Unmasqued

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 eyes wide.

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 Francois, 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 Francois came in, he knew immediately that the news was not what he'd anticipated.

"What is it?" he demanded. "Is he dead?"

Francois, 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.

Chapter 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.