by Colette Gale
With one last abrupt shake of her head, Madame shifted away from Christine and moved to a door opposite the one that led to the corridor. She opened it and slipped into what Christine thought was a closet.
But by the time she reached the door, which had closed after Madame, and she figured out how to open it—there was a clever little latch that needed to be moved just so—Madame was gone. The closet was empty, and it was too dark to know how and where she’d disappeared.
Christine closed the door and turned back to her bed, weary, aching, and disconsolate.
And feeling very much alone.
NINETEEN
* * *
Philippe pulled away from the tiny hole and turned to look at his companion. “So our guest has had a guest,” he said. “Do you recognize her?”
“Ah, sí, indeed,” replied La Carlotta in her affected Spanish accent. “It is as you suspected, the ballet mistress Madame Giry.”
“The woman did not think I noticed her earlier this evening, when she was doing her duties in the upper chambers…but it is rare that I forget a face, even when it belongs to a new servant of my household. Although,” he added, mostly to himself, for Carlotta did not need to know much of him, “it seemed that I did not recall my first meeting with Miss Daaé, those years ago at the seashore, for I needed my brother to remind me of it.”
Philippe placed his eye back at the peephole and felt the shuffle next to him as Carlotta did the same, peering through a different opening well concealed among the brocadelike wallpapering near the ceiling.
The ballet mistress, whom he had perhaps laid eyes on once or twice during his visits to the backstage lounges at the Opera House, had disappeared into the closet, where, obviously, she had made use of the hidden passageway. This was after she had had a whispered, inaudible conversation with Christine. It was to Philippe's great annoyance that, not only could he catch only a random phrase here and there, but the elder woman did not do what she had clearly wished to do—or at least, what he wanted her to wish to do—and assist the younger woman in disrobing and slipping into bed.
But now, as he peered owlishly through the largest of the peepholes, he watched in the room lit only by firelight, which gave it an orange glow, as Christine struggled out of her half-laced corset and loose gown. Her beautiful breasts—truly, he’d seen none better in all of his years—tipped and swayed gently as she unrolled her stockings over long, slender legs.
Damn Raoul for a weak-kneed boy. If not for him, for his misplaced sense of chivalry, Philippe would be in that bedchamber, assisting Miss Daaé.
Philippe drew in his breath in a sharp hiss when Christine sat on the edge of the bed, just perfectly across from where his eyehole was, her thighs spread in a most unladylike manner, bathed no doubt by the warmth of the fire. He could see everything he’d imagined—her sex, wide but shadowed in the low light, at last open to his view—her breasts lilting up as though offering themselves to him at his elevated perch.
His mouth dried and even after all he’d had this night, his cock hardened. He was barely aware of the shifting and shuffling of Carlotta next to him, but he felt her breathing change when they saw Christine slip her fingers down between her parted legs. Though it was impossible, he swore he heard the gentle lap as her hand slicked through the wetness there, the shine of which was evident even in the firelight.
One hand played there, in the dark red haven he must have, as the golden orange glow of flames was cast over it; her other fingers nibbled at her breast, stroking a nipple to what had to be an iron-hard point.
Philippe licked his lips, pressed his erection against the wall in front of him. His fingers curled into the wall and he pressed his eye so close to the hole that his socket matched the opening perfectly.
Her head was tipped back, that long dark hair cascading over her milky skin and onto the coverlet, and her lips were parted in a delicious O that made him want to jam his cock into the warmth…Then the fingers between her legs moved faster, and her hips shifted. She collapsed backward onto the bed, her hand working her sex busily, now slipping about so much that he wondered how she could control it.
Christine’s hips moved; her legs jerked and shuddered as her body arched beautifully. Even one of her legs moved, straightening and trembling in the air as she came.
Philippe watched, his mouth hard, his cock harder, his determination ironclad. Neither Philippe nor Carlotta moved until Christine pulled herself from her crumpled position on the bed and slid under the coverlet. Then, when at last she was concealed from their sight, the two watchers turned away from the peephole wall.
“An enjoyable display,” Philippe commented, moving away from the vantage point with a nonchalance that he didn’t feel. His cock was steel beneath his trousers.
“Indeed, although she was quiet about it all. I prefer to hear it.” She turned toward him, and Philippe was startled to see that she held a long red whip in her hand. Carlotta looked at him with an odd smile on her face.
“As do I,” he replied. “In fact, I consider it a requirement that all new members of my household—you included, my dear—be quite voluble in their praise…or pleading.” He opened one of the cabinets in this, his largest playroom.
“Am I now a member of your household?” asked Carlotta, sliding the whip along her palm, watching him judiciously, a smirk over her plump lips.
Philippe considered his choices, then settled upon the cat-o’-five-tails with pearls braided into the tails. It was white, the color of purity and innocence. Perfect for his stand-in for the touch-me-not Miss Daaé.
Aside from that, white showed blood very nicely. Always an added benefit.
Turning back to face her, he replied, “The Opera House is burned, and there will be no performances for the foreseeable future. You may feel free to extend your visit here as long as you wish.”
“It will be my pleasure, comte. I shall take a short holiday while the Opera House is rebuilt, or is moved. They will be mad for La Carlotta's return by then.” Her lips curled in a self-satisfied smile. “Now that Miss Daaé has disappeared again, right from the stage of the Opera House’s last performance, the rumors have begun to fly. She is crazy, they say. She thinks the Opera Ghost is her father come to visit her.”
She stepped toward him, the cherry red whip in a generous arch from one hand to the other. “Of course, it was I who started such rumors, even before the Opera House burned last night. I could not suffer such a rival. If anyone should ask about her disappearance, all will say the girl is crazy and that the Opera Ghost spirited her away.” With a quick snap of her wrists, she dropped the whip around his shoulders and gave a surprisingly hard yank on it.
Philippe jerked toward her, nearly stumbling in his surprise. A shocked, uncontrolled smile sprang to his face at her boldness, but then he regained control of himself and let his own whip fly. He would not allow a woman to have the upper hand.
His pearl white whip curled around Carlotta's waist, making a band over her brilliant green gown, and there they were, face-to-face, body to body, each lightly captured by the other's whip.
“I will make you scream,” he said, bending his face toward her, wanting to bite those full, glistening lips, wanting to squeeze and twist her bountiful breasts, wanting to rip into that red, hot sex that he knew burgeoned beneath her skirts.
“I think that I should prefer to hear your screams, comte.” She tightened the whip, managing in one quick motion to pass both ends into one hand, and to reach for his straining erection with the other. Her hand closed over the generous package beneath his trousers, her fingers tightening in a pleasant…painful…way.
His cock shifted under her touch, and Philippe felt his muscles tense all over. “No, I think…not,” he managed, keeping his breath steady. No one had dared…ever…but his cock tightened, hardened, so that he imagined it was past purple and near to bursting. Pain laced with pounding lust throbbed there beneath her palm.
"Oh…yes, you would like it, I think,” she said, sq
ueezing again, looking at him with a knowing, arrogant smile. “I will make you beg like I did my other men.”
He reached toward her, shoving one of his hands down her low bodice, easily finding a thrusting nipple. With a nasty pinch that caused her face to blanch and her eyelids to flutter, he twisted.
She gasped and released his cock, twisting away, freeing the tail of her whip so that it slithered into place alongside of her gown, but he came after her.
He no longer had the whip in his hand; he didn’t need it for now. Philippe clamped his fingers over Carlotta's upper arms, feeling the slip of her flesh as he dug in toward bone. His vision was edged with red, his breathing so hard that it gusted noisily between them. “Oh, no, Carlotta. It is you who will scream.”
With a great shove, he sent her flying across the room. She stumbled, tripping over one of the stools, but caught herself at the edge of a sofa. She looked up at him, the crafty look gone from her eyes, shock blazoning there instead.
“Of course, if you insist, I shall scream for you.” She tipped her head, a glint of suggestion coloring her gaze. “It is—”
But she never finished whatever it was she was about to say, for Philippe grasped the front of her bodice and jerked her toward him so hard the fabric roses on the bodice corsage separated from its short attached jacket. His hand whipped out and cut across her cheek with a satisfying slap.
Carlotta staggered back, then straightened, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth, looking at him with wide eyes. She had dropped the whip in a red snake at her feet. “I didn’t mean to offend ye, comte," she said, her Spanish accent evaporating, and a tremulous smile on her face. She reached up and tugged away the rest of her torn bodice, exposing a low-cut corset fairly bursting with breasts. “I was just pretending. If you've a mind to be the one in command, then I am happy to oblige.”
Philippe stepped toward her, his hand snaking out to close over her throat. “Foolish bitch. I am always the one in command. Now take off your clothes.”
He bent to pick up the red whip at her feet and, when she didn’t immediately respond to his command, flicked his wrist and snapped the leather toward her. As it cut into her arm, she cried out, whirling away toward the door that led to the hallway.
She would have opened it, but Philippe grabbed her before her fingers closed over the knob, his grip slipping a little in the blood from the whip cut. With a curt movement, he propelled her away from the door, shoving her toward a narrow bedlike structure with four tall posts.
Carlotta sprawled backward as he’d intended, her knees buckling beneath twisting, sagging skirts. Philippe moved quickly to stand between her legs, pushing her back down onto the bed with a strong hand over her windpipe. She choked and coughed under the pressure, but he held steady as he captured one of her flailing hands. The little cuffs at each bedpost were specially designed to be fastened quickly and easily with one hand…and Philippe heard the satisfying click of one restraint before Carlotta realized what had happened.
But then she began to struggle anew. She kicked and her hips bucked; her gown was full enough that she could swing her legs freely despite the fact that he stood against her skirt. Philippe had not made a sound but for the reflexive grunts and sighs of exertion as he subdued her.
He fitted her second wrist into the cuff with a bit more difficulty, and her legs were becoming bothersome, but they would soon be taken care of.
Philippe had had two beds created especially for matters such as this; one he had here, in this room he used to spy on whoever happened to be in the chamber Christine now occupied, and the other was in his private chambers, which also held many other furnishings and accoutrements for his pleasure. The bed’s shape was that of an inverted Y with the juncture of the V-shaped angles perfectly positioned to accommodate spread legs. Thus, Carlotta lay on the straight part of the bed, her wrists fastened just above her head…but her legs spread, and the opening of the vee was ideal for him to stand in so that he could mount her there.
He subdued one of her kicking feet and restrained the ankle on one narrow “leg” of the Y. That left one limb free, and she frantically fought with that one appendage as if it would help her escape.
His initial anger having subsided, Philippe stepped away to admire his handiwork.
Carlotta’s walnut-colored hair, which wasn’t nearly as thick and long and beautiful as Christine's—but would do for tonight—had sagged to one side during their altercation. It was plastered to the perspiration along her throat and over her shoulders, caught in the little rolls of flesh at the side of her neck. Her breasts had slipped free from the corset and burbled up awkwardly and unattractively over the scalloped edge. The green dress was torn and off-center. Parts of it were hanging by stretched threads, so Philippe decided it was time to put it out of its misery.
But first…he easily grasped her flailing leg and firmly slipped the last little cuff over it. Carlotta was subdued, the heavy cloth of her gown and underskirts falling in a neat swing between her spread legs. Still she struggled, tried to kick, rolling her head from side to side.
“Let me go,” she cried in a ragged voice, straining, tears rolling from her eyes. “How dare you!”
“I dare.” He was in no rush at all. Philippe stepped toward her and began to deliberately tear the gown from her person. The fashions of these times were rather convenient in such situations, for the gowns were made of several pieces of fabric sewn together almost like a puzzle. It was a matter of three jerks of his wrist, and Carlotta was wearing nothing but her stockings and chemise.
Her breasts quivered under the fine lawn garment; her hips shifted and startled as he came to stand between her legs. “What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice raspy, her eyeswide.
But before he could reply, a knock sounded at one of the doors—the one that led to the main corridor and not to any of Philippe’s other pleasure chambers, as he liked to call them.
He hesitated, and the knock came again, more stridently. “My lord?” called a voice.
It was François, likely bearing the good news he awaited. Philippe cast a last look at Carlotta, then turned to the door. The confirmation that his orders had been carried out would only serve to heighten his enjoyment.
But when Philippe opened the door and François came in, he knew immediately that the news was not what he’d anticipated.
“What is it?” he demanded. “Is he dead?”
François, a burly man with quick fists, stood near the door but met his eyes squarely. To his credit, he did not even glance toward the trussed-up, spread-eagled Carlotta, who obviously was either too frightened or too intelligent to beg for help. “No, my lord comte, he ain’t. We followed the orders you gave us, even followed the trail from his underground hideaway, but the bastard got away. We never even saw him.”
“You do not know where he is? You have not even seen him?”
“No, my lord.”
“Find him. I do not want to see you until he is found!” Philippe turned from his man, his fingers shaking with rage. He had sent three carefully selected members of the mob after Erik last night, intending to have them put an end to the man once Christine believed he’d escaped…but somehow he’d eluded them.
And now Erik, the half brother of the Chagnys, was loose upon the world, out from the darkness, and bent on revenge.
Philippe turned toward Carlotta. The expression on his face must have spoken for itself, for when she saw him, she began to cry and struggle anew.
TWENTY
* * *
It was well past sunset on the second day since Erik had lost Christine, but the rising of the full moon had given him plenty of light to ride from Paris, where the Opera House still smoldered and stewed in its remains, to the estate where he’d been raised.
As he approached the edge of the vast Chagny holdings, Erik watched the southwestern horizon closely. In the distance, he saw two riders leaving the estate, and quickly directed Cesar toward a clump of trees tha
t edged a thicker forest. He couldn’t be certain the riders were looking for him, but they were coming from the direction of Philippe’s home, and it was an odd time for anyone to be out.
If they weren’t looking for him now, they would be soon.
Cesar had been traveling for several hours with Erik on his back, but he still responded to the urgent press of his master’s knees and kicked up his speed to a low canter. It was too dangerous for a full-out gallop through an unfamiliar wood, but Erik knew he must put as much distance as he could between himself and the possible pursuers, while circling around to the village of Chagny.
He was to meet Maude Giry at midnight behind the stable at Le Vache Dormante, the only inn located in the small town spread beneath the château’s bump of a hill.
Upon reaching their meeting place, Erik positioned himself and Cesar behind a cluster of trees near enough that he could watch the stable and see who came and went. He was cold, and hungry—he’d eaten nothing but a stale hunk of bread since leaving his little house two nights ago.
The orb of the moon cast a full, bluish glow over the fields. After a long while, Erik saw the erect figure in a dark cloak walking quickly toward him. He recognized her right away despite the heavy coverings. Thank God she’d come.
When Maude came near enough to the stable, Erik tossed a rock from his hiding place so that it landed near her. When she looked over, he peered around the edge of the brush to signal her.
“This way,” she said, and walked past him as if she’d not seen his gesture. Erik followed and she led him away from the inn and its stable, down a little hill, and to a small structure. “We’ll be safe here,’’ she said, opening the door as he approached, and gesturing him inside.
The little hut was hidden from the main road, and looked as though it had not been used for some time.
“One of the girls at the château told me her brother left his house when he went to join a merchant ship. At least you’ll be out of the cold here and not be seen,” Maude told him, pulling Cesar in with them. “He will have to stay in here with you for a bit, for that white coat will be seen anywhere.”
