A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews! :) I'm glad to know you guys are enjoying this! And now...
X
Out of the open chamber from which the nighttime wraith had emerged, thick tendrils of grey smoke floated into the corridor while orange flickers of light illuminated the lintel. Forgetting about the thief, Christine swiftly retraced her steps to see...
And came to a standstill, her mouth dropping open in shocked horror.
A pall of thick smoke clouded the bedchamber, making it difficult to see and breathe. The hangings of a massive four-poster furthest from the door and those at the foot were ablaze with snakes of hissing fire that quickly spread upward and outward, consuming all they made contact with in their fiery venom. A man lay motionless, deep in sleep, while a tongue of fire dropped with deadly aim to the thick satin coverlet, beneath which he lay. A mask covered most of his face.
Christine's lapse into paralyzing shock to realize the owner of the bedchamber was brief, and she bolted forward.
"Maestro!" she screamed at him to awaken. She snatched the coverlet from his supine form, throwing it to the ground.
His eyelids snapped open and he sat bolt upright, the fire that reflected in his eyes fierce for an instant to see her there, before he grasped the peril of the situation. He leapt from the bed to join Christine as she struggled to pull the hangings at the foot free from their rungs. Smoke invaded her mouth and nose, causing her to cough helplessly. Her eyes burned and her hands stung, but she did not cease in her attempts to pull loose the flaming bed curtains and cast them to the stone floor.
A shower of fire fell near her foot, and she shrieked as its singing heat was felt through her nightskirts. His arm swung out and pressed to her collarbone, his hand to her shoulder, quickly pushing her back from the danger, after which he grabbed up the coverlet and beat at the hangings.
Spotting a vase nearby, Christine snatched it up, flowers and all, and threw the meager contents over one line of serpentine fire, satisfied as the viper lost some of its bite. A half decanter of liquid sat near an empty glass by the bed, that area still free of flame. Coughing, she reached for the crystal bottle with the intention of also dumping it over the fire.
"No," he barked, beating at the conflagration on the other side of the bed. "The pitcher by the washbasin!"
Christine rushed to that area and grabbed the porcelain urn, throwing its contents on the disintegrating bed curtains nearest him, drenching the strip of curtain and narrowly missing his head.
The beastly fire at last succumbed under their continual attack, all that remained to remind of its invasion a heap of smoking, wet curtains and a few patches of flame that struggled to persist along one hanging still suspended. With a violent wrench, he pulled what was left of that bed curtain free and threw it to the ground with the other ruins.
Christine pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, slightly doubling over as her coughs came with more brutal force. Her lungs felt stifled with the foul air, stinging her nose and throat and making it difficult to inhale.
The Maestro strode with purpose to where she stood, and for the first time that night she took dull awareness of his tall, lean form clothed in black silk trousers and a matching loose tunic, his dark hair tousled and hanging wild about his head. Without explanation, he put his hands to her shoulders and steered her through the grey fog of smoke toward the opposite side of the room and another door which he opened, urging her through it.
With the rush of adrenaline dissolving now that the danger had passed, she became intensely aware of the horrid pain in her hands and the sole of her right foot. She winced sharply, holding her palms upward and crossed at the wrists against her chest, but said nothing. He barely touched her, only his hands the directing force to guide her faltering steps as he brought her through the dark chamber and to an upholstered chair near tall, covered windows. Here the air was cleaner though the acrid smell of smoke still pervaded her lungs.
Once she gratefully sank to the thick cushion, he wrenched the draperies to one side. By the light of the moon that cast a silvery-blue haze on those surroundings within its path, she could see that he'd brought her to what appeared to be his private sitting room. A hearth stood against the same wall as the one in his bedroom, sharing the chimney, a short sofa near it, a table piled with books in a far corner. A tall case of them stood behind the chair in which she sat. Along the mantel of the hearth, statuettes stood in a row, and paintings – his own works she assumed – hung from walls and stood in a stack in one corner.
He threw open the windows, pushing them wide and allowing the chill air to rush inward. Christine drew in deep cleansing breaths of air between harsh coughs, allowing its purity to wash out her lungs, again lightly pressing the back of her hand to cover her mouth, the only part of her hand that did not burn.
"Quid est quod fuit ipsum quod futurum…"
His voice was low and deep, as if he spoke only to himself, but Christine heard and blinked in surprise. What is that which hath been is that which is to come…
"This has happened before?"
He turned from the window sharply. "What?"
"What you said – about history repeating itself."
"You know Latin." His words came calm in surprised realization.
"It was required at Lindenwood."
Her throat felt raspy and sore, in complaint of the few words she'd uttered, and she coughed again, lifting her hand.
He let out a soft hiss at her distress. Once she rested her hand back in her lap, palms facing her midsection, he crouched down before her and touched her wrist.
"Let me see."
His words were quiet, even gentle, but gave no room for refusal. She hesitantly brought her limp hand closer for his inspection. He frowned at the red patches on her palm and inside her fingers.
Abruptly he straightened. "Remain here until I return."
She nodded wearily and watched as he entered his bedchamber. She heard the wooden creak and snap of what sounded like windows opening there, and then padded footsteps disappeared into the corridor, as if he'd donned slippers.
A cold breeze blew against her face, as she sat with hands cupped, the backs of them resting uselessly in her skirts, and stared out the open pane at the silver-edged landscape. Bountiful trees, their colors sapped by the night into monotonous shades of gray and black, loomed all around. Austere. Menacing. Here, inside this comfortable room, she wondered if she was any safer.
He could have been killed. Murdered in his bed. Had she arrived even a short few seconds later, the coverlet could have combusted into flame and he might have burned to death. She could not fathom why he had taken so long to rouse – had his sleep been so deep as to be unaware of the danger? She recalled the half empty decanter and glass by his bedside and his refusal for her to throw it on the fire. Had he been drinking spirits? Was that what caused his lethargic awakening?
She had never seen anyone full of spirits, not that she could recall, only remembered the continual warnings drummed into her head to stay away from the wicked devil's brew, as those at Lindenwood had called it.
With the panic of the fire behind her, alone in the stillness of the empty chamber, Christine began to shake, and she didn't believe it entirely due to the reduced warmth of the sitting room.
Unable to prevent her mind's journey into the past quarter hour, she retraced the moments before she'd found the bed afire - and that mysterious figure she chased through the darkened corridors. She had not been able to distinguish any defining characteristics, but something in the way the shadowy form moved led her to believe it was a woman. A woman who clearly wanted him dead.
The Maestro returned, an embroidered robe of ebony and gold now hanging loosely from his broad shoulders. He carried a washbasin and wooden box in his hands, pausing to light a lamp on the wall. Again he lowered himself before her, dropping to one knee and setting down the items beside him. He barely wrung out a cloth, streams of water splashing into a basin, then lifted golden eyes to her watchful ones.
"This will no doubt sting."
She gave a terse nod, allowing him to take her hand and cup it in his large palm. With extreme gentleness, he gave slow dabs of the cold, drenched cloth along the inside of her hand, holding it for long pauses before moving it again. Tears rimmed her eyes as he deftly patted the damaged flesh, and she flinched sharply, letting out an involuntary little yelp, when he met with the fleshy patch near her thumb.
Beneath the mask, his mouth drew into a thin line. His eyes flicked up to hers, and she read the grave concern there, before he administered the same cooling treatment to her other hand. She watched him work, pulling at her lip with her teeth to deflect another cry.
"Is it – is it very bad?"
"Your hands will be sore for several days and will need care. There may be scars…" Releasing his hold, he opened the box and withdrew a small jar from within. He pulled out the stopper. "Hold out your hands."
She slowly lifted them, palms up. She did not understand why, he was no physician, but she trusted him not to hurt her. He seemed knowledgeable about exactly what to do.
He dabbed a small amount of the clear salve in both hands, and she drew a little breath through her teeth. With careful, feather-light strokes he spread the jellied treatment over each red bit of swelling flesh then reached again into the box for a roll of linen. He cut two strips and bound the first loosely around one hand, tucking and tying the end.
"Is this truly necessary?" she wondered aloud. It would make lessons with Adrienne more than a little awkward.
"You will want to keep the blistered skin clean. Do not allow anything to make contact with it. I also do not recommend removal of the bandages except when further treatment is required."
Once he finished with the second piece of linen, loosely wrapping it around her other hand, he lifted solemn eyes, which immediately dropped to her cheek. He reached up with his thumb, gently brushing away a tear that had escaped.
"You saved me tonight." His voice was a soft rasp of wonder. "I have yet to reason why."
His admission stunned and confused her. "I couldn't let you perish. You needed my help. What else was I to do?"
He studied her, what she could see of his expression unreadable. "You tremble. It is too cold."
Immediately he straightened and moved toward the sofa. He plucked up a blanket there and tucked it around her shoulders before walking off into the bedroom again. She heard the clink of glasses and after a short time, he approached, handing her a glass of cut crystal.
"Can you manage?" he asked.
"Yes, I think so."
She hesitated before taking the glass between both bandaged hands, recognizing the pale golden liquid similar to what had been in the decanter by his bed.
"Drink," he urged. "It will help steady the nerves."
She watched him bring his own glass to his lips and toss the small amount of liquid to the back of his throat.
Devil's brew or not, she coveted steady nerves at the moment.
Awkwardly clutching the glass, Christine took a healthy sip. The empty glass dropped from her clumsy hold and hit her skirts as she sputtered and again coughed, a different sort of fire scorching a wicked path down her throat. She had not known it would burn so! A decided warmth infiltrated her bones, making her almost calm, enough to want to rest her shoulders back against the cushioned chair and listen to his deep, quiet voice glide like silk over her abused senses…
She should not be here. In his private sitting room, so late in the night. Should not be in his private sitting room at all.
"I should go."
With her forearms, Christine pushed herself up off the chair, the thick glass falling harmlessly the short distance to the rug. She took a swift step then gave a little sob, her leg protectively folding at the dart of pain that burned through the sole of her foot near her heel. Instantly he was there, catching her before she could hit the floor. He drew her up against his side to support her, sharply nudging the glass away from underfoot with his slipper and settled her the step back into the chair.
"You are injured elsewhere?" His gaze dropped to the hem of her nightdress brushing the floor and her stocking toes peeking from beneath.
She swallowed hard. "It is manageable. I just...I need a moment."
"Indeed." His word softly scorned her foolish little fib. "You are clearly unable to walk, and it is doubtful that 'a moment' will alter your condition."
She drew her brows together, having no answer to give.
"Allow me to give you aid, as you have given to me."
His words were the softest silk, his consideration wrapping around her soul. He had proven his skill in medical matters, and she shouldn't ignore the wound. But the impropriety of the act and in these surroundings needled her moral conscience. As she looked into his questioning eyes, she saw beyond the concern a touch of unease. That he should also be unnerved to touch her more intimately soothed her fears, and she wondered if he had ever touched a woman in such a fashion.
Her cheeks heated with the random thought, but she gave the barest of nods in acquiescence. He moved to the window to give her privacy, turning his back to her.
"Tell me when you are ready to proceed," he said quietly.
After a moment's hesitation, her wary eyes boring into his back to ensure he did not stray from his spot, Christine pulled aside her grey wrapper to lift her chemise, even managing to tug the loose leg of her drawers above her knee to the topmost edge of the stocking. But when she tried to curl the tops of her exposed fingers to untie the bowed knot that secured it, a gasp of pain fell from her lips.
His back stiffened at the sound. "Are you alright, mademoiselle?"
Frustration with her wretched state of helplessness drove her words. "I can't seem to… my hands."
He appeared to understand. With slow regard, he turned his head to look, then moved to stand in the place he earlier knelt. When he made no move to act beyond that, she worriedly looked up. His hand clenched and unclenched at his side with a nervous sort of energy.
"If I may?"
His words came a bit gruff, and she brusquely nodded, not trusting her voice. That he should request permission for anything shocked her as much as the request he asked permission for. Yet she could see no way around the situation but to accept his aid.
He again sank his towering height to one knee, his somber attention fastening to her lower leg covered in black wool, before his fingertips plucked at the ties of her garter midway at her thigh and pulled loose the knot of the bowed ribbon. She held her breath as he rolled down the thick stocking with clinical precision, a belying tremor to his long fingers as they skimmed her bare flesh with the motion. A shiver went through her, a rush of heat invading her body. She closed her eyes and tensed her muscles in preparation for what was to come.
He pulled the stocking from her foot, cradling the back of her slim ankle in one large hand. He exercised more caution, his movements slower, but that didn't prevent a little yelp as the wool came away with a bit of difficulty from that part of her skin.
"There, there, little dove," he crooned in comfort, and in that moment she was no longer annoyed that he should call her by whatever fowl he wished to compare her with at the time. She only wanted the pain to cease, and she trusted he had the ability to make that happen. Already her palms stung a bit less, cocooned in the shielding linen, the salve he used a cooling balm to her injured skin.
Gently he lifted her exposed lower leg, propping her ankle against his upraised knee. After a cursory inspection, he frowned.
"Keep it elevated," he directed and hastened across the room, bringing back a footstool he set down before her. She brought her calf to rest on the leather cushion, the edge of her foot hanging off the edge and giving him better access to work.
She sucked in her lips, biting the insides, as he leaned in closer to dab at the anguished skin with the cold, wet cloth.
"It seems that you stepped on a sliver of burning wood or something similar," he informed her, dousing the cloth in water and barely wringing it before applying it again. "Your stocking appears to have acted as a buffer and prevented the burn from going too deep."
She knew she should be grateful for that, but the existing pain made it difficult. She worked to bite back tears as he pressed the drenched cloth to the bottom of her foot and held it there for some time.
"What would lead you to come to this part of the manor in the middle of the night?"
The Maestro's words did not accuse but held a note of demand.
"I heard someone running outside my door and thought it might be the thief about to strike a second time. I gave chase."
"Thief?" he asked and looked up at her as if hearing about the incident for the first time.
Had Madame Fairfax not told him? Christine had assumed she would. In the hierarchy of servitude at Thornfield, all complaints were directed to the head of housekeeping, who then, if she deemed it necessary, would report the infraction to the master. Certainly, since the thief had not yet been caught, the Maestro deserved to know what was going on within his home.
"Someone went into my room when I wasn't there. They stole my hand mirror."
"You are sure of this?" His voice was grim.
"I searched twice before I reported it missing."
"Why was I not told?" he demanded, his hand that cupped her ankle tensing though the pressure applied to her foot remained gentle. By the manner in which he spoke, she did not believe the terse words to be directed to her. "Were the servants' chambers searched?"
"Yes." All but one. "Although…" She hesitated.
The dim form of the shadowy figure she chased had been too slim and willowy to be Hazel Bleue. But in the shadows of darkness, tricks could be played upon the eyes, and the person had been wearing a billowing cloak.
"I don't believe the same can be said for the laundress," she broached hesitantly. "I don't believe the third floor was even included in the search."
His eyes flashed with an expression she could not discern. Immediately he refocused his attention to the sole of her foot.
"I will see to it."
"Whoever it was discovered I was chasing them," she said after a short silence, more to divert her mind from the unavoidable pain than to relate needless information. He smoothed the salve thickly onto the sole of her foot. "They threw their torch at me and ran off. It was then I smelled the smoke and saw it coming from your room."
He had grown very still, the muscles in his shoulders rigid.
"And you could not see the scoundrel's face?"
"There wasn't enough light. Everything happened too swiftly."
With a curt nod, he wiped the salve from his fingers onto a cloth then cut another strip of linen from the roll. He wrapped the bandage loosely around her foot with practiced care, again tucking and tying the ends. Once he finished, he closed the box and took both it and the basin to the table.
Her bones felt limp but her nerves were on edge. She tried to relax against the chair as her stomach began mildly to churn. Her head grew lightheaded with exhaustion and she closed her eyes.
She felt his return more than heard him approach and looked up in question.
"It is apparent that you won't be able to return to your room of your own accord." He hesitated before continuing. "If you will permit me."
"You…" she took a breath. "You mean to carry me?"
His lips twitched. "Unless you mean to roost here or sprout wings and fly, I see no other recourse, little dove."
His words were not unkind, spoken with a teasing sort of tenderness, and she felt the warmth flush her cheeks. He was not wrong; there was no other way. She certainly couldn't remain in this chair of his personal sitting room until morning came.
"Yes, alright."
She held her breath as he leaned down and slipped one strong arm beneath her legs, the other along her back. He lifted her with ease, almost as if she weighed next to nothing.
Her heart fluttered madly, a wild thing in her breast. She had never, never been this close to a man, never had a man hold her so intimately, and she was unprepared for the wave of intense heat that made her feel more than a little lightheaded, with nerves and she did not know what else. Crushed against his solid chest as she was, with his arms and hands supporting her in places all those at Lindenwood would be aghast to witness, she felt the muscles contract along his lean form. Thin layers of cloth between them were all that veiled complete scandal, and she could feel the heat of his body through the bedclothes soak through to her skin. The cut of his sleeping tunic allowed for a glimpse of flesh dusted with dark curls beneath his collarbone, and she closed her eyes tightly against the sight, finding her breath had hitched strangely.
She dared not look at him, remaining as frozen as she could, her bandaged hands loosely cupped against her middle.
The walk was long, and with every breath, every beat of her heart, she wished it over. The corridors were mostly unlit, but his step never faltered, and she wondered with his cat's eyes if he could see into the heavy darkness. Soon, she found herself concentrating on each intake and exhalation of his breath, which quickened, along with her heartbeats, into soft pants the further he walked. She knew she must be a burden, and when he strode into her bedchamber and carefully laid her upon the bed, she at last turned her eyes up to him.
"Thank you," she said and touched his sleeve as he straightened. "I am grateful for all you've done for me."
His eyes flickered behind the mask. "It is I who extends the deepest gratitude, mademoiselle. Not many would care whether I lived to see another day."
"I find that difficult to believe."
"Nonetheless, it is true."
He leaned over her, looming close, and instinctively Christine drew back against the pillow. He frowned at her involuntary flinch of fear and snatched the other pillow from beside her, quickly straightening again.
"I-I'm sorry," she whispered, not wanting him to think that after all he'd done for her that she distrusted his motive.
He said nothing, moving to cushion the pillow under her bandaged foot.
"The dressings must be changed twice daily. I will give instructions to Madame Fairfax," he said stiffly, and she missed his ease of earlier. "You must stay in bed while you recover, until the wound heals."
"But – you said that could take several days."
"Yes."
"What of my lessons with Adrienne?"
"They will need to be resumed at a later date."
She gave a little shake of her head, feeling useless and helpless, unable to fulfill the duties for which she had been employed.
"I think if I sit in a chair I can manage, though I might need some help turning pages and getting to the chamber. Maybe if I had a crutch or a cane -?"
"Christine."
She shivered to hear the syllables of her name so sweetly float from his tongue. He had never addressed her thus, by using her familiar name, and she found the utterance to be like deep music.
"You risked your life to save mine. How can I do anything less but to give you the time needed to recover?"
She had no words, and once he swept from her room, Christine found the memory of being held in his arms both a torment and a pleasure that took her softly into dreams…
Until a distant wail filtered through her light slumber and brought her to an eerie sort of wakefulness.
Or had it also been a dream?
xXx