The Song Remembers When

          She was bleeding.

          It was all Raoul could thing of as he cradled Christine Daae� against him as they rode out of Paris.  Only a few moments earlier she had been stiff with indignation, brave enough to want to face the accusations flung at them by CarlottaGiudicelli.  Now she lay motionless, her dress streaked with blood.  She groaned a little.  �We did it?  They are not following us?�

          �Don�t talk.  Save your strength.�

          She winced as he held her close, and then her eyes closed. 

          �Hold on,� he whispered.

          And he knew he was talking to them both.

          His white gelding ate up the miles and Raoul managed to get Christine into the house before she regained consciousness.  He was just carrying her up to his room, when his brother�s voice cut him off.

          �What have you done now, boy?  Is it kidnapping that you mean to do?�

          �This is . . . Christine.  I had to bring her back here.  Don�t worry Philippe; we won�t be here any longer than we have to.�

          Raoul�s face was grim as he place her on his bed and slid his knife along her sleeve.  Suddenly, his boyish, aristocratic features had vanished and he now looked on the world with a man�s eyes.

          Philippe muttered darkly, but he went off in search of gauze and hot water.  Not willing to endure his wife�s hysterics, Philippe decided to play maid instead of the servants.

          Raoul went to work on Christine�s chemise.  The soft fabric slid away easily under the blade of his knife.  He bit back an oath when he pulled away the fabric and saw her side covered with blood where a ball had burned between two ribs.  Fortunately, the ball had excited cleanly, and the bones were untouched, as far as he could tell.  Raoul let out the breath that he didn�t even realize that he had been holding.  Then he saw the fragment of cloth lodged against one rib.  The cloth would have to go or she would never heal.

          Raoul prayed that she would stay under a little while longer.  He was rolling back his cuffs when Philippe padded in, armed with a pan of steaming water and a pile of white, folded cloth.

          �Do you want me to look at her, Raoul?  I�ve seen wounds like that before.�

          Raoul slid Christine�s dress close, trying to ignore the white, smooth curves.  �I�ll do it,� he replied hoarsely.

          Philippe studied him a moment longer, then shrugged.  �As you say.�

          �We�ll need some wine, Philippe.�

          �Right here.  Gauze and water too.�

          Raoul�s jaw hardened as he poured a large amount from the bottle placed next to the bed.

          �She�s still unconscious!  The woman cannot drink, Raoul.  Not in that state.�

          �The wine is for me,� Raoul said grimly.

          A flicker of humor crossed his brother�s eyes.  �Is it now?  I never thought that I�d live to see the day.�

          �Well, now you have.�  Raoul took a long drink, and then set the glass down on a mahogany chest beside the bed.  �You can leave us now.�

          Twenty minutes later, it was done.  The cloth fragment was gone, the wound clean, and Christine was wrapped side to side in soft linen.  And Raoul was shaking.  Shaking as he had never been in the torture chamber, not even when the Punjab lasso had been around his neck.  Christine was a danger to herself.  She didn�t know the meaning of fear, nor did she possess a scrap of common sense.  And the bloody awful part of it was that he loved her for it.

          Sighing, Raoul slid a cover over his patient and turned to build up the fire laid against the day�s unseasonable cold.  Staring at the dancing flames, he thought about duty and innocence.  He thought about all that he had been and all that he had become.  And then he thought about the dark haired woman in his bed who was his whole world.

          They would have to leave, he knew, just as soon as it was safe for Christine to travel.  The events at the Opera House would eventually become common gossip and so, for her sake, as well as that of his family, Raoul knew it would be better if they were far away, as soon as possible.

          Few knew or remembered that his mother had been English, and in his minds eyes he once again saw the lavender filled fields of the estate she had left him.  There, Christine could recover safely, and perhaps the both of them could build the life they had once dreamed of.

          Raoul�s eyes hardened.  Erik . . . by now his men would have him safely tucked away.  Turning to look at Christine, Raoul knew that in her heart of hearts, she would fret over her benefactor.  And in a sense, her Angel of Music had brought them together.  And a debt of honor had to be paid, regardless of the cost.

          He was running again, running through the cold corridor of memories, when the rustle of bed linens woke him.  Lurching to his feet, Raoul stared out at shadows and the dying glint of embers in the grate.  No mob.  No shrieking voices.  No rope around his neck.  Only in his mind.  His hands shook slightly as he moved toward the bed.  Christine�s face was covered with fine beads of sweat and she was talking softly.  He smoothed a curl off her face.  �It�s all right, Christine.  You�re going to be all right.�  He didn�t realize she had heard him until she moved restlessly.  Her eyes opened.  She blinked and studied him groggily.  �Hurts . . .�

          Raoul knew that she was delirious then.  The stubborn woman would never have admitted such a thing if she were entirely awake.  �I�m sure that it does.  Move over a bit, the sheets are tangled.�

          Carefully, Raoul pulled her against his chest and tugged a wad of linen from beneath her rib.  As he did, her chemise pooled open over his fingers.  Her breast lay wedged against his arm.  Desire slammed against him.  Gritting his teeth, he slid away from her, calling himself a thousand kinds of a fool.  But it didn�t help.  He might cover the silken curve, but he could not hide it.  The sight was engraved in his memory.  �Where is he?�

          �He�s fine, Christine.  Erik is safe.�

          Christine seemed to shiver.  She reached out and caught Raoul�s hand.  �Cold � it�s always so cold � down there.  Must not . . .�   Raoul pushed her gently back down.  �Erik won�t be harmed.  Rest now.  Go back to sleep.�

          Dreams faded.

          Night slid back over the green hills and the neat rows of roses and angelica and honeysuckle.  Christine tossed about, and then opened her eyes to the first slanting rays of dawn.  And gasped.

          Curtains of emerald silk moir� ran before a solid back of mullioned windows.  The bed coverings were gold satin bordered in green.  Every wall was lined with prints, elegant and detailed scenes of fighting ships in high seas.  Then Christine saw the man standing at the window, one hand on the sill, the other clenched at his thigh.

          As the dawn sun fell pale through the window, she felt as if she were seeing Raoul for the first time.  Saw the chiseled jaw, the slashing cheekbones above a mouth too full for peace or comfort.  And he was beautiful.  Just as everyone had always said about him.  A beauty she had never seen in her childhood friend.  Until now . . .

          His white shirt was open, revealing his chest dusted with golden hair.  Not a hint of disfigurement was to be seen anywhere.  Christine moved slightly and pain tore at her ribs.  The pain made her remember the rest, how she had been shot as they had fled the Paris Opera House.  After that, he must have brought her to his family�s estate.  Her cheeks filled with color as she ran her hand beneath the blankets.  Only linen gauze covered her aching side.  Her dress was gone, and her chemise little more than fragments.  Dear God, had he �

          Raoul turned at her gasp.  Light fell over his proud features.  �You�re awake.�  She couldn�t answer.  She couldn�t do anything but stare.  �Are you hungry?�  She shook her head stiffly.  �Thirsty?�  She shook her head again.  Raoul�s brows began to knit.  �Is it the fever returning?�  Christine�s hands tightened on the white sheets.  �You � took off my clothes?�

          Raoul�s face settled into a lazy smile.  �Only your dress.  Besides, I saved your life.  Is that all you have to say to me?�  Her breath caught.  �Oh.�  Questions rushed to her lips, but she couldn�t bear asking them.  �I see.  I must be a great deal of trouble to you.�

          �Not at all,� Raoul answered gruffly.  He strode to the bed and without a word began to draw the covers away.  They snagged on Christine�s fingers.  �What are you doing?�

          �Looking at your side.  It�s nearly time for those dressings to be changed.�  Her fingers locked tightly over the white fabric.  �Right now?�

          �Right now.�

          �But surely, that is . . . couldn�t you wait?  Just this once?�  She couldn�t face him.  Her cheeks were on fire and her breath didn�t want to come. 

          �No Christine, I can�t.�  Raoul said very softly, moving her hands to one side.  �I�ve spent too much effort bringing you this far to see you backslide now.�

          Locking her lips, Christine looked away, out the window toward the woods.  Nevertheless, she felt his every movement, felt a knot pull free, felt the quick brush of his fingers and then the linen falling away.  Most of all she felt his hands gliding over her skin.  Naked skin that trembled and ached, but not with any contagion.  The ache that Christine felt now was a blinding desire such as she had never known before.  She locked her lips together, but a moan escaped. 

          �Did I hurt you?  I�ll try to be more careful.�  Raoul�s voice was harsh.

          �No, it�s not � I�m perfect.�

          She caught a ragged breath; her eyes were fixed desperately on the curtains swaying in the dawn wind.  Her skin was on fire where he touched her.  Sweet heaven, her whole body was on fire.  And in places, she couldn�t even begin to think about.  His arm tightened around her waist.  �Don�t apologize.  I expect I�m bloody clumsy at this.�

          He muttered something under his breath, then jerked the coverlet up from her other side, uncovering her chest and her unbound breasts.  Christine went very still as realization struck.  He was just as overcome by his feelings as she was.  He, Raoul, Vicomte de Chagney, debonair darling of the aristocrats and seducer of females in three counties, found this intimate contact as unnerving as she did.  Somehow, that thought restored Christine�s confidence.  She took a long breath and turned to look at him

          His eyes were burning and his jaw was locked.  He was concentrating fiercely, his movements quick and jerky.  She flinched as he brushed her rib.  �Sorry.�  He swore softly and then tugged away the coverlet, unable to work around it.  A muscle flashed at his jaw when her body lay bared to him.  Mesmerized, Christine looked up, feeling the blaze of his eyes, feeling the hot tension of his fingers and the harshness of his breath. 

�Where am I?�

�My family estate.  We�ll be safe here until you�re healed.  I would think from there we should go to my estates in England.  That is if you still want to marry me.�  He pulled away, his body stiff.  �There�s time enough for that later.  Right now what you need to do is rest.  Is there pain?  I�ve laudanum, if you need it.� 

Christine shook her head.  She wanted no more oblivion.  All she wanted to be was here with him, awake and aware.  Pain was a small price for that.