A/N: Thank you for the wonderful reviews! :) For those who've waited, wanting more of this story, I'm so very sorry it took so long… And now...


V

.

Light intruded behind her closed eyelids, disrupting Meg's slumber. Wishing to find comfort in darkness again, she squirmed against the pillow she hugged and burrowed in deeper…

The pillow that was hard and warm against her cheek, not soft and cool as a pillow should be.

The realization startled her instantly awake. Her eyes flew open and she noted the fine white linen shirt defined by the muscled chest around which she was wrapped. She jerked back in horror, her startled eyes meeting the mildly amused blue ones steadily watching her.

"What are you doing?" she gasped, at once aware the question a foolish one. His arms rested at his sides, his hands absent from touching her. She was the one who'd had her arms wound around him!

To his fortunate credit and her vexed relief, he did not contradict her - or she might have slapped him. The reason for this awkward quandary she remembered with reluctance.

She had awakened in the night and peered toward the foot of the bed to see by the light of the dying fire the Vicomte slouched, asleep in his chair and in clear discomfort. As she watched, his body made a slow sideways descent. Concerned that he might end up on the floor with another unfortunate knock to his skull, (perhaps not so thick as she thought), she threw back the covers and rushed to his side. She struggled to wake him enough to help him to the bed, atop the blanket. There he collapsed as if a great wind knocked him down and soon was asleep again, snoring. She stared a moment, undecided, then moved to the opposite side of the bed, burrowing beneath the cover and keeping space between them.

At some point during the night in her slumber, she must have thrown the cover aside and rolled the distance toward him.

His eyes – a silver blue in the predawn light that filtered in from the window – scrutinized her face as if she were a puzzle he could not solve, then dipped lower to her décolletage. His attention remained there several seconds, before he averted his gaze to the bed.

Reminded of her dishabille, the corset she'd worn unlaced, her chemise in disarray and revealing more than what modesty construed as decent, Meg pulled the bedclothes up to her breasts.

"Your head … it's alright?"

"I've suffered worse."

"Oh. Well, that's good then." She cleared her throat. "You're able to drive the coach?"

He lifted his brow. "At last you approve of my company?"

"I have a choice?"

He shifted, his chuckle faint and dry as he sat up and swung both feet to the floorboards. He quietly groaned, bringing her attention to the cloth bound around his head. Noting a spot of fresh blood had seeped through, alarm caused her to shuffle on her knees the short distance toward him.

"You're bleeding again!"

"It's nothing. I slammed it against the headboard when I first woke."

"Why on earth would you do that? Let me see," she ordered when he evaded her curious fingers.

"It was not done intentionally," he groused, "I tried to sit up and fell back."

Heat flooded her face when she recalled why he would have had such difficulty – with her weight having been on top of him.

The wound had stopped bleeding, and she gently dabbed the lump with a damp cloth before again binding it with a clean strip of linen.

"I think it looks better," she said in hesitation.

"You 'think'? That does not exactly inspire reassurance."

"I never claimed to be a nurse," she said and finished tying the knot.

"No, but you have the gentle touch required to be one."

At the tenderness in his eyes, she moved back, in abrupt need of distance.

"Stop it."

He looked at her in absolute bewilderment.

"Stop using your charm to try to win me to your side."

He cocked his eyebrow. "You would prefer that I speak dishonestly?"

She turned her back to him. "I don't wish to have this discussion."

"So I am not even allowed to pay you a sincere compliment…Meg?"

"I want to leave. Now." She fumbled with her laces then stilled her hands, ill at ease to attend to her rumpled and loosened attire with him sitting there watching her.

"As you wish…I will see to the horses."

The bed creaked in protest as he stood. Her nerves tense, she waited to hear his footsteps lead to the door. She almost jumped out of her skin when his palms cupped her shoulders from behind. His fingers were cool where they touched bare skin, but she felt as though she stood near fire.

"I no longer wish for you to think of me as the enemy, Meg. Can we not let the past remain there?"

His low words struck a tender chord in her heart, but she remained silent, her eyes falling shut. He hesitated, then with a gentle squeeze to her shoulders, left her and the room.

Meg released a pent up breath, cursing the lot that had befallen her, and especially the tears that now glossed her eyes.

To think of Raoul as the enemy made it easier to treat him with disregard and not allow foolish caprice to interfere and have its way. But to hate him was proving more difficult after time spent in his company. And the night held in his arms… Her arms.

He had not returned the unconscious embrace, not to her knowledge, and she wondered at the reason…

And why should she care?

A prickle of uncomfortable heat made her want to tear the constricting dress off her shoulders instead of fasten it up. She wished for a basin of clean, cool water to dab at the back of her neck, the water from last night tinged pink with his blood. Frowning at the spot on the floor where he had fallen, she grimly reconsidered her assessment of her feelings.

Hate was too strong a word. Once, before the revolution, her hatred of the Vicomte was genuine, rooted in anger at his part in her accident. And though she was not yet able to dance as she wished, she no longer resented him, not after that horrid night when Paris burned and they relied on each other for companionship and to survive. She was hurt when he left her without so much as a farewell long months ago at Whiterose, yes, but dislike did not even seem adequate to describe her current feelings toward him. Tolerance, perhaps…

The vivid memory of him lying insensible and bleeding on the floorboards and her terrified fear that she had killed him mocked all weak labels of bygone feelings she attempted to affix to her mind. Indeed, none of them seemed to apply any longer, and that caused her no end of unease. Hurriedly she finished making herself presentable, wishing to forget the previous night.

The Vicomte soon returned, bearing gifts of clean water, a wheel of cheese and a loaf of bread. His boyish smile directed her way helped to thaw the ice she preferred to remain frozen around her heart.

"I thought you might want to freshen up, and I brought breakfast," he explained, setting the goods on the table near the hearth. "The innkeeper had nothing hot to offer, but this will take the edge off hunger."

He made it so damned difficult to nurture animosity toward him, but she only answered with a curt nod, glancing out the window to the overcast skies. Hopefully the climate was not an omen of her upcoming reunion with her relations, if she could call it that. She still did not know why she had been tracked down with a summons disguised as an invitation.

"I'll leave you to ready yourself for our departure then." His words lacked the brightness of his earlier smile, seeming laden with disappointment.

There could be nothing for them, not after what she knew of her heritage, or lack thereof, but this cold distance she forced as a defense did not feel right either. How difficult it was to extend hatred or apathy when she no longer possessed those emotions!

She heard a dull, soft thunk and glanced over her shoulder in curiosity. He had struck a small dagger into the wheel of cheese for her use and turned to go, a hunk of it in his hand. Before he could exit the bedchamber, she spoke.

"Wait…" She turned to face him, keeping her gaze on the table. "I…thank you for the food, Vicomte."

"You did not think I'd let you starve…despite that you tried to do me in." A light of teasing danced in his eyes when her full attention snapped up at his last words. "And it's Raoul. Unless you want to raise a host of questions by those who might overhear."

"Yes, alright, Raoul. I do wish to leave as soon as possible," she said more softly. "I want to reach Troyes before dark."

When he only stood there, she raised an inquisitive brow.

"You have told me of your wish to travel to the city, but where am I to go once we arrive?"

"Oh…" Of course he would have to know and she must tell him. "Le Manoir de Clair de Lune," she said as nonchalantly as she could manage.

His brows lifted toward his hairline. "Baron D' Legard's residence?"

Alarm made her breath catch in her throat. "You know him?"

"He's an acquaintance of my father's. The two share company at social gatherings when the baron is in the city." He frowned. "What business have you with the man?"

She bristled at his intrusive behavior.

"Not that it's any of your concern, but my mother was…an acquaintance of the family as well. I come solely by invitation." Nervous that she might say too much, she broke eye contact and picked up the dagger, slicing a hunk of cheese. "Now if you're satisfied, I really would like to go."

Tense moments elapsed as she wrapped the rest of the wheel in a cloth and tied it. She picked both it and the bread up and put them in her valise.

Thankfully, he said nothing more on the subject, but she did not take in a relieved breath until she was safely enclosed in the carriage a quarter hour later and they were again on their way.

x

Time passed in the slow plodding of horses' hooves on packed dirt. Morning shadows crept into hiding in the afternoon, then reappeared and lengthened into early evening.

With the waning day, Meg's anxieties returned. She tried to read, but the vampyric exploits of the villainous Lord Ruthven failed to engross her concentration, not when her mind continually played out scenarios of the imminent confrontation awaiting her in Troyes, each one more horrific than the last.

She had just been thrown into the manor's dungeon, feet bare and chained to a wall, when the carriage rolled to a stop. Surely they could not have arrived already?!

Perhaps this was a mistake, a trap designed to shut her away from the world and put an end to any burgeoning scandal that could evolve from her unwanted existence...

The carriage door opened before she was quite prepared. She hesitated, then took the hand the Vicomte offered to help her down, her eyes lifting to the monolith of pale brown stone that rose up against a bleak gray sky. A forest of evergreens served as a backdrop, and near the solitary turret with its coned top, a flock of birds circled.

Le Manoir de Clair de Lune …

The Manor of Moonlight.

Its title suggested a mystical hideaway steeped in poetic legend, but she saw nothing to ascribe to such a name. Not as expansive as Whiterose, or as elegantly classic as the Vicomte's home of Ravenswolf, the château did hold a simplistic charm. But Meg had been gifted – or cursed – by an innate ability to discern what others could not always perceive, and she felt a great darkness here, a pervasive sadness that made her catch her breath...

"Meg?"

Realizing she clutched his arm, her nails digging into his sleeve, she hastily dropped her hand to her side.

"You are expected?"

She grew indignant at the skepticism in his tone.

"Yes, of course. I told you, I was invited."

Squaring her shoulders, she ascended the short flight of steps leading to the carved double doors and rang the bell. A scrape on the step behind had her turn her head in alarm.

"Don't drivers wait in carriages?" she asked the Vicomte quickly, anxious that he would hear the introduction – or perhaps her eviction from the premises, once the truth came out of her connection to this estate.

"Not when they have luggage to carry," he said smoothly, lifting up her valise she had once again thoughtlessly left behind.

"I'll take that."

She snatched the cloth bag from his fingers but before she could suggest he return to the carriage, the door opened.

She whirled around to confront a tall man of middle age in servant's attire. He cast a scornful glance at her travel-worn appearance, his brows lifted in supercilious question.

"May I help you?"

She cleared the thickness from her throat. "I'm Meg Giry, here to see Baron D' Legard."

"The Baron is not home."

Before he could close the door in her face, she took a step forward. "Wait, s'il vous plait – when do you expect him back?"

"The Baron is not expected to return for at least a fortnight. You may come back then."

"But – I was invited."

Her anxious plea fell like useless pebbles as the great door closed in her face.

Stunned, Meg stared hard at the door, then dazedly turned, averting her gaze from the concern in the Vicomte's eyes.

"Meg?" His hand was gentle at her elbow. "Are you alright?"

Was she? "I don't understand," she said, more to herself than him. "I was invited."

Perhaps the Baron had forgotten, maybe an emergency had developed or... had it all been a ruse? A deliberately devised scheme designed to humiliate and show Meg how little she meant to her estranged family...

But why bother? She had never sought them out, never knew of their existence up until a year ago.

She felt grateful for the Vicomte's supporting hand as he escorted her down the stairs, a silent, firm anchor in a sea now laden with doubt. She did not think her trembling legs could carry her to the carriage on her own.

"What would you like to do?" he asked softly.

She wished she knew the answer. "I need to sit down, to think..."

"Mam'selle! Mam'selle!"

As Raoul opened the door to the carriage, a girl's shrill voice pierced the air. They both turned in surprise.

A young maidservant, judging by her prim gray dress and white frilled uniform cap, came running over the lawn to them, her skirts clutched high in both hands.

"My mistress wishes to see you," she explained breathlessly.

"Your mistress?" Meg asked.

"Oui." The maid turned and took a few hasty steps, then glanced back for them to join her. "Come, s'il vous plait."

Meg exchanged a wary look with Raoul before following the girl to the rear of the manor, with Raoul walking beside her. This time, she felt grateful for his company but still fearful of what he might hear. But then, what did it truly matter? If she was serious about finishing what never started between them, what did it matter if he learned of her reputation-ruining, dark little secret?

Except that it did.

She refused to think beyond that, focusing on the tableau ahead.

A garden wrapped around the back lawn, elegant and manicured, a diverse foreground to the ragged copse of forest in the distance. Near a high hedgerow, a frail woman Meg guessed to be in her forties sat in a wicker chair, a spray of cut flowers in her lap. The chair bore two large wheels, one on either side.

Her pale blue eyes lit up at the sight of Meg, and Meg felt a twinge to have seen those eyes before.

"You must be Meg. You have the look of Dominique about you." The woman's words were melancholy. Faint and lyrical, her voice reminded Meg of the gentle strings of a harp. "I am Lady Arielle, Dominique's sister..."

"Yes, hello, I'm Meg," she affirmed a trifle brusquely before the woman could say more.

She dared not look at her uninvited companion, though she could feel his eyes sharpen on her. Lady Arielle, on the other hand, showed no hesitance to study the Vicomte, noting the common clothes he wore and the bandage tied around his head.

"And you are?" she asked when an awkward silence prickled in the moment she understood the oddity of Meg bringing a guest.

Meg's mind went numb. Etiquette demanded that she introduce the Vicomte by title. To pretend he was her driver at an inn of cutthroat hooligans was one thing, but he outranked her aunt and all who lived here.

"I… this is…" Meg sought for an ordinary explanation to explain the unordinary - that a titled nobleman drove her across country, and without a chaperone.

"I am Raoul." He gave the woman a deferential nod. "Mademoiselle Giry's driver."

Meg shot him a look of wary disbelief before bringing her attention back to her aunt.

"I see…" Lady Arielle offered him a polite smile then looked at Meg. "I am most pleased that you received my invitation. I hope this means you'll stay the two weeks?"

"Your invitation?"

"Yes, of course. While my father is away, I thought this the perfect time for us to meet and get acquainted."

"Yes, I'd like that." Meg felt her face flame with how intently the Vicomte stared at her.

"After such a long journey, you will want to freshen up. Emmeline will show you to your room. I assume you brought your things?" At Meg's uncertain nod, Lady Arielle looked at Raoul. "Frederick will show you where to put the luggage. You may sleep in the coach house and take your meals with the other servants. They are an amiable lot; I am certain you will be made welcome."

"Very good, my lady." He inclined his head in a nod, never once looking at Meg, and abruptly left.

She stared after him, watching as he disappeared at the side of the manor.

"You look agitated, child." Her aunt's words brought her attention back to her hostess. "Are you feeling well?"

"Yes, thank you. Would you please excuse me a moment? I left something in the carriage."

Meg turned without awaiting a reply and exited the garden, quickening her pace only when she knew she was out of view. She picked up her skirts and ran, catching up with Raoul just as he reached the coach.

"What the hell was that?" she snapped breathlessly.

He swung around to look at her, his expression a blank. "Is there a problem, Mademoiselle?"

"'Is there a problem,'" she mimicked. "Why did you tell her you were my driver?"

"Was it not I who drove you?"

"Don't act like you don't know what I mean," she insisted. "You withheld that you're a Vicomte."

All bland sarcasm evaporated, his expression darkening. "And what of your own deception?"

"My- what…?" Thrown off guard, she could only stare.

"She mentioned that you favor Dominique and that Dominique is her sister. It doesn't take a genius to see the connection. I assume this Dominique is your mother?"

What struck her more than the contained anger in his clipped words was the trace of hurt in his eyes.

"Yes," she said softly, her own annoyance waning.

He glanced away with a short nod. "And is there a reason you felt I should not have been privy to such information?"

"I'm not sure what business it is of yours," she said haltingly.

"It became my business when I took on the task of providing escort and seeing to your safety."

Her irritation again provoked, she lifted her chin. "I never asked you to become involved!"

"But you did come to agree to the arrangement." He took a step closer. "If I had not intervened and had left you in the road, you'd still be walking to Whiterose."

"You are more than welcome to return – in fact, please do."

"And leave you here, alone, without a way back?" he queried in disgust. "I made a promise to my aunt and will see it through to the end, no matter if it kills me."

"Fine then, if you must – just keep your distance!"

Meg whirled on her heel and stormed back to the garden, hoping she would never have to set eyes on the arrogant, insufferable Vicomte again.

.

xxXxXxx

.

Though dawn had long broken over the city, inside the cramped tenement with so few candles lit, it felt like the darkest of midnight. And his little rose was again proving to be a thorn…as were others in his household.

Clutching his tiny daughter more firmly to his side, Erik let out a soft growl of displeasure and strode to the main room.

"I will have silence," he ordered the gypsy boy and the girl masquerading as a boy. "If you must bicker, take your grievances elsewhere. The Countess is sleeping."

The pair of imps nodded, their eyes downcast.

He looked at Narilla, who knelt by the hearth, stirring the contents of the iron pot. "Is that porridge ready yet?"

"Si, Su – er, Count..."

Erik sighed at the absent-minded slip so frequently made. The little gypsies' habit of addressing Erik as king had not waned, and with their hasty tacked on correction, his new form of address had become Count of the Sewer...

Not a great leap from his persona at the opera house, he supposed, but not a title he wanted.

Narilla ladled a dollop of porridge into a bowl, set a spoon inside, and handed it up to Erik. He took it and returned to the small cubbyhole that served as a kitchen, setting the bowl on the table and picking up a spoonful.

His daughter had different ideas. Her chubby little fingers splayed over his mask, her palm flat against it.

"No, Angelique, the mask stays…"

"Nnnnn…" she whined crossly and patted the leather covering, her thumb slipping beneath its edge like a tiny crowbar.

He set the spoon down and grabbed her hand to stop her. "Now that we have returned to Paris, Papa must wear the mask."

"Nnnnn…." She wriggled in his grasp, trying with her free hand to reach the covering.

"Stop this, Angelique – now!"

He kept his command low, but nonetheless it resounded harsh. Her bottom lip quivered, tears welling in her smoky green eyes.

"Pplbt pplbt pplbt pplbt…"

Soft flutters of her rosebud lips attested to her wounded agitation while growing sobs shuddered through her tiny frame, and Erik felt like the worst kind of cretin to bring her to tears. Pressing her head to his shoulder, he gently patted her back and rubbed wide circles against her spine in a manner that usually soothed.

"There, there, my little rose, Papa isn't angry. Don't cry."

He felt like an unmitigated failure in this role of fatherhood, often at a loss as to what was needful at the time, at how to even be a father.

When Angelique was an infant, expectations were simple. The most important routine, to keep the baby nourished, dry, and warm. Christine took care of the majority of her needs, with Narilla's aid, but he'd also taken his share of diapering and walking their little angel at all hours of the night, singing her to sleep, so that her weary mother could rest. Wakefulness in the nocturnal hours was a trait long a part of him; he required little sleep. But in the last two months, their daughter had evolved from quietly watching everything in sight to exerting a unique little personality, with a stubborn bent much like his own.

It was wholly terrifying to be responsible for this little life he held, when he had destroyed so many lives. He had made men tremble with his fearsome presence, but one clasp of that tiny, dimpled hand in his could bring him to his knees. One toothless smile, and he would slay all the dragons and phantoms that dared to draw near the vicinity of her being -

Yet he had been the monster to make his daughter cry?!

"Angelique." He pulled her away from his shoulder. "It's alright – look..." One arm supporting her bottom, with his free hand he pulled away the mask. "It's Papa. See?"

She sniffled, her sobs lessening, and patted her hand against his disfigured cheek.

"Ba."

At the name with which she had christened him – one of five syllables she had mastered – he smiled and nodded in acknowledgement. With the foreign obstruction now absent, she calmed. She popped her index finger into her mouth, while her other fingers played along the rough canvas of his face, as if to assure herself that part of him would not disappear again.

"Are you hungry, ma petite?"

"Nnnn… eee-ahhh…"

Her customary grunt ended on a soft contented little squeal as tiny fingers grabbed at the warped bulbous skin above the faint hairs that passed for an eyebrow. He withstood her attentions when fingertips dug too deep, but before necessity demanded he tilt his head back in evasion or lose an eye, her fingers plummeted and found their way into his mouth. With lips drawn over his teeth, he gummed the tiny digits, pretending to eat them, and she let out a sudden gurgle of laughter, making his heart turn over.

Her mood again amenable, Erik hoped to distract her into eating, for that was the whole purpose of this venture. He picked up the spoon of porridge a second time, but when he brought it near her mouth, she turned her head away and thinned her lips.

"Nnnnn."

"Come now, Angelique." He grew stern again, though this time made sure to keep his voice soft. "You must learn to eat like the rest of us. You cannot suckle at your mother's breast once the new babe arrives..."

"Erik. What on earth are you telling our daughter?"

Christine's voice rang quietly with disbelief. He turned as she entered the room clothed in her emerald dressing gown. A flustered wash of pink had risen to her skin that he found endearing.

"I am most certainly not pregnant," she said more quietly as she approached.

He knew better than to respond. He had learned with her confinement while carrying Angelique when to pick his battles and when to let them die.

"I trust you slept well, Mon Ange?"

She gave a suspicious tilt of her head at his smooth change of topic, but nodded and placed her palm against his bared cheek.

"Angelique would have none of it," he explained. "I did not want her cries to disturb you."

A knowing grin touched her lips. She knew full well that Papa's tender heart could not withstand his baby girl's tears. And she loved him for it. The tableau that her cherished little family presented as she had stood in the entryway, unnoticed, had pulled at her every heartstring. Old crippling fears of their child's reaction to his disfigurement had long been choked in the stranglehold of happiness, and she relished the new level of confidence such unreserved acceptance had brought him.

"Our daughter is wise. She knows and wants her Papa and doesn't like him hidden away behind cold, hard masks."

"Much like her mother," he said affectionately, then sobered. "But I have no choice but to wear the cold hard masks now that we are in France. She must learn to see me with one on my face."

"I know," Christine amended with a sigh. "But we don't have to like it."

Sliding her arm around his neck, she raised herself on her toes to meet his kiss.

"Nnnnn!"

Angelique made her presence known, lest they had forgotten. She observed her parents crossly from smoky green eyes, her finger still cradled in her mouth.

Christine glanced at Erik and gave a little roll of her eyes.

When nursing at Christine's breast, Erik was the hindrance, but while held in Papa's strong arms, their baby daughter did not like others to draw too near and lay claim to what she considered her territory. Any initial hurt in months past to be so unexpectedly shunned by her child had been fleeting, the joy of seeing what she had long desired, the closeness of father and daughter, a balm that eased foolish resentment.

Christine smoothed Angelique's curls from her forehead, noting how viciously she sucked her finger.

"I think she may be cutting her first tooth." She had no knowledge to go by, save for memories of the few babies in the gypsy camp when the women would gather to converse, Christine among them.

"Is she?" Erik gently pulled Angelique's finger away and prodded her lower lip with his own. "May Papa see?"

He felt a small protrusion of a nub at the tip of his finger and gently smoothed it. Angelique grabbed his finger and bit down hard. He winced, more in surprise than pain. There was a modicum of that where the tiny tip of her tooth that lay just above the gum connected with skin, but he had been through a thousand times worse in his lifetime and did not pull away. Taking his compliance as permission, she claimed his finger as hers and contentedly gnawed on the digit.

"Yes," he told Christine, "I think you're right."

They shared an amused smile, but Christine's face clouded with worry.

"Do you think perhaps we should wait to leave? She's been so fussy."

"We cannot afford the luxury," he countered, eager to quit the tenement.

The cubbyholes that masqueraded as rooms were spare and cramped for three adults and six children, the lease would soon be concluded, and Luminista's prophetic nightmare of a stranger at the window from the first night, more than a week ago, gave him no little concern. In a suite at the hotel, they had better opportunity of going unnoticed, and his wife deserved every luxury that was currently denied her.

Erik had handed over enough gold to Captain Miguel to give the hotel proprietor, to ensure he followed Erik's wishes. Most importantly, that the key to the suite of rooms would remain in his possession at all times and not be checked in with the concierge, as was custom, and also that none of the staff was to disturb him, in keeping with their household duties, coming to his door only when he gave the order.

Five days ago, before dawn, Erik had slipped out of the tenement while Christine slept, secretly to investigate their new provisional abode. He easily found what he sought, a servant's door at the rear of the building that opened to a corridor, which led to a narrow stairwell to the upper hallway with their rooms, and would keep him from the public scrutiny sure to occur if he were to enter through the lobby. He soon ascertained that the back area was little used in the late evening, the best time for him to travel, despite the fool curfew.

"Angelique will be alright for one night," he said gently. "If you'll recall, on our return from the lair three days ago, she barely acknowledged our arrival, she was so entranced with that spinning wooden top of Jean-Claude's."

Christine smiled a little wistfully at the memory. "Yes, and I certainly do covet time spent alone with you." She caressed his cheek.

With his hands occupied, he moved his head to brush a kiss to her fingers.

"The Capitán will drive us there tonight then return to the tenement. Tomorrow afternoon he will bring the children to us and return a third time for our belongings." All points he had earlier shared with Christine, but he felt she needed the reassurance.

"I will gather our things, then see to a meal."

"Let Narilla attend to that. You need your rest."

She rolled her eyes. "Erik, I told you I'm not ..."

He shook his head a fraction to forestall her contrary words of being enceinte.

"I want you to rest, Mon Amour, because tonight there will be little opportunity for slumber."

His words teased but held fire, sending the burn of anticipation through her blood.

.

xxXxXxx

.

"The relaxing effects of a heated bath as opposed to a cold stream or a frigid ocean are wondrous," Christine insisted, pouring a dollop of oil into the clear water and causing a haze of film to cover the surface.

Erik had returned from his mysterious errand at the perfect time, the hotel servants having just left after delivering Christine's little surprise for which she'd arranged the moment her husband departed.

His fingers pulled aside her hair, his lips grazing her neck and startling her. The thick plush rug did not allow for footsteps, though silence always commanded his every action. Sandwiched between the steam rising from the water and his hard form that gave off its own heat, she felt she could melt and momentarily succumbed, leaning back against him.

"I do not wish to rob you of your little pleasures," he said silkily. "I know how much you enjoy these opportunities."

"No," she insisted and turned to face him, her hands going to the belt of his dressing gown. "Tonight is for you. I was not the one who walked with Angelique all night and had so little sleep. You are such a good husband and father." She pulled loose the ties. "Now allow me to be a good wife."

"It would be all the more perfect if you could join me," he whispered, his words and the fire in his eyes sending another wave of heat tingling down her spine.

"Yet as you've stated before, the washtub can seat only one."

"A pity."

A pity, indeed, she thought as she pulled open his dressing gown and slid it from his shoulders. She took in his lean form at a glance - naked, powerful, beautiful, his desire for her visibly stirring and capturing her curious wonder as it always did.

"It is an experience not to be missed…" Her words came distracted.

"I would think that bathing in tandem carries far greater rewards."

At the roguish amusement in his tone, she lifted her eyes from the burgeoning swell of his manhood into his knowing gaze. A blush warmed her face. Really! A married woman for nearly two years and she still became prey to that maidenly flaw.

The look in his eyes told her she was soon to become his prey, and excitement brought a trickle of damp warmth to her hidden curls...

But no, there would be time for that later.

In Spain, she had coaxed that a heated bath was much more satisfying than the chill water to which he was so long accustomed. Always, he had looked at the small oblong washtub of boards and declined.

Tonight she would not take no for an answer.

"Then perhaps, once you've enjoyed this experience," she replied to his incessant stalling, "you will have to build a bathtub to seat two."

"Or I could wait until I achieve the task, and enjoy my first time in a heated bath, with you."

A smile teased her lips. "Mon Ange, I vow to you that I will make this a pleasant experience. But if you detain much longer, I fear the water will become lukewarm and you would not like that."

"Very well." He shook his head in clear reluctance. "If my queen commands."

"I do."

She smiled as at last he stepped into the steaming water and sank into the tub, leaning back against the rim. His long frame barely fit its confines, though she'd been assured the washtub was the largest the hotel had - his knees up, his shoulders above the rim. He grumbled under his breath about the meager capacity akin to feeling like a sardine, and she grinned at the awkward but fetching picture he made. Grabbing a sponge, she doused it in the scented water beside him.

At once, his eyes flicked wide in horror.

"Do I smell roses?"

"I scented the water with their oil."

"Roses, Christine?" He sounded aghast.

"I thought you liked them."

"On you, yes. And when first I caught the aroma, I thought it was coming from you. But the scent is not flattering to a man – except to a fop, perhaps."

"My, aren't we irritable this evening?" she mused with a tolerant little smile. "I'm the only one who shall benefit, and if I offer no complaint, why should you?"

She grinned when he grumbled under his breath again, this time something about naughty vixens who should not trifle with ex-Opera ghosts.

"Relax, my love. You cannot fully appreciate the benefits of the heated water if you're so tense."

With gradual ease, she laid the sponge against one powerful shoulder, stroking it across his scarred back and to the other shoulder, mindless to the small stream of water that wet her bare feet in the process. Her fingertips lingered on his skin where the sponge touched as she continued to wash his back with gradual long strokes. Again she doused the sponge, her hand brushing his hip as she did.

He inhaled a sharp breath.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she was suddenly reminded of his seduction toward her when he first had a bath prepared for her in Spain. Having him helpless, trapped inside the tub, made her feel giddy and powerful. She coveted this freedom of boldness, this wanton wildness that only he unleashed within her...

And decided to give him a taste of his own sweet medicine.

Christine withdrew the sponge, water streaming from it in rivulets. Without squeezing out the excess, she reached over his shoulder and slowly slid the sponge back and forth across his gleaming chest…down his side…bending to kiss his neck in the process. She slid her tongue against his ear and grazed the lobe with her teeth. He groaned low and deep, letting his head fall slightly back.

Delighting in the sound, in this power she had over him to make him mindless with desire, she pulled away and leisurely slid the sponge lower, letting her hand just brush against the silken skin of his hardening shaft before pulling the sponge up to his stomach again. With a little smile, she repeated the action, this time drawing the sponge ever so slowly up his thigh, briefly brushing her fingers against his hardness, and pulling the sponge away to his hip.

"So, you want to play..."

His low growled words did not immediately register. Then, with a suddenness that stole all breath, he grabbed her wrist and - before she knew quite what happened or how - swiftly pulled her around to the side of the washtub, his other hand clasping her around the waist. With one quick tug, she found herself gracelessly sprawled on top of him, his other arm shielding her back so it wouldn't hit the rim. Water splashed high over the side and onto the ground.

"Erik!" she squealed in shock.

"Christine," he mimicked and smiled. She swatted his shoulder, producing a deep chuckle that sent tremors shivering through her being.

The rogue.

"I am still in my dressing gown, as you can plainly see."

"That can easily be remedied," he promised. The glow in his eyes gave images to words, making her dizzy with anticipation, though she worked to stay cross with him.

"You said this tub was too small for both of us," she insisted.

"I changed my mind." His gaze lowered, a devilish smile tilting the corners of his mouth as he pulled one tie loose. His large hand made a scintillating path up her bare thigh, his fingertips just brushing her wet curls. "One attribute that can be said for water…" His tone was silken, his eyes on her soaked dressing gown. They briefly lifted to hers, the message in them intense. "It serves both to conceal ... and to reveal."

He bent his head, his lips gently teasing the strong protrusion of one hardened nipple and she gasped. The sensual feel of his mouth caressing her sensitive skin through wet silk was erotic, but before Christine could fully revel in the experience, he lifted his head.

"But alas, the water grows cool and I would not wish you to take a chill."

She stared at him in disbelief. His expression was a blank as he returned her stare. If not for the solid proof of his wanting poking her in the back, she would think him unmoved.

"So that's that then?"

He pretended to consider. "I could rid you of that unfortunate article of wet clothing here and now, but any...further activities in which we partake would be severely hampered."

With chagrin, she realized he was right. She lay sprawled across his stomach and against his upraised knees, her legs dangling over the rim of the washtub. There was little room to maneuver and enjoy much else but light petting, and that with difficulty. The awkward position she lay in brought a slight pang to her midsection as well.

"Oh, very well – may I remind you, I did not ask to be in this position..." She placed her hands to each side at the rim, twisting around to try to hoist herself up and out of the water.

"Did you not?"

"No." Blowing out a frustrated breath, she looked at him. "A little help if you please?"

His hands splayed against her waist, lifting her bodily. Once she found her footing on solid floor, his hold slid down her hips, his thumbs boldly moving to caress her buttocks, his lips briefly pressing against her lower bottom – the action so brief as to almost be imagined – before his touch disappeared completely. Startled, she swirled around, as fast as she was able with wet silk clinging to her every limb. He stared up at her, the picture of indolent innocence.

She could not help herself. She laughed.

"Fine. I concede."

"You should know better than to take on the ex Opera Ghost, even absent of his title."

"I truly did wish to make your experience memorable, Erik."

"Oh, it was that, Christine."

She grinned, attempting to rub the ache out of her stomach.

"Does this mean you will consider building a bathtub for two?"

His eyes dropped to watch her involuntary action. "I admit, the prospect of having you naked against me while immersed in heated water does have its appeal...are you hurt?"

His words were instantly contrite, and Christine shook her head.

"Just a small ache. It will pass."

"You must be hungry."

"Not really." She did not feel the least bit like tackling a meal.

"Nonsense. You barely touched your luncheon, and I have just the thing..."

With no small difficulty, he clutched both sides of the washtub and rose from the water, still managing to exhibit his natural grace. He grabbed the toweling off the chair, tucking it around his hips, then took a second towel and approached Christine. Helping her peel off the drenched silk, he wrapped the fluffy towel around her shoulders, warmed by the nearby fire.

"Get into bed," he whispered near her ear, drawing her back against him for a moment. "I will be there shortly."

Once he moved away, the chill whispered against her exposed legs and she hurried to the wide feather bed, throwing off the towel and diving beneath the three sets of lush covers. Her impetuous act jarred her stomach and she winced at the sudden topsy-turvy sensation.

Erik came to the bed, a wrapped cloth in hand from his earlier errand.

"I noticed the aroma from the kitchen and remembered your preference for raspberry tarts at the opera house," he explained, eagerly pulling his treat from the cloth and offering it to her, a sparkle in his eyes while he awaited her delight.

Christine took one look at the thick gooey filling oozing out from the crust and promptly clapped her hand over her mouth, rushing from the bed. She barely made it to the water closet in time.

At the sound of her retching, Erik was suddenly behind her, holding her up in support as her weak stomach rebelled and emptied what contents it had. Stunned, she could no longer deny what seemed blatantly apparent, and weakly she turned to look at him.

"Erik, I think I must be with child..."

He nodded gravely. "Yes, my Angel, I think you're right."

With no more words said, for she was too weary after her ordeal to think, she wrapped her arms around his neck as he lifted her into his arms and carried her back to bed. At some point, in his rush to get to her, he had also lost his towel, and she watched his lean body with quiet admiration, the ripple of muscles as he tended her, pouring her a glass of water, locating an extra pillow and giving no thought to his own welfare, though the room had grown quite cold.

"The fire has gone out," she said at last. "You should get into bed before you catch a chill."

"Do you wish me to add more wood?"

"No, just come to bed."

Desire lay crouched on the fringes of need, but exhaustion was too powerful a foe and she slept.

.

xxXxXxx


A/N: I decided to keep this chapter/reintroduction to the story light. Enjoy it while you can- you know me, things will get intense again soon enough. ;-) Oh- a little note- the reason I didn't give them the luxury of using a larger claw-footed bathtub is they weren't invented until the 1880s - and then were considered novel, luxury items only the aristocracy could afford, in England - so wouldn't work for this time period in my story (1872) in France. Sometimes I use a bit of artistic license - this time I didn't. Maybe Erik can come up with something nicer though, since he also was something of an inventor... ;-)