Unmasqued: An Erotic Novel of The Phantom of The Opera (38 page)

He didn’t wait for Philippe; there was no mercy in his face. The black whip snaked out, just as his brother turned, holding a smaller
one with several tails, and cracked into Philippe’s arm. He howled in pain, but did not release his weapon…but before he could raise his arm to strike, Erik brought his own whip around and caught him on the other side, the other arm.

He’d said nothing during this entire time, and Christine saw the way his fingers trembled; his knees staggered when he moved. Sweat and blood mingled over his body, glistening on his dark skin where the shirt had been torn away. He breathed with effort, nearly gasping at times, but he didn’t waver. He didn’t miss.

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,
no
!” 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 Château 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.”

E
rik 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 to 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 château, 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 château, 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.

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.