Unmasqued: An Erotic Novel of The Phantom of The Opera (28 page)

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 Château de Chagny.
“None the worse for wear after your…adventure last night, I see. May I pour you some sherry? 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 Château 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—”

Philippe took her arm, and suddenly Delia was at her other side, grasping her other elbow. Christine’s bare arm brushed against the side of Delia’s bare breast, and the woman turned to smile meaningfully at her.

“You will join us for dinner,” Philippe said, “or I shall find myself very offended. I am certain Christine does not wish to offend me, does she, Delia?”

“Indeed not,” Delia replied. “Although I rather hope she does…so I can
watch.
”

Christine was thus prodded toward an ornate door at one end of the parlor and, taking deep breaths, decided she was better off in the dining room with servants about.

She could force herself through a meal with the
comte
and his half-clothed wife, and their lascivious looks and unsubtle double entendres.

She expected to be led into a dining room as vast as the other chambers in this massive château, but to her surprise, the room was not at all what she had expected. In fact, it hardly looked like any dining room she’d ever seen, or imagined. Instead of chairs lining a long table, illuminated by a crystal chandelier and a multitude of candles, the seating choices appeared to be large cushions and hassocks. There were several of them, perhaps a dozen, of all shapes and sizes. Some of them surrounded a square table set low to the ground, so that one sat on the large pillows in order to reach it. Candles burned in sconces along each of the walls, and a candelabrum was perched on the center of the table. Some odd scent hung in the air; it was nothing that she’d ever smelled before, but it permeated the room in such a way as to be not too cloying, yet impossible to ignore.

Her heart began to beat faster when the doors were closed firmly behind them, and the
comte
paused to look at her with an odd smile that made her heart lob awkwardly to one side.

“Have a seat, my dear. Anywhere you like.”

Christine stepped reluctantly into the room.

The
comtesse
had chosen a generous blue velvet hassock in the shape of a flattened ball. Her breasts jounced as she settled herself next to the table, arranged on one hip and propped on an elbow. As Christine watched, she selected a small purplish fruit from the table and bit into it.

Philippe noticed her interest, and steering her firmly toward another cushion near Delia’s, he said, “That is a fig, my dear. Very soft and velvety on the outside, and moist within. I find them quite delicious…as they remind me of other, more earthy delights.”

She was feeling very warm, and suddenly aware of every one of
her five senses, and what they were experiencing: the sight and texture of the luxurious, low-lit furnishings; the incense that made her want to draw it in more deeply as it pervaded her being; the spread of food over the low table—everything from fruit to wine, cheese, and bread, and even rich pastries and dishes of crème.

Christine’s knees gave out and she sank slowly onto a soft, plush pillow that seemed to embrace her. With her heavy skirts wrapped around her legs, and the malleability of the cushion, it was difficult for her to move and she feared she would be unable to rise out of the deep hassock without assistance.

Philippe, who selected a firm square-shaped cushion between the two women, seemed to understand her predicament, for he sent her a knowing smile. “There, now…is this not cozy? As I said, the sherry helped to relax you, for it was laced with something special…as is our incense as well. Now, I am sure you are hungry. Please, eat. You will need your strength.”

Although Christine’s belly lurched at his comment, sending an uncomfortable queasiness and apprehension barreling through her, she recognized that she was hungry. And that, as disconcerting as his words were, Philippe was right.…She would need her strength.

Because, Christine decided at that very moment, though her mind was a bit dim while she watched Comtesse Delia’s generous breasts lift and sway as she reached for another fig, she was going to escape from the Château de Chagny. She must escape and somehow find Erik. And they would be together again.

Until then, she would have to take care of herself…and she would have to suffer the hints and innuendos…and, please, God, nothing else…from the
comte.

And Raoul.
Mon Dieu
…she did not know how to feel about him. He loved her, she believed that…but he had forced her to come with him to this place. He claimed it was for her protection—perhaps
he truly believed it. He was a kind man, a gentle one; she cared deeply for him.

Or, at least, she
had
cared for him.

If she thought Raoul might have gone along with the
comte
’s plan in the underground house only to allow Erik to escape, and to assuage his brother’s taste for vengeance, that thought had dissolved earlier today when he’d kissed her in her room. He had no intention of letting her go back to Erik.

What if Erik never found her? What if he never came for her?

The pit of her stomach felt deep and empty. No. He would come. Erik would come.…He loved her; nothing would keep him from her.

But until he came, or until she found a way to escape, what would she have to endure?

Her thoughts swirled, her senses heightened; she felt sluggish and aware at the same time. Philippe watched her, his attention heavy and obvious, and Christine felt the upswing of her heartbeat as it jolted through her body.

She forced her attention to the table in front of her and reached for a stem of grapes. They were crisp and juicy, and slid sweetly down her dry throat. The
comte
offered her the plate of figs, and Christine took one of the odd-shaped dark purple fruits, lifting it by its stemlike protrusion. It was indeed soft, soft as velvet, and the skin slightly shriveled. She felt as though she were holding a heavy, yet delicate, organ. A male organ, for though it was the wrong shape, it had the same weight, the same heavy, velvety feel.

The thought startled her, and when she looked up, her face warm, she found Philippe watching her, his dark eyes glittering beneath heavy lids.

“I see you find the same intrigue in these little fruits as I do,” he said, lifting another fig and cupping it in his palm like a small
breast. Christine felt her nipples tighten as he gently rolled it around in his palm, tilting and tipping it, and then lifted it by the stem to bring it to her lips.

Her heart pounding, Christine opened her mouth enough to take a small bite, surprised at how smoothly her teeth cut through the velvety skin. She hadn’t expected it to yield so easily, but it was just as delicate as it seemed.

“Now feed me,” Philippe commanded.

Christine lifted her own fruit to his lips, and could not draw her eyes away from his teeth as they surrounded the fig and then gently bit. She felt as though there were nothing in the room but his mouth and that fruit and the way it crushed between his teeth.