A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) Tormenting? Moi? ;-) ...that said, this chapter deserves the rating with a capital M...And now, taking up where we left off…

XX

.

The Phantom stood motionless, his hand resting on the knob he had yet to turn.

"You love me," he said at last.

It was not a question, though his words came quiet and uncertain.

"Yes," she whispered, silently begging him to turn around, to look at her and accept the truth she had been so fearful to give – in this century, and in the one to which they belonged.

"I know it wasn't for love that you married me," she began carefully, "and for that cause I hesitated to speak. But the other day you spoke of a deep connection of the soul between us, and after hearing you say those words, I can no longer bear to remain silent. I would have spoken then, only we were interrupted and had to flee. But yes, Maestro, it is the truth of what I feel for you and so much more than simple affection."

He shook his head a little as though confused. "But what is it?"

What is it?

"To love?" she asked in puzzlement.

He turned to her at last, his eyes riveting. Despite her wish fulfilled, she had to struggle not to look away, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

"I have had little chance to experience the emotion," he explained simply, "any emotion that does not involve suffering, hatred, or revenge. I have heard of the sentiment wittily sung in the ballads of minstrels and have read flowery verse describing it in the poetry of the bards. But never have I discerned its true meaning."

A rush of hot tears pricked her eyes to hear his wistful admission, reminding her again of all he suffered since childhood. He spoke as Le Masque, all that he mistakenly remembered, but she knew that her Angel's personal history in another century mirrored his low words.

"I was once also confused about love," she said just as quietly. "What it meant. I didn't understand…then."

She thought of those final despairing days at the opera and the raw emptiness she had felt to lose the one being she always assumed would be there.

"Now I know."

She sank back down to the bed, never taking her eyes off him.

"It is the vital need to be with someone when you're apart," she went on. "And when you're at last together, it is the fulfillment of everything imagined. Dreams shared, unspoken feelings expressed, and a warmth deeply felt…here…"

She pressed her hand to her heart, which leapt then pounded as he began slowly to walk toward her.

"It is acceptance of both the good and the bad…," she went on, a little breathless by the intent manner in which he stared, his gaze focused but soft. "…without positive assurance of change, yet never losing hope for the best or ceasing to encourage. It is commitment and care and sacrifice – willing to give all to the one who has become more important than life itself…and who is so much more important than music or any need to perform…"

Her last words trailed off in a faint whisper as he sank to the bed beside her, facing her, his every movement deliberate.

"Then, Christine, with all you have spoken," he replied softly, his hand stretching forth to touch his fingertips to her cheek. "this love, I feel for you…"

Her lips parted in blissful surprise to hear him speak the cherished words, a coveted sentiment she thought never again to hear after that tragic night, especially after knowing him as Le Masque. His eyes lowered to her mouth, followed by his lips, which met hers in the gentlest of kisses. She gave a little sob of joy, bringing her arms up around his neck.

"Forgive me for having doubted you," he whispered against her jaw, "Until you came into my life, distrust was all I have ever known."

She nodded faintly to grant a forgiveness she felt unwarranted, her own soul clouded with remorse not to tell him the rest of what she withheld – the truth of his identity. The powerful need to hold him, to be truly loved by him and to love in return as a pledge to their tender avowals spoken, eclipsed any present guilt.

His lips found her neck, warm and damp, while his fingers trailed up her leg, taking the hem of her undergown up her thigh inch by slow, torturous inch. His hand clasped the naked curve of her hip as he brought her back with him to the bed. Before she lay fully on her back, she crossed her arms before her, grasping the bottom of her chemise with the fervent desire to be rid of it, desperate to feel his touch on every part of her flesh, her brief dip into the pool of modesty a foolish thing of the past. Readily he aided in her wish, pulling the muslin over her head and throwing it aside, his glowing eyes taking a moment to appreciate what he'd uncovered.

It wasn't enough, and her feverish hands went to his tunic to rid him of it, grateful when he helped her with that as well. Her fingers dropped to the waistband of his linen hose, but he captured her hands and pulled them up above her head, stretching his full length over her.

Fiery waves of desire pulsed through her blood to feel his solid maleness defined so strongly against her soft belly, to feel the pert tips of her breasts feather against the soft hair and warmth of his chest as he moved against her.

"Christine, Christine…" he crooned, almost as a song. "'Unspoken feelings expressed, everything imagined' - permit me to give you an abundance of pleasure, such as you have never known…"

Breathless by his words and actions, she could only nod. Their encounters of intimacy thus far had been rich and satisfying and she could not imagine what more he alluded to…

His callused fingertips grazed her nipples, creating sparks that ignited along the surface of her flesh, the flat of his hand then sliding low to her belly and beyond. Christine arched her spine in delight, her head pressing back in the mattress as his lips traced where his fingers previously traveled. The nips of his teeth and licks of his tongue came teasingly light, as light as his fingertips that traced the tingling skin of her inner thigh – and she clutched the cloak-coverlet with a groan of hungry protest, arching further toward him in appeal, needing him to ravish her and hold nothing back until she was mindless with want.

His warm mouth fastened more firmly to her breast, the sensations he evoked a continuous shower of pleasure that settled deep within. She felt weighted, drugged, the sweet, familiar heaviness burning low to the core of her. Needing to touch him, she slid her hands along his shoulders to the back of his head, pulling loose the ribbon that contained his hair, while avoiding the leather strings that fastened the mask. Her fingers slid through the fine, silken strands as his mouth roamed her body where his touch had been, his lips and tongue spreading damp flame in twisting, erratic paths. Her eyes opened wide to feel those stirring lips again whisper over her most secret curls in a kiss as they had after their first night of intimacy, at the same time his hands nudged her open completely to him.

Christine vainly held her breaths that came faster, both anxiously timid and darkly eager, her heart fluttering madly within her breast.

Surely, he wouldn't…

"Maestro!"

Her cry came sudden and swift as his lips burned her most sensitive flesh, his wet, wicked tongue tracing her innermost depths to learn its hidden contours.

The Phantom had never heard such a low, feral cry emit from his bride's angelic throat. Satisfied to bestow on her such intimate pleasures, he smiled, burrowing deeper into the honeyed ambrosia that was Christine.

He teased and tasted the soft flesh drenched with her desire while she writhed in blissful anguish, panting and softly crying out, again and again, the strange name of Maestro she had given him. His hands held her hips as gently he suckled the delicate skin just as he had the smooth skin of her breasts and neck, his own breaths ragged with passion to be one with her. A tremor swept through her body, ending in an intense shudder as she drew rapid bursts of air into her lungs.

He wiped her cream from his lips and moved up from her silken thighs, rapidly shedding the last barrier of clothing between them and moving to cover her supple form with his hard body.

"Wait," she panted, her glazed night-dark eyes meeting his as she pressed her hand to his chest.

With his hands braced on either side of her head, he hesitated in question.

Already flushed, her face grew rosier. "I…" Her gaze dropped low, down the length of his form. "I want to touch you."

With much of his skin pressed flush to her silken body, her soft request, strangely both daring and shy, left no doubt in mind what she asked…and the thought of it made his heart pound harder. He held her imploring eyes a moment longer then slowly rolled to his side in the scant space allotted on the narrow cot.

She pushed herself up, her avid gaze traveling over his form, her fingertips showing no hesitation to trace the skin where eyes touched. Until now she had not looked quite so boldly at his nakedness, or the blessed darkness had been his shield, and he worked to quench the unease that threatened to unsettle him to observe her reaction to what the lamplight revealed. She had done the same for him at his request, allowing her nakedness to be scrutinized in the light. But she was lush perfection and he was far from a pleasure to the eyes. The deep marks from lashes of the whip on his back she had surely felt, but there were other scars scattered in random design over his body. Nature sculpted his face, in her perverse fashion; men marked the rest of him in blood, feeding their fears and cruelty.

Christine's fingers trickled fire down his chest to the length of a white scar made by a knife wound along his ribs, her soft touch making it difficult to breathe. Her brows gathered in dismay by what she'd found.

"It is common for a rebel leader to wear numerous badges of war," he said, his voice a light rasp. He had no wish for her pity, and certainly not in this moment.

He reached to cup her waist at the same time her hand brushed lower.

"Chriss-stine…" Her name ended on a hiss as her soft palm smoothed past his hip, her fingertips dipping to brush along the throbbing length of him.

"This part of you is so very alive," she whispered in awe and blushed. To his consternation, his face also warmed by her curious words.

"Only for you, ma damoiselle…only you…"

Her curious touch was a sweet gentle flame, and hungry to feel its full extent, he covered her hand with his own, wrapping her fingers around his thickness to show her what gave him pleasure. Already eager to join with his wife and sink into her snug, creamy warmth, he felt uncertain how much longer he could withstand her slow strokes, which grew more firm and sure as her confidence escalated. The touch of her soft hand against his shaft was nearly beyond his control to manage.

Avidly Christine entered into this new discovery of her husband, repeatedly looking to their clasped hands and to his face, seeking a hint to his response and his expression that the mask so frustratingly hid. His breath came in soft pants between slightly parted lips, his eyes sliding closed as his head fell back against his shoulder.

He was so very warm against her hand, hot even, hard like steel but soft as silk, and she felt little pulsations tickle against her palm and fingers. This part of his anatomy throbbed with his need, and as she had so brashly stated – felt incredibly alive. It stirred something deep within the pit of her belly, to recall how incredible he felt there, and her curiosity piqued, she lowered her head and delivered a soft kiss to the tip of him, her tongue then slipping out to taste…

He let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a growl, and quite suddenly Christine felt her shoulders grabbed and found herself lying flat on her back.

"I will have you now," he rasped.

"Yes," she breathed, sliding her hands around his narrow hips and dropping them to his taut backside as he pulled her thigh up against him. Their eyes held fast as he drove in deep, the sensation of heat and wet and fullness causing them both to moan in hungered satisfaction.

Words were lost to them, the message of shared love in all its raw beauty reflected in eyes that never once broke contact. His strokes came steady and intense, holding within her for wondrous moments that stole all breath, before pulling back so as to slowly fill her again.

They moved in an ageless dance, performed throughout all the centuries since time began, an exclusive duet of sensual bliss that they carried long into the night.

xXx

The day dawned much too swiftly for having had so little slumber, the noise outside attesting to the villagers' morning activities. Yet exhaustion could not prevent a dreamy smile from tilting Christine's lips when she thought about the delights that had saturated the night. She nestled close in the warmth of her lover's arms on the narrow cot in the inn's cramped room, with only his cloak to cover them…and felt like the wealthiest and most fortunate woman alive. Noting he still slept soundly, she also allowed herself to slip back into the realm of dreams...

Little more than a fortnight ago, she thought she would never see him again, would never touch or hold him, never again be given the opportunity to tell him of her deepest feelings, once carried in shame - even hidden from herself - but now nurtured in her heart. She had thought him dead, forever lost to her, and though she still did not understand exactly how their being here had come to pass, or why, she was grateful for this second chance to make a life with her Maestro.

They had shared their love in word and in deed, many times over, later to sleep content in each other's arms. It still seemed a dream that Erik, as both the Phantom of the Opera and the Phantom of the Forest, loved her. No matter which entity he inhabited, she would always adore him. And she hoped one day to receive his trust in the knowledge that she would never reject him if he wore no mask in her presence. She had made two grievous and foolish mistakes to strip him of the protective covering in their century, thankful he bore no memory of either time and they could truly start their lives anew...

Christine thought of these things as she stood near the stable later that morning and waited for her husband to finish his business with the workman inside. She had no desire to enter the premises again, the terrible heat from the forge suffocating even with one wall absent as a doorway to the outside, and gladly she waited in the brisk morning air in the spot where Erik told her to remain, and where she had stood for the last several minutes.

A glance toward the well provoked her thirst. Noting it was within visual distance, the temptation proved too great. Besides, she reasoned, they would need water for their journey.

Telling herself she would keep an eye out for Erik's exit from the stables, Christine strode to the well, looking through the large basket for some kind of container. There was no cup, the plate she had used for coins was of course too shallow, and his flask was missing as well.

A dipper full of water suddenly appeared in her line of vision, and she followed the bony arm up to its bearer. The old woman with the bright eyes and straggled silver hair from yesterday again offered her use of her utensil. Her eyes were so pale a blue, they were almost iridescent, like crystal…

"Merci…" Christine nodded her thanks. She took a lengthy swallow then returned the dipper.

"Your voice is quite lovely," the woman said. "I watched you yesterday, here at the well."

Christine smiled. "I am pleased that you took enjoyment from my song. I imagine it's not something you're accustomed to. The music is…very different where I come from."

The woman nodded slowly, her ancient and remarkable eyes suddenly quite grave.

"I have no coin to give, but in return I leave you with this warning, child: steer clear of the road to Brittany. Do not travel the way you came, lest it lead to your despair."

The old woman's sudden switch in behavior from gracious to ominous startled Christine, robbing her of an immediate reply. She blinked, trying to collect her staggered thoughts.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked. "What despair?"

The woman's glassy eyes moved beyond her. "Your man approaches."

"I…"

Christine turned in confusion, grateful to see Erik walk her way, but concerned anew to see that the portion of his face not covered by the burlap looked thunderous.

She offered an apology in the form of an explanation once he drew near. "I thought to collect some water." Reminded of the strange old woman, she turned back to her, to insist on knowing what she meant by her portentous words and to repeat them for Erik to hear.

Christine blinked in astonishment.

The woman was nowhere to be seen, the buildings too distant for her to have disappeared into any of them that quickly, unless she traveled at the speed of light. Like on the first occasion they met, she seemed to have completely vanished.

"Did you see her?" she turned to Erik, silently pleading with her eyes for him to tell her she wasn't losing her mind.

"See who?" He looked beyond her then back in question.

"The old woman. She was right here only moments ago."

"I confess, my mind dwelt on other matters and I paid scant attention."

"But - you must have seen her – she was the only one here! With me. At the well…"

His one eye that she could see narrowed. Splendid. He already presumed her mental faculties to be lacking for her belief that she came from another era. Now he would think she was imagining ghosts that weren't truly there.

"I swear she was here," she insisted. "She gave me a warning –"

"A warning?" His jaw tightened. "Did she threaten you?"

"No, it was nothing like that. It seemed that she was only trying to be helpful. I just don't understand where she left to so quickly, and why…"

Certainly she could not have vanished into thin air, though in retrospect, Christine pondered why such a bizarre anomaly would shock her, after what impossibilities she had experienced in her own life. Witchcraft, though punished severely in this era, did seem to be utilized in Brittany and the nearby regions. Erik's account of his youth as Le Masque and the hag who raised him proved that.

"Do you think she was a witch?"

"A witch?" He scowled. "What exactly did she say, Christine?"

"She warned us not to take the road back to Brittany – she said it would lead to our despair. Those were her words exactly." Another thought occurred to her. "How could she have known we were from Brittany? I didn't tell anyone – did you?"

She realized the absurd foolishness of such a question directed to her Phantom, who maintained a cloak of secrecy in both lives lived.

"Mayhap it was an assumption made on her part," he mulled, looking beyond Christine then back again. "There are very few townships near Paris. Yet the advice is wise. The Vicomte could easily have laid traps, hoping to catch us unaware."

"How then will we return to Brittany if not by the road we came?"

"We shall take a roundabout route. Do not concern yourself, ma damoiselle. I know the secrets of the forest well."

She had cause to disbelieve such a claim, given that he rarely must have left the Opera House in the decades he inhabited it – and then likely, his treks only led into the surrounding city. But he had proven himself adept in the wilds, seeming to believe he had grown up in this forest, so she trusted that they wouldn't lose their way. And if they did…what of it? She was in no hurry to return to his camp of brigands, all of them suspicious of her presence, save for Tobias.

As she and Erik spoke, three women drew near the well. Christine sensed her husband's discomfort though she made no mention of it, and noticed the strangers' avid curiosity toward Erik though she also paid them no heed.

"I have procured another flask – you may use that for water." He pulled the leather container from within his cloak and the sash tied around his tunic.

His terse words prodded her to speak. "Are you still angry with me?"

The lines of tension that had sharply etched his mouth gentled into astonishment. "What cause would I have to be angry with you?"

"You look upset and have, ever since you left the stables."

He sighed. "It is nothing that need trouble you." He brushed off whatever incident irritated him so strongly. "Go collect your water so that we can leave this wretched place."

Christine gave him a puzzled look but did as directed, moving toward the giggling young women that had gathered there.

The Phantom stepped back, ill at ease with their attention focused solely on him, and wished for a forest of shielding trees in which to lose himself.

He could not be sure their laughter was aimed at him, though it seemed it so, since the intrusive trio repeatedly glanced his way. Their light simpering increased his ire and brought to mind thoughts of mocking taunts and a beast's cage -

Different from what the old hag once locked him into. Large enough to house a bear, with bars of iron and a floor of dirt strewn with hay…

Where the devil had that come from?!

Spinning on his heel, trying to escape both the uncomfortable setting and his contradictory thoughts, the Phantom set a quick pace toward their newly acquired horse waiting nearby.

The unexpected change of a detour would give him the opportunity needed for a second unplanned destination. One he had considered visiting for days - a dark place, dangerous but vital to his plan, where he hoped to find answers and clear away some of the mystical confusion that clouded his mind.

If all proceeded well, they should reach that tract of land by nightfall of the following day...

And then, at long last, he might understand.

xXx

A/N: Muahahaha... ;-)