Christine sagged in his arms, twisting to pull her mouth away. "Raoul, no."
"Christine," he said at last, when she'd freed her lips. "Trust me. You will come to thank me in time. You will realize that I was right to help you escape from him. You belong with me. I love you. I will take care of you."
She shook her head, the word never billowing up behind her lips. But she could not say it, for Raoul brought his mouth to hers again, covering her lips and her breath with his, absorbing her being into his so strongly that at last she acquiesced.
Yet the word never echoed in her mind.
Erik felt hollow and worn, his soul more pitted and scarred than he'd thought possible.
But the morning after he left Christine, after a long night of dodging through the streets of Paris, he began to fill that hollowness with anger and determination, and self-recrimination.
He'd lived the last ten years in darkness. He'd cowered behind the threats of his brother, a brother who'd carelessly wrought evil on those he came in contact with. He'd let Philippe control his life.
And now he'd let Philippe take the most important thing in the world from him.
His thighs bunched around Cesar, and Erik prodded him faster with his knees. They fairly flew through mud-and-snow-mixed streets, through a graveyard on the outskirts of Paris where he'd found a place to hide while the mob was looking for him.
He was desperate to be on his way to the estate at Chagny, where he knew Philippe had to have taken Christine. But first he had to find Maude, find out what happened at the Opera House, and whatever else she could tell him.
Philippe, damn him, had been right—Erik had carefully planned an escape for him and Christine, and last night, he'd used it. For himself. Only for himself.
Although every nerve and muscle in his body rebelled, his brain won out: Sick to his very bones, he had left Christine with his two half brothers, knowing that it was the only chance for both her and himself to survive.
And he wanted to survive. For her. With her.
He couldn't live in the dark any longer. It had made him more weak and vulnerable than his face ever had.
Erik felt the chill February wind rush over the bare half of his face as Cesar galloped. He greedily gulped in the daytime breeze. His fingers were holding the reins so tightly that they were cramped, bloodless. His body was so tense and stiff with anger and devastation that it felt frozen.
He hated himself for the weak fool he was. His mouth burned with bile that she'd had to save him, when he should have been saving her. He'd left her, when he should have found a way to take her too.
Allowed her to make the choice…
His throat still ached from the rope Philippe had flung around his neck. Erik had spoken to no one, but he knew his voice would be rough and scratchy… perhaps permanently damaged.
Just as he was. Permanently damaged.
Erik closed his eyes. It had begun to snow, and the icy flakes bit into the lids of his eyes, as Cesar kept on. He would hear the news from Maude—what they were saying about the Opera Ghost, and the fire; whether they were still looking for him; and whether there was any word about Christine. Only then could he make his plans.
"Ahh, Christine, you look lovely tonight," said the comte as she entered the drawing room her first evening at Chateau de Chagny.
"None the worse for wear after your… adventure last night, I see. May I pour you some brandy? My brother has been detained in town. I am sure he will join us shortly with news of the fate of the Opera House."
How very civilized Philippe sounded. How perfectly normal this must be for the upper class—to meet in the drawing room for drinks before dinner, to provide excuses for the tardiness of one of its members.
Except for the fact that Christine had no desire to be in the drawing room, in the comte's presence, or even in the house at all. And most definitely not alone with him.
Philippe spoke again as he offered her a small pink-tinted glass that held a golden liquid. "We do not stand on ceremony at Chateau de Chagny," he added with a mocking glance. "I shall call you Christine, and you shall call me Philippe." He stepped closer, so that his shoes bumped against her slippers and the wing of his jacket brushed against her bosom. "I look forward to hearing you say my name… in many ways."
Christine stepped away, her heart pounding. She had not wanted to come down for dinner; she would have preferred locking herself away in the elegantly furnished ivory lace bedchamber Raoul had given her. But the threat had been made: Dress and prepare for and attend dinner, or welcome a personal visit from her host. And with Raoul being absent from the château, she dared not antagonize his older brother.
Despite Raoul's protestations that Philippe was merely offering her sanctuary, Christine was fully aware that the comte had much more than that in mind.
"I was rather hoping that you would have preferred a…private… dinner tonight," Philippe told her, confirming her fears.
Where was Raoul? Why could he not be here?
After Raoul had brought her to her chamber, she had spent the day alternately crying, sleeping, and worrying about her predicament.
She had done what she had to do to save Erik; she had no regrets in that. She had hurt him once before by removing his mask, and baring his deepest secret, his greatest pain, to her. Choosing this… captivity in order to assure his freedom was a small price to pay. And she believed him when he said he would come for her.
He would.
But until then…
"Where is your comtesse this evening?" asked Christine, her voice rusty. She sipped the golden sherry, surprised at how warm it felt cascading down her throat, burning gently into her insides. But then, when had she ever had anything better to drink than cheap wine or ale? This was even better than the wine she'd had at dinner after her debut. She drank again, a larger sip this time.
"I am glad you like the sherry; please, drink. It will help you to… shall we say… relax. And Delia will be joining us shortly. She is not one to keep to her rooms, unless there is a reason for it. Ah, and here she is now," Philippe added as the door to the drawing room opened.
In walked the comtesse, and Christine nearly dropped her glass. The blond woman was tall and beautiful, her hair piled high on her head with corkscrew curls brushing her bare shoulders. But her gown… if one could call it a gown… it was enough to make Christine blush.
The gown had no bodice. The woman's breasts sat perched in two gentle cups of corset, edged by lace, completely bare to the air and anyone who cared to look. The sides of the corset hugged her breasts, rising to just under the arms and then around low in the back. Her nipples jutted dark pink and pointed, jouncing delicately as she glided across the room to her husband, who waited with a glass of the same golden liquid he'd given Christine.
"Ahh, my lovely. You look delicious this evening," he told her, handing her the drink. "Delia, meet Christine, Raoul's… guest. I'm certain you two will become intimately acquainted during her stay here."
When Delia turned to look at her, Christine felt her belly tighten. The woman's gaze passed appraisingly over her, her lids half hiding her expression. "I look forward to it," she replied in a throaty voice that left no doubt about her meaning.
Christine did not care to contemplate that thought, and she put down her drink. "I must excuse myself," she said, starting toward the door. "I find that I am not feeling so well."
"Oh, no," Philippe said, barring her way firmly. "I think not. After all, you are a guest here, and we must ensure you are properly entertained. In fact, I do believe—ah, yes," he added as he tipped his head toward a faint chiming sound, "dinner is served. This way, please."
"I find I am not so very hungry—"