Unmasqued

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.