by Colette Gale
He sucked hard and long at her neck, and she gasped as the sensation poured through her body, tingling in her belly and down into her throbbing sex. With one smooth move, Raoul had a nipple in his mouth, and she could hear his labored, rasping breathing as he sucked and sucked, drawing it into a point at the back of his mouth. The incessant tug of pleasure-pain was so unbearable that she cried out, and Raoul lifted his head.
“You’ll marry me, Christine,” he said, his lips full and red, his eyes blazing with determination, his words choppy with emotion. “You’ll marry me…and you’ll forget about that monster. I don’t care…what my brother says. You’ll…marry me.”
He was rocking against her, his breaths coming faster and faster until his eyes rolled back up into their lids and with a soft sob of release, he shuddered against her, bowing his head against her chest, dampening her skin.
When he looked up, his face was wet with tears, and when she tried to roll away, he grasped her wrist, pulling himself up. “Christine,” he said, “tonight, when I return, you leave with me. You are mine. Do you understand?”
Tonight she would be gone, with Erik.
“Raoul,” she began, scrambling for something to say. The gentle boy was gone, completely gone. His fingers around her wrist hurt, enough that she wanted to gasp with it, but she saw that oddness in his eyesand dared not. She dared nothing but agree with him.
“I’ll protect you from him, from all of them,” he said, sitting up next to her, still grasping her wrist. “I’ll make you forget what that monster did to you, and you’ll be with me, Christine.”
Holding her wrist, he pushed his other hand under the bedclothes, far down beneath them to the juncture of her legs. Before she could move, he covered her with his palm, slid his fingers up and into the folds of her sex and began to stroke with long, easy movements.
She was more than ready for it, and the surprise of his sudden movement caught her off guard so that the pleasure consumed. Her world centered there, between her legs, and rose and fell. Christine gave herself up to it, let it go, and focused everything on the sleek rhythm of his hand.
She felt Raoul next to her, heard his raspy breathing and the strange low sobbing in the back of his throat. She knew he was the one touching her, bringing her to the body-wrenching shudder she knew would come.
But it was Erik she thought of. Erik she yearned for.
And Erik she wept for when at last she came, and her body convulsed in relieved tremors beneath the fingers of another man.
Tears leaked from the edges of her eyes as she prayed, prayed that her escape today would go as planned.
When she opened her eyes, after a long moment, it was to see Raoul standing there, his eyes focused on her. “You’ll marry me, Christine. You are one thing my brother will not keep from me.”
He left the room with a silent swish of the door.
TWENTY-TWO
* * *
Two hours after Raoul left her, just after the midday dinner was being served below, Christine heard the shouts of alarm that portended the burning stable.
She was ready, and without hesitation, she left her chamber through the passageway in the closet.
Only moments later, after meeting no one, Christine emerged from the small servant door at the back of the château. The sunlight over the patches of snow was blinding, but the crisp winter air was refreshing and biting, tinged with smoke from the burning stable—but it was the air of freedom.
Though she wasn’t free from the Chagny brothers yet, she was closer to Erik than she’d been for days. She knew he was out there, just beyond the trees past the low stone wall. And over that stone wall and beyond was true freedom with him.
Wrapped in a dark cloak, Christine moved away from the château. A shout in the distance caused her to freeze, her heart filling her throat. But after a moment of gaping around from behind a large oak, she realized it had come from the direction of the stable, on the other side of the château.
A glance up over the top of the house's square tower told her that whoever’d set the fire had done the job well. A tall spiral of dark gray smoke billowed up, and with a small gust of wind came a shower of ash over the peaked château roof and the stronger smell of burning wood.
Hoping none of the horses would be injured in the fire, Christine gave one last look at the cloud of smoke and hurried toward another tree. Madame Giry had warned her to move quickly from tree to tree, ending at the clump of scrubby pines next to the wall. There would be a pile of stones there for her to use to climb over the wall, and Erik would be waiting for her just on the other side.
Erik.
Christine hurried her steps, the cloak flapping about her legs as she dodged toward another tree. Even though it was winter, the branches were thick enough, and the pines close enough, that anyone looking down from the upper windows of the château would be hard-pressed to see her.
There—she saw the trio of pines and, as she darted forward, the pile of rocks. The wall was no higher than her chest; the flat-topped stones that looked as though they might have been left over from the building of the wall or the château would give her enough of a boost to make climbing the wall simple, even in her heavy skirts.
Christine stepped up onto the pile of stones, holding the top of the wall, and swung her foot up and onto the ledge, looking for a sign of Erik. Beyond the wall, trees were scattered over low, rolling fields patched with snow, and in the distance, a line of trees curved around the edge of the estate. Far to the left, along the wall onto which she hoisted herself, were the massive iron gates to the lawn she’d just crossed, and beyond them was the dark curl of smoke from the burning stable.
At first, there was no sign of any life. All was silent and still. But then she saw him, near a cluster of trees.
“Erik,” she said softly, hardly daring to believe he was there, coming toward her on Cesar. His heavy dark coat flapped over the horse's dirty white haunches, his face shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat. He sat tall and strong in the saddle as he and the stallion followed the line of trees, out of sight of the château and its burning stable.
Bringing both of her feet to the other side of the wall, she launched herself over and ran toward him.
“My, what a welcome surprise.” He swept off his hat and Christine staggered back in shock. “But I hope you are not leaving so soon.”
“No!” she cried, and turned to stumble away, but Philippe was too fast for her. He raced up on Cesar and swooped an arm down to snag her around the waist, lifting her to slam her belly onto the saddle in front of him. The wind knocked out of her, Christine gasped for breath as she tried to slip from under his grip.
“A case of mistaken identity, I presume, based on your reaction,” he said, his hand grasping the back of her neck and holding her in place as her stomach jounced painfully against the saddle. “Forgive me for interrupting your plans, but I would not want you leaving the château so soon, my dear.”
She could not squeeze away from under his hand, but with the bit of breath she had left in her, Christine managed to say, “Erik?” She knew something had befallen him. How else would Philippe be riding Cesar?
Philippe had wheeled the white horse back around and Christine was able to lift her head enough to see that they were going toward the gates at the back of the château.
“Your beloved Erik is unable to help you now.”
No.
Christine squeezed her eyes closed, blocking away the gloating in his voice, the satisfaction in his words. Philippe would have no qualms about it, none at all…but, no, no…she wouldn’t believe it. Not yet. Not until she had proof.
They galloped to a halt near the same servant door through which Christine had emerged only moments before. Without loosening his grip on her neck, Philippe slid off Cesar and moved to clamp a stifling hand over her mouth as the other closed around her arm.
She fought and kicked, but he was taller and stronger than she by far, and he easily maneuvered her into the b
uilding. Once inside, he stopped in the narrow back hallway, and still gagging her with his hand and keeping her pulled up tightly against his body, he fumbled around with his other and produced a gleaming knife.
“Now,” he said, breathing heavily, “you’ll not make a sound, or I’ll cut your pretty throat. I’d hate to damage such a lovely songbird, but as with Carlotta, I’ve no qualms about doing so if necessary. Walk this way.”
He released her mouth but held her upper arm with a grip so tight that her fingers tingled, and with the other hand, he held the tip of the knife to her throat. Christine walked as he directed, but when she thought to turn toward the chamber she’d occupied, he steered her in a different direction.
“No, my dear. I have much more comfortable accommodations available for you now where the walls are thick and padded. It is in my private quarters.”
Her stomach pitched and a wave of fear swept over her. He must have seen her wide eyesand panic-stricken look, for he smiled. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know we won’t be disturbed.”
For a moment, Christine thought she would prefer the knife slitting her throat to the certainty of being locked away in the comte's private chambers, but then she remembered Raoul. He, despite the obsessive light in his eyes, at least meant her no harm. He wouldn’t allow his brother to hurt her; he wanted to marry her.
Philippe wouldn’t dare to keep her from him. He wouldn’t dare hurt her. Much. Christine's stomach churned, but she swallowed back the nausea. And, if there was a chance that Erik was still alive, she would find out. She’d endure anything, make it through anything, if there was a chance to see him again.
But when Philippe opened the door to his chamber and thrust her in so hard she stumbled to her knees, Christine felt another wave of panic. She saw things that made her want to take the knife to her throat herself.
A row of ugly-looking whips, neatly arranged on the wall.
Three abnormal pieces of furniture: one in the shape of a Y, one X, and a board slanting from ceiling to floor—each with dangling cuffs.
A tall pole, studded with spikes, and decorated with two cuffs hanging far above her head.
A table with metal and wooden implements in long sleek shapes, pointed lethal ones, and round studded ones.
And a naked young woman chained to the wall, legs spread, mouth stuffed with a large white ball, and bulging eyes.
Christine couldn’t breathe, and the room began to close in on her. She heard a low chuckle, then the clink of metal, and she let herself slide into black.
“I so hate to be the bearer of bad news, my dear brother,” said Philippe as he stood in front of Erik. “But I don’t believe it’s fair to allow you to hold on to lost dreams. You see, the woman you love, the one you’ve risked everything for, has made a most pragmatic choice.”
Erik said nothing; he reacted not at all. Not a hitch of breath, not a flicker of an eyelid. Most of all, he dared not lift his face to meet his brother’s eyes, for fear the man would see the deep hatred there and cut him down right at the moment. He had to prevent that. As long as he lived, there was the hope of escape and finding Christine.
“She’s come to her senses and decided that her fortune would be better served by aligning it with the vicomte instead of the bastard Chagny brother. They ran away to marry early this morning. So, you see…there is really no reason for you to hold out any further hope. You can crawl back into your dark dungeon and wallow there for eternity. Oh! But forgive me…You already are in a dark dungeon, aren’t you?”
He laughed and Erik gritted his teeth, felt them grind dully near the edge of his jaw. His arms were numb from the tight metal around his wrists, attached sturdily to the stone wall above his head. His legs had been treated in the same fashion, manacled near the floor so that he had to alternately stand on his toes to relieve his arms or hang by his wrists to rest his feet. His mask was long gone and the fact that his face was naked only increased his sense of vulnerability.
He’d been this way since late last night, not long after Maude left the small cottage. Perhaps a quarter of an hour after her departure—which gave him the hope that she’d gotten safely back to the château unseen—the door burst open and five burly men stormed in, attacking with fists and feet and clubs.
Even then, Erik would have escaped but for a sixth man waiting outside the window he tumbled through, hands grabbing for his hair, ready with a large stick to slam across his shoulders with a force that sent him driving into the ground. Moments later, in a whirl of blows and kicks, he succumbed to the pain and the world went black.
When he regained consciousness, he found himself here, chained in the damp cold cellar of Château de Chagny. He recognized it immediately; his initials had long ago been carved into the stone, remnants of days spent here when he angered his father or brothers.
A bitter thought, that he’d come so far only to return to this hell.
This was the first he’d seen of Philippe, although he’d been brought food and water—in an effort, he supposed, to keep him strong for the pain that was sure to come.
Erik wasn’t altogether certain how many hours had passed, but from the numbness in his arms and the roaring pain encumbering his body, he knew it had been many. The pain always waited, gathering its forces, after a beating like that.
“What is it, dear brother? Have you nothing to say? No gratitude to me for taking you back in, now that you’ve been left by your true love?” His voice sneered at the last words. “She very much enjoyed her stay here; Christine was quite vocal about it. Ah, yes, we quickly moved to a first-name basis, my dear brother. She spread her legs so quickly, I thought the breeze would put out the candles.” He laughed.
And then Erik heard it. The sound that still had the power to set his stomach to roiling. The light, sharp crack.
“It’s not befitting the son of a comte, even a bastard, to keep his eyes downcast in servitude. Even with a face like yours.”
This time, the whip snapped near his ear and it was all Erik could do to keep from flinching. But he did…With a grim sense of smugness, he didn’t move. That first time, or even the second, third, fourth…even when the bite of the sleek leather cut into his arm, his thigh, his ribs, his good cheek.
“Still stoic as ever, are you, dear brother? Or have you fainted?” There was the barest hint of annoyance in Philippe’s voice; it was betrayed by the harsher, more stinging whipcrack that he laid across Erik’s torso. This time, he couldn’t contain a low groan.
“Ah, bien, still conscious, I see.”
Erik braced himself for another stripe from the leather, but whatever Philippe’s intention, it was interrupted by the arrival of another person.
Awash in the reverberating pain and his own dull confusion, Erik didn’t hear their whispered conversation. When Philippe returned his attention, Erik heard his words with relief. “It is your good fortune that I’m called back to my guests. Sleep well, my brother. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Philippe moved soundlessly away, and Erik hung, miserable and aching, sweat and blood dripping from his skin. He pulled on the chains, with the only result low clinks and clanks and more strain to his muscles.
At last, he gave in to his body and allowed himself to sink into oblivion, for only there would the pain ease.
TWENTY-THREE
* * *
Before Christine opened her eyes again, she remembered where she was. Even in her sluggish state, she knew. Dread made her heart thump sharply as she opened her lids and looked around, afraid of what she would see.
But the goggle-eyed girl had disappeared and she was alone. Unfettered. Sprawled on a large bed she hadn’t noticed before.
And then she realized she wasn’t alone. Someone had awakened her.
“Madame,” she whispered in amazement. “How did you find me:
Madame Giry had a guarded look on her face, and she held a finger to her lips. “Rose told me,” she whispered. “She is one of the few who have acces
s to these quarters. It is a secret that you are here. I brought you this.” She handed her a warm, wet cloth and Christine used it to gratefully wipe her face and hands.
“What of Erik? Philippe said he was dead!” Christine asked as she washed.
Madame shook her head. “He is in the dungeon. The comte has made him his prisoner. He is hurt, but by no means dead.”
Her heart swelled with relief. “Thank God he’s alive! How badly is he hurt?”
“Come, quickly. I will take you to him while the comte is busy with his guests. We haven’t long, and you must be back—”
“Back?” Christine reared away in fear. “No, if I leave here, I won’t come back! Erik and I will leave.”
“I hear he is in chains; no one knows where the key is. No doubt in Philippe’s pocket. Rose has dared to bring me here, and will guide us to the dungeon—but is too frightened to do more to help us. If you do not come back here and pretend you know nothing, you will not have the chance to find the way to free Erik. Do you understand?”
She understood. And…Raoul should return soon. If Philippe was busy with his guests for long enough, there would be no chance for him to come to her.
“Take me to Erik.”
Rose was waiting for them in the hall, her delicate features pinched with worry. Christine recognized her immediately as the girl who’d been hanging on the wall, with the ball in her mouth. It was no wonder she knew Christine’s whereabouts.
They hurried like silent wraiths along the corridors and through servant passageways down four floors to well beneath the ground, where it was damp and dark.
“He is down there,” Rose said, pointing down another flight of stairs that led into darkness. “Now I must go. I am leaving this place, and I will never return.” She disappeared back the way they’d come.
