A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews and interest! :) And now...


XIV

Once Erik left Christine's side, he silently approached the earl, who paced before the blazing hearth. Catching sight of him, the earl opened his mouth to speak, but Erik raised a hand to stop him before the despicable man could utter one derogatory word.

"You will listen to what I have to say."

"Where is she?" The earl insisted. "Did you let her escape?"

"You will listen. To what I have. To say."

He drew menacingly close as he spoke, the earl retreating for each commanding step Erik took toward him, until the pompous buffoon fell back onto the chair, sprawled against it like a discarded puppet. Mouth agape, he blinked nervously up at Erik.

"At present, Christine is considering my offer of marriage."

The light of surprise in the earl's eyes shifted to greed, which Erik quickly banished to the outer reaches of Elysium with his next calm words.

"If she should agree, this union will commence solely on my terms. The first of which is this: you will not receive one farthing as a 'bride price'."

"Now see here –" the earl blubbered, his face going florid as his temper began to rise.

"NOT. ONE." The Count raised his voice, putting a swift end to the earl's protestations. "However, I will agree to extend the amount needed to acquire a worthy physician for your daughter. There is a specialist in London with experience in such cases. In addition, I will agree to a reasonable sum to aid in renovations for Montmarte, nothing excessive or unnecessary." He pulled his lips back over his teeth in a grimace. "Be warned, if even a shilling of that money should find its way into your purse for personal gain, I will know it, and you will rue the betrayal."

The earl grunted in reluctant agreement, somewhat subdued at the mention of Lucy. For all his failings, he did appear to have a paternal fondness for his daughter. Christine cared for Lucy, that much was clear, and Erik owed it to the young, addled girl to do what he could to protect her, fearing she, too, had been targeted for destruction because of him.

Once, he would not have cared about the fate of any mortal. To an extent, he still remained apathetic, but Lucy was different, naïve and unassuming. She did not deserve the fate that had been allotted to her, a fate that had caused her to hide herself away in a childlike mentality after having witnessed what she should never have seen. And Christine…well, she was Christine. His Lotte, as she had then introduced herself and he had come to think of her in their chapel meetings, concealed beyond a wall of painted stone. Even then he had sworn a self-made vow to protect her from danger.

"The marriage, should it take place, will commence here, in my home. Moreover, you will agree never again to seek out Miss Daaé, and henceforth will remain distant from Castle Dragan."

"Why should I accept your grossly deficient offer when Lord Lomax has agreed to the sum of twenty-thousand guineas!"

The number of irony did not escape him.

"Lord Lomax will not touch one curl of her head, whether she accepts my offer or not," he announced darkly.

"And what is preventing me from taking my grandniece from your infernal castle at this very moment?" The earl stood to his feet, his mercenary appetite a reckless prompt to his bluster and bravado.

"I should think that would be obvious." Erik curled his fingers into tight fists at his side, barely restraining a demonstration of his fury, one that would so woefully end in this mortal's demise. He could still see the stinging red imprint of the vengeful slap on Christine's cheek –

If only he could end this fool without reprisal!

In those few minutes he had taken, while Christine waited near the staircase to deliver his message to Gregor, mesmerizing the holy man's mind into forgetfulness had been quite simple. With the earl, any dramatic change in behavior after having visited the castle was sure to cast suspicion. Such as Erik compelling the fool to lose all interest in Christine. His busybody of a grandnephew would certainly wonder at the abrupt turnabout, and ignoramus though the young upstart could be, the Vicomte was still Erik's lifelong foe. New in the role and wet around the ears, but a slayer nonetheless. Yet a modest command was in order; nothing that would raise too many wary heads but enough to warrant diminished interest. He had no desire to be on constant guard from the earl's pathetic attempts to regain Christine.

Slow and steady, the manipulation slipped from Erik's lips, his hypnotic gaze ensnaring his unwary victim's, "Christine is under my protection. After the attack she suffered while under your care, my castle is the safest place for her. You have proven that you are not able to provide for her well-being. She will not leave with you, today or any other day. Nor will you demand it."

"I'll not demand it…" the earl parroted in a lifeless voice.

"Should she wish to accept my offer of marriage, you will do nothing to hinder it."

"I'll not hinder."

Erik supposed he could also compel the earl to forget the price agreed upon. But that surely would be considered suspect – for his avarice to disappear so completely that he readily agreed to receive no recompense from the arrangement, when he had been so adamant before. After his brief acquaintance with Lucy, the Count felt no regret to provide monetary help for the child or extend reasonable aid in the upkeep of the only shelter she would likely ever know, sensing Christine would wish it. He certainly could afford the cost; indeed, had more affluence than anyone in the shire knew about, tucked away here, in Paris, and in his homeland of Romania. He could also compel the earl to forget any notion of tracking her to France, and in so doing, warrant this marriage unnecessary - but if his kind discovered that she was bred from the Van Helsings, herself, a slayer - a more brutal peril would surely follow. Best to keep her under the black Angel's wing where he could watch over her. A wry smile twisted his features.

Angel of Music...Prince of Darkness.

What irony that he was the only one who could offer so pure a soul true protection.

"Excellent." He gave a tight smile. "I am pleased we could reach an understanding."

The earl blinked as the Count released him from the compulsion, and the earl dazedly shook his head. "Wh-what was...I don't recall..."

"Why your agreement, sir, that Christine should stay here, under my guard and as my wife, should she accept my proposal to wed."

"Ah, yes. This castle is the best place for her," the earl nodded then frowned. "If she should not accept your offer of marriage, what then shall be done with her?"

The earl's men were out of earshot, on the opposite side of the room and under Gregor's watchful eye, the barrel of the pistol steady in his hand. Yet ever attuned to the faintest sound, Erik was aware that another had heard their low conversation.

He turned to see Christine, who stood motionless in the doorway. She regarded them with a bold little lift of her slender carriage, though a glimmer of apprehension swam in her dark eyes.

"You need not concern yourself with my welfare," she said quietly to the earl, then looked at Erik. "I have decided…" She inhaled a deep breath. "I accept your offer, my lord."

xXx

A cold rain struck the glass, beating a symphonic rhythm that was to be Christine's wedding accompaniment, though no anticipatory march down a narrow church aisle followed. There was no traditional wedding dress. No bright nosegay of roses or lilies. No fairy-like veil. There was, however, a priest, wounded and inert among the cushions of the bed, but stable of mind and able to conduct the short, private ceremony in the guest bedchamber, using the small prayer book he'd kept in his frock coat.

The Count – no, Erik – now minutes shy of becoming her husband – had offered a stilted apology that they could not marry in the castle chapel. His explanation that the priest could never manage the staircase and should remain bedridden made sense. However, in light of the situation, it hardly mattered what chamber was selected. Christine was giving herself over to a veritable stranger, an enigma undiscovered, no matter what brief intimacies they once shared. She could not help court some disquietude to proceed with such a titanic venture, but oddly felt no bold, cautionary misgivings.

He did not require her love, though certainly she did not love him. She was as yet uncertain what feelings she could describe toward this man – intrigue and captivation, certainly, but unease and doubt had their place in her heart too.

If truth be told, she had not yet arrived to a firm decision when she entered the main parlor, but upon overhearing the tail end of their conversation, a destiny still vague suddenly shone clear-cut with diamond brilliance. She had been stunned to note the earl so readily agree with every one of the Count's demands, but what truly astonished was to hear her accidental savior speak with such conviction on her behalf that he wanted her to remain there, under his mantle of protection, in direct counterpoint to his near-hostile words of last night …

What had changed?

In all her years, Christine never felt so protected as she did when with the formidable Count, such faith in him stronger than those qualms of enthralled confusion that daily bound her with regard to his nature. His eyes sometimes threatened, burning in the midst of that strange black mask, but his voice could be gentle, as gentle as the touch of his hands…

He would never harm her; of that she was certain, and she had his word he would not make demands, which she believed genuine.

She still scarcely knew him, but - who was she? She no longer recognized herself in that she felt little of the reluctance that should accompany such a monumental decision. Since she arrived to this wild, forsaken shire, she found herself doing things she normally would never consider, thinking things she would never once have imagined. Change was inevitable with the passage of time; mindsets altered. Girlhood sentiments that once dearly mattered lost their grip in the present reality. Perhaps that best described her current frame of mind.

Perhaps she simply chose what professed to be the lesser of two evils...

Or perhaps madness was indeed an inherent trait passed down through generations of Van Helsings.

Her answer to him had come almost without realization, but once she heard the acceptance spill from her lips, she knew it to be valid. Still, the culmination of events was happening with a speed that left her wanting for breath. The Count had earlier taken her aside and privately advised they not delay, lest the earl again attempt to interfere, and Christine agreed, seeing that she had no sane choice. The priest waived the usual bans, as she was an orphan alone in the world, with her sole guardian the unfeeling man who stood between his two dour henchmen. These three their only witnesses in this strange, impromptu ceremony.

In a weak voice barely at voluble level, the priest spoke of promises and honor and forever. At the continued utterance of such weighty precepts, Christine's unease mushroomed, so that she nearly whispered out a plea to end the proceedings. Barely shifting her head, she glanced toward the Count. His somber attention was on the reclining priest, his expression beneath the mask giving nothing away. As though sensing her need for some inkling of reassurance, eyes like a candle's glow flickered in her direction, bearing no threat.

She brought her anxious focus from one socket hole of his gleaming black mask to the other before he offered a faint nod, meant to soothe. By her hip, she felt the surreptitious brush of his fingertips against her palm and swiftly clung to his cold hand like a lifeline.

The chill of his flesh soothed her, and for the remainder of the ceremony, they stood motionless and stiff, with her hand desperately grasping his. Five long digits and an equally icy palm were the anchor that kept her grounded and silent throughout the droning words that lost all meaning through a mind that had abandoned her in a fog. No matter her dazed state, she did not enter into this commitment lightly and understood all of what was true: Marriage to this man for one year, as per their arrangement. To escape a living death in an unwanted union. To know protection. To learn to sing with the excellence Little Lotte had desired… again and again, these served as a reminder to keep her calm and maintain her fragile bravado. It would be worth the sacrifice, she convinced herself. To gain unspoken dreams of acclaim, she was willing to put to death girlhood fantasies of love.

The priest concluded the rite and looked expectantly toward the Count. Christine turned tentatively to face him, thinking he might kiss her as custom proposed. For a moment, he seemed to consider, then took her hand still held in his and lifted it to his lips.

"Countess."

The new title so quietly uttered stole her breath, but the whispered touch of his cool lips against her fingers brought a flush of warmth to blossom and spread beneath her skin.

Once he released her hand, he looked at the priest. "I assume that you require sustenance. I will ask Gregor to see to bringing you a meal." He shifted his attention to the earl. "You should return to Montmarte without delay. You are no longer welcome here."

The earl appeared a bit flustered. "Our agreement…"

The Count's scowl came dark. "Our agreement stands. I never renege on my word; bear that in mind. We will discuss the details downstairs while your men ready the horses for your departure."

Left behind with the priest and feeling a bit adrift, Christine watched her new bridegroom leave with her former guardian and his men. She stared at the empty entryway a moment before looking back to the priest. His kind regard altered into worried confusion.

"Is anything the matter, child?"

"No, no, of course not. Is there anything I can do for you, Father? Perhaps get a message to someone telling of your presence here?"

He wearily nodded. "Mrs. Polliner - she cooks for me and cleans the vicarage. She is likely to wonder why I haven't yet returned."

"I will see that she gets the message."

"I am grateful, my lady."

My lady. His response stunned Christine, to realize he addressed her. It was inconceivable. She was now a woman of title, a noble, and wasn't quite sure how she felt about that. Astonished by the prospect, anxious for the same reason. What did she know about running a castle or being a countess? His Countess? Even if only for a year, she would certainly be expected to perform some type of duties ...

"If you should ever wish to talk," he added when she remained silent a prolonged time, "I've been told I am a trustworthy confidant."

His tongue-in-cheek remark made her smile. "There is something I have wondered …about last night. Have you any recollection of what happened yet?"

"I fell off my horse. Poor beast must have slipped in the mud and broken her leg. A shame she had to be put down."

Christine regarded him in mild confusion. "That is all you remember?" How could he have forgotten so much? She had heard that a bad knock to the head could jar a person's memories for a short spell, but eventually they did remember. At least those she had heard about.

"Was there something else I should know?"

He seemed genuinely puzzled, and she shook her head. "No, it's nothing. You should get some rest. I'll check in on you again later."

He inclined his head in smiling gratitude and closed his eyes to sleep. He seemed improved, remarkably so for the extent of his injuries, though still clearly exhausted, and she brushed aside further concern.

Once she descended the stairs to the first floor, she found the main rooms empty. Thankfully, the earl and his men appeared to have left, but where had the Count disappeared to?

Christine ducked her head into the music room, not finding him there either. She held back from exploring further down the corridor into rooms not yet visited then called herself foolish and cowardly. She was mistress of this castle now, a fact still incomprehensible to sane thought, and she had every right to look into any chamber, as the Count had also given his permission…those not locked.

She moved past the main stairwell and down an unknown corridor, dimly lit by the glow of few candles, all the doors closed here. She tried the latch of one – locked – and moved to the next. The door gave in with a creak to reveal a small storeroom. She moved to the next door and put her hand to the latch – inhaling a startled yelp and jumping back a step when it moved suddenly toward her.

The Count's manservant emerged like a stooped vulture, with hooked nose, thin lips and baleful eyes rife with accusation. Again she noted his lanky limbs and great height for his advanced years, nearly standing as tall as the Count. The servant's brows were dark and bushy, while hair of a white ash color grew to his shoulders, giving him a wild, bohemian look, matched by the expression on his craggy, lined face. By appearance alone, he was the perfect aide for the Count, though the manner in which he regarded Christine gave her a decided chill. He did not possess the strength of a man twice his junior, but had proven no less intimidating by his display with weaponry in the throne room, the pistol now thankfully absent. Not that she suspected the Count even needed a guard; his mere presence exuded power and intimidation without his need to move a muscle.

"Hello," she tried, wishing her voice didn't tremble so, "I understand you are Gregor. I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

Her smile faltered when his gaze remained just a sharp, his response just as silent. Evidently he wasn't in favor of his master's new wife. Awkwardly she smoothed her hands down her skirts and lightly cleared her throat.

"Would you happen to know where the Count is?"

"The master is busy for the remainder of the day." His voice was as harsh and forbidding as his demeanor. "He expressed word that he will see you tonight."

"Oh, I see."

Tremors of relief not to immediately face her new bridegroom in this bizarre arrangement they had fashioned came weaker than the surprising surge of disappointment that he had abandoned her on their wedding day. She called foolish any unwanted feeling of rejection and held her head high.

"I was told – that is, the Count told me – that you would drive me into town."

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he inclined his head in a curt nod.

"Yes, well, I should like to go to the village, please." She tried to attain an air of polite authority, a role with which she was wholly unfamiliar; his vulture-eyes never strayed from her face and did nothing to plump her confidence. "I should also like to go to Montmarte to retrieve the rest of my things." Now that she would remain in Berwickshire, she would need a change of clothing soon, especially after last night's wet romp through the forest.

"That will not be necessary."

"Pardon?" she blinked at his unexpected reply.

"The Master has made known that you are to acquire all you need in the village, if you wish it."

"Oh, alright then." She felt a bit stunned that the Count had arranged it without telling her first, that he would even recognize her need. "If you will please take a tray to Father Kiley, we will leave directly afterward."

He lifted his head in arrogance. "I have my instructions."

He withdrew a ring of keys and locked the door he had just left, then walked past her. She turned to watch him approach the locked door and unlock it. He sent her a dark look of warning, as if in command not to follow, then disappeared behind the door he securely shut. Exhaling a nervous breath, she sensed her time as mistress of this ancient fortress would provide the greatest challenge yet faced.

xXx


A/N: Ah, they are wed - the Count and his Countess. ;-) - and so, what horrors and delights now bide for the mystifying Phantom and his new bride... we shall soon see... (muahaha)