A/N: At long last…(and yes my friends, in light of many recent reviews for another story- I am still writing Come to Me and will post the next chapter soon, hopefully this coming weekend…) This chapter deserves the rating.


Chapter III

1838 – Canteleu, France

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"Oh, Helena. You look magnifique!" Lysette brought her hands together, clasping them beneath her chin in a mix of sheer envy and awed adoration that only an awkward girl of thirteen could possess for a beloved sister. "You will catch the eye of every nobleman present. Soon, they shall all be vying for your hand in marriage."

Helena studied her image in the looking glass, tilting her head first one way, then the other, fluffing the coiled ringlets dangling over one shoulder, a shade between brown and copper, that she had painstakingly formed with a narrow rod of iron heated over the coals.

It would do, though she wished she had a true lady's maid with a gift for hairdressing, since she was no longer in want of a nanny – and her now seventeen! Then again, a lady's maid might stifle her desire for freedom to act and do as she pleased.

"It would please our parents if I were to capture the interest of a Comte, or even a Baron - but really, Lysette, all I wish to do is dance!" Helena spun about on her chair, her smoky green eyes sparkling with excitement of the imminent ball downstairs.

"You don't wish to marry?" Lysette regarded her as if she had committed a cardinal sin.

"I suppose it must happen in due course. It's expected of all eligible daughters of wealthy gentlemen, and heaven knows, Maman wants a title in the family. I hear it often enough. But I wonder just how tolerant of a union an impoverished noble would need to be to overlook that piracy was the root of our family's great wealth?" She laughed in delight.

"You don't know that for certain," Lysette argued. "It's only speculation that our great grandpère was a privateer."

"A pirate, dearest. Let us call it what it is and not mince words." Helena grinned wickedly. "Oh, to sail the seven seas – to visit Spain and the Far East and pillage treasures and live in adventures such as he did!"

"Only according to legend. And I see that look in your eyes – you know our Père will never let you learn to fence!"

Helena rose from her vanity table, smoothing the flounces of her pale yellow silk. She had received his refusal that morning and it still stung. Had she been born a boy, there never would have been a need to ask!

"More's the pity. A granddaughter of the infamous Captain Jacques Tristian – being consigned to take part in the dreary pastimes suitable for a lady. I care not a whit for needlework, so suppose I shall have to content myself with penning poems that extol the adventures of such daring scoundrels as he."

"Love sonnets?" Lysette said with a girlish giggle.

"Heaven's no! What do I care about love? I haven't time for such folderol."

"You don't want to fall in love?"

"What's the point? Père will soon have his way and marry me off to a titled stranger if it pleases his purpose, so why should I put forth the effort to involve my heart?" she scoffed. "Love is not for me. And until the day Père consigns me to that eternal dungeon of drudgery, I shall glean what enjoyment I can – such as nights like these, where the music can take me away and I may dance to my heart's content!" She held out her arms and spun about in two full twirls with an imaginary partner.

Lysette giggled. "And you call me fanciful."

"No, dearest…" Helena tipped her sister's elfin chin and kissed the tip of her freckled nose. "I'm a pragmatist with a penchant for excitement – the more the merrier – and I do so love music! Not all pastimes are drudgery. At least Maman had me trained, and it is exciting to create my own runs, even if they're not Mozart or Beethoven. But one can only play the piano so long before the fingers feel like they might break and fall off." She grinned and straightened, pulling on her long white gloves over those slender fingers and grabbing her painted fan. "Now, wish me well and I'll be sure to sneak you up a few pink-iced tea cakes of which you are so fond."

"I wish I could go." Lysette pouted.

"Your time for such extravagant affairs will be upon you before you know it."

With that reassurance, Helena practically floated out of the room in a whish of chiffon and silk. Already she could hear the musicians tuning their instruments, and she hurried down the staircase as quickly as possible, giving reason for Maman to later chastise her and call her a hoyden should she see such an exuberant entrance. She had failed to fasten the strap of her dance card holder to her wrist well, and to her chagrin, the accessory fell as she reached the bottom step.

"Blast," she muttered beneath her breath.

Before she could retrieve it, a large hand plucked the small receptacle from the ground. The owner of the hand, a tall, lean gentleman with golden-brown hair and eyes of silver-gray, straightened to face her, giving a short bow.

"Enchanting…" The flattery he uttered came low and she waited, but he did not return the item.

"Monsieur," she began, endeavoring to be polite, "you have something which belongs to me?"

"I did not know that angels would be in attendance tonight," he mused.

By the sardonic tilt to his lips she could not decide if he was engaging in mild flirtation or teasing her. Only recently returned home from finishing school, she did not know many gentlemen in the area and could not recollect having seen him when she was a young girl. Surely she would have remembered such an arresting face, clean-shaven, his features proud. He filled his suit well, his shoulders broad with not a spare ounce of fat to his form – but an attractive presence did not excuse rudeness.

She lifted her chin in disdain. The act hardly satisfied – to look down at him over her nose as she had done with cheeky boys was ineffective, since he towered head and shoulders above her.

"S'il vous plaît, monsieur…my carnet de bal." She held out her hand in demand.

"Ah, yes…" He looked at the little silver embossed book as if just recalling he held it. To her shock, he pulled the small pencil from the loops, flipped open the leather and silk guilloché cover, scanned the empty lines of the three pages, and wrote something on the last one.

She blinked, immobile, even once he laid the booklet in her gloved palm. His chuckle is what unfroze her. At once she opened the book to see.

The gall! He had scribbled what she assumed must be his name on the last line – an illegible scrawl – and without them even being properly introduced!

"I shall await the last dance, mademoiselle," he bent over her hand, but before he could kiss it, she snatched her fingers from his. Her intended slight did not deter him, his eyes twinkling in victory.

"I don't even know your name, monsieur."

"Lord Edward De Chagny. And you are Lady Helena DuChamps, otherwise known as the Angel of the Stairwell."

"What folderol," she muttered low and swept past him, as if he did not exist. Warmth suffusing her face, she went directly into the ballroom to seek out friends.

The nerve! She resolved not to give the titled cad even one brief glance the entire night – even should her mother push him in her path – and certainly never to dance with him…

The evening progressed in a flurry of gaiety, her dance card quickly filled. Helena danced with young and old, titled and non, barely able to hear introductions made over the orchestra near which she stood – not that it mattered. The men were merely partners to sweep her across the ballroom floor, some short, others tall, some quiet, others talkative, and she endured all of it. Only one man did she wish had never signed her book, and that at the thinly veiled urging of her mother. A dour man she recalled only as a vicomte, his blue eyes were filled with darkness. He held her hand too tightly and moved too stiffly, as though his bones decried the merriment, though age was not the reason, since she supposed him to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Not once did he smile or talk, his only greeting toward her a nod in meeting and another in parting. No matter his surliness to be in her company, she felt his eyes on her more than once during the night, and when she dared to look, she shivered to discover that she was correct.

Nonetheless, she did not let that one fly in the ointment douse her pleasure to partake of the evening festivities. She laughed and mingled with old friends and conversed, when she wasn't dancing. Her fourth ball to attend, and she was as excited as if it had been her first. As the night waned into early morning and the final dance approached, she found herself scanning faces in the crowded room, her palms growing damp beneath her gloves.

Foolishness, utter foolishness, and she told herself that if he should have the audacity to appear, she would make a flippant excuse and walk away.…

Yet when the musicians performed their final song and he did not come to claim his dance, Helena felt a surprising stab of disappointment she then shook away. Perhaps he'd left the ball early. She had not seen him present for hours. At least it saved her the effort of having to refuse him.

Once the guests had departed, Helena still felt much too excited to sleep. Before gathering the promised sweets for Lysette, she wandered onto the terrace, letting the cool breeze refresh her. The night was peaceful, and she relaxed, resting her gloved hand against the rail.

"Perhaps, instead, an Angel of Moonlight…"

At the sudden low masculine tenor, Helena jumped and spun around in startled shock. The abductor of her dance card holder approached from the path near the bushes and came to a stop before her.

"What are you doing here?" She cursed the breathlessness in her voice. "And do stop calling me such ridiculous names."

In the strong glow of the moon, she could see his curious amusement. "You don't like to be paid compliments?"

"I don't like empty words that are meant as nothing more than to flatter a woman's vanity. They hold no sway with me."

"And if they are not empty but sincerely spoken?"

She frowned at his persistence. "You have not answered, monsieur. Why are you here?"

"To claim my dance."

She blinked in confusion. "But - the ball is over." She gestured to the open French doors and the empty ballroom.

"Yes, and I offer my apologies for leaving you unattended. We left quite suddenly. My mother was feeling poorly, and since my family arrived in one coach, I needed to leave with them. I rode back as soon as we arrived at the manor."

Her first thought – to tell him that it hardly mattered since she had no desire to dance with him – stalled upon hearing his explanation.

"You left and came back?" she whispered incredulously. "Why?"

"I told you. To dance with you."

His quiet response brought a rush of warmth through her blood. "But – we cannot dance. The ball is finished. There's no music…"

"Isn't there?"

At his mysterious smile, she felt perplexed, awaiting what he would do. He held out his hand for hers. Feeling almost as if she was in a trance, she instinctively placed her gloved hand in his. He drew her closer.

From within the bushes, strains of a violin sweetly wavered in the air, and she glanced in surprise to see one of the musicians nearby, who nodded toward her in acknowledgement.

"I waylaid him before he could quit the premises," her uninvited dance partner explained. "You see, I could not forego the last dance with you. It is considered the most memorable, remaining with us long after the music has stilled.…" – and with those words, he slowly whirled her around the terrace in the beginning of a waltz.

She did not pull away as she ought, finding the entire episode dreadfully shocking and darkly exciting – an adventure to be lived….

"My lady, you have a guest."

Marian's dour presence interrupted Helena's reminisces. Her mind abruptly left the bright days of her youth and innocence – to try to make sense of the current situation.

"What - this early?"

The sun had barely crested, producing a rosy glow through the drawn curtains. She instantly recalled her appearance, still in her wrapper and bed gown, where she had fallen into a light doze near the now cold hearth, her graying hair twisted in rags beneath her bed cap. She had awakened minutes ago to recall current events…which had again inexorably taken her back to the ghosts of her past, many of them long dead.

"I cannot see anyone in this state! Who has the gall to show up at my door at such an indecent hour?"

"I do. Pardon the intrusion. I felt it was important…"

Helena gasped in stunned surprise as the newcomer swept past her maid and moved into the parlor chamber, uninvited.

Most assuredly, an inherited trait.

Grimly she smiled at that knowledge – and that perhaps at last one of her petitions would not go unanswered.

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xxXxXxx

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The carriage drew to a stop in front of the depot. Dominique hesitated, as if she wished to say more. His anger still a glowing coal ready to burst into flame, Erik impatiently looked at her across the short expanse.

"Yes? You wish to speak?"

"I wish you would reconsider coming to Rouen, Maestro. Paris isn't safe these days, and I fear you will soon see that only too well. Meg has dearly missed Christine, and it might help, for her to come – might help Meg, with all – with all she's been through…" Her words fumbled, her manner less certain as the glower on his face deepened to a dark scowl.

She had every right to be nervous.

Sitting next to him, Christine squeezed the top of his hand that rested on her knee.

He took a deep breath, attempting to bottle up his irritation with Dominique for reintroducing the topic – after he had so harshly declined an hour ago.

"I told you, neither I, nor my family, will ever darken the door of a de Chagny! How you could ask it, even suggest it, is beyond the scope of reasoning."

It not for the boy, Jean-Claude, who had slipped up that morning in asking Madame Giry how long she would be staying at Lady De Chagny's, Erik might have never known of his former aide's duplicity.

"You don't have to stay at Whiterose," Dominique quietly stated, "though I know you would be welcome. Helena De Chagny is unlike others of her rank –"

"I don't give a damn about her rank – it's her family that disgusts me."

She flicked her eyes to the window, watching as the Captain took her baggage down from the coach. "There is an inn, in Rouen. I'm quite sure you would be comfortable there…"

"And I am quite sure we would not! Cease with these manipulations at once, Madame!"

He let loose with the vitriol that had exploded within upon first hearing the name of the Dowager Comtesse with whom Dominique would be staying. The only deterrent that prevented his rage from pouring out then was the sight of his little girl, irritable from a night of insufficient sleep, and the realization that his just wrath would provoke another crying attack that Christine would then likely need to quench. The day had started out badly; he did not need two cranky females to add to the chaos of discontent.

Dominique paled and Christine's hand over his again tightened in gentle warning. His temper far from settled, he wrenched away from both women and burst out of the confined carriage to try to regain composure. Spotting Miguel pushing Dominique's trunk from the top, Erik approached his driver to inform him of the change in plans …

Inside the carriage, Madame leaned forward and grasped Christine's abandoned hand, now balled in her lap in anxiety for her husband.

"You must persuade him to come to Rouen, my dear, it is most important."

Christine studied her suspiciously. "This isn't just about me being a peaceable third party between you and Meg, is it?"

Madame hesitated. "I wish I could tell you all of what happened while you were in Spain, but it's not my place. But I will tell you this: Paris isn't safe for the Maestro, perhaps it never will be. There are some who will surely see beyond his disguise and remember the Phantom of the opera house, whom they knew as the man in the mask who destroyed the theater with fire and killed its lead tenor to claim you, many barely escaping with their lives. Eighteen months won't change that. Some memories stay with us forever, especially those that come from such high emotion as was experienced that night."

"I also fear there's still danger…" Christine shook her head in frustration. "But he'll not listen to reason and only makes a sarcastic boast in return, to try to allay my fears. He has not changed in that respect. He thinks he can always conquer whatever foe opposes him. He did so in Spain, with Don Carlos and the Phantom spirit – but with an entire city against him and only one trained soldier and a boy for aid …"

Madame faintly smiled. "I understand you were not without credit in the outcome. The Vicomte told me of your part in the battle. And how your pure song helped to equip the sources of good with the power needed to combat such dark evil."

Christine glanced at the ring of legend that circled her finger and touched its crystal stones that shimmered brightly, even in the dim interior of the coach. "I found a courage I never before knew I had to stand up to that monster."

"It was not your first time to battle the spirit of the Phantom. The Maestro told me long ago of that night you fought for him in the lair, the night of the Don Juan. But you had not yet come to accept the importance and strength of your role as his chosen queen. Now you have – it shines from your eyes and in your assured manner – so again I beseech you, Christine, do what you must to persuade him to come to the safety of Rouen. If it appeases your conscience, I'll ask the Dowager Comtesse to extend a personal invitation."

Christine's brows went up in surprise at the offer. "Why should a woman who has never met us wish to make such a benevolent gesture?"

"She has a kind soul. At first, I too had my suspicions about her, being who she is. But she helped us after the Paris disaster and has been there for Meg, allowing her to seek the refuge she wanted at Whiterose."

"I'm sorry about Meg," Christine sympathized. "I do hope she'll see past the pain to work things out with you. It's just not like her to hold a longstanding grudge against someone she loves."

Christine was actually quite baffled. What had changed her dear friend so? Learning that Madame had withheld that Meg's grandfather was alive and a baron did not seem suited to such angry behavior. There must be more that Madame had not told her to have qualified such a bitter response.

"As for Erik, I'll do what I can, but it will not be easy to persuade him now that he knows the Dowager Comtesse is Raoul's aunt. They fought together against the beasts that lived within the villa, but neither man parted on good terms. That same evening, they fought each other with swords, much like that dreadful day at the cemetery..."

Christine grew silent, remembering. The night of the men's second skirmish had also been the night she miscarried her little Fifika. Angelique was a blessing for which she would always be grateful, but she still felt an empty spot in her heart for their first little angel stolen from them by Death's merciless hand.

"I fear there will always be enmity between those two, now more than ever," Madame said and gave a resigned sigh.

"Why now more than ever?" Christine asked in confusion. Raoul had left Spain quietly and of his own initiative, without causing further aggravation in his boast to capture her husband, even stating in his letter to her that they would receive no further trouble from him. In truth, Christine had hoped that if the day should come when they would again meet, the two men might at least be able to both occupy a room in civility, if they could never become friends. It might be foolish, but she still longed for peace one day between them.

"What?" Madame shrugged her words off. "Oh, I meant nothing by it. I must go. I shall pray for your continued safety, my dear."

Madame left and Christine remained inside the carriage, the daylight not kind to her eyes after so little slumber. She dwelled on Madame's curious parting words, not believing them to be empty as Madame had nervously amended.

Why now more than ever?

Erik soon joined her, taking the seat where Madame Giry had been. Christine looked at him steadily, gauging his mood.

"And now?"

He briefly looked away from her and out the window. "Now, I return you to the others. I have business I need to attend."

Not happy with his answer, she crossed her arms over her chest.

"I'm going with you."

"Angelique will have need of you."

"If she's hungry, Narilla can give her porridge as she's done before, and Armando is there to protect them." Christine did not truly fear for any of the children; they were safely barricaded inside the tenement, and Armando, fast growing into a man, had proven both his skill with fighting and his loyalty to Erik. She trusted they were in good hands.

"It would be best if you were to return," her obstinate husband insisted.

The carriage began to roll forward. He avoided her eyes intent on his, and she frowned.

"Really, Erik? After all we've been through together – after knowing that the only way we survived all of what we did was in being together – you would go there alone, without me?"

He looked at her warily. "What are you talking about, woman?"

She shook her head softly. "Did you think I failed to notice your rapt expression as we passed the Rue Scribe? As close as we've become, did you think you could hide it from me and I wouldn't sense your intent?"

He briefly closed his eyes. "You have no need to go there. You should not go there."

"We were told that the Phantom no longer holds power over us, that he would never again interfere in our lives. It is no more than walls of rock and an underground lake. I'll be safe, Mon Ange."

"You don't need to see that den of darkness, the place of your nightmares…" He shook his head bitterly.

"Neither do you, but that will not stop you." She reached across and took his hand in both of hers. "It was more than that to me. It was also the place of my dreams – filled with candles and firelight and music. And you. My place was beside you then, and is even more so now – if you feel you must revisit the past, then I want to be there, Erik. With you. It is my past as well as yours."

His eyes were sad. "I fear it is nothing how you remember it. The mob would have destroyed everything belonging to the monster they feared."

Her heart plummeted in dismay at his beastly reference to himself. Since they had returned to Paris, those degrading words which in the past year had at last ebbed from his vocabulary had returned en force.

"Then why go there at all? Perhaps it is best if we both returned to Madame Giry's."

"I cannot explain the pull, Christine, but I feel as if something draws me back." He wryly chuckled. "Has it not been said that a criminal oft returns to the scene of his crime? Or in this case, the beast to his old habitation?"

"No more talk of darkness, Erik. The Light embraced you. Never forget that." She seemed to reach him as he distantly nodded. "It was your kingdom. Our home. I understand the need to see it again."

His smoky green eyes lifted to hers, the look in them intent. "You feel it too? The pull?"

She hesitated then nodded.

"Despite what it later became, it was once my haven. The place where I first found you and you taught me to sing, where we acknowledged our love, the promise of eternity and the music of the night – which I learned was not all darkness, but passion and seduction and everything that made my soul come alive."

"Christine…" The ceaseless ache of regret and sweet poignancy of remembrance filled those two soft syllables. He brought his other hand around hers, lifting her hands still holding his and kissing her fingers.

"Just this once," she whispered, "then never again. Are you agreeable to that, my love?"

He wryly lifted his visible brow. "And if I say no, would you then hire a coach upon our return to the tenement and follow me to the opera house?"

She gave a light laugh, though the thought of revisiting the place where it all started did bring a nervous dread that mingled with the anticipation.

"You know me too well, Mon Ange. Only this time I'll be sure to line my pocket with a bundle of fireplace matchsticks should the flame in my lantern quite mysteriously go out."

His mouth twisted in dry amusement, and he shook his head at her blithe reference to his magician's act of shrouding her in sudden darkness on the night when she disobeyed his orders and followed him through a dangerous forest on his furtive journey to the Don's villa - and he backtracked and took her by surprise.

"I cannot have you become a walking tinderbox ready to burst into flame with one wrong movement…very well, Christine. Only once we are there, you will do all I say and not question or hesitate at a command given. Are we agreed?"

At his grave order, the slight levity between them faded. "You think there might be a danger? The building has long been boarded up. No one resides within."

"Be that as it may, I'll not put your life in jeopardy. There could be vagrants. The tunnels are never safe…."

She no longer feared the darkness, having conquered its source numerous times, but understood the wisdom of his words and nodded somberly.

"I will do all that you say."

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xxXxXxx

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Meg fastened her bag and left the bedchamber. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Marian walked into view. Meg stiffened her shoulders, clutching the handle of her valise more tightly as the offending maid gave her a narrow-eyed stare.

"I would like to speak with Lady Helena. Is she in the parlor…?"

Marian stepped to the side, blocking her path before Meg could approach the wide double doors.

"The Dowager Comtesse has company and has asked not to be disturbed."

"My mother?" Meg felt a cold wave of shock that her escape might come to naught.

"Your mother has not yet arrived."

Meg would have liked to speak once more with her hostess, but couldn't risk lingering about and having Mère walk through the door. The sooner Meg was gone from Whiterose, the easier she would again breathe.

"Very well. Please inform the driver that I'm ready to leave and to see to it that my trunk is loaded."

"The driver has been given his instructions," Marian replied in her usual sour tone then abruptly turned and left.

Meg bit back a sharp retort to the despicable woman and hurried out the door.

To her relief, the carriage stood ready. She waited by its door and in idle curiosity studied the De Chagny crest: A gold crown atop, the single tower of a castle, a crescent moon below the sun, a sword, a peculiar image of what looked like two cones with a line drawn toward one, and in the center of the images flanking it a symbol stood out she had seen to denote royalty: two golden lions standing on their hind legs and facing one another on a field of blood red. Curious, she studied the family shield, wondering what it all meant, then wearied of the distraction and looked toward the stables.

Anxious that her mother would arrive at any moment, she paced the length of the carriage. Soon the morning sun grew too bothersome, beating down upon her unadorned head, and with one last futile glance toward the stable, she decided to enter the closed coach without aid. Certainly she could manage the feat without a footman – she had been a dancer and had once made leaps across the stage. Even her weaker leg could manage the short climb without steps.

Meg opened the door, set her valise inside and hoisted herself up with little effort. She congratulated herself that with not a twinge her leg surely must be improving, despite the lack of the habitual use of mineral waters to cure it.

Settling herself on the narrow seat, she left the door ajar, not wishing to be closed up in the airless chamber longer than she must, and directed her glance toward the window that overlooked the road leading away from the manor. Intently she scoured the trees for movement of an unwelcome carriage, fervently wishing Lady De Changy's driver would appear soon and take her away.

The sudden sound of the carriage door slamming shut had her swing her head toward it. She caught a glimpse of a man's long coat and scooted over to try and see out that window. Within moments, she was thrust back against the leather seat as the carriage took off with a sudden jolt.

She didn't know Bertram the driver well – though she knew him to be a quiet, meek little man – but a greeting beforehand would have been nice.

Deciding that all of Lady De Chagny's servants were horribly rude and wondering why the woman continually put up with their company, Meg settled herself in for the long ride.

The journey proved tedious, the carriage surely hitting every bump in the road, but it was worth being jostled about to have successfully made her escape. After a time, she wearied of watching tree after tree pass and closed her eyes. Sleep proved impossible, and she decided to try and read, pulling a lightweight book from her valise. The short novel of The Vampyre was quite garish and horrifically exciting, and she was surprised to have found it in Lady Helena's library. Mère would have a fit if she knew that Meg read it. The knowledge gave her grim satisfaction.

Some time had gone by, when to her confusion, the carriage slowed then came to a complete stop. Irritated, she set the book down just as Lord Ruthven, the vampyre, was to seduce Aubrey's sister, and peered out the window, seeing nothing more than a forest. No buildings, no town, and since it was not yet nightfall, certainly they would not have yet reached the inn. The carriage swayed and she heard the soles of the driver's boots hit the muddy road. Nervously she glanced at the door, not surprised when it opened.

But when she saw the face of the man who had done so, all the blood seemed to drain from her body from the shock, and she clenched the seat to remain upright.

"You…"

"Mademoiselle Giry."

The Vicomte de Chagny made a small formal bow.

"But – what are you doing here?" she sputtered. "You're not supposed to be here!"

"That's unfortunate not to mention impossible, since I was delegated to be your driver."

Meg's eyes bulged wider. "You…you can't be," she whispered.

"Oh, but I am. As a favor to my aunt. She didn't want you traveling through the countryside alone, a danger for any woman, and I am in full agreement."

His arrogant words made her bristle. He had no right talking to her in such a high-handed fashion.

"Bertram was supposed to drive me. I don't want you!"

"Bertram hasn't the ability to defend a mouse. And it matters not what you want in this case. I am under orders from my aunt."

"To hell you are," she seethed. "You're doing this because you want to. No one ever makes you do anything you don't want to, Vicomte. I know that only too well…"

Her pride still stung from his abandonment of many months ago. The last she had seen of the scoundrel he had coaxed her in an attempt to make her admit feelings for him then passionately kissed her, and fool that she was, she had not stopped him. Heat singed her cheeks and forehead.

"Why have you come, when you know how much I detest you? You are despicable, the lowest of creatures to walk the face of the earth, like a – like a vampyre preying on the innocents! And you called him a beast!"

"Now I'm a vampyre?" He gave a short laugh. Rather than be affronted, he spoke in weary resignation. "Must we go through this again? Very well. Hate me as you like. Get it all out and call me every loathsome name you can think up. I stopped the carriage to reveal my presence to you and award you that opportunity – as I don't want you making a scene once we reach the inn."

Her eyes widened and the blood that earlier rushed from her now filled her head with a surge, making her dizzy at both his impudence and his implication.

"I – I refuse to go with you one foot further – I'll not stay at the inn with you there!"

He stepped aside and motioned for her to step down with a sweep of his hand in the direction they'd come.

"As you wish. I suggest you start walking back now, so as to reach Whiterose before nightfall. Do be sure to avoid the deep puddles. A recent storm has made the ground wet and I'd hate to see you soak your shoes and catch your death of cold."

She clamped her teeth together so hard her jaw hurt. He knew she would take no such risk, not with her weak leg, and saw evidence of that knowledge in the gleam of his eyes and the quirk of his lips. Damn his arrogance.

"Fine. If I'm to be your prisoner, then let us be on our way and have done with it, so I might rid myself of your company all the sooner and you may then fly off to stalk some other poor creature."

"Prisoner? I do apologize, Miss Giry, I thought you were seeking escape. I am simply the medium for you to execute your desire to flee in safety. Unless you would rather me turn the coach around and take you back to Whiterose…?"

"Take me to Troyes," she ground out. "But if you lay one hand on me, I'll make certain you regret it – and yes, Victomte, before you ask, I do know my place. The question is, do you know yours?"

"I assure you, mademoiselle, I have not so quickly forgotten."

He closed the carriage door on those enigmatic words, the meaning of which could be taken two ways – neither of them any less troubling – and returned to the driver's seat, leaving Meg in the dark silence of her chaotic thoughts.

.

xxXxXxx

.

At the water's edge, Erik slid the boat from its concealed location of bushes and dry land onto the surface of calm water, surprised and wary to find it in a different location than where Christine said the Vicomte had left it. He checked for leaks before stepping inside then turned to his wife.

"It is not too late for you to change your mind and wait for me here."

"So I can agonize the entire time about what is taking place within those dark cellars? I think not," she said, offering her hand for him to take and help her into his gondola. "I have encountered and conquered far worse in these last two years. The worst is long absent from there, Mon Ange."

He hesitated, his first instinct to refuse. He did not share her positive outlook at again approaching an edifice that once contained such a wealth of danger to them both. Yet when he considered the alternative – leaving her behind and being concerned for her safety – there was no choice. Erik wanted her with him. His strong fear of losing her had greatly diminished since Angelique's birth, though it never fully disappeared. Even so, he would not flirt with the Fates for Christine's welfare, though he had every faith in her ability to cope with whatever trouble might come their way.

His Queen had proved her mettle in heinous, even deadly situations time and again, and he recalled the prophet Malakh's mention of her warrior ancestors, having seen that trait also exhibited in his fearless wife, especially when she fought for those she loved.

Christine sat in front of Erik, who stood behind and poled his way along the water's path concealed by tall trees and overgrowth. They reached the obscured opening, covered with vines, that led into the tunnels. The boat slipped through the aperture, which was unseen until up close. To be in the caverns again felt bizarre, a moment relived from another lifetime, when in this same gondola he'd taken her to his dwelling as his inexperienced student, to offer her his Music of the Night – the moment now repeated, almost two years later, with her again the sole recipient of his exclusive music and the other half of their shared destiny together as man and wife.

The intense chill of the caverns bit through her woolen dress and cape, and Christine drew the edges of his heavy cloak around her shoulders, cocooning herself against him and relishing the heat of his body. The last time he had taken her through these underground canals he commanded her to sing, and she eagerly had complied, her voice clear and pure, ringing off the surrounding walls of stone…

Now in this dank atmosphere, she feared to so much as whisper and stir the sleeping ghosts of yesteryear…

No, there were no more ghosts. None that could harm them in any event. But there were the living mortals, above, and she had no wish to alert any who might overhear to their secret presence.

The darkness was not absolute, the faintest of glows mysteriously coming from beneath the water so that it shimmered a muted bluish-silver. They approached the open portcullis, and Christine inhaled a breath to see both the black drape and red and gold tapestry ripped asunder and partly floating on the water. She felt Erik tense and knew how difficult this must be for him.

One week after the opera house fire, she persuaded Raoul to row her to the lair, in the hope that she might locate her Angel. She had been horrified to see the destruction the mob had wrought and prepared herself for the worst today, certain things would be in even more disrepair. While there was an aura of neglect about the area - once she could see in the light of the five candles Erik magically lit in a candelabrum, as they stepped onto the stone bank - she was surprised to note that the lair appeared to have been tidied.

Myriad pages of parchment no longer littered the stones from wall to wall, numerous smithereens of the looking glass no longer shimmered from the ground in front of the three broken mirrors. The throne had been righted and the beheaded and dismembered mannequin lay nowhere in sight. Even the bedding had been straightened, the coverlet folded at the bottom.

Madame Giry must have returned. She could think of no one else who would care about the owner of the lair and its vandalized condition, to try to put it in order. Unless Erik had done so after Christine had last been here. She knew he had returned, alone, for his weapons and some of his gold before they left on their quest to Seville. Much else had been looted, the missing statuary evidence of that.

A glance at her husband showed that he was just as surprised to see the place swept and straightened.

"I came back," she said softly, watching his reaction, "a week after you ordered me to leave you and go. I don't recall if I ever told you..."

He nodded faintly. "You had no need to tell me."

"What do you mean?" Her heart skipped a beat.

"I watched you."

"You watched me?" His solemn disclosure stunned her. "You were here and saw me?"

"You wore green velvet and had a black ribbon in your hair," he said distantly, as if remembering.

She blinked. The recollection of how devastated she had been not to find him in his home returned with a vengeance.

"I feared you were dead." She struggled to keep her voice steady, but it trembled with remembered pain. "I thought the mob must have killed you and thrown you into the lake. I wanted to die myself – and now you're telling me that you were here the whole time – and never made your presence known to me?!"

He reached for her hands she had clenched into fists at her sides, but she took a step back to evade him. Shadows chased away the candlelight on his face as he turned it from her.

"How could you, Erik?"

"How could I not?" he returned, his voice tense but quiet. "You had the Vicomte with you. Did you truly think that I would show myself with that faithless boy in your company? I did not trust him then. I never will."

His explanation sliced through her soul. Not for the first time she regretted her choice to seek Raoul's aid that morning.

"If I had come alone, would you have revealed yourself to me?"

He hesitated in giving an answer. "Perhaps. But had you not come at all I would have never approached you in the cemetery. I battled with the urge to do so throughout the weeks that followed. When you cried out for me I could no longer refrain from appearing to you. Seeing you that day, here in the lair, and that you truly cared about what happened to me…touching that so reverently …" He glanced at the music box sitting on the throne, the base no longer lacquered black, when it had shielded the essence of who he was, but once again in its original state, filigreed with crimson and gold. "I saw the tears on your face, heard them in your voice. I felt I had my answer."

"You had your answer when I walked into that freezing cold water and kissed you," she managed.

The remembered pain of finding him gone felt so real, so fresh and raw, and she wondered if such harsh emotion was due in part to her return, to again stand in the place where she once thought to have lost him. And now to learn he had been there all along….

"Where did you hide?"

"Christine –"

"Where, Erik? I want to know."

He compressed his lips and nodded, holding out his hand. She took it, more out of habit than desire, feeling as hollow inside as his absent mannequin, though mannequins had no heart, and hers hurt dreadfully.

He led her down the staircase and to the three mirrors. Two stood uncovered, but one still bore a red and gold wall hanging above, shielding it, and it was to this one that he led her. He looked at her gravely a moment then swept aside the tapestry.

Christine's hand flew to her mouth to see the mirror broken, revealing a hidden passageway beyond. Tears she couldn't suppress left hot traces on her lashes, dripping to her cheeks.

"I stood on the other side of this mirror," she whispered, "I touched this very tapestry with my fingertips. You were nowhere, but I felt your presence so strongly." She let out a strangled sob. "I thought I was going mad. I told myself that it was only because it was your home – why I should feel you there with me – I cried out for you, again and again! And you were within my reach? My God, I might have touched you had I only pushed my hand a little farther!"

Tears ran freely down his own cheeks at her despair to learn the truth, and he clenched his hands at his sides, aching to touch her now but not daring to.

"Every beseeching cry from your lips ripped another furrow in my heart," he told her huskily.

"I wanted to die," she admitted, her eyes falling shut. "I returned to Madame's and refused to eat for days. I didn't sleep – even in my dreams I felt your absence. I wanted to just slip away, to join you in death, but Madame wouldn't let me –"

At her stark confession, Erik let out a hoarse exclamation and drew her to him in fierce embrace. With one hand at her back, the other at her nape he pressed her close to his body. She held tightly to him, melting into his strength, at last finding some comfort.

Beyond the pain of his revelation, what felt a betrayal, logic intervened to help her understand. Raoul had later betrayed them. As much as it hurt to hear this, Erik had been right to stay hidden. Had he shown himself, there was no telling what Raoul might have done. He might have even hired soldiers, concealed, waiting for Erik to appear.

The terrible shock waned with that knowledge, and she smoothed her hands from his shoulders to his arms, stepping back but not letting go. Likewise he dropped his hands to her waist and kept them there.

"I didn't mean to go on so –"

"Don't, Christine. Your behavior is justified."

She stared into the dark passage, no longer with misery but curiosity.

"You stayed there the entire time you were hiding from the mob?"

"No…" At her raised brows, he continued, "there is a chamber beyond."

"I want to see."

He seemed about to refuse, then nodded. Grabbing a torch he lit it and again took her hand. His skin was cool to the touch, and she found it odd that she could draw such soothing warmth from the contact.

Erik led her down a narrow passage that twisted a number of ways leading to an intersection of tunnels. He took the one to the left, and eventually came upon a small chamber, the ceiling so low, his head almost touched it.

"I stayed here, as a boy, when Dominique first brought me to the opera house."

The room was dank, colder than the lair, even without the lake. The pervasive odor of damp earth and stone lent an ancient feel to the tomblike chamber. A long slab of protruding rock ledge served as a table and noticing an open crate there, she moved toward it. A smile teased the corners of her lips to see the little bedraggled and stained rag monkey that lay atop books and papers, one small cymbal attached to its paw. She picked it up, her smile growing to see the toy wore a smile sewn in brown thread.

"I took that with me when I escaped the gypsy's cage," Erik said. "It was all I had that was truly mine."

At the gentleness in his tone, she looked at him. His expression was calm, his eyes looking with fond remembrance at the toy of his youth.

"When I was a child, I thought of myself as that monkey, dirty, forlorn, wearing ragged clothing…I fashioned the beast on the music box to look like it, making it appear how I wished to become. Clothed in royal robes and sitting on a throne, presiding over my musical kingdom. It is why a monkey sits on the music box that contained my colors."

His disclosure made the little cloth animal that much more dear.

"May I keep it?"

He looked surprised. "You would want it?"

"Of course." She held the rag monkey to her heart. "It was important to you, and that makes it a valued treasure."

He smiled softly. "Do as you like. I certainly have no further use for it."

Her attention drifted beyond him, and she noticed what lay on the ground, by the wall, a short distance from the entrance.

"Is that a…?" Her words trailed away in shock.

Grimly he acknowledged the horrid item. "It is."

"But – why would you have that?"

He looked at the black coffin a long moment before answering.

"I made the bed for your comfort, my dear. I never slept in it."

Christine's eyes opened wider at the ghastly awareness even as pain pierced her heart at this newest insight. "You slept…in that?" She could barely fathom the idea. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"Before you came along, I felt as one dead. After you left, I returned to that state of being."

The slow tears pricked her eyes anew as she again faced what he suffered. While in Spain they had worked toward healing, and with their marriage and the birth of their daughter, found a measure of the happiness that so long eluded them, not forgetting what lay behind, but those terrible days becoming more obscure. To be struck with the verity of his tragic life and the brutal evidence of it so suddenly brought all the pain into sharp focus again.

And there was no telling what other secrets he had not yet told her.

Christine walked the few steps to Erik, wrapping her arms around him and holding him close while pressing her cheek to his chest. "I wish I could erase all of that past. I wish you never had to suffer such horrors."

His hand smoothed a gentle path from the side of her head to her chin, tilting her face toward him. "Then I would never have met you, and Mon Bel Ange, you have given me heaven."

Lost in his eyes, this close to him, reminded her of how much closer she wished to become. Pressing her hand to his cheek, she lifted herself up and kissed him. His response immediate, he circled his arm tightly around her waist, his other hand pressed to her face, his fingertips lightly brushing at her tears. Their tender kiss soon burned into more as tongue danced with tongue, and she whimpered in need.

"God, Christine, how I want you," he whispered against her mouth.

"Then complete me," she begged. "Now."

He pulled back a little in surprise. "What – here?"

"I'm not made of porcelain…" She kissed the corner of his mouth and chin then again brushed his lips with hers. "I can withstand cold and rock. Remember that day in our Eden in Spain, when you approached me at the cliff and took me against the wall there…and how many times have we rolled together on the ground…and do you recall that small cave where we found shelter during the cloudburst?" Her hands lowered down his back as she seductively persuaded him, coming to rest against his bottom as she brazenly pressed herself against his hardness and slowly ground her hips against his, increasing his need and hers.

He growled, moving with the swift grace of a wildcat, and swept her up into his arms.

"You shall never have to make such a sacrifice for comfort again, Ma Bel Reine, not if I can help it."

Relying on his sharp night vision which had never diminished, though he now dwelled in the daylight, Erik abandoned the torch and carried her through the tunnels and back through the mirror, into the lair. All the while, she nibbled at his jaw and smoothed her hand down his chest, popping a button of his waistcoat and then another, neither of them stopping their quest for completeness – until he reached the bedchamber. At his abrupt hesitation, she looked to see what made him tense.

The Phoenix bed had suffered at the mob's hands – the mattress and velvet bedding mercilessly shredded, with goose feathers poking out in various places – but she wasn't about to let that deter either of them. Last night's brief physical interlude had been a teasing taste after an agonizing week of torture.

He set her down to her feet in a slow slide, his grim focus on the extensive damage done. Even the black gossamer veiling he once lowered around her on that Music of the Night now hung in shreds.

"It's alright," she reassured, setting the rag monkey on a table and grabbing the huge coverlet from the foot of the bed. She shook it out and spread the thick eiderdown across, relieved to see it still in one piece.

"See? It's perfect," she coaxed, again moving to where he still stood immobile and pulling his waistcoat off and away from his shoulders, shrugging it down his arms and letting the clothing fall to the ground. Immediately she started on his dark maroon cravat, quickly untying the knot.

"I made this bed for us to share," he said huskily as she moved to kiss his bared throat then worked to unfasten his shirt.

"So don't you think it's high time we did?" she persuaded, grabbing the edges of his shirt and drawing him to her as she steadily moved backward. Her legs met the edge of the bed, and she fell onto her back sinking into the soft mattress and bringing him with her. His hands caught himself from crushing her, his forearms carrying his weight.

"I wanted you to have the best, Christine, never again to be in lack. You deserve the world and all the wealth and beauty that lies upon its plate. Not the old ruins and bare rock of a cavern as cold as death."

"All I want is you," she growled in frustration. "Do not keep me in lack any longer, mon amour. Love me, warm me…"

At last he broke from his spell of unfounded remorse and did as she begged, his lips pressing against her neck, his hands making quick work of the fastenings of her dress. She tore at his shirt, and he paused to pull it over his head and toss it aside.

She gasped as his cool hands met her flesh, all quickly warming from his eager caresses. He kissed his way down to her breasts, suckling each globe with tender hunger while she wrapped her legs around him and pressed her fingers into his back and the ridges of old scars, her hands and mouth long familiar with each one.

His lips left her breast, his tongue laving the rigid nipple, before he continued to rid her of her clothing. Likewise she struggled to free him from his trousers, impatient when the fastenings would not succumb to her usually nimble fingers. Once the band was loosened, she slipped her hand inside the rest of the way and cupped his length that swelled even more against her palm.

Erik's hiss quickly became a low, hungry growl, and he ripped the remainder of clothing away from her, barely pausing to do the same with his own clothes, throwing boots aside and tearing out of his trousers. He kissed his way up her body, his large slim hands stroking her skin and worshiping her perfection, pausing to brush his tongue along the drenched center of her desire. She groaned when he tarried, writhing deliciously at his sweet torment, then grabbed his shoulders.

"I need you inside me..." she whispered. "Complete me...now..."

It had been too long, with far too many interruptions, and the times they did come together in past months, it was often hurried, with them both partially dressed, in the sure fear that one or more of the children would soon interrupt, as they often did.

Alone together at last and blissfully naked, Erik stretched out his long, lean body over his beloved's, flesh against silken flesh. His fingertips traced beneath her raised calf to beneath her knee, spreading her leg wider, both of them panting and shivering with desire so long contained but stretching out the moment like the high coloratura notes of an aria, to be savored to the fullest extent. He entwined one hand at the curls near her scalp, while both her hands gripped his hair, and they stared deep into the wells of each other's darkened eyes, half-closed and glassy with hunger.

With slow, tender power he entered her body. Christine softly cried out from the overwhelming sensation of this moment so long awaited, pressing her leg hard around his bottom – the wondrous feel of him naked against her skin and buried so deep inside – the sensual intensity of all of it causing her to shatter beneath him in a few long strokes.

Erik watched her face as she derived great pleasure from his touch, no less amazed than he was during their first physical union in Seville. Eighteen months married to his beloved, and he still could not believe that fortune had favored him so greatly. Burying his forehead against her neck, he licked the dew from her flushed skin.

She gasped and brought her hand to the back of his head, entwining her fingers in his hair.

Sweet and fragrant, warm and wet – his Passionate Rose was the sum of perfection, and he feasted on rediscovering every soft curve and gentle hollow that he could reach with his mouth and hands as he steadily plunged inside her heated walls, drawing out the pleasure and the pain as long as he could withstand it. Her palms slid down his damp back, to his buttocks, her nails pressing into his taut flesh, pressing him into her with each strong thrust, her hips rising to meet his as her desire fully reawakened and she again sought release…

Their tempo escalated, hunger demanding satisfaction. Drowning in the fire of their music she soared with him to heights unimaginable and together they attained their own personal heaven – angel embracing angel in the rosy afterglow.

xXx


A/N: Thank you for your reviews – and your patience! It takes longer to post on this story, partly because with so many subplots, including the hidden one, there is a whole lot more research involved with writing it than the others….note: The Vampyre is an actual work of fiction published in 1812. I used that spelling throughout to match with that title…I love it when I read a series, where an event happens referring to an old scene from a former story- something the reader didn't know then but is now revealed – (often with hints dropped) like I did here with the revelation of his presence, when she came back to look for him- brought up in the first scene of the first story, The Quest. ;-)

And the first scene of this chapter is also a revelation of an old one from the Treasure, with more to come on that. In short, the entire mystery of Erik's past, (for my sequel) will be revealed in this story…