A/N: At long last… another lonnnng chapter. Please forgive any mistakes. I'm the only one to see this before posting.


VII

With her legs drawn up beneath her full skirt, Christine sat softly blanketed and firmly nestled to Erik's side on the narrow bench he had padded for her with a pillow, to make the seat more comfortable. She had a host of questions for her enigmatic husband, but felt it wise not to speak in present company.

Narilla sat on the opposite bench made to seat no more than three people in relative comfort, her arm around her little sister. Luminitsa held her hand against the blue veil that covered half her face and appeared to be sleeping, half stretched out as Christine was, with her head against her sister's shoulder. Angelique lay in peaceful slumber in a wicker basket on the floor between benches. It amazed Christine that their daughter could sleep at any time, day or night, in bright sunlight or in a raging storm, no matter the situation. In the car next to theirs, the Captain sat with Celeste still masquerading as Cedric, and the boys, Armando and Madame's young ward, Jean-Claude, who had begged to come along with them, having nowhere else to go.

Staring out the window at the blur of landscape that sped past, Christine again wondered in utter bewilderment how she had arrived to this moment – sitting with Erik in a private car on a train bound for the one city her husband had sworn never to visit. The very idea boggled her sleep-deprived mind.

The previous evening, long after dusk, her husband strode into their hotel suite, to her great relief. Before she could ask where he'd been that he had so recklessly broken curfew, he inquired as to her health. She assured him she was much better now that he was with her and returned his kiss. The moment her lips left his, he asked if she was well enough to travel. At her curious affirmation, he immediately gathered the family into their bedchamber, issuing instructions for Narilla to pack and be ready to leave in the morning and the Captain orders to secure tickets for a private car, giving him a wad of bills to do so. Erik told Christine to sleep while she could but never joined her, busy with last minute details that kept him away until an hour after dawn, when they left the hotel as a family and arrived at the station.

Christine felt bewildered and somewhat uncertain how she ended up on a train speeding to Normandy and equally dazed with how rapidly matters progressed once Erik put them in motion. No one could accuse her husband of letting the dust settle!

The opportunity to speak came when Luminitsa woke from her nap and whispered to Narilla, who voiced the child's needs for a privy. Erik gave directions and the sisters left the private car. The moment the door closed, Christine shrugged from the blanket Erik had solicitously tucked around her shoulders and turned in her seat, using his muscled thigh as leverage to sit up and face him.

"Now that we finally have a private moment to talk, I want to know what in God's green earth is going on, Erik." She kept her voice soft but with a ring of command that her query would not be derailed or ignored.

His smoky green eyes, so often full of mystery, studied hers then skittered away to the window.

"I told you. We are going to Rouen."

"You say that so calmly, as if no more than two weeks ago you did not viciously denounce the entire city and all who reside within, saying you would not set foot inside its boundaries as long as you drew breath."

"No," he corrected quietly, "only the Dowager Comtesse and her home have I condemned."

"Which, I repeat, makes no sense that we are leaving Paris, when we were just getting settled there, to find a new home in an unfamiliar city – and it being only a short distance from Whiterose!"

"We are not visiting the de Chagny estate, Christine…" She heard the warning note in his tone that told her he was on a short wick of patience. She wondered if he'd gotten any sleep at all, though she had long ago discovered he needed less of it than she did. "I have no intention of stepping foot on their land."

"So, you'll not allow me to see Madame and Meg at any time during our stay in the city?"

"Of course you may and you will. It is one of the chief reasons I have decided on this course. The Girys shall come to you."

She sighed at his stubborn reasoning. "But I may not go and see them?"

A tic jumped in his jaw that he had clamped shut. "I think you'll be more comfortable to remain at whatever lodgings I'm able to procure, and have the Girys visit you," he said at last. "You ask why we left – I will tell you. My search for a midwife and for the literature you require proved unfruitful, and as you have pointed out, Narilla lacks the experience necessary. Paris has changed since the war and with the revolution and yes, because of the fire that destroyed what was once our kingdom. With the city under martial law and the curfew enacted, I can no longer safely traverse the streets at night. Paris has long ceased to be our home. Perhaps within Rouen lies our destiny."

She could not challenge a word he said, though she still felt he was hiding something substantial from her.

"We face life's obstacles better when we're together to do it," she reminded softly. "Don't exclude me."

"Why should you think that –"

"We left so quickly –"

"I saw no reason to linger once a decision was made."

"I have only seen you act in such haste when danger is afoot. Please don't keep anything from me, Erik, like you have before."

He sighed. "If anything needs said, I will tell what you need to know, when it is permissible to do so."

"What by heaven is that supposed to mean?" she asked, dissatisfied with his answer.

Seeing her dander start to rouse, he grinned wryly and kissed her nose then batted it softly with the pad of his index finger. "It means to trust me. I have no wish to argue with you, Christine. Let us speak of other things, or better yet, lay your head on my lap and sleep. You need more rest, as you are still in recovery."

She wrinkled her nose at him. She would not be so easily manipulated, like a curious child who strayed too close to the forbidden door. Yet her husband was stubborn, unmoveable until he was ready. How well she knew it...

"Assure me that you'll inform me if I have any reason whatsoever to exercise caution, and I'll let the matter drop."

"I'll tell you anything that is needful. I always do, Christine."

"Do you? I hope so." She laid her hand against his cheek, bringing his eyes to meet hers. "Secrets can reap destruction, Mon Ange."

"I have not forgotten, Christine."

She pressed her mouth to his. Knowing that at any second their privacy could be shattered, he deepened the kiss, mingling his tongue with hers in heated affection, until short of breath, she pulled back. Her lips tilted in a soft smile and she lifted her eyes to his.

"What was that for?"

"To express how much I love you."

"I never doubted, not for a second."

His thumb swept over her glistening lower lip. "…And because in all likelihood it will be another small eternity until we are again alone together." Unable to prevent himself, he dipped down once more to taste of that sweet lip, but gently.

"Mmm…" She murmured. "I should tell you, I feel much improved. I can think of one thing that might speed my recovery, and it isn't sleep." Her smile was seductive, her eyes heavy with promise, and Erik wished that they were anywhere but on a moving train.

He hardened beneath her silken words and touch. As if she was aware, her hand smoothed down his chest to cover the bulge growing beneath his trousers. He covered her hand with his, stilling her soft strokes.

"You play with fire, my love."

"Are you getting warm, my Angel?"

"At the next available opportunity, I will show you how much, many times over."

"I will hold you to that."

Perhaps the one positive symptom of her pregnancies would be the reckless increase of her ardent affections. Her emotions often teetered near the brink – of tears, vexation, or hunger – and already a passionate woman, her desire would quite suddenly manifest in the most delightful ways but inopportune times…

The door to the private car opened. Thinking quickly, Erik flipped the edge of his cloak over his hand covering hers spread across his very apparent need.

Narilla and Luminitsa returned to the bench and took their seats, none the wiser to the amorous play going on across from them. Christine giggled softly, much like an errant child, and gave his sensitive flesh another tender squeeze before trailing her hand back up toward his chest, being sure to touch every inch of his manhood as she did.

She would pay for her little mischief, tonight, when he had her naked beneath him in the sheets. Oh, yes, she would pay…

Angelique woke with a grumpy cry, letting the entire car know she was most displeased to find herself tucked snugly into a basket. Christine moved forward and took their daughter in her arms. Settling back against the seat, his family nestled against him, Angelique in her mother's arms. Almost immediately their daughter squirmed and reached for him, twisting her body so as to crawl on his lap, one chubby hand slapping down near the inside of his thigh. He grabbed her before she could cause him acute pain and embarrassment, and held her against his chest, his arm braced as a seat beneath her bottom. Turning her head so that her cheek lay on his shoulder, with her eyes on her Maman, Angelique at last seemed content.

"I should feel resentment that she always seems to prefer you over me," Christine mused. "And at first, I did. But it truly gives me such joy to see how she adores her papa, and how you dote on her."

"You are both my world, Christine," he said distantly, his mind drifting down another track as with his other arm, he pulled his wife close. "Never forget that."

He had not forgotten. Not the danger of keeping secrets, not the menace stalking his family. Too many times he had almost lost his Precious Rose, most recently with the fever, and he would not tempt fate again. To tell her of the threat against them – in all probability targeting him alone but possibly her as well – could do nothing but cause needless fear, perhaps make her sick with worry and cause her to relapse.

He had required little thought after receiving the deadly bouquet, no longer presuming the near collision in the vicinity of the apothecary was accidental. Someone with an agenda for vengeance must have learned of his return to Paris and made it their mission to kill him. Removing his family from Paris eliminated the peril of the unknown vigilante seeking justice for Erik's past crimes and the risk of being recognized by anyone else in the city. It was pointless to cause Christine concern over what he had already accomplished. Seeing them to safety.

A crisis avoided, the danger far behind them, he must now concentrate on finding suitable lodging for what promised to be a lengthy stay, at least until Christine safely delivered their child. A house was the best solution, an undertaking that would surely take days if not weeks. Until then, he would secure rooms at an inn. So that his wife could get the help needed, he would do all he must to keep his loved ones safe, even if that meant swallowing his bitter hatred of the family who made their home near the city in which he would live, and had long been a thorn in his side.

He thought of the single book he secured at the bookseller's and all he recently read of Rouen, a busy port town, certainly large enough to hold him and his enemy's relation while keeping them at a convenient distance so they need never cross paths.

He would find a way to circumvent this latest nuisance.

xxXxXxx

Meg's visit with her Aunt Arielle progressed nearly without a hitch and could almost be considered perfect. Almost, due to the irksome Vicomte who seemed to think their stay an elaborate game of which he'd not told her the rules. It began on the evening of their arrival, shortly after they left the garden upon meeting her aunt…

Meg had entered the house behind Aunt Arielle whose maid guided the wheeled chair into the parlor and was asked to show Meg to her room. Spotting the standoffish butler who earlier refused her entrance and glowered at her now in supercilious fashion, Meg decided she could handle her own baggage and find a way to manage the trunk later.

She picked up her valise and followed the maid upstairs, curious to suddenly hear labored breathing. Turning on the staircase, she saw Raoul a few steps behind with her trunk on his shoulder. The last she'd seen him, he was taking the carriage to the stable.

"What are you doing?" she queried in disbelief. "Put that down."

"You wish me to put it down here?" he grunted. "It might make dressing rather difficult…"

His wry but strained words made clear the burden he carried should be relieved post haste.

"Come along, then, before you're seen," she whispered crossly and hurried along the remaining steps to the upper landing.

Of course it was foolish – they thought him a servant. It was perfectly acceptable for one in servitude to follow a woman to her bedchamber with luggage, and Aunt Arielle's ladies' maid was leading the way, for goodness sake. At the inn he also carried her things. But there they were strangers among strangers, and here she was with newly acquainted family – he was no servant, but a vicomte in the guise of toiling like one.

It was all very unsettling.

Meg paid fleeting attention to the room that would be hers, noting the feminine allure of the pale pink, lime and goldenrod décor, and the four poster bed of light brown wood – a pleasant room, certainly – but her attention was drawn to the buxom maid who stood close to Raoul.

"Just set it there," the girl instructed, motioning to the foot of the bed.

He did so and Meg stepped closer. "Merci, Vic – um, Raoul. That will be all. You may go."

He inclined his head at the emphasis of her final word, his blue eyes dancing, but as he pivoted to leave Meg overheard the maid as she again sauntered close to him. "If you wait in the corridor I'll show you the way to the kitchens – where the servants gather." The suggestive tone of her words left little to the imagination of what she actually had in mind.

Raoul smiled kindly and Meg frowned. "On second thought," she said before he could leave. "I'd like a word with you." She directed her gaze toward the brazen maid. "That will be all. Merci." Her words were a clear dismissal.

The girl looked somewhat uncertain, glancing toward Raoul and back to Meg before giving a nod. "Mademoiselle," she said in deference before leaving the room.

Meg immediately shut the door upon the maid's departure.

"My lady, are you sure that's wise? People will talk."

She scowled at his light mockery and usage of a title that wasn't hers to claim, nor ever would be.

"What tomfoolery are you up to?" she insisted, stepping close while keeping her tone well muted.

He considered the irate question, his eyes making a sweep of her from head to toe. "No mischief. Only fulfilling a promise I made to my aunt."

"What of my aunt?" she insisted. "If she was to learn that you're really a Vicomte how do you think that would make her feel? She would be mortified that she treated a member of nobility as a commoner and that I had a hand in the ruse – not the impression I want to make with a new relation."

His flippant amusement faded into sobriety. "You wish me to divulge the truth of my identity?"

"What I wish is that you'd told her the truth from the start."

"You do realize how that could have tarnished your reputation? To let it be known that you were escorted across the countryside by a man of means, and to have spent a night alone together…?"

Heat bloomed in her cheeks at his candid words that stirred the unwanted memory of waking up in bed with him, however innocent. She needed no such reminder, not that it would do any good to save a reputation soiled before she'd left her mother's womb.

"I didn't ask for this!" she quietly fumed. "You put me in this position by exchanging places with your aunt's driver."

"Your way of setting out alone was no better."

She did not contradict his concern with the truth of her paternity. In all likelihood her aunt knew she was a bastard, since she would know of Mère being disowned. But Meg preferred to keep that awful truth hidden as much as possible and certainly did not wish the Vicomte to know.

"Please – just don't confuse things more than they already are."

"I'm not sure how to go about doing that."

The next afternoon, however, he managed to find a way.

She was taking tea in the parlor with her aunt, learning all the intimate details Aunt Arielle could remember of her childhood with Mère. Aunt Arielle faced the tall window as she spoke and rarely looked away from the pane of glass. Meg supposed her attention was fixed on the lovely scenery. She couldn't imagine being confined to a hard chair and spending the majority of her hours indoors for the remainder of her days. Living with a cast for months had been difficult enough.

An idea suddenly sparked to life and she smiled.

"Aunt Arielle, you simply must come with me to the healing spa!"

"What's that, child?"

At Meg's sudden bout of enthusiasm her aunt's attention returned to Meg in surprise. Aunt Arielle wore her fair hair in a wreath of short sausage curls that danced about her neck and she shook her head, setting the curls to dancing again.

"The healing waters. I've taken them once and plan to again. You must come with me and Lady de Chagny." The idea bred such excitement she could scarcely place her words in proper order. "The waters near Whiterose are famous for the healing of bones. There are testimonies from those who frequent them – the waters, I mean, not the bones. But of course that goes without saying, doesn't it?"

Aunt Arielle chuckled and patted Meg's hand. "Calm yourself, my dear. I can barely understand you."

Meg smiled ruefully and said more carefully, "There are heated springs near Whiterose that have been known for their healing properties. They might help you."

A sad resignation settled across her aunt's delicate features, disturbing Meg. She had known the woman the sum of one full day but already she was dear to her. Aunt Arielle possessed a gentle, outgoing disposition that drew people to her side, like bees to honey. She had every reason in the world to be bitter, but exhibited only kindness, regarding servant and guest alike with a sweet smile on her face.

"I have long been reconciled to my crippled state and have been examined by every physician from here to Paris. They all say the same – I'll never walk again."

"Oh but, some physicians – most – don't know about these healing spas or if they do, they don't understand them. I was told by someone very knowledgeable that most doctors cleave to old-fashioned ideals." She sobered at the thought of her friend, Monsieur Durand, a victim of the revolution who had been gunned down by Versaillian soldiers while at the hospital assisting patients. "I've done a fair share of reading on the subject, and the healing waters have been used since the time of the Romans. They've helped many in need."

"I'm sure it's all quite lovely, dear, but you see there is this: I cannot leave my father," her aunt explained. "Nor would he allow me to travel. I have never left this estate, not since I was a child and grew ill with the sickness that crippled me."

Meg blinked in astonishment. She could hardly conceive such a thing. And yet…she rarely left the opera house in all the time she lived there, so perhaps it wasn't so incredible, though she wished she could say something to change her aunt's mind, certain the waters would prove beneficial.

"Your servant is kind to help Franklin," Arielle mused, again looking out the window. "At his advanced age, our groundskeeper can barely lift a stone half that size."

A sense of dread filled Meg as she turned slowly to see.

Beside a white-haired, mustachioed man, the Vicomte stood a short distance from the chateau. Gone were the waistcoat and frock coat, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands full of a flat stone slab that appeared two feet in length, half that in width. Incredulous she watched as he stooped to place it on the ground next to another then straightened to stand, brushing his hands together as he observed the gardener dip a trowel in a pail and apply wet caking to the stone just set down. As if he felt her stare, Raoul looked up at the window and noticed he had an audience. He nodded in acknowledgement, and Meg hastily twisted around on the sofa.

"He's not my servant!" she blurted to her aunt's obvious surprise. "That is - he works for Lady de Chagny. She asked him to accompany me."

"I see." Aunt Arielle studied Meg's flustered state and heated cheeks then smiled. "You are most fortunate that she considers you so highly to send such an able-bodied young man to attend you. Her loss is certainly my gain – I have long wished for a smooth walkway to replace the rutted one my chair can no longer manage. It will be a delight to visit that area of the lawn again and see the sun set from outdoors with the cool breeze against my face."

Meg smiled weakly, uncertain how to respond to her aunt's enthusiasm. She hardly felt pleased by the Vicomte's pretense to throw himself into servitude at Le Manoir de Clair de Lune, but at the same time she was happy for her aunt's sake.

Three days passed with no further disturbances, though Meg found herself looking warily around each corner, wondering when the Vicomte would suddenly swoop in and overturn her world with his unpredictable and infuriating actions. She sat with her aunt on the completed flagstone path, enjoying the sunset and further tales of Arielle's childhood with Mère that revealed a surprising facet to her mother. A playful, mischievous side that made her seem more human and less the aloof, strict instructor Meg had known.

"My dear," Aunt Arielle reached for her hand and squeezed it. "No matter her reasons for withholding the truth, I'm sure your mother had only your best interests at heart. I hope you'll reconsider this distance you've forged and learn to forgive what cannot be changed. Bitterness is like salt to the soul."

Meg lifted an amused brow. "It seasons it?"

"It dries it up. And I'd hate to see one so lovely become hard and cynical."

Meg gave an idle nod, her eyes on her lap. "Aunt Arielle, am I the reason my grandfather disowned my mother?"

Her aunt carefully framed her words, softly pulling back her hand. "My father is a complicated individual of strong moral character. He doesn't like to be crossed. My sister was very strong-willed, still is from what you've told me." Arielle chuckled then grew somber. "Her conflicts with our father began while she was training at the opera house – before that even. It was her rebellion to flout his wishes that drove them apart."

Meg considered her words. "Did you…did you know my father?"

"Only what Dominique wrote in her letters to me, and I fear I did not receive all of those. There was a long lapse in time when they came infrequently and then ended altogether. I wouldn't put it beyond my father to have disposed of them. He was that angry by what he considered Dominique's betrayal. I might not have known about her recent correspondence, if not for the sharp eyes of my ladies' maid who saved the letter before it burned completely. Though it was not mine to read, I confess I did. It was from that letter I learned of your accident and vital need to leave Paris. I am so relieved you survived the tragedy of what occurred and that the Dowager Comtesse opened her home to you…"

Meg suppressed a shudder at the memory of all that transpired since the night the Opera House burned and later, when the revolutionists destroyed her fair city.

"If I had a say in it, you would have come here," her aunt continued. "And that reminds me – my father sent word that his business in Paris will delay him another week. If you should like to extend your visit, I would love to have you stay."

Paris? The Baron d'Legard was in Paris? Meg wondered how many times he visited the city in the past, knowing she and her mother were there, then decided she didn't care to know. Her aunt more than made up for his stodgy rejection with her kind regard.

"I would like that very much."

"I'm so glad. And now my dear, would you find Emmeline for me? There's a chill in the air and I'd like my shawl, perhaps some tea as well."

"Of course.

Meg searched the connecting rooms and her aunt's bedchamber upstairs but found no sign of the maid. Tea wouldn't be so difficult to prepare – she had brewed it many times at the opera house, and she thought she recalled seeing her aunt's shawl in the parlor.

After a few wrong turns and doors, she was prepared to take the task to hand, when she suddenly found the entrance to the back stairs.

The mirthful voices of men and women sailed upward, bringing her to a massive kitchen any cook would covet to own. Before she stepped through the door, one man's jovial laugh stopped her dead in her tracks. She blinked in disbelief then swiftly moved into the room.

The Vicomte, the cook, the gardener, the footman, and the two maids sat on both sides of a long table, the centerpiece of the kitchen. Bowls of soup in varied stages of consumption sat near each place, a loaf of sliced bread in the middle. Emmeline sat boldly close to Raoul on the bench. Upon entering, every member of the staff stood, clearly stunned to see Lady Arielle's niece enter the servants' area. Raoul also stood, though hesitant, whether from mockery or uncertainty she couldn't tell.

"Mademoiselle," the small, rotund cook said, as if at a loss. "How can we be of assistance?"

"My aunt wishes for her shawl and some tea," she pointedly addressed Emmeline.

The young maid nodded. "I'll see to it right away." She stood, deliberately letting her skirts brush Raoul's shoulder as she walked past. Emmeline held eye contact with Meg as she moved to the door, each woman holding an unspoken challenge in her eye.

The nerve!

"A word with you," Meg clipped the words out to Raoul then turned from the door and took a few steps, waiting.

He soon joined her, again wearing no more than shirtsleeves and trousers, the lack of additional clothing doing much to reveal his trim, muscled form.

The sight made her even angrier.

"What in blazes do you think you're doing?" she hissed as he approached. "We talked of this."

"Mademoiselle?" He lifted one lofty brow.

"Don't you 'mademoiselle' me! What game are you playing?"

Silent, he grabbed her above the elbow and walked with her toward a door. Preferring privacy to say what she must, Meg didn't evade him, though the moment he led her through the door into what she could see was an outside area with barrels and crates enclosed by three walls, she shrugged her arm from his hold and spun around to face him.

"I thought we had an agreement that you wouldn't muddle things."

He spread his hands in question. "And what exactly am I to have done?"

"You need ask?" she retorted incredulously. "You put on airs – like a commoner wishing to be noble – only it's the opposite. You're no servant, but you continue to act under that guise!"

"And how did you arrive to that conclusion?"

"Really? You don't know? You toil with the gardener to make a walkway. I find you hobnobbing with the servants in the kitchens. What's next? Laying the brickwork for a garden shed? Or perhaps making up beds with one or both of the maids?"

She could have bitten off her tongue at the last comment and certainly did not appreciate his arrogant smirk.

"I must eat, and I saw nothing wrong with a gesture of kindness in offering a helping hand," he replied calmly.

"Kindness!" she spat. "You're no servant and must stop behaving like one."

"Would you prefer I never leave the carriage house and take my meals there?"

Hearing his question aired made her realize how foolish her attack sounded, but she could hardly take her words back now.

"Would you like to know what I think?" As he spoke, Raoul moved steadily toward her.

With the wall behind and crates and barrels on either side, Meg was trapped and confused by the gleam in his eye. Not knowing what else to do, she turned a cold shoulder to him in profile, studying the nearest barrel.

"This is not about your aunt's feelings or an alleged lack of propriety. You're displeased with the company I've been keeping."

"Ha!" Her laugh came out strained and brittle. "What do I care whose skirt you chase?"

"But you do," he said softly.

"How absurd…"

"And I wasn't speaking of the maids when I mentioned keeping company. You are the one who arrived to that conclusion."

"What else should I think with Emmeline practically sitting in your lap!"

"But you don't care…?"

She could hear the smile in his voice and gritted her teeth.

"No, I don't."

Every fiber of her being attuned to his nearness as he stopped an indecent amount of distance away. Her skin felt shockingly alive with warmth, and the memory intruded of her lying next to him in bed.

"I cannot bear your presence." Her words carried none of the weight she wished, the breathless manner in which they came out sounding almost like an endearment. "I loathe you for what you've done. To me. To Christine…"

"Lie to yourself all you wish, Meg, but I think we both know that's no longer the case."

"No, you're wrong."

Shaking her head softly, she turned further away in a futile effort to escape. He did not touch her but she could feel the heat of him sear her back. She tried to maintain composure against her heightened emotions and failed miserably. It had all been so simple once, her hatred of him.

Frantically she clung to that safe crutch of hostility. Once, she had needed it as a buttress to proceed with life as her body healed…but now that crutch felt foreign and unnecessary.

"I wonder," he said above a whisper, "if you lie awake at night, imagining what it would be like, us together? Do you imagine, as I do, Meg?"

"No," she lied softly.

"Have you forgotten our time at Whiterose, the passion we shared? I've never felt such things with another woman…no one but you." His fingertips lightly traced up her sleeve, sending shivers tingling down her spine. "I have missed you, Meg. Missed us. Missed the silk of your skin and your lips against mine. I lie awake at night, thinking of you, of being with you, and in your eyes I see a mirror of that same need…"

She did not allow him to finish his seducing words. Hardly aware of her own mind, she whirled to face him, her palms flying to his cheeks as she crushed her mouth hard against his.

Her abrupt act knocked him back a step, but he gained quick equilibrium, his hands going to her waist then sliding up around her back as his mouth took hungry possession of hers. Before sense could disrupt what her body craved with stern logic, she pushed fiercely closer, clutching his shoulders with a violent desperation.

His tongue invaded, claiming a deep, woven path inside her mouth and she surrendered the battle with a soft whimper, feeling relieved for the loss. At the feel of his hand covering her breast, flames raced through her belly. The sharp corner of a crate dug through her skirts into her thigh and reminded her of where they stood. She broke the kiss.

"Not here. My bedchamber, meet me there in five minutes."

Breathless, she pushed away, giving him no chance to respond, and hurried back into the chateau.

xxXxXxx

The Vicomte stood and stared at the wall of stone, not quite sure what had just happened. He certainly never expected a kiss, only to persuade her to give him a chance. Her invitation of moments ago floored him.

It made no sense, but matters involving Meg Giry rarely did.

With a sigh of pent-up frustration, he retraced his steps into the servant's area and took the back stairs up into the main house. Thankfully, Emmeline was nowhere in sight; he had no wish to deal with evading her advances at the moment.

He was no stranger to intimacy. Indeed, at university, before Professor Portier had consigned him to join his elite group, Raoul had been rather popular with the ladies. Since meeting Meg, the temptation for a pair of soft arms had beckoned now and then, but Raoul had not followed through, as he would have in the past. Meg's lusty invitation reminded him of his self sacrifice, and his desire surged hot, barely contained.

Contain, he must, somehow, at least until he could get to the bottom of this befuddling switch in her temperament and understand just what in the hell was going on…

Outside her bedchamber door, he hesitated. Once he stepped over the threshold, the very act could destroy what little reputation a dancer had. All those of his ilk felt that simply bearing the label of artiste bore its own tarnish, and certainly there were those chorus girls who lived up to a seedy reputation.

If he remained lingering outside her door, he could be seen. If he did not appear as expected, that could make things worse…

At a complete loss what to expect, he tapped on the wood and entered.

Meg stood in front of the small hearth, staring into the fire, her arms hugging her waist. She turned at the click of the door closing.

"You came."

"Did you doubt I would?"

She rubbed her arms nervously and paced a few steps toward the window that looked out over the courtyard. "I just…this is all new to me."

He studied her without moving from the door. "Why did you ask me here, Meg?"

"You don't know?" She turned on him in surprise. "Were you not the one who propositioned me?"

"Propositioned…"

"You did say you wanted to be with me." Her words were small and shy.

"More than you know," he agreed quietly.

"Very well then. Before we, before…" She took a deep breath and looked away. Her words came out flustered. "I don't want a child. In the chorus, some girls said there were preventative measures, and I've never…never been with a man to know. I would hope you do."

Were they truly having this conversation?

"Meg, what brought this on?"

She looked up. "You said –"

"Never mind what I said. Why have you so suddenly changed your mind? One moment you're gnashing at me like a she-devil for a bevy of imagined wrongs, the next you're inviting me into your bed."

Her skin flamed rose at his frank words. "Why must you analyze?" She threw her arms out to the sides in exasperation. "Can you not simply act like other nobleman and just accept what is offered?"

"I don't relish taking a lamb for the sacrifice," he said softly.

She turned and looked at him full on. "What do you mean by that?"

"I didn't ask for this, Meg."

"But you said…"

"I didn't expect this. Not when you're so clearly unprepared, no matter your bold words. You stand there like a martyr waiting to be burned alive at the stake."

"Well, pardon me if I don't have the experience to which you're so accustomed, and might be a trifle nervous." She frowned, gripping her hands in front of her, at her waist. "Tell me, what exactly do you want from me, Vicomte?"

It was an apt question, one that visited his mind often in their year apart. After all they shared and suffered he understood why she asked.

"More than one night."

She cocked her head, as if considering. "You want me to be your mistress?"

"Much more than that, Meg." He closed the distance between them and took her hands in his, his sober eyes steadily looking into hers.

"But…" She moved a step back in panic. He kept a firm grip on her hands. "You cannot possibly mean – what it sounds like you're saying…"

"It's too soon to speak of such things, I agree, but why would you doubt me? I've told you how I feel."

"I'm no more than a former dancer in the chorus," she argued. "A thespian!"

"You're much more than that."

"Stop it - stop it!" She snatched her hands from his grasp. "You must stop saying such things."

"Why, if they're true?" He was baffled by her erratic behavior. Certainly she had ceased to despise him and might even share deeper feelings, since she was willing to give him the gift of her virtue.

"I can be nothing more to you – than this," she said fretfully. "Nothing more than what chorus girls are to noblemen. Oh, must we have this conversation?" Clutching her elbows, she moved back to the window. "Must we talk at all?"

"I am only trying to understand."

"What's to understand? I'm offering what I thought you wanted…"

He covered the distance in several strides. She looked up, confused by his shattered calm and angry eyes.

"Meg, I want you with every breath. But not like this."

"This is all I can give," she whispered.

"You have no higher aspirations? I thought all girls dream of marriage…"

"You offer me marriage?" she gasped. "No – don't answer," she spoke before he could do no more than open his mouth. "It fails to matter, so anything is best left unsaid. In fact, since you don't wish to share my bed, I think you should leave now, Vicomte."

A wealth of expressions fluctuated across his face with such rapidity, Meg didn't know what he truly felt. He grabbed her shoulders.

"I'll go, before I do something we both live to regret. But so that you know once and for all that it is only you…" His lips covered hers in a searing kiss that turned her bones to liquid and her mind to dust. "I want you," he whispered, his head bowed to hers, "to come to me, not as a willing sacrifice, but as a need you covet above all else. Only then, will I make you mine."

Releasing her softly, he turned on his heel and left her bedchamber.

Meg sank to the floor, her legs no longer able to support her, the soft click of the door acting as a release to the tears held at bay behind her eyes. Once again alone with her thoughts, she let the dampness roll down her cheeks.

Why did he have to be so damned noble?

Her impulsive kiss outdoors took him by surprise and stunned her – for the span of seconds. Until her mind merged with her heart and admitted what she had tried so hard to deny.

She loved him. Dear God. Loved him.

It failed to matter. A future with marriage was no option for a nameless woman, and certainly the esteemed de Chagnys would never approve if Raoul should propose, even without knowing her dark secret. Even if she was to keep the sinful truth hidden, such things had a way of coming out. With nothing left, she'd been willing to settle for desire and to what had been building between them since he returned to save her on the night Paris burned.

She had been ready to lie with him, to surrender to the lust she'd heard many of the chorus girls prattle on and on about. There was hardly a reason to remain pure, her reputation ruined without her ever having done a thing. But was this the life she really wanted? To be his paramour? She turned to look at her tear-stained face in the looking glass and winced, not recognizing the bleak soul of the girl in the mirror.

She had lived within the decadence of the theater and in an absurd twist of fate was raised by a mother to adhere to a strict moral standard, one that moments ago she'd been willing to abolish. She barely knew her own mind anymore, and her heart certainly had become a stranger. On top of everything, she was a liar, aiding in a deception.

Tomorrow, that would end. Nothing else could change, but that must. Perhaps with the line of classes strictly drawn between them again, she would remember her place.

And he would remember his.

xxXxXxx

Well over a week had passed since Meg left Whiterose. Madame Giry continued to plot and plan with the Dowager Comtesse, to devise a method to bring their children home. Every idea was soon disposed of as impossible or bizarre. Madame had suffered through enough deceit in past years not to feign illness or accident as a ruse, and Helena had little to work with since Erik did not even know her.

"What if…" A pensive frown marred her brow as she turned from the window. "…we let it slip to those sure to spread the word that I plan to make this a place of music? Not a theater, we haven't the resources for that, but perhaps, oh I don't know – a school to train?"

Madame stared at the older woman as if she'd gone mad. "A school of music," she said the words incredulously. "At Whiterose."

"Well, yes. You did say he is musically gifted. Surely that would be a lure to him, if for nothing else, the mere sake of curiosity?"

"And who would teach this music? What pupils do you have in mind to attend?"

Helena sighed heavily in exasperation. "It was just a thought. And a far sight better than hosting a Bal Masque and inviting guests from all over France to come. With the mask he is daily forced to wear, why should he want to attend such an event, even with an invitation?"

"He did once before, and for a time, seemed to enjoy himself," Madame defended. Ruffling a stiletto in Carlotta's hat of fruit with feathers and threatening Piangi and the managers with his weapon had been the height of the Maestro's delight, until he turned to Christine and revealed to all there that she was his chosen…

Of course, that did not end well.

"All right, no masquerade ball. A hunt perhaps? Like the nobles enjoy in England. Invite a select few and make it a weekend affair. He does enjoy his traps and sneaking up on his quarry…"

That sounded even more bizarre than any plan thus far suggested. Helena shook her head and drew close to the window, as if hoping to find the answer in the bright outdoors.

"As a child, he wouldn't leave it on. Now you tell me he never takes his mask off. How he must have suffered…" Her sad words dwindled. "It seems we have guests. A coach has pulled up outside."

The announcement failed to surprise Madame. Helena supported many worthy causes, and during her short time at Whiterose, Madame had been introduced to ladies who acted as a spokesperson from various charities, including a budding orphanage, a relief organization for wounded soldiers, and, of all things, a society dedicated to beautifying the grounds of a park inside Rouen.

"Another stranger," Helena said with scant interest as she watched a woman descend the coach. From her vantage point, Madame could see nothing save for a mauve dress and a hat with feathers. "Likely wanting a donation."

Helena left the window and seated herself across from Madame, smoothing her skirts and pouring tea. "We will speak more of this tonight. I also have an idea of how to interest Meg in returning."

"How?"

"The spa, of course. I don't know why I didn't think of it before."

"The spa?"

"My lady," the butler, Jamison, entered the open doors of the parlor. "The Countess de la Vega is here to see you."

Helena sighed wearily. "I don't know anyone by that name. Has she stated what business she has with me?"

At the announcement, Madame's eyes widened in disbelief. She had heard the name given only once and might have recalled it wrongly, but how many Spanish countesses resided within Rouen?

"Helena!" In her excitement that she desperately tried to mute with the ancient butler present, Madame nearly squealed. "It is Christine!"

Helena's own eyes widened, her face going a shade pale. "Is she alone?" she asked her manservant.

The butler sniffed in disdain. "She has an infant. I would assume she is here about the orphanage and the child is a foundling. Shall I send her away?"

"No, Jamison, most certainly you shall not." From some reserve deep within, Helena found a fragile calm. "Send her in."

The butler gave a slight bow and left.

The two women stared at each other in stunned silence. It was inconceivable to them both that the answer to the problem that haunted for weeks had so suddenly dropped into their midst – or rather swept through the doorway, for it was most assuredly Christine's bright smile beneath the wide-brimmed bonnet that greeted them.

"Madame Giry!"

Gowned in a flattering dress of mauve silk, holding her daughter against her shoulder, Christine approached her former instructor as she would a long lost relation. Overjoyed to see her, Madame rose from the divan and embraced her. Too thin, she thought in motherly concern, and though Christine's skin glowed with health, the suggestion of dark circles sat beneath her eyes, hinting of previous restless nights.

"Is everything all right, my dear?" she asked worriedly. "Erik is well? Did he come with you?"

"Erik is fine, we are all fine. He's at the inn, looking into finding us more suitable living arrangements. He doesn't know I'm here, only that I'm out shopping. But, oh Madame, it's been so troubling. So much has happened since last we talked." She glanced at the Dowager Comtesse, as if remembering they were not alone, then back to Madame. "I would like to speak with you, later, if I may…"

"Of course, my dear." Madame looked at Helena, including her in their conversation. "My lady, may I present Erik's wife, the Countess de la Vega. Christine, this is the Dowager Comtesse de Chagny. Raoul's aunt."

A shy smile tilted Christine's rosy mouth as she gave a small, polite curtsy. "I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady de Chagny. Raoul spoke highly of you."

Helena decided she liked this girl, her daughter-in-law. "Oh, good heavens, none of that. I find the formalities all so tiresome. Please, call me Helena, and I shall call you Christine."

Christine's smile grew even more enchanting, but beneath the glow, there was a weariness.

"Please, sit down. Dominique and I were just taking tea. Will you join us?"

"Oh, yes, thank you. I hope you don't mind that I brought Angelique. She has been so fussy, ever since we arrived in Rouen days ago, and I felt that my husband would rather conduct his business in uninterrupted silence."

Helena felt a wave of lightheadedness as the child lifted a head of dark curls from her mother's shoulder at the mention of her name, and Helena found herself looking into a pair of smoky green eyes identical to her own.

Angelique. Her granddaughter.

A rush of sentimentality mingled with disbelief that Erik's wife and child were sitting in her parlor and brought tears stinging Helena's eyes. She turned to hide them, pouring tea for Christine.

"Perfectly fine, my dear," she managed. "Children are a delight to have in the home."

"Normally, I would agree, but she's been teething and is quite irritable."

With the manner in which the child clenched her jaws, grinding them, that was apparent. Helena handed Christine a silver serving spoon.

"Perhaps she'd like to chew on that?"

Christine blinked in considerable surprise at the offer, but took the spoon with smiling thanks and gave it to her daughter, who instantly set to work on the smooth concave end. "Madame mentioned Erik by name when we were introduced. Do you know my husband?"

Taken aback by the unexpected question, Helena felt Madame's sharp gaze.

"Madame Giry has spoken of him," she said truthfully, without revealing her secret. "I know he was the Phantom at the Paris Opera House."

"Oh." Christine struggled with what to say, as if afraid to say too much. "I hope you'll not judge him too harshly…He really has changed."

"I'm sure he has, my dear," Emotion tightened Helena's throat. "And clearly, you love him…you do love him?"

This time it was Christine's turn to be stunned. "Of course. He and Angelique are my life."

The Dowager Comtesse exhaled in relief to know that her son had found some happiness in the world. Noticing that Christine continued to stare at her strangely, Helena realized her behavior was suspect.

"Tell me, what brings you to Rouen?" Swiftly she changed the topic.

"Well, that's what I wish to speak with Madame about, but before I do, please tell me…" She turned wide brown eyes on Dominique. "Where is Meg? I am quite eager to see her again. It was all I could think about on the drive here. Is she out? Please don't tell me I missed her."

Madame carefully set her cup of tea on her saucer and set that on the table before her. "Meg left Whiterose before I arrived." In as few words as possible, without revealing the crux of bitterness Meg felt for her mother, Madame told Christine of Meg's decision to travel to Le Manoir de Clair de Lune and visit there.

Disappointment clouded Christine's eyes. "Do you know when she is likely to return?"

"She was to stay a fortnight, and that visit is drawing to a close. Honestly, though, I would be surprised if she ever does return."

"Oh, but that just won't do!" Christine fretted. "Erik told me what you said," she confessed, "Of Meg's anger toward you in discovering she had family she never knew, and a baron for a grandfather, but this just isn't like her…"

Madame remained silent. So much that Meg had done was unlike her daughter, the gentle dancer who always strove so hard to please.

A beatific smile suddenly swept across Christine's face, making her seem much like the angel Erik often called her. Her eyes glowed with secret delight.

"Never fear, Madame. I know exactly how to bring Meg back to us, where she belongs…"


xXx

A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews! :) Hope you enjoyed this chapter and it wasn't too long.