And if Philippe had killed him, would he come after them? Would he come after his own brother, his true brother?
He would. She was sure of it.
Christine could hardly believe how narrowly she'd escaped the brutal rape Philippe had planned for her. A moment later… just a moment.
And how had Erik escaped the dungeon? She hadn't had the chance to ask him.
She might never.
"Raoul, please, please let me go," she begged again, breaking a silence that had stretched for a while.
"You belong with me, Christine. How many times must I tell you that? I am the only one who really loves you. I adore you! No one will take better care of you than I."
"But I love Erik," she said, again. She'd been saying it over and over, pleading for her release, asking him to take her back.
And each time, he replied calmly, as if he'd never heard her say it before. "No, Christine. I love you. You belong with me."
"Raoul. Please!"
"No, Christine," he said. "You are trying my patience. Do not ask me again."
She turned her face toward the padded wall and tried not to cry. Tried to think of a way she might get out of the carriage… but then what? Where would she go? How would she get there? She had no money, no one to contact.
Her thoughts were interrupted when the carriage rolled to a halt, and she looked out of the little window. They were in the yard of a small inn.
An inn.
"Are we… stopping here?" she asked.
Raoul gave her an odd look as he unlocked the door. "Of course. We'll stop for the night and then move on in the morning. My ship is awaiting us. Come. And," he said, pausing at the door, "don't make a scene. There is no one to help you here, nowhere for you to go. Don't be foolish."
Christine was weary; she could hardly believe what had happened this day. It was only early this morning that she'd tried to creep out of the house and escape… and now here she was, heaven knew where, with Raoul. And she had no idea where Erik was.
Sooner than she thought possible, Christine was following Raoul up a set of narrow, dark stairs in the inn, dreading what would happen once they found themselves behind the closed door.
She prayed she did not have to fight off yet another Chagny brother tonight.
"Raoul," she said after the innkeeper left, and they were alone. She knew she was looking at him with wide, frightened eyes.
He turned to her. "Get into bed."
The look in his eyes made her shiver deep inside, but she dared not refuse. He, at least, would not hurt her.
"I… need help," she said quietly, turning her back to him. He unbuttoned her gown and unhooked her corset. His hands strayed over her shoulders, brushing the light linen of her shift, and she braced herself.
As her gown slid away, and the corset fell to the ground, he turned her in that pool of fabric until she faced him. Tipping her head up firmly, he bent to kiss her.
Christine tried not to pull away as his lips touched hers, but she wanted to. Instead, she let him kiss her, let his lips trace hers and his tongue slip into her mouth. She closed her eyes and let him touch her, on her shoulders, grazing over her throat and down to cup one of her breasts, now free and loose under her chemise.
At last he pulled away, his breathing unsteady. She stepped back, warily. Waiting.
"Get into bed," he said again. And he turned and left the room.
When the door closed, Christine leaped toward it, looking for a lock, but there was nothing to keep him out.
Shivering from the chill and from nerves, she climbed into the bed. This night would be filled, not with the abuse and pain she'd expected from Philippe, but with its own price and its own torture under the hands of a man who believed he loved her.
As Erik did.
Raoul would come to her as Erik did, with tenderness and love, and she would lie there and allow it. She had no choice.
At first, she did not believe she'd sleep. She kept waiting for the sound of returning footsteps, of the soft click of the door when the knob would turn and open.
Once, she heard steps, and her heart began to pound so hard she felt her entire body reverberate with it. She held her breath, listening for the turn of the knob… but nothing. It became silent again, except for the voices of the people in the pub below the inn.
She must have fallen asleep at some point, for the next thing she knew, a heavy weight jolted the bed next to her. Christine's eyes flew open and she gasped in her breath to scream, automatically, not even thinking about how Raoul would react… but before she could, his mouth covered hers.
The room was dark, lit only faintly by a sliver of moon shining through the window. There was nothing but shadow and the long body over her, the hands holding her, the mouth seeking hers.
She tried to twist away, tried to push off the heavy weight that lay half on top of her, over her legs, unreasoning panic blaring through her. He held one of her shoulders, the other hand smoothing the hair away from her face. He fitted his mouth to hers with a tenderness she hadn't expected, and she felt his face brush against her cheek, and it was wet.
And she tasted him, at last, the rampant panic receding, and she felt the tremors in his chest as he breathed, and moved his lips with hers, their mouths equally desperate and their tongues slick and long.
Tears leaked from her own eyes, trailing down along her temples into the pillow beneath as her breathing rose, quickening. His hands had left their hold and now moved along the length of her body to touch her in an echo of his brother's greed earlier… but now with reverence, and familiarity, and comfort. She arched up when he pulled the chemise away, bringing her breasts up to him to touch.
Her areolas gathered tightly, ready, as he brushed over them. She closed her eyes and sighed as he moved his mouth from her lips to press kisses all along her throat, sending dusky shivers down to her belly. He kissed a nipple with the slow, sensual swirl of tongue and lips and gentle teeth, making her twist beneath him, pulling desire from deep inside her with great, moving tugs.
Christine sighed, her breath becoming uneven as the delicious build started. Her hands moved through his thick hair, brushed over the broad, strong width of his shoulders as he made her moan and need. Made all of the ugliness dissolve.
Then he moved, shifting under the bedclothes. His hard, muscled legs, covered with a soft brush of hair, slid against hers as he lifted himself over her, raising his face to look down at hers. She gazed into the darkness, up into the shadow where his face was, and over the breadth of his shoulders to where the moon shone in. He touched her with long, confident fingers, and she was ready, swollen and wet.
His breath came out in a long warm gust, a homecoming sigh, as he spread her legs, shifting between them, and at last…
"Oh," she cried softly as he eased in, rested his face against her cheek, head bowed and shoulders raised, and moved. Slowly, oh so slowly, as though to savor the moment, to permanently imprint it on his mind, to draw out every bit of beauty in their joining.
Christine gently rocked beneath him, her eyes closed again, her hands in his hair, her body as full as it could be. She brushed her hands over his chest, felt the warm hair, the unevenness of his muscles moving beneath, the square edges of his shoulders.
"Christine," he cried low and deep in her ear as he came, his great body trembling against her. She quivered her own release beneath him, the flush and bloom spreading from her pip up through her chest and arms.
She drew him down onto her, taking his weight with pleasure, the heavy body warm and comforting there in the dark room.
After a long while, she spoke, loath to break the peace, but the question clear in her tone. "Raoul?"
"He's confined to the carriage. They'll find him in the morning, after we're gone."
"He's… not hurt."
"No. A bump on the head. He never meant you harm, Christine. He couldn't help but love you. As I do. And will."
She smiled against him, moved her fingers over the two parts of his beloved face. "You are the man I love. The only one."