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 eyes and 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 chateau 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 Chateau 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.
Chapter 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 access 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.