111A/N: No, you're not dreaming – another chapter is here! :) Thanks to all who reviewed and are still interested. I strongly apologize for the delay in getting back to this. My muse was taking me other directions, to other stories, and though I had a fairly good idea of what I wanted to happen in these next chapters, The Claim needs to span decades, (since it was my intent to take this series through the b&w scene at end of movie, at her grave). And that was overwhelming me with how I wanted and needed to present some of this bit by bit, all the subplots, etc – so I had to let it go for awhile. I never intended the break to be this long though, and again I apologize. I think I've decided, to do this story of series justice, to cut the number of years originally intended for The Claim, and tell the rest in another tale after this one (a tale other than The Prelude, which will be coming soon, now that I'm re-posting scene summaries of the hidden plot on Facebook and am getting refreshed with all of that again...)
***sidenote: If anyone wants to see the full Hidden Plot scene summaries, please let me know here, since the group is private and is the only place to see it on the Internet – (the Phantom forum site it used to be on sadly closed and is no more).
Anyway, from what I've seen – there's still interest in this tale, and so I take you, dear reader, back to a time, when Music was King…
Previously: Meg arrived at Le Manoir de Clair de Lune and met her aunt, with Raoul in attendance and in the pretense of being her servant. Bearing the heavy secret that she is nameless (a bastard), in a jealous surge of recklessness, she invited Raoul to her room, offering herself to him, thinking his paramour is all she could ever be, but he declined, wanting more…Erik and Christine became head management of the theatre in Rouen. After meeting with Mme. Giry, where Christine secretly handed Madame a missive to send to Meg, Christine then discovered Erik knew of her forbidden visit to Le Manoir de Blanc La Rose - or Whiterose (the residence of the Dowager Comtesse de Chagny, who is also Erik's mother, though neither he nor Christine knows that)
Chapter IX
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"Tell me, my dear, how long did you make your home at the Opera House?" Aunt Arielle smiled in easy rapport with Meg, who sat at her right at the long dinner table. Laid with pristine brilliance, as was wont with the nobility, Meg nevertheless found the setting bleak, and felt a twinge of sadness that her aunt endured eating alone at a table meant to seat twenty, day after day.
"I was born there," Meg said. "Mère received special permission from the ki- that is, the managers." She swiftly covered her slip and took a sip of wine. No one knew of the lost kingdom, no one not affiliated with the opera house, and her mother had warned it must remain that way. "She was the ballet instructor there for over twenty years, until the fire, that is…"
"Yes, I read about that. A terrible tragedy." Aunt Arielle sipped the last of her wine then rang a small crystal bell beside her plate. "It doesn't surprise me that Dominique chose such a profession. Even when she was a small girl of four, she loved to sweep about the room on the tips of her toes and bounce off our beds onto the floor in great leaps and bounds – all while our nursemaid was absent from the room of course." She laughed. "It's a wonder she didn't crack open her skull or break a bone."
Meg smiled at the image of her strict and staid mother as a small carefree girl, being naughty and engaging in reckless activities while adults were absent from the room. She could understand her mother's childhood delight, the passion of the dance deep in her own blood, and she missed the feel of the smooth stage beneath her slippered soles as she whisked across polished wood and bent her body into seemingly impossible shapes to portray poignant stories of whimsy and prose.
"I hope one day to dance again," Meg said wistfully, staring at her plate. She heard the door that led to the corridor of the kitchens being opened, presumably a member of the staff entering with the next course.
"Yes, thank you," her aunt said to the servant, a smile in her voice.
"I do wish you would reconsider the spa of the healing waters." Meg took another bite of a squash and white bean mixture in a creamy wine sauce, wondering what she could say to encourage the idea. She heard the sound of more wine being poured into her aunt's glass. "They spring from the earth and are reputed to be quite miraculous with prolonged use. I have read testimony after testimony and plan to visit again. It would be lovely if you could join me there, perhaps even return to Whiterose with us. You would certainly be welcome. I know Mère would dearly love to see you."
"And I her – but I don't see how that's possible, my dear. My father will return in a matter of days, and I must be here when he does."
Meg flicked her attention toward her aunt, barely moving her head. "I can wait at the inn while you tell him." She had no desire to be anywhere on the premises when the cruel baron arrived.
"No, my dear, Father wouldn't like it."
"He wouldn't want you to seek relief that could help you?" The more she heard about her grandfather, the more she did not like the man.
"It isn't that; he just doesn't approve of newfangled ideas, and I don't want to upset him unduly. And, well, it is rather overwhelming, the idea of leaving these walls. Oh, I do go to church services on occasion, but that is often quite troublesome, what with the need for my chair to be transported with me and strapped atop the carriage. If only they made these chairs to fold." Her aunt chuckled at such an absurd notion.
"Oh – but I would be with you. I'll help every step of the way. I'm sure we could figure out something."
In their week since meeting, Aunt Arielle had grown quite dear to her heart, and Meg wanted to help her find a bit of joy in such a drab existence, however she could. She bit into a roll and pensively chewed, but before she could swallow and further embellish the positive points of the healing spa, the butler drew near her side.
"More wine, mademoiselle?"
Stunned into shock, Meg coughed fitfully and raised her napkin to her mouth. There was the steady splash of wine being poured, and her glass, now full, appeared in her line of vision. She looked up and glared at the servant, whose dancing blue eyes regarded her with kindling amusement.
"What are you doing here?" she softly snapped, ignoring the wine he held toward her. "Have you now joined the staff?"
"Just lending a hand where I am needed, mademoiselle."
She was weary of him directing all the actions in this ridiculous pretense of theirs and expecting her to fall into line like a puppet to the strings of his whim. He was not her master, she was not under his employ, and still feeling the sting of his unexpected rejection, she felt it high time to cease with these foolish games.
"Enough is enough," Meg stated firmly and noticed his brow lift in what she was sure was feigned puzzlement.
"My lady? If you do not wish for more wine, I'll take it away." He set the glass on the table, returning it to the corner of her plate.
"Stop it!" She commanded of him then turned to her aunt, an apology softening her gaze. "You have been so kind, so different than what I expected...and I'm very sorry to say this, but… we've been deceiving you."
"Oh?"
"Yes, and I wish I could adequately convey my remorse. You don't deserve being lied to." Meg turned cold eyes on Raoul, who said not a word, his expression now somber. "This isn't my servant, as we led you to believe. This is the Vicomte de Chagny. His aunt is the Dowager Comtesse I spoke of, Lady de Chagny, who opened her home to me. It was due to her insistence that he accompanied me here."
"I see."
Meg averted her eyes to her plate at her aunt's soft words, barely there, feeling as despicable as scum that rimmed the bottom of a bucket – when suddenly she heard a chuckle – and looked up with surprise at their hostess.
Her aunt's blue eyes were merry and bright as she smiled and hoarsely chuckled again, as if trying to contain her amusement, then gave up the idea and laughed outright. She dabbed at her lashes with her napkin. "Oh, my dear, I suppose I must pose my own confession: I suspected something like this all along."
"You did?" Meg's mouth dropped open in astonishment. "But why didn't you say something immediately! Why did you go along with the ruse?"
"Oh, I was having much too much fun watching you two engage in your delightful performance. I have never had the privilege of visiting a theatre, you see, and this has been the most entertainment I've had for ages."
Unbelievable…they had all been playing a game of make-believe! Meg huffed a little disbelieving breath, but a smile edged her lips and slowly grew. Raoul chuckled.
"My Lady Arielle, however did you guess?" he asked, setting the wine bottle down on the tablecloth.
"Dear boy, as kind as you are to give aid to my servants, you bear the appearance of a nobleman – clean, manicured nails, an upright carriage, the manner in which you deal with a situation and immediately take charge."
His brows lifted and he gave a light, resigned nod. "So, if I had come to your estate bearing ragged, dirty nails and slumped over like a hunchback, it might have worked?"
"What a picture!" Her aunt chuckled again. "Oh, there were other clues as well. Among them was the manner of your speech. It is too well-polished for a commoner."
He lifted his hands in a shrug of surrender. "I concede. An actor I am not."
Meg sniffed. "Most certainly not," she muttered, but if he heard, he ignored her.
"Now that the cat is let out of the bag and we all know that we know, please won't you join us?" Her aunt motioned to the chair on her left.
"Thank you. I would be honored."
Meg concentrated on her plate, idly shoving food around with her fork, never joining in the conversation as her aunt asked the Vicomte questions about himself, and he readily complied. She had not expected Aunt Arielle to order her footman to escort Raoul to the door, but she hadn't thought she would roll out the red carpet to him either. Still, Meg was grateful that Aunt Arielle wasn't hurt by their sham, only entertained, which greatly lifted the burden of guilt she'd been carrying. With so many other problems weighing her down, at least that one had been knocked from her shoulder.
Her aunt rang the bell a second time. A maid came hurrying through the door, stopping in her tracks in astonishment to see what she'd thought a servant seated at the table as a guest.
"Place another setting, Daphne," her aunt ordered, "and tell Caruthers to bring more of the last course."
"Oh – I, um, yes miss." The young maid gave a little nod and dashed out of the room, soon returning with china plate, silverware, and a glass. She stared at the Vicomte as if she'd never seen him, then gingerly set the dinnerware on the table before him. A young man entered the room, bearing a silver platter. Upon seeing Raoul seated at the table, his skin turned pasty before he extended the serving dish heaped with slices of veal for him to take his portion.
"I will return with sides, if you wish." The servant's voice contained a slight tremor that did not escape Meg's notice, and she watched in curiosity.
"Yes, if you would, Caruthers," the Vicomte said solemnly and laid the tongs back onto the platter. Meg suddenly recognized where she'd seen the footman. He'd been the surly gent at the servant's table, seated on the other side of the girl, Emmaline, who'd practically thrown herself at the Vicomte. Caruthers obviously had feelings for the maid, perhaps feelings once shared - and now faced with his new rival, who was clearly no servant, Caruthers appeared nervous. After all, what hope did he have against a handsome and charming young nobleman?
"Meg, dear, are you not feeling well?" her aunt suddenly spoke. "You haven't said a word."
"As a matter of fact," she took the life rope, "I feel a headache coming on. I think I should like to go upstairs and lie down."
"Of course, my dear. I hope you feel better soon."
Meg made her escape, never once glancing at Raoul or entertaining more of the unpalatable fantasy.
x
Once in her bedchamber, Meg attempted to lie down, a pointless gesture when she felt was so alert. She went to the window and stared out at the dusk-cloaked landscape until it became too dark to see, then forced herself to sit by the fire and and read more of the vampyre drama. As shocking as the plot was, Lord Ruthven's exploits were not riveting enough to keep her agitated mind from wandering downstairs and into the dining chamber.
Were they still at supper? Talking? Had he left?
At the sound of muffled voices, she swiftly set the book aside and hurried to the door, placing an ear to the wood. Words were muffled and indistinct, but she recognized the Vicomte's smooth tenor and carefully nudged open the door, putting her eye to the crack.
A maid opened a door directly across the corridor for the Vicomte. She seemed uneasy, avoiding his eyes and taking a step back. "If that will be all, monsieur?"
"Yes, thank you, Daphne."
To Meg's surprise, the maid then turned toward her door. Meg swiftly closed it, setting her brow against the lintel and holding her breath, hoping she'd not been caught.
"Mademoiselle?" came curiously from the other side, followed by a light knock.
Blowing out the trapped breath in resignation and gathering her wits about her, Meg opened the door, noting the Vicomte never strayed from the threshold opposite. By his slight smirk, her eavesdropping had not gone unnocticed.
"This came for you, Miss." The maid handed over a small envelope. A quick glance told Meg it was from her mother, and she withheld a weary sigh, having expected something like this.
"Thank you."
The girl nodded and sent another awkward glance to the Vicomte, then hastened away and back down the stairs.
"You are no longer in the carriage house, I take it," Meg said woodenly.
"I didn't mind staying there, but your aunt would no longer hear of it."
She crossed her arms and softly huffed in disdain. "You should be grateful she didn't rail at you for being deceived."
"You would have liked that, wouldn't you, Meg?" he asked quietly.
She shrugged. "You're the one who started all this."
"And you're the one who ended it."
His words went deeper than the completion of their facade. "Yes, well, it was past time, wasn't it? It should never have begun. I think we both learned a lesson from this - From now on, just please keep your distance, monsieur." She unfolded her arms with a flourish, intending to return to her room.
"You have no need to fear, Meg. I'll not darken your door again."
"No, I never expected you would," she said with a scorn she could not veil. She turned on her heel, but before she could engage in a full retreat and shut the door behind her, his hand grasped her arm and he whirled her around.
"What the devil is wrong with you?" he bit out. "I offer respect and consideration in treating you as a lady, and you act as if I behaved toward you as a loose woman in a brothel! You seem to prefer the idea!"
"Sorry, monsieur, the deal is off the table," she sneered. "Now if you would be so kind to unhand me."
"What I should do is turn you over my knee!"
Her eyes widened in outrage. "You wouldn't!"
"Don't tempt me…" He worked to bury his frustration. "What happened these last few days, Meg? Why are you acting so strangely? What has changed between us?"
"Nothing has changed – always you will be a Vicomte, and always I will be a dancer from the chorus – an ex dancer now!"
"Yes, I know, you blame me for that too! And I have apologized ad infinitum!" He released her, and she should have slipped away then, but a sudden surge of icy anger would not allow her retreat. "Christ, Meg! How long will you bear this grudge against me? I did not force you to run!"
"You chased me – and with your constant harassment, what else could I do but run?"
"Those threats weren't directed to you. I would never have hurt you!"
"But you did! It was partly because of you the theatre was destroyed and I lost my home. Had you never interfered –"
"You would have preferred that I allowed some dark spirit from hell to manage things?" At her clear surprise and inability to come back with a rejoinder, he nodded sourly. "Yes, I've come to accept facts. After what I witnessed in Spain, I would be deceiving myself to state otherwise. I never wanted you to suffer, Meg. I only did what I thought was right at the time, for everyone involved – not just Christine."
"I know," she allowed softly, not wishing to argue, but needing to put up as many walls between them as she could erect. "But it doesn't change facts."
"What facts?"
"Your nobility, of course. We cannot share a relationship, save for what I offered you last night," she felt her cheeks grow frustratingly hot and was sure they'd gone rosy, "and having had second thoughts on the subject, I don't think we should do that either."
He shook his head in bafflement. "Meg, how has it escaped your notice? Your grandfather is Baron d' Legard – That means your family is of noble lineage as well. There is no reason my parents would disapprove of a match –"
"Raoul – stop. Don't say more."
"But why should I keep silent? There's no reason!" His hands moved to gently cup her tense jaw, and he looked down into her eyes beginning to brim with tears. "Why should I not speak what's inside my heart? Believe me, if I could change the past I would. All I can offer is to give you a better future." His eyes promised fantasies that could never be hers. "I know I said it's too early to speak on such things, but I need you to know: Meg, I –"
"No!" She brought her hand up swiftly to cover his mouth and shook her head furiously. "Don't say it – Don't. I, I can't…"
"Why?" his plea came low, and she gasped with how his warm breath made her palm tingle.
"Because…because I don't feel the same." She forced numb lips to speak razor-tipped words that raked through her heart and, quite possibly, his. Forced herself to remain cool and unaffected, though inside she trembled with grief to think of what must be done. "I don't care for you..." She lowered her hand from his mouth. "And once we leave this place, I never want to see you again."
She looked away from the hurt rampant in blue eyes.
"Last night you begged me to take you without the protection of a vow."
"I was only curious. Growing up in the theatre, I've heard about what goes on behind closed doors from other chorus girls who entertained private patrons and I, I wanted to explore, to find out for myself…" She met his gaze, laying another brick in the wall she was building high between them. "But I've changed my mind. I'm no longer interested. As I told you, the offer no longer stands."
"And I told you, I wouldn't take it if it did. Yet, see how you tremble near my grasp. Your eyes express what your lips will not. It is clear you're not so indifferent to me."
Meg swallowed hard, dropping her betraying eyes to the pulse beating madly in his throat.
"Just please go."
"I can't do that, and I don't think you want me to either."
Before she could protest, his hands grabbed her head, his mouth finding hers in a kiss meant to destroy every fabrication she desperately wove against him. His lips moved over her parted ones, harsh yet oddly gentle, proving a point while coaxing her to submission. And for a few mindless moments, she allowed their sweet intrusion, allowed herself to forget, unable to quell her own response - before she planted her fists firmly against his chest and pushed hard.
"No, Raoul," she whispered with a little cry. "Leave me be!"
Whirling about, she ducked into the safety of her bedchamber and shut the door in his face.
Alone at last, but the solitude offered no blessed relief, only oppression, and she leaned her back against the door and bit her knuckle in an attempt to stanch the agonized sobs that crowded into her throat. Sobs he was sure to hear. Sobs which would proclaim her a liar. Hot salty tears stung her eyes and she swept to the bed, sinking to the coverlet and bringing a fold of the satin to her mouth to smother sound, afterward swiping pitifully with it at the wetness that coated her face. It was then she once more became aware of the missive she still held.
Resolutely, she broke open the seal and parted the crumpled envelope, noting a folded paper had been tucked inside. She withdrew it - and into her skirt fell her old pendant with the small gold cross.
She inhaled a startled breath to understand the signal given.
Christine!
xXx
Taking Angelique's little fist in her hand, Christine peppered it with kisses, causing her precious daughter to coo with delight, before she handed the child over to Narilla.
"Don't leave the room," Christine reminded. "If someone should come to the door, don't answer. Armando and Jean-Claude will return soon with a meal." At least her stomach had settled for the time being, the mere mention of food no longer triggering her daily sickness, though she'd only been able to manage toast and weak tea this morning.
"Will you be long, Su Majes -?"
"Narilla," Christine gently chided.
"My lady," Narilla corrected with a conciliatory smile.
"I should return by nightfall."
Christine tugged on her short gloves, leaving her reticule behind. This was no shopping excursion, and she did not wish to carry what would only be an encumbrance. For three days and nights Erik kept his distance, making only a brief appearance in their rooms to ensure all was well, before disappearing into the nighttime shadows again. Gentle pleas into his mind brought no relief of an answer.
He was still angry with her, his actions made that evident, and though he made no mention of where he was going, she was certain of his whereabouts. He was the essence of music, his mistress that took him from her not of supple flesh and slender bone but of beguiling legatos and fiery allegros. Where else would he go but to the establishment that freely offered an abundance of both - notes which never rebelled, only composed that which made him feel intrinsically alive?
"Take me to him," she said to the Capitán, who lingered outside the door of her room, presumably to keep watch.
He made no pretext of misunderstanding her meaning. "Madame, I beg you to reconsider. He would not like it."
"Very well, if you will not drive me there, I'll hire a cab. It's no secret where he's spending his time." She turned back to retrieve her reticule for the coins needed, but Captain Miguel put a staying hand to her arm.
"He will be even more displeased if I let you travel without escort through the city." He studied her stubborn expression and gave a resigned shake of his head. "Si, si - I will take you."
Relieved, she accompanied him to the carriage that stood waiting near the hotel exit and accepted his hand for the step up to settle herself inside. The air was cool and brisk from a recent rain; the sidewalks dimly glistened under a watery sun. The streets were affluent with the usual business that transpired in the early morning hours. Boutique owners swept their stoops and polished picture windows in between customers. A wagon trundled by with the morning delivery of milk for local establishments. Young lads stood on the corners and carried newspapers under their arms, hawking headlines for that day, 'all for only five centimes.'
Her mind took her back to a brutal time, when she desperately sought out lads such as these for any news of the musical Angel who'd stolen her heart with his song, renowned throughout the city as the unmasked demon who destroyed a theatre with his wrath. Then, as now, he distanced himself from her, closing himself off from everyone and everything that mattered when troubles became too difficult to manage and escape into solitude offered the idea of safety. A few hours, even a full day, Christine could understand and support - everyone needed time to themselves on occasion. But this, she could not endure.
There had been far too many separations between them.
Captain Miguel soon pulled the carriage up before the massive edifice of entertainment that she and Erik now secretly managed. She accepted his help and told him to wait an hour but if she didn't come back to return for her later that evening. At his apparent hesitation to follow through with such orders, she smiled with a reassurance she did not feel.
"It will be alright. If I should need to leave sooner, I'll have someone send for you."
"As you wish, my lady."
Taking the steps to the front of the theatre, she nodded to the doorman, who opened the main door for her. He did not ask her reason for being there, and Christine felt grateful she would not have to explain.
She strode through the vast lobby and on into the darkened auditorium, retracing steps she had taken with Erik earlier that week. The muffled sounds of the orchestra increased to a swell of volume as Christine opened the door and slipped inside the cavernous room.
The chorus rehearsed onstage lit by overhead lights and footlights that rimmed its edge. Myriad gas lamps were bracketed along the tall walls, the flames turned down to a steady glow within the frosted globes, but casting enough light for Christine to study the sea of upholstered chairs before her and to the sides of the auditorium. Upon careful perusal, all the rows appeared empty. Her intent gaze lifted to the balconies and the tiers of boxes along the walls, seeking their dim confines, her attention stopping at the nearest box to the stage. Unlike the others, the crimson curtain there was more than halfway closed, and her heart gave a small lurch of gratitude mixed with nervous anticipation that her quest was surely over.
A frisson of amusement made her faintly smile, that she had not guessed immediately, and recalling the floor plan of the old opera house, she found that this theatre followed a similar pattern. Within scant minutes, she located the narrow corridor that led to the upper boxes and walked to its end, where a dark red velvet curtain rimmed in embroidered emerald and gold thread hung closed. She hesitated briefly, to steady her nerves, then softly pulled back the drape and slipped inside the dark interior.
The box was occupied, as she had hoped, his shadowed figure sitting in one of the front chairs. Though he must have seen the brief wash of light from the corridor upon her entrance and heard the rustle of her cloak, he made no movement to acknowledge her, keeping his eyes fixed to the stage that provided the only source of illumination to what she assumed must be Box 5.
Christine walked the short distance and sank to the upholstered chair beside him. Neither spoke as Hamlet's address to the Ghost rang throughout the theater. Not until the conductor brought the music to a close, and the instructor voiced her opinion, did Christine break the uneasy silence.
"I should never have deceived you," she said quietly. "I knew it then, and I'm sorry. I despised every moment of the subterfuge, but I didn't think you would understand my urgent need to visit Madame Giry, and I hoped, Meg too."
His hands tensed where they rested on his knees, the only sign given that he'd heard her. Hamlet's oration resumed, and she continued, raising her voice a fraction so that only he could hear, "I understand your animosity toward anyone who bears the name de Changy, after our difficult association with Raoul, and I respect your decision to keep your distance. But Lady Helena isn't like any of the French nobility I've met. I like her; she's kind." She took a deep breath, forging ahead, "I'm not the simple ballet rat who once was ignorant of all the politics and drama going on behind the scenes at the opera, and had all decisions made for her. And I don't wish to be treated like that again."
When the answering silence threatened to rob her of resolve, Christine gathered courage, knowing he wouldn't like what she was about to say, but he deserved to know the stand she had made.
"I have no intention of making frequent visits to Whiterose, but I do intend to visit if I feel it necessary. From now on, I will first inform you of my plans. While it was lovely having Madame visit two days ago, it was also crowded in the hotel room, and there are things about my present condition that I didn't wish to discuss in front of the children."
The hand on his leg nearest her tightened like a claw. She sighed when he still made no move to look her direction. The music again went silent, as another round of instructions was given onstage.
"I love you, Erik, but this is my choice. I think I've proven these last three years that I can take care of myself, if need be, and am capable of making sound decisions. I hope you will try to understand. And I hope you will come home to us soon. We miss you."
Stubborn silence met the unburdening of her soul, and in dismay Christine rose from the chair and turned to leave. He caught her hand before she could take the first difficult step away from him, and she almost sobbed with relief at his touch. Standing silent, she waited.
"Don't go."
His low words wound like silken cords around her bruised heart, and she gave no resistance when he pulled her slowly back to him until she was resting on his lap. She brought her hand loosely to clasp his shoulder, and met the steady burn of his smoky green eyes.
"It is not that I distrust you," he said quietly, "It is them I do not trust."
"Erik," her hand smoothed into his thick hair, the backs of her fingers then brushing his mismatched cheek, his bristled jaw, needing to touch after so long being denied. "No harm will come to me. Madame Giry and Meg have always been loyal to us and thoroughly support our union. And Lady Helena certainly has no ulterior motives to trap me there and hold me as captive."
The concern in his eyes did not waver. "And the boy? What of him? Certainly he will find his way there if he hasn't already."
After all they had been through together, after more than two years of marriage, still he feared what could never be - that Raoul would find and take her - and her heart gave a twinge at his unnecessary torment.
"He helped us in Spain and left quietly without causing further trouble."
"He gifted you with a fine horse."
She bit back a faint smile at the trace of injured jealousy in his near whine.
"A wedding gift. But if you prefer, if it will make you happy, I will return the mare. I can easily leave it at the stables at Whiterose, along with a note for the Vicomte."
He tilted his head back slightly, the vexed look in his searching eyes telling her he had not missed her casual reference to another visit.
"I still do not like the idea of you going to that place, unaccompanied, and I will not set foot across its accursed threshold."
"The Captain can drive me; he has proven himself a worthy safeguard." She felt his muscles relax, as if in the prelude to surrender. "Please, my love, let's not argue, not when we are at last together and alone," she whispered. "I have missed you so much."
She leaned in to him, offering herself, and to her profound relief, he did not refuse the invitation.
Her lips brushed his, her tongue lightly rimming the inside, and warmth shot through to her toes when he broke free of all dour restraint to angle his head and thrust his tongue into her ready mouth. Fire melded with hearts in an aria of passion. Their kisses grew softly fierce and insistent, hands just as needy, touching, grasping…
Christine broke their coveted connection only to reach out and slide the curtain that fronted the box completely closed then shift her body so that she straddled his lap. Erik, himself, drew away the mask. She replaced the crude leather for the softness of her hands, cradling his dear, twisted face in her gentle hold.
"Might I assume that you have conformed to tradition and this box is now yours?"
A half smile tilted his lips. "Ours."
"Good."
Three nights without him in her bed, feeling no more than an incomplete half, and she was starved for his full presence, to be entirely whole. Her hand went to the hardness that strained to be set free, and she molded her palm to the strong column, stroking him through the fine wool of his trousers.
His moan came out in a low rasp that excited her desire to loose him from such merciless confinement. Eager fingers found pulsing skin and she ran light caresses down shaft to sac with tender attention before wrapping her hand firmly around his desire and stroking him with slow, easy measure.
Swiftly he pushed her cloak to part and pressed urgent kisses to her breasts above the low neckline, one hand cupping a velvet-covered globe, the other held firmly to her spine. His heated touch soon made its way up the side of her leg beneath her skirts, smoothing its caress to her bottom and finding it bare. He pulled back in shock to find her thus unclothed, and his eyes flared with hunger.
"I ache to be inside you, Mon Ange," he said hoarsely. "Take me into your sweet warm body…"
"Yes," she whispered and lifted herself only so that she could sink fully around him as wet, heated want and silkiness embraced thick hardness, as it was meant to be. She gave a little cry as he filled her so deeply, and his hand tightened against her thigh.
"Tell me I've not hurt you," he half pleaded, half insisted, the ability to withdraw nonexistent.
"I am so beyond pain right now," she softly panted, and settling both hands to his shoulders to brace herself, she moved her hips against his in graceful undulations that reassured even as it stoked their hunger to a brighter flame…
As the orchestra resumed in a passionate interlude, with calls of the horn and melodious harp arpeggios which would lead into the Theme of Hamlet's Love, Erik and Christine engaged in their own pas de deux, sighs and moans intertwined in soft notes, as powerful as the music that reverberated beyond the velvet curtain.
xXx
