."
"That is not going to happen." The Phantom barely bit down his rising impatience. "However, you are both to return to the campsite, today, without me. Proceed with our plans. Take the explosive powder. You are well able to execute the rescue without me present."
"You want us to leave Paris without you?" Eustace said incredulously.
"I have said it."
"And you will stay. With her?"
The Phantom scowled in warning. "I will return to the camp soon, within a matter of days."
"That goes against our code never to travel alone," Eustace argued.
"I began the code, I can dismiss it. Besides, I will not be alone."
"What?" Eustace exclaimed in shock. "You recruited a new member for our band?" he guessed.
"You might say that." Grimly the Phantom smiled. "You came here, seeking me out with a specific purpose in mind. You have yet to tell me what it is."
"But why, milord? Why would you stay in a hostile city where you are in constant danger of being found and imprisoned?" Eustace shook his head, not ready to relinquish the matter. His eyes widened as he came to some inner revelation. "God's teeth – it's her! You mean to bring her back with you? Just what foul enchantment has that witch put you under -?"
He got no further, as in one swift move the Phantom grabbed his shirt below the neck and shoved the husky Scot hard against the wall.
"That is my wife you speak so callously of," the Phantom growled low, and Eustace's eyes popped open in stunned horror at his title for Christine. "I have overlooked your insubordination in the past, having considered you the closest to a friend I'll ever know. But you forget yourself. You forget that I am leader and master, and that you are my aide."
Eustace gave a short, concise nod, but the Phantom did not let it go there.
"Christine will be returning to camp with me – and no one will harass her or treat her less than how she should be treated. You can tell my men I said so upon your return. If anyone has problems with the new arrangement, they can leave the band, in fact, I want those disloyal fiends gone before we arrive. Is that understood?"
"Aye," Eustace answered gruffly.
The Phantom released him with an impatient flourish.
"In light of the history we share, the times you have saved my life and I yours, I will let this matter go. Christine is no witch, and I will never again hear you degrade her character. If you should forget and speak unwisely, I too will forget the past ten years I have known you, and will regard you as any other enemy out to harm my bride."
Frowning, Eustace averted his eyes.
"Le Masque?"
Drawing his brows together at the interruption, he nonetheless controlled his ire and turned to look at Tobias. "I go by another name now, lad."
"Phantom," Tobias corrected at his rebuke. "Is it true milady is your wife?"
He narrowed his eyes. "It is."
"Do ye not think it a wee bit sudden?" Eustace asked very softly.
The Phantom chose not to answer Eustace's mild question, since this time it was given in curiosity and without malice, though he did shoot him another warning look Eustace missed, since he still stared at the opposite wall.
The boy nervously smiled. "I'm pleased to hear milady will be joining us. She's kind and reminds me of my sister, that is, when Clarice was still alive."
At the boy's earnest approval, the Phantom's tension eased. At least one member of his band would support his union with Christine. He gave a slight nod toward Tobias then addressed both men. "If there is nothing else, I have matters to attend."
Eustace opened his mouth as if he would say more, then shook his head. "Nay, we have said all that needs spoken."
"Excellent. Go then. Leave Paris. Once you return to camp, take only those you trust to Chateau Martinique, but do not take Aubert and Richard."
Eustace looked at him in surprise. "How am I to prevent that? They are Marcel's closest friends. They will never agree to being left behind for such a dangerous mission – and certainly not at my word." He straightened as if to drive home a point. "They will listen only to you. You must come back with us."
"How many times must I say it – The plans. Have. Changed. Do not speak of it again." He whirled away to pace a few steps, then turned back to face them. "Should you allow the pair to travel with you on the rescue, they will bring nothing but trouble."
"But how can you know this?" Eustace asked in confusion. "Have they done something to compromise your trust? They are braggarts, and their tongues can wag with ill begotten words, but that is all it will ever amount to."
A recollection of a past event, clouded and cryptic, tried to seep into the fringes of his mind's awareness, but it was too distant to grasp and the Phantom let it slither back into the dark oblivion that had become his memory.
"If you wish for success, leave them. Tell them it is by my orders, and that I have put you in charge until my return."
Even then, the Phantom was uncertain his command would matter to those men, upon recalling their belligerence of days ago. Their bark was harsh, and he believed their bite could be just as ruthless. Marcel was no better, a troublemaker he did not anticipate welcoming back. There would be conditions the young rebel must accept first.
But he could not burden himself with such matters at present. Christine and her safety were his greatest concern. She was his wife now, and more important to him than any of them.
The Phantom watched until his men disappeared from sight. Too annoyed by the exasperating encounter to face his bride at the moment, he glanced toward the bedchamber door then whipped away in the opposite direction.
xXx
Christine paced from wall to bed and back again, skirting the pelts on the floor, which she gave a lingering glance. A wistful smile played with the corners of her mouth at the memory of all that transpired within those soft pelts, her face and body warming with a trace of shy hunger.
Always, since she had first known her Angel of Music, she felt an inexplicable bond with him, and after learning he was truly a man, that bond strengthened to include passion and desire. Yet never once had she imagined the extent of such wicked pleasures that those sweet mysteries entailed, which at the time he expressed to her in song and through his tender but restrained affections. His intimate Music of the Night and sensual Point of No Return seemed tame in comparison to what they had shared last night and this morning.
Her sole regret was that he did not share in the memories, in any memories, of who they once were together. Yet after the previous evening's trauma, she wasn't about to do or say anything that could cause him to relapse into that wretched void of anguish and horror. The wretched pattern was unmistakable, she could see that now - each time the ordeal of darkness struck, since arriving to his camp, it followed an episode when she'd spoken of life in the century to which they'd been born. And she would not be guilty of causing him further pain. If that meant she must never again speak of her past, so be it.
For whatever reason, they had been transported into this ancient epoch of time. She must come to terms with that and accept the lot she'd been given. It would be no small task to learn a completely different culture and day-to-day existence, especially once they returned to his camp of men who thought her a foe, a witch – and somehow she must convince them otherwise. But with Erik beside her, it sweetened the pot of this strange and bitter brew she'd been given.
No matter if he was the Phantom in verity, or believed himself to be Le Masque, he would always be her husband.
She gently stroked her index finger along the lovely silver wedding band with its graceful swirls of etching, like ivy along the top and lower rim, surprised she had received it, wondering how in the world he obtained it…
She cast a glance toward the closed door.
…wondering what was going on between Erik and his men that should take so incredibly long. Surely he wouldn't have left with them on some errand without telling her?
With a sigh, she looked around at the disorder – Madame Giry would give her an earful if she could see, having instilled in her ballet rats a propensity for spotlessness of their dormitory rooms.
Christine rolled up the pelts, deciding to leave them on the floor for the sake of convenience, a simple push of the hand enough to unroll their soft bed. Her face warmed at the welcome thought of another night in Erik's arms – every night hereafter! – and she giggled in delight as she gathered blankets and pillow and returned them to the narrow cot, making it up. Christine then collected the pitcher and basin from the ground. Her cheeks flamed at the sight of the pink-tinged water, and hastily she dumped the evidence of her lost virginity out the window, first peering down to make sure no one walked beneath. After replacing the pottery on the table, she retraced her steps to the window and grabbed her undergown of a chemise, only to find it still damp and chill. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she tossed the inferior linen back to the shutter with impatience.
At last she heard the sound of the door opening and swung around to look, hopeful it was her husband, fearful it was not.
"Erik."
He stood there, his presence a reassurance to frayed nerves. The look in his eyes, however, gave her a moment's unease. Within a breath it disappeared, and his lips twisted into a half smile beneath the mask. He held out his hand to her.
"Shall we commence with what we earlier attempted?"
Smiling in relief, she smoothed her hands down her skirt to dry them and moved across the room to take his hand.
The corridor was thankfully empty as were the rest of the premises where they walked, and she recalled what Erik said about morning prayers. Perhaps the servants also attended, which gave her and Erik a blessed corner of time to roam free without fear of being seen. He did not offer information about the meeting with his men, and she did not ask. Eustace had never regarded her kindly, though the lad had been genial as always - but Christine would rather not know what was said, so as to enjoy this beautiful morning with her bridegroom, their first day together as a married couple.
To her surprise, Erik first took her to the garden visited last night. By the cheery light of day, she could see that many of the bushes yielded ripe berries. She had never gone berry-picking, such delicacies already tucked away in the baked pastries she once consumed, and curiously she plucked a small purple globe off a branch. She watched as Erik did the same, popping one into his mouth, and did likewise. A juicy morsel, it burst with a sweet tang against her tongue, and eagerly she reached for another and another.
He watched her with mild amusement, much as one might observe a gleeful child.
"You behave as if you've never done this before," he said after she had stuffed her mouth so full of berries she could scarcely talk.
"I habn'…" she said around a mouthful of fruit and self-consciously gave a close-mouthed grin.
He chuckled, lifting his brow in surprise at her admission. Christine recalled little of her days before the Opera House, traveling with her father, and never remembered doing this. She hoped she did not come across as a glutton, but couldn't seem to help herself. The fruit was delectable and she was so hungry…
"Come, Christine," he said, grabbing her hand after a short time elapsed. "There is more to be had, but you'll have no room in your belly if you continue on this course."
He took her to a large kitchen, empty of servants, where food lay in wait for their return. A kettle over an open fire in an oven simmered with a delightful aroma of stewed meat and he took a bowl, ladling some into it then handed it to her. When he offered her no spoon, she looked at him a little strangely, but took the bowl, tipping it to her mouth. He took the same bowl, then tipped it to his. Once they had taken turns, emptying the bowl, he took a tablecloth, knotting it as a knapsack, and secured two of the five round loaves of bread inside, also adding a wheel of cheese.
"We must go," he said, "they will soon return."
Christine hesitated. "Do you think it's wrong to take all that with us?"
He regarded her in wry surprise. "What is the difference between consuming a meal in here or out there?"
She couldn't come up with a logical answer; but somehow, there was a difference.
"The cleric does not expect us to starve. For a time, we are his guests. Do not fear, Christine, your soul is in no danger from any mortal sin. Let that burden fall on me."
She winced at his cavalier attitude but expected nothing less. She knew he was a thief and gave no consideration to such actions being wicked, or if he did, he did not care.
Christine followed him back to the rooms surrounding the cathedral, surprised when he did not return to their bedchamber, even more surprised when she recognized the direction in which they headed.
"Wait," she put a hand to his sleeve as he put his hand to the door's latch. "We're not going in there?"
"The cleric is still absent from his quarters."
"But – why go inside? What do you hope to find?"
"He has a document that I wish to take a closer look at. Come, Christine…" He sighed, his patience clearly running thin. "I have no plans to rob him."
With little choice to do much else, she followed him into Père Arnould's office, and Erik shut the door. He walked straight to the table and riffled through scrolls, their wax seals broken, unrolling one to briefly glance at its contents then roll it back up, only to select another and discard it as well. After going through those on the desk in similar fashion, he moved to the scaffold of pigeonholes where a ring of keys hung suspended from a hook, and glanced at the scrolls there. Finally finding the one he wanted, he spread it out over the desk.
Christine came to stand beside him, looking down at what appeared to be a large drawing of some sort with strange words scattered over it.
"What does it say?"
"I thought you could read," he mused, not looking at her.
"Yes. French – not that strange language."
"It's Latin."
"Latin?" Her shock intensified. "You can read Latin?"
Would she ever learn the full mystery of this man?
"Some of it," he said, peering intently at the drawing of lines, boxes, and squiggles. "I thought this to be a map of the city, to find a safer exit for us to take. But it appears to be a diagram of what's underground…under this very cathedral it would seem."
Her eyes widened as she studied him, then the map, and thought of the caverns and lake that ran beneath the Opera House. How far did they extend?
He continued to survey every inch of the parchment, running his finger along particular lines in deep thought. Christine glanced toward the desk and a missive he had discarded, now in danger of falling to the floor. Rescuing the scroll, she curiously parted it for a simple peek, a sense of impending dread making her pulse race as her eyes scanned the words.
"Erik, what day is this?"
"What?" Preoccupied, it took him a moment before he turned to her, as if just realizing she'd spoken.
"With all that has happened since I met you, I've lost track of time."
He thought a moment. "I think it must be the first week in July, perhaps the second."
"Oh, dear."
"Is there a problem?"
"According to this letter, the archdeacon could return at any moment!"
He narrowed his eyes in doubt and straightened.
You read that?"
"Yes, it's written in French…" She realized then by his question that he still doubted her ability, not that she could blame him, after the far-fetched fantastical tale she had shared of being transferred in time – no matter that it was her truth. She cleared her throat and began, "'…I write to inform you of my precipitous return to Paris, my plans to arrive early in the month of July or thereabouts, whereupon you will be relieved of all official duties held at the cathedral. I expect everything to be in order, with my room sufficiently aired and all else in preparation as to my requirements, which are as follows –'"
Erik snatched the letter from her hand, skimmed through several lines, and looked at her in astonishment.
She lifted her chin, feeling vindicated. "I did tell you I could read."
A smile twisted his mouth as he slowly nodded. "You did."
"I would never lie to you. I know, with all I've shared, you must find that difficult to believe."
"No, Christine…" He lifted his hand to cup her jaw, smoothing his thumb near the corner of her lips to her cheek as if she were made of finest porcelain, and sending her heart into a rapid, fluttering beat. "You are many things, but you are not a liar."
"Nor am I a witch."
He nodded once, his smile disappearing. "I believe you."
"Do you? Truly?" She smiled then. "If so, I am relieved. But about the rest, about what happened to me -"
"Let us not speak of such matters now. With this news of the archdeacon's imminent arrival, we shall plan to leave at dawn on the morrow."
She nodded in relief, uncertain what she might have said. She desperately wanted him to believe her, about the stones, but had resolved never again to bring up her past.
"I have something I wish to show you. Do you feel strong enough for a walk? It is rather taxing."
Intrigued by the eager gleam in his blue-grey eyes, Christine nodded. Her skull no longer ached, and she looked forward to a good dose of physical activity, not accustomed to a state of lassitude for long periods. While living at the Opera House, she practiced the dance every day, on top of rehearsals and performances, even after Erik introduced his Don Juan opera and her voice, not her dance, became the primary focus.
"I think I am recovered enough to tackle it."
He drew his brows together in confusion at her choice of words.
"Tackle it…?"
"I am up to the challenge," she clarified.
"Ah. Excellent. I shall be only a moment more…"
He looked at the map, as if his brain were a sponge and he wished to absorb all that was there, then rolled the parchment up and placed it in his cloak.
"Come, ma damoiselle, and I will show you a sight you will not soon forget."
She giggled. "With my newly wedded state, I am hardly a maiden any longer."
He kissed her hand, his lips twisting in a devilish grin.
"True, but you will always be ma belle damoiselle."
They slipped from the chamber, watchful for any servants who might have returned to their duties. Despite the gravity of the situation, Christine felt lighthearted, dashing with her lover through the area, ducking behind pillars and into alcoves when they heard a sudden noise.
He whisked her around a stone column into the darkness quite suddenly, and held her close against his hard body, her back to his broad chest, at the same time his hand slipped inside her cloak against her breast.
"What's this…?" His voice was dark honey, drizzling warmth through her bones, as did the gentle brush of his callused fingertips against the fraction of nipple exposed above her neckline.
"Did you forget?" she whispered, gasping at the sensation. "My chemise is unfit to wear at this time."
"How fortunate," he purred against her neck, the feel of his lips and the drag of his teeth brushing the tendon there, along with the rolling little pinch of his fingers at her breast - all of it sending wetness to dampen the curls hidden beneath her long skirt.
She had thought it quite unfortunate, until this moment, and almost giggled at the shameful thought. They were inside the cathedral for heaven's sake! Surely, even though they were now wed, this could not be acceptable…
Worse still, she had ceased to care.
He waited several seconds after the oblivious servant passed them by, then again took her hand, leading her to the other end of the edifice and outside to a doorway there. Her curiosity heightened as she noticed the bottom of a staircase that wound upward.
"Are you certain you are up to this?" he asked again. "It is a rather long climb…"
In answer, Christine gave him a saucy, confident smile and, lifting her skirts, flew before him up the stone steps like a little green songbird in flight.
x
Halfway to the top of the steep winding staircase, she stopped and bent over, holding to the wall for support, her breaths bursting out in gasping heaves. She felt his hands clasp her waist and support her from behind.
"I was concerned this would be too much for you to manage so soon." His words were harsh with remorse. "I should not have suggested it. And mayhap you should not have 'tackled it' with such fierce enthusiasm. Shall we go back down?"
"Hell's Bells - I'm a dancer for pity's sake, or was..." She winced at her inappropriate terminology in such a sacred place, frustrated at the knowledge that she had grown so lax for her body to be in this deplorable condition. "I am well accustomed to rigorous rehearsals – this is no different. We've come this far and have the same distance to travel…Only give me a moment to catch my breath..." To surrender now would be a disappointment to them both, and she had no wish to accept defeat.
Minutes later, once they finally cleared the last step, where a huge bell hung suspended, he brought her to the edge of a stone parapet, bordered with wide stone columns that stood on all sides of the partially enclosed square space. Christine gasped in delight, finding the strenuous climb well worth the effort for a reward so beautiful.
Before her, this Paris of old lay spread out in perfectly sculpted lines and hues of green and brown, cream and gold. Forest, buildings and roads, with minuscule people and animals walking along them. The sight reminded her of the diorama of his mini theatre with its lifelike dolls – even the Opera House rooftop had not seemed so high to give such a panoramic view, or perhaps, with the traumatic events that preceded her one visit there with Raoul, and in the darkness of that winter night, she had never noticed the scenery.
Now, she stood with Erik in the shadowed recess by the light of day, like visitors overlooking a lost world, or perhaps the only two people in existence to a world that ceased to matter, save for its distant beauty. She had felt much the same when he held her against him, as he did now, with her back firm against his chest, and they stood in the middle of a narrow bridge high above the Don Juan stage, the audience below fading from awareness as she and her Phantom reveled in the satisfaction of their coveted embrace…
With the memory of the disaster that followed, Christine should not feel so content, though the sensation of heat and desire were the same. Then, she had not known the fullness of what that meant – but now, to recall the sweet intensity of all they shared within their bed of pelts brought a welcome fire to flame her blood. Beneath his arm that covered her cloak at her breasts, her heart quickened with that need, and at her back, she felt his own heart pound. His hand moved to possessively cup a globe, and her head fell back against his shoulder, the strong wind that blew against them not all to steal her breath.
"Christine…" he whispered in seductive melody, his lips near her ear, and she groaned.
"Oh, God - yes…"
She wasn't sure how it happened, nor did she care. Suddenly she found herself with her back flush against one of the thick columns of stone, his hard body pressed to her softness, his lips hungrily devouring hers. She kissed him back with the same frenzy, her long ringlets whipping around them by the wind. He pulled her cloak away in impatience, his mouth finding the tight crests that had risen above the scandalously low neckline, as his hand dipped inside and scooped each mound out of its fragile confinement for his hungered benefit.
"What you do to me," he whispered fervently against her damp flesh, bringing his attentions upward against her neck. "It's as if...I have known you my entire existence...and found the missing half of my soul…"
She whimpered with stunned bliss at his choice of words and stirring actions, her hands by no means idle as she rubbed them along his arms and chest, finding and pulling the leather belt loose from his waist and letting it fall. With his cloak and tunic blowing free, her hands dove beneath the billowing linen to find heated skin and hard muscle, the soft hair there tantalizing her fingertips as she drew them up along his ribs and shoulders then directly down to the band of his dark hose.
Grabbing her skirt in tight fistfuls, he pulled it above her thighs, baring her secrets to his touch, his fingers briefly skimming over the flesh there to find her wet and ready for his possession. In a few lightning swift moves, he was freed and then blissfully, he was not – as he lifted her up against the barrier of stone and imprisoned himself within the deliciously confined depths of her silken heat.
Christine cried out in ecstasy, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his hips, her eyelids fluttering with the overwhelming sensation of passion once more experienced. He plunged deep and hard, his strokes soon becoming rapid, and she half opened her eyes, the hazy view of Paris stretched out before her fading, more and more, while the wondrous release to which he brought her drew nigh...
Closing her eyes, she bit into his shoulder and clung to their world and all that mattered, as he took them both to its edge and tumbling over.
xXx
Erik paused twice in their descent of the twisting staircase so that Christine could rest, though she quietly assured him that she felt invigorated, not exhausted. Indeed, their passionate interlude in the bell tower had unearthed a wildness within Christine - a freedom she never knew existed.
Twice, she and Erik were almost sighted – once when he gave into Christine's wish for more of the luscious berries and they went in search of a basket for them – once while picking the dark fruit. Erik's impeccable hearing saved them from discovery on both occasions, as he pulled Christine with him into concealment in the nick of time.
In their bedchamber, Christine relaxed, feeling she could breathe again, absent of the constant fear of discovery. She watched Erik untie the knapsack of bread and cheese, also producing a bottle of wine – from where she hadn't the faintest idea, having been with him the entire time – and shook her head a little in wonder at his Phantomesque mystery, still so much a part of him as Le Masque.
She unfastened the frog clasps of her cloak, letting the heavy clothing fall to the bed, and instantly became aware of his fixed look toward her bosom. With an inward groan, she remembered her forbidden vogue of dress. A hasty glance downward showed that indeed both nipples had rebelliously danced free once again, due to her constant movements, and instinctively she covered her hands across her breasts, feeling the telltale heat singe her face.
His smile came teasing but tender as he walked forward, forgetting their repast.
"You play so coy after what we recently shared? Tell me you are not ashamed to offer such a pleasing sight to the man who is now your husband…"
Had she come from the eighteenth century or traveled into it, when Parisian necklines flagrantly offered just such glimpses of the female bosom, as in the museum paintings she had once seen, she would not care. Possibly. Indeed, a number of her costumes at the Opera House had been quite provocative, but never to this extent. Yet such a short time ago, his mouth and hands had stroked every inch of the flesh she now hid from his interested perusal, which made her feel silly, even childish, to act so modest now.
His hands lifted to hers, gently pulling her reluctant ones away, and he held her arms out by the wrists, his eyes freely taking in the sight of her exposed breasts, her collarbone and throat, then lifting to her face.
"God, Christine, you are exquisite. I must have been mad to allow you to leave the room dressed in such a state. You are for my eyes alone to enjoy…" His words were forceful with intent as he pulled her to him softly by the wrists, and she went willingly. "…my lips to caress, my hands to adore…you are my sole enjoyment, ma belle damoiselle."
His lips brushed her soft ones, feather-light, then more firmly as desire again lit his blood. How easy it was to get caught up in his beautiful bride. He could sustain himself on the bounty of her sweetness and forego the foolish necessity to consume food for some time, days perhaps…
"Erik…?" she said, softly breaking away, breathless.
He tensed slightly, the name with which she christened him and her every utterance of it becoming more familiar somehow, less troublesome. It was the anxious manner in which she said it that gave him concern.
"What you said in the bell tower - that you feel, with me, as if you've found the other half of your soul - did you…did you mean it?"
The Phantom pulled away to regard her somberly. "I always speak my mind, Christine. I will never speak falsely to you."
She smiled, her eyes alight with a hesitant sort of happiness swimming in apprehension, as if she wished to say something of import but felt nervous how to go about it. He thought he understood and gravely nodded.
"It is alright, ma belle. I never asked for your affection and certainly never expected to receive it."
The words hurt to say, though he did not let her see his pain. He knew she married him for protection alone, and while he'd told her he felt that same need to protect, but also wanted to satiate his lust for her within the bond of matrimony – and thrice had accomplished that well – he'd kept hidden what lay coiled deep within the foundation of his damnable heart.
He managed a ghost of a smile. "Enough of this. Shall we eat?"
The Phantom released his hold on her wrists, taking a step in retreat. She stepped forward, finding and gripping his hands tightly. He looked at her in surprise. Her dark eyes were fierce with feeling and a need to make him understand.
"It's not that – not at all! You are so wrong if that's what you truly think." She shook her head a little in frustration. "There is much I want to tell you, that I need to tell you. But I don't know how to say all of what I should say without saying what…I shouldn't, and…" While she spoke the last, she looked askance, her final jumble of words trailing to nothing.
Her eyes widened and she blinked, staring - then gasped. "My chemise!" Quickly she released him. "No – oh no!"
At a glance he could see the shutters stood as they'd left them, with one exception. Her damp undertunic no longer hung from the right side.
She hurried to the window, the Phantom behind her, and both looked to the ground below. A pile of white linen rested innocuously on the grass near one of the bushes. One glance at his wife's alluring décolletage told him what must be done before she could ever leave this room again, and especially before a servant should wander by and spot the missing item.
"Stay here," he told her, "I will retrieve it."
She nodded anxiously, and he hastened from the room, slipping in and out of shadows to avoid detection while taking the corridor that led to the opposite end of the building, so as to walk around it, the fastest route available. He looked up, spotting Christine at the window.
"There…" Her voice came somewhat distant but discernible, and he moved to the bushes where she pointed.
After a short exploration of the area, he found the linen and victoriously held it up in one hand for her to see.
She did not look at him but far beyond. Even from this distance, he could see her expression of fear, her face gone pale.
"Christine, what is it?" he called up to her, manipulating his voice without thought, so that he did not shout to attract attention but she could still hear him. "What's wrong?"
"Soldiers - on horseback. Two blocks distant - maybe – and they're coming this way!"
He fiercely cursed. "How many?"
"I don't know! Too many to count…"
It could be an escort for the archdeacon, having just come from the king and seeing him safely home.
"What colors do they bear?"
"Colors?" Her voice raised a decibel in panic.
He relied on every bit of patience he possessed, which was scant on a good day. "Their banners and tunics, if they have them – what colors do you see?"
"Green – white - gold."
"Damn!" he clenched the damp undertunic in one tight fist. "Christine, quickly don your cloak and flee to the cathedral. Conceal yourself in the alcove where we earlier hid." There wasn't time to return to their chamber and escort her there. They had a better chance of escape if they met halfway. "Be careful not to be seen…"
"I – don't understand! Is it the archdeacon? Has he returned?"
"It's the bloody Vicomte – go, Christine. There's no time for delay!"
"But – NO! I cannot lose you again!"
"I will meet you there – GO NOW!"
The Phantom, once known as Le Masque and, before that, by a name the wise dared not utter, did not linger to see if she followed his brusque instruction, instead hurrying around the building to the door recently exited. His most despised enemy would do all within his considerable power to capture and imprison him in chains…as had been the fiend's aspiration, since the fifteenth year that followed the winter night they had left their mother's womb and both had been taught to hate. A mutual vendetta carried out for a decade, with no desire for a truce.
And now, once the Vicomte learned he had made Christine his bride, he would surely do all he could to see the Phantom dead.
xXx
A/N: Twists are such fun. ;-) Thanks again for the reviews!