Unmasqued

as he replied to her taunt.

'That is only when I have become bored with them.' He lifted a brow as she turned back, wielding the stick. 'My, how enterprising.' He gave a little laugh. 'But do not worry yourself. I do not expect to become bored with you for quite some time, Miss Daae. It has been quite the chase, and I mean to make the most of it now that it has ended. And then there is, of course, the comtesse, my wife. She found you most enticing during our lovely dinner the other night. Unfortunately, she is off to visit her sister for a bit, so she won't be able to sample your charms until she returns, but I do know that she intends to. Did you perhaps think she might be of assistance in helping you run away? No? Surely the thought crossed your mind, Christine.' He stepped to one side, his eyes never leaving her. 'You must be frantically considering all possibility of escape.'

He looked at her again. 'And perhaps you had hoped your dear friend the ballet mistress might help you. Well, ma chere, she has helped you enough. I have been spying on her visits to your chamber since her first, and it was she who unwittingly led me to your lover Erik.'

Christine braced herself, holding the dowel in front of her like a clumsy sword. The closest she'd ever come to wielding a weapon was when she and Franco had played at sword fighting one day whilst he was putting away the props from Don Carlos.

Philippe turned and she saw that he had a whip in his hand. It lashed out and she ducked away, but the snap of leather did not cut into her skin. Instead, it easily wrapped around the edge of her own weapon and with a flick of his wrist, Philippe jerked it out of her fingers. Then he threw the whip behind him and advanced another step toward her.

'Let us keep this to what they call hand-to-hand combat, ma chere,' he said with an easy smile. 'I want to feel you fighting me with your nails and teeth… I want our bodies to roll together on the floor, or the bed, or wherever, as you kick and struggle beneath me, your heart pounding, your lungs screaming as they heave.'

He lunged and snatched at her arm, his fingers closing over the silky fabric of her sleeve. Christine shrieked and jerked away, and the sleeve tore from her gown.

She whirled and bumped into the wall, and felt him coming after her again, easy and calm as if he were indulging a playful toddler. The wall was behind her, and to her left the corner of the room where she would be trapped-and to her right, a narrow space through which she might pass.

Philippe was grinning wider now, and he canted to one side, giving her an even larger space through which she might slip past. 'Come now, Christine. I had expected more from you than to see you cowering in the corner. Why, you are making this no fun at all. Erik would be quite disappointed in your lack of ferocity. After all, you are the only thing standing between him and a very unpleasant trial and execution.'

She ducked and dashed toward freedom, staying as close to the wall as possible, but his arm reached out when she'd nearly gotten past. He grabbed her wrist and used her momentum to jerk her toward him, pulling her off-balance so that she fell into his person.

He grabbed her other wrist and pulled her arms straight down, bringing her body flush with his. Christine knew he wanted her to struggle, that her helplessness aroused him, but she couldn't stop herself. She tried to kick out under her heavy skirts, but succeeded only in driving her foot between his wide-legged stance and falling toward his body even more.

His greedy smile filled her line of vision as he swooped down, pulling her closer by her arms, and seeking her lips with his. Twisting her face away, Christine struggled to pull free even as his mouth slid across her jaw and cheek. Hot, moist breath blasted her skin as he mauled her face, nipping at her tender earlobe, then sliding across her jaw as he forced her backward with the brunt of his mouth until he at last covered her lips with his.

She tried to bite him, tried to kick out, but he crushed his mouth harder against hers, laughing into her as her foot swung clumsily, harmlessly between his legs. She tasted blood, felt the invasion of his slick tongue and the sharpness of his teeth at the edge of her lips as she tried to twist away.

Tears streamed from the outer edges of her eyes, and her arms and wrists had gone numb from his relentless grip. She jerked at the hips, slamming into the bulging arousal that was horrifyingly evident even beneath the many layers of clothing between them, and felt his groan of pleasure when she did. At last she pulled free from the kiss, turning her face away, and felt the scrape of teeth and the slickness of his lips and tongue over her cheek.

Suddenly, the grip on her arms loosened, and she was falling backward, tumbling to the floor. She landed sharply on an elbow and a hip, her hand slapping so hard on the wood that her fingers tingled. Tangled in a mass of skirts, Christine rolled frantically to one side, watching the shiny black boots as they stood, planted wide, just out of her reach, and she tried to scramble to her feet. Her gown was not made for fighting or running, or any sort of quick movement, and she tripped again as her foot caught in its hem.

'You seem to be having quite a bit of trouble with your gown, Christine,' Philippe said. His voice was still easy, but she heard the deeper gust of his breath. When she dared to glance up, she saw that his lips were full and moist and red, and that his blue irises had shrunk as his pupils swelled. 'Perhaps I can help you with it.'

He dived toward her, and she felt the tug on her skirts, and then heard the tear as he yanked the fistful of fabric away. The front two pieces of her gown came loose, and the lace and tulle from her crinolines tore in a long, white froth. She felt the weight lifted from her legs, now nearly bare, covered only in stockings and a light lawn chemise, and when she twisted away, the fabric tore even more.

Christine rolled on the floor, her skirts pulled from her bodice, her feet able to move more freely. Using the cabinet next to her, the one with the long, slender, pointed objects of ivory, to pull herself up, she turned and saw, not Philippe lunging at her again as she'd expected, but him standing there, watching her, a large frothy mess hanging from his fist.

The door was just to his right. He hadn't locked it. If she could just slip past him… Christine looked in the opposite direction and saw a large, studded club, leaning against a chair leg. She pretended to stumble, throwing herself toward the club, and she managed to grab it before she fell.

Hearing him behind her, she pushed to her feet, clutching the nasty weapon, and swung blindly as he lunged toward her. Amazingly, it connected with flesh-she didn't see where, for she was already turning toward the door. Without looking back, she darted toward freedom.

Carlotta crept along the narrow, jagged hallway at the back of the chateau-the passage that connected to the lowliest of the servant quarters. The lowliest of the servant quarters, where she, La Carlotta, had been banned for two days, barely conscious and hardly able to move. No one had dared nurse her other than to bring her clear broth and tea, and a bare crust of bread, so she had no use for any of them.

Her legs were still weak, her arms bruised and aching, one wrist screaming with pain, and her throat… she dared not think about it, dared not let herself think that she'd never sing again. Instead of the terror of having no voice, having had it squeezed from her by the violent hands of the Comte de Chagny, she made herself focus on the anger, the terrific, blinding, galvanizing anger she felt for the man who'd dare use her so. How foolish she had been to accept his invitation to the chateau after the Opera House had burned!

But there would be time to grieve and mourn later. Now she would have her revenge.

There'd been enough whisperings among the servants for her to guess what had occurred. Despite the comte's claims of secrecy, there were certain things that did not go unnoticed or unseen. Perhaps his pathetic brother might have believed that the comte had allowed Christine Daae to escape, but Carlotta was not so stupid. After all, she had been there, watching him as he watched the girl through the small hole in her room. She'd seen the crazed light of obsession and salaciousness in his eyes.

The comte had been careful not to let the servants know where he kept the keys to the dungeon, but Carlotta knew. She'd seen him put them in a small cupboard in the room in which he'd tortured her after they'd spied on Christine. He thought she was unconscious when he hid the keys beneath one of the lewd paintings on the wall, but she'd been watching him through slitted eyes.

Yes, he'd hurt her, but she'd had worse at the hands of her father, growing up in the dirty streets of London. She'd learned how to feign unconsciousness, and how to bury her screams deep inside so he'd stop hurting her.

No one would have thought to look in that room, anyway, for it was not the chamber the comte usually used for his sexual activities. The room from which he and Carlotta had