Unmasqued

'But Philippe-'

'My brother knows that,' he said, grasping her shoulders more firmly. Now he was looking down at her in the dimly lit corridor. 'He knows you are mine. Only mine.'

Christine sagged back against the wall, held upright by his grip, as he bent to kiss and suck along her throat. Warm prickles skittered over her skin, and the tension of pleasure and need balled up in her belly, tightening again.

'He… he wants…' She could barely form the words during the sensual movement of his lips along her tender skin; any touch, any slip-slide, any gentle squeeze, brought back all of the tension, the built-up lust, she'd kept under control, tried to ignore, through the evening… but it burned to be loosened.

Her sex pulsed with every step she'd taken up the many stairs and along the hall, and now burgeoned between her legs. Her breasts, nipples taut and free again, jostled against the boning of her corset, aching in permanent arousal. Her fingers trembled as she pressed them into the wall behind her as Raoul sipped along her throat.

'He wants you…' Raoul murmured against her skin. 'Of course… who would not, Christine?' His mouth formed the syllables as his teeth closed over the edge of her neck. 'Who… would… not?'

Just when she would have allowed her knees to sag, he moved back and looked down at her. 'He will not force himself on you, Christine. And I do not wish to share you… in that way. You have nothing to fear. I will keep you safe. Always.' He kissed her full on the mouth, no tongue, just a gentle buss of lips that-had it come from Erik-would have brought tears to her eyes. But from Raoul… it was just a reminder that her response was as superficial and automatic as the contraction of her heart, the blink of her eyes. 'Always, I will keep you safe.'

Christine slipped away from him, her hand on the doorknob. 'Good night, Raoul,' she said, her voice trembling. For how could he say such things after what had happened tonight… and last night, when they were in Erik's lair?

She wanted to believe him, but she could not trust him.

'Good night, Christine.'

He didn't follow her and she closed the door quickly.

Pressing her palms against it, Christine bent her forehead to the solid oak door and let her lids close in relief. Her knees shook; her belly felt tight and empty. Tears burned the corner of her eyes.

What was to become of her? How could she stay here, even one more day?

Raoul's promise that his brother would not force her held little weight; she saw the look in Philippe's eyes and knew it would be only a matter of time before he got what he wanted.

And the light in Raoul's eyes… the glinting, sparkling odd one that appeared whenever he looked at her, whenever he spoke of his love for her… it was nearly as frightening as the cold, calculating one in his brothers. It frightened her in a different way.

Christine pushed herself away from the door; her body was so weary, taut and tight as though strung from the ceiling to the floor.

When she turned into the chamber, lit only by the coal fire in the grate, she realized with a start and a drop in the pit of her stomach that she wasn't alone. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover the gasp, and she saw that the figure wore a gown, and not trousers.

'Madame Giry?' Christine whispered in disbelief, recognizing the woman's profile.

Madame moved from the shadowy corner of the room and into the orange glow from the grate. 'Be silent,' she said, her words barely audible.

'But what… how…?' She let herself be tugged by two hands toward the bed.

Madame Giry sat, and pulled Christine next to her. 'You must be silent. They do not know I am here,' she whispered into her ear. Her voice was low and her breath warm, the brush of her lips moving against Christine's skin. 'The Opera House has been greatly damaged by the fire; the officials are looking for the arsonist. They believe it is Erik.'

'No,' Christine told her. 'No, it was the comte.'

'So I thought.'

'But how are you here, in the chateau?' Christine asked, her voice rising enough that Madame shushed her, pressing three fingers to her lips.

'Erik sent word that the vicomte had taken you.'

'Erik? Have you seen him? Oh, mon Dieu . .' She began to sob silently, her face suddenly burrowed into Madame's bosom. 'Mon Dieu, I had to leave him… I… had… to…'

'I have not seen him myself,' replied the older woman gruffly, her hands smoothing along the sides of Christine's face. 'He came looking for me, but I did not see him. He left word that I should meet him nearby. What has happened? Tell me all and stop your weeping.'

Christine clutched at the ruffled silk of Madame's bodice, which, instead of covering her bosom, inexplicably left a large expanse of skin exposed. She sniffled and composed herself enough that her voice, rusty and rough, at least came out audibly as she explained what had occurred since Erik snatched her from the Opera House stage the night before. Mon Dieu, only one night ago!

'Raoul claims he loves me, but this is not love.' She began to sob again, scraping her hand across her nose and eyes. 'He will keep me here. And-and the c-comte …'

'Yes, I know of the comte. He is a nasty one.' There was relish in her voice that Christine could not understand; but somehow, with Madame present, she felt as if things were no longer so hopeless.

'How did you come to be here in this house?' Christine asked again.

'The third upstairs maid was once in the ballet corps,' Madame told her quietly. 'Pansy, but she goes by 'Rose' now. She injured her leg almost two years ago and could no longer dance, and the comte's housekeeper offered her a place here. I came here on the pretense of visiting her, and seeking employment. She writes to me of the happenings here, and I have given the news to Erik over the years.'

'But surely they do not believe that Madame Giry, the famed ballet mistress, would seek household employment!'

Madame's soft laugh brushed her ear. 'No, indeed, they would not… if they knew that I was the dance mistress of the Opera House. No, Rose has merely said I am an old friend of her mother's who is in need of a position. How should they know otherwise? None of the staff here has ever seen me at the theater; even the comte himself would not notice me when he comes backstage, for I am no longer one of the young, beautiful dancers who would capture his attention. And as a low-level member of his staff, I can assure you, he would pay me no attention at all. Thus, my position here is quite secret. But on to more important matters, Christine. Surely you know by now that Erik is the comte's brother, which was what I was sworn not to tell you before. But now you know.'

Christine nodded, smelling lily perfume as her nose bumped Madame's throat. Her tears had dried. 'Yes, they are brothers. How can that be?'

'The old comte, of course, had the same wandering lust that his sons do- oui, even Raoul, Christine, for all of his naive ways, he cannot resist a beautiful woman and expects to have what he wishes-and he got my cousin Amelie, who was working here on the estate, with child. Thus was born Erik, with all of his imperfections.'

'So he was born with his face like that?' Christine asked.

'He was. The moment the comte laid eyes on the poor babe, with his horribly twisted cheek and sagging eye, he vowed never to look on him, never to recognize him. But shortly before Amelie died, he changed his mind and found a use for him. There are times I wonder whether it was heartbreak for her son and his future that caused her death.'

'Was he raised here, then? At the chateau?' These were things Christine could perhaps have asked Erik… but he seemed so reluctant to answer her questions about the past. And talking about him now made her feel as if she was doing something for him, even if she was only assuaging her curiosity.

'Yes, after Amelie died, and not as a brother, you understand. Erik knew he was the old comte's son, but Philippe did not until later. They were of an age, you see, born within a