And when his whip flashed out again, this time, it wrapped around Philippe's upper arms. For all the comte's skill with the whip, he was not so skilled at defending himself from one.
Erik jerked, and Philippe came toward him.
Then Erik released his whip, and in a quick, smooth movement that happened in the blink of Christine's eye, he had the black braid coiled around his brother's neck, crossed at his throat. One end of the whip in each hand, Erik pulled.
From her place on the table, still bound and belted, Christine watched Philippe's face turn red, his fingers grasping futilely at the two strong hands that pulled relentlessly at the whip. He wasn't yet choking; Erik was playing with him…
"Erik, ho!" she screamed, watching in horror. "No! You'll be no better than he!"
Erik looked at her, his face still a hideous expression of darkness. "He deserves it," he told her. But she saw that the whip had loosened slightly. "I could snap his neck with one movement."
"No, Erik. No. You cannot. You will become a murderer in truth… not only in legend. Don't do it."
With a sudden movement, he released the whip, and Philippe staggered away, hands clutching at his throat as he tumbled backward.
Erik turned at last toward Christine, quickly unbuckling the belt that had held her in such a vulnerable position, and one of her ankles, before Philippe pulled himself to his feet and came after him again.
Christine screamed, but Erik had already turned to face him again. This time, Philippe had something long and silver that glinted in his hand, and though he was struggling for breath, a thick line of red welting over his throat, he came after Erik like an enraged bear.
Erik ducked and Philippe whirled past him, nevertheless managing to slice through his trousers with the knife.
Christine watched, her heart choking her, and at first she didn't notice the movement behind her, beyond the fracas between the two brothers. But when Raoul came into her view, moving silently and quickly, she gasped and would have cried out if he hadn't placed a hand over her mouth.
A tight hand.
"Quiet," he said, quickly unfastening her wrists. He removed his hand from her mouth and, grasping one of her arms, moved to unlock the foot that Erik hadn't been able to release. "Come with me," he said, pulling her none too gently off the table and toward the door through which he'd come.
"Erik!" she screamed. "Help!"
"Christine!" He glanced away from Philippe, and she saw the flash of the blade come down just as Raoul yanked her out of the room.
"They can battle to their death," Raoul said, manhandling her down the hallway.
Christine screamed again, struggling to free herself from his tight grip, but he was too strong for her. Her fingers tingled, and her bare breasts jounced unpleasantly as he forced her along. Let me go!
He spoke carefully, steadily, as if to a young child as they made their way down the stairs. "You belong with me, Christine. You know you do. Ever since we met years ago, I've needed you. Wanted you. My brother cannot have you. Neither of them. Now," he said, pushing her into a small alcove, "cover yourself. We are leaving Chateau de Chagny and will be traveling to board a naval ship. We'll be wed on board, and you'll join me on my journey to the Antarctic for the rescue mission. We won't return for years, and by then… my brothers, if they are still alive, will have forgotten all about you."
He pulled out a gun and pointed it at her. "Now, let us go."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Erik watched in horror as Raoul pulled Christine from the room, and as he shouted, "Stop!" the slice of Philippe's blade caught him along the torso.
Burning pain arched through his battered body, and he stumbled, dark spots alternating with bright lights to obscure his vision. It was getting harder and harder to stay upright, to stumble back into the fray with his gasping brother, who was now bent on slicing him to death.
But Christine… she was being taken by Raoul. He had to go after them.
Summoning all of his consciousness, every last bit of his strength, he turned and charged toward his opponent, heedless of the knife. If he didn't stop Philippe now, he'd lose Christine. Again.
The knife raged through the top of his shoulder as Erik rammed into Philippe, but then the metal clattered to the floor as Philippe was propelled backward by Erik's charge.
With a roar of victory, Erik shoved his brother again, onto one of the horrific pieces of furniture he used for torture. Philippe struggled, kicking and fighting, but Erik forced one of his legs down, lining up his foot with a cuff, even as fists pummeled him at his back and an arm slipped around his neck, tightening until those black spots swelled to fill his sight.
Focus… focus… He held the foot in place, straining to breathe, and at last—snap!—the cuff locked into place. Philippe screamed with rage, struggling anew, tightening his arm around Erik's throat as he pulled at his hair.
Erik wrenched at the arm choking him, pulled it away just enough that he could swallow and catch a desperate breath, then released the arm again and fought to subdue Philippe's other leg. This one was easier, because the other foot was already cuffed.
When Erik clipped it in place, he stepped away from the vee his brother's legs made on the Y-shaped bed, and stood panting, sweating, bleeding. Philippe was already bending toward his legs, trying to unlock them, and Erik would give him no more time.
He smashed a fist into his brother's face, stunning him enough that he could grab his arms and pull them up behind his head, lining them up with the main line of the Y.
Just as he was clipping them into place, the door opened again.
Erik looked up as Philippe cursed and struggled to free himself, but he had made the restraints so well that there was no way to escape.
Carlotta and Maude had at last come through the door; it must have taken them much longer to come up from the cellar and find their way to the private chambers. They looked at Erik, and then at the confined Philippe.
"Where is Christine?" Maude asked.
"Did you see her?" Erik said at the same time. "Raoul has taken her."
The women shook their heads, and Carlotta moved toward Philippe, a determined look on her face. "So you have not killed him yet," she said in her ruined voice, looking at Erik, who was trying to catch his breath.
Only a moment, only a minute, to rest, to try and fight back the waves of pain that threatened to lay him on the floor. But he could not give in. Not yet.
He had to stop Raoul and get to Christine. But he was so weak…
"No," he panted. "I saved him for you."
Carlotta grinned and looked at the array of whips, the long ivory dildos, the knife, and then the helpless Philippe. "It will be my pleasure."
Christine sat across from Raoul in a small carriage that rumbled along on the muddy, snow-patched roads. She was fully dressed now in a gown and all of the appropriate undergarments.
Raoul had played maid and helped her as their vehicle trundled down the drive of the chateau, Christine swaying and tipping as she tried to remain steady for him to dress her. He'd put the gun away once she was safely inside the carriage.
She didn't know how long they'd been traveling. The sun had been low in the sky when they came out of the chateau, Christine wrapped in the blanket he'd given her to hide her nudity. Now the sun had been gone for quite a long time, and there was nothing to see but the very occasional lamp from a house they passed by.
Christine had no idea which direction they were going. She just knew that every turn of the carriage wheels took her farther and farther from Erik.
If he was still alive.
That last slash of the knife… she shivered. Philippe might have killed him.