A/N: You asked for it - you got it. ;-) The sequel to The Treasure is here …

Like The Quest and The Treasure, this third story in the series is a fantasy with a timeline of actual history - my ideas of what could have happened based on a hidden plot I saw in movie, where Erik is king of a musical (unseen) realm and Christine is his queen. After reading reviews of previous stories, I noticed it was difficult for some to adapt to Erik being called king - (though he was also elected a king of gypsies - they really do have those - and predestined to save that band) - but I will try not to refer to him by that title so often. :))

As all my stories tend to do, at times this will have angst, mystery, romance, drama, danger, humor, adventure, and everything else that makes up real life - dramaticized, of course, for fiction. :) Rated M for sexual situations (some in detail with no holds barred, so please be warned - I'll flag those chapters), also some violence and other adult situations. With all that said, this first chapter has a reason to be rated M.

Based on the characters we know and love from Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera, no part of which is mine. Reviews & constructive criticism are most welcome and appreciated.

And now, the moment many of you have been waiting for, I give you…

The Claim

Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.

~ Confucius

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1872

(Paris, France)

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The time has come to be aware. The continuance of the mystery is at hand.

Take care that none will perish…

No voluble whisper, hardly even a lucid thought, the eerie sense of expectation prodded Dominique to grab a candelabrum of five tall tapers and carry it with her to light the way throughout her small, dark dwelling. The fire that destroyed her old tenement during the fall of the Commune more than a year ago forced her once to find new lodgings, and soon, necessity would cause her to abandon these cramped rooms as well.

A vigilant glance out the lone window that looked onto an empty street told her all was quiet as it should be in the stillness of early nightfall. The street lamp at the corner had been lit and beneath stood an armed soldier, rifle in hand, there to ensure that potential insurrectionists did not again attempt to gather. Not another soul could be spotted on either side of her viewpoint, the area enshrouded in thick darkness.

She exhaled a nervous breath, shaking her head at vain imaginings brought about by previous ghastly experiences, and returned to her room. The minutes fell away and became lost in the studied concentration of packing her trunk.

"Madame Giry!"

Jean-Claude's sudden shout erupted from the parlor, causing her to drop the extra chemise she had just folded. She had not heard the boy come in, but then, the little braggart thief had spent almost his entire lifetime of twelve years sneaking into locales forbidden. She picked up her fallen clothing and placed it in the open trunk, wondering what mischief her unlikely ward had created this time.

"Madame…"

Her door flew open, his dark silhouette filling the entrance at the threshold of her bedroom, the directive she had long ago given to knock clearly forgotten in his excitement. He came further into the light, his fair hair tossed in riotous waves that reached well below his ears, his face dirty and blue eyes sparkling with anticipation. In the last year he had grown and now stood taller than her.

"Someone is here to see you."

"Here?" she said incredulously. "At this time of evening?"

The boy shrugged as if he had no answer and Dominique looked past him, the shock of his unforeseen announcement greater than the scolding that vanished from her tongue. She could hear nothing in the other rooms and hesitated. Had the soldier come to her door to make an arrest?

Citizens of Paris were imprisoned and put on trial daily, the crimes of the Commune still being addressed, with men, women, even children younger than Jean-Claude carted off and brought to harsh justice. But she had done nothing wrong, could not imagine anyone who might falsely accuse her, and she looked at the boy in grave suspicion. "Tell me that you did not steal again. And do wash your hands and face. You look as if you've been crawling through the sewers."

"It's not a soldier."

"Not a soldier?" she repeated pensively, "Then who…?"

She left her small boudoir, sweeping past the boy without waiting for another shrug in response, and moved toward the parlor. Noticing Jean-Claude had taken it upon himself to stir up the flames of the hearth and light several candles, she paused in confusion at the curious sight of three olive-skinned children with raven black hair, and one fair, towheaded boy finding warmth near the fire. The two boys appeared to be approximately Jean-Claude's age. The two girls huddled together by the wall, arm in arm, a cloak's hood fully covering the smallest of them.

Dominique wondered if Jean-Claude only pretended ignorance and had brought these children home in the hope of her feeding them a meal, as she once granted him when first they banded forces and became strange allies - but by the superior quality of their clothing, neither ragged nor dirty, these children did not appear homeless or starving. Exhaustion seemed their only frailty, judging by the weary slope of their shoulders and how they used the wall as a brace. One girl darted a wary glance at Dominique from dark, heavy-lidded eyes but said nothing and held the small girl closer. The boys, though not appearing anxious, looked at her in uncertainty.

Stunned to find so many strangers in her home and at so late an hour, she noticed movement in the room beyond, also now lit by candlelight and looked through the open door of the parlor.

With their backs to her, a man of tall stature and wearing a fedora stood beside a woman, a hood covering her hair. Both wore long black traveling cloaks. The man held a very small child who slept on his shoulder while he slightly parted the drape from which both the man and woman peered out, their heads close as they whispered to one another. Their manner was furtive, as if they hid from someone or something.

Dominique drew herself up. "May I help you?" she asked somewhat stiffly and in full command, letting these unsolicited visitors know from the start that she did not appreciate the interruption and at such a perilous hour for visiting. Did they not realize the penalty for breaking the nightly curfew? That they had done so could bring all of them under suspicion, if the armed sentinel should take it upon himself to investigate.

The two shared a glance and the woman turned slowly, lowering the hood from her head.

Dominique stared in wonder at her sweet, angelic features, both strangely innocent and self-assured, her intelligent brown eyes and wide determined mouth belonging to a face that glowed a fair shade of brown from time spent outdoors with no hat to shield pale skin. Other than those marked changes, the unruly wealth of long, dark chestnut ringlets was entirely recognizable, as was the joyful smile the young woman bestowed as she held out her hands to her former ballet instructor and childhood guardian.

"Madame Giry."

"Christine…?"

Dominique gasped her name in staggered realization, her eyes burning with a sudden rush of tears. Christine gave a smiling little nod and they both moved forward, Dominique at last pulling the young woman she had always thought of as a daughter into her welcoming embrace. She kissed her cheeks and regarded her with equal measures of happiness and disbelief.

"I wasn't sure I would ever again see you, my dear."

"Did I not tell you that one day we would return?" The man spoke in quiet gentle mockery, his beautiful voice, low and deep like rich velvet - unique - and unmistakable to behold.

Dominique drew a second startled breath, turning her fixed attention his way. She gaped in shock, knowing she would never have recognized him had she not heard him speak.

He still towered above her at a lofty height, his build lean and strong, his manner enigmatic and poised, with a touch of the undomesticated in his bearing and in his eyes. His every action was one of poetic grace as he closed the slim distance between them. His manner of dress as impeccable as always, he looked like a true nobleman, his wife wearing the gown of a lady. But that is where all similarities ended to the man she remembered.

The ebony wig a thing of history, his hair had lightened to a fair brown in color, the nearby candlelight picking up tints that gleamed lustrous dark golden from living above the earth, in the sun. The straight thick strands held the slightest hint of a natural curl at the ends, brushing the slope of his shoulders in a Bohemian manner, and his skin was lightly bronzed. Her first time to look at him in well over a year, with the knowledge of the volatile secret she had uncovered, and she could see evidence of the de Chagny legacy in his blood. His flesh no longer was bone pale, befitting the name of Ghost, but radiated with health and vitality. The only indication that this was indeed her master was the fitted mask he wore on the right side of his face - no longer a stark white or bandit's black, this mask resembled the color of his skin and would be impossible to note at a quick glance.

"Mon Dieu," she whispered, stunned at the overall change in him.

He wryly chuckled, the familiar sound and the twisted smile he gave her a welcome relief to see that not all things had altered and there were some traits still recognizable. She didn't know whether to embrace him in welcome as she had done with Christine, curtsy in respect, or incline her head in servitude and await his command.

"Does that mean you approve?" His tone light, he offered his hand to her in greeting.

Thrown off balance by such an affable gesture coming from the infamous Opera Ghost of legend, she hesitated. "It is a marked improvement, sire."

Relieved to see them both alive and well and clearly happy, she clasped her hands warmly around his large slim one then stepped forward and gave him a quick, awkward hug, casting aside her usual strict demeanor. The tiny girl in his arms stirred, lifting a head of tousled brown curls from his shoulder. She stared at Dominique sourly through his smoky green eyes, before turning her head away and again resting it on her solid pillow of comfort.

"Now that we have returned to Paris, you must never again refer to me by title," he quietly warned. "It is too dangerous…"

Dominique gave a vague nod, still in a state of disbelieving shock to leave her bedroom of her once empty home and find the King and Queen of Music standing inside her threadbare parlor. They were to her like family; she had taken them in as young children, saving each from a miserable fate, aiding and serving them throughout her years at the opera house…

Do you remember my name?" he asked in clear amusement when she continued to stare at him with wide eyes, still not entirely sure this wasn't all a dream and Jean-Claude had truly approached to tell her someone wished to speak with her. Would she wake up with a start on her bed, exhaustion having overtaken her during her mad rush to pack?

"Yes, I remember. Erik…" The name sounded foreign to her lips, but by his answering nod he seemed pleased. "It might be difficult to put into use, sire - er, Maestro…? But I will try."

For over twenty-two years she addressed him by those two titles alone. Only in the month before he left did he divulge his true name to her. She understood that his veiled identity as a sovereign of music must remain hidden - the same rule had applied for silence within his opera house kingdom, even if he had buried himself below ground and away from sight - then, because he had been under the Phantom's dark curse and believed the dark spirit's lies. Though for one dreadful, memorable night on the stage of the Don Juan, he attempted to break free of those invisible chains and the people had briefly glimpsed his identity through his song and in his music. But the message had failed to take root. They had so quickly forgotten, never again tried to understand. Other than Christine, she and Meg were the only ones who ever did.

"If that is difficult for you, our present title under which we are now masquerading is sure to cause great confusion." He pulled in one side of his cloak and gave a slight, gallant bow as much as he could while holding the child. "The Count and Countess de la Vega, at your service, Madame."

Dominique felt at a loss, stunned by his ease of charm, his green eyes actually twinkling?- Was this the diabolical Opera Ghost who haunted the theater for more than two decades? The troubled, tortured man who often regarded her through vacant eyes of sorrow and regret in that last month before he made his departure? In all the years she had known him, distance was his mode of choice.

"Of course, the obtainment of said title was not given freely. We found the need to … borrow it for our return to this realm of civilization," he added, his dark mocking tone and the mysterious, burning flicker in his eyes glimpses of the man she remembered.

She had no doubt that "borrow" meant "steal," and wondered if the true Count de la Vega still lived and breathed. She recalled how in the flash of an instant her master's temperament could plummet into inscrutable fathoms of despair or spiral into a twisting whirlwind of fury.

"Mm- da! Mm- da," the tot babbled and whimpered in complaint, fidgeting and clearly unhappy to be kept from her rest by the impromptu reunion.

Christine stepped closer to Erik, and Dominique watched his arm protectively encircle her within his cloak, as if no conscious thought were given to the act.

"Have you somewhere for Angelique to rest?" she asked. "The journey has been very tiring for one so young."

"Your daughter," Dominique stated the obvious. "She's lovely. And the other children?"

"We must go," Erik addressed Christine in a low tone so as not to disturb the child, then turned to Dominique. "Explanations will have to wait until tomorrow. We only just arrived to the city and I must secure lodging for my family."

"You've not yet had a chance to obtain rooms at a hotel?"

"That is our next destination. When first we visited the burned out tenement, a woman who remembered you gave us your new location. As it is on the way, we stopped here first. We will return in the morning."

"No! - please wait, Maestro. You cannot leave. You must stay the night, as my guests," Dominique turned to lead them to her bedroom, not waiting for his concurrence. "The city is under an enforced curfew. And though you look nothing like communist sympathizers in those clothes, you could still be in danger of arrest should you travel the streets at this hour. Paris has been under martial law since the Commune fell…"

"Ah. The reason for the soldier stationed at the corner and those throughout the city…"

Erik spoke in somber realization, and she wondered if he earlier feared that they also still searched for him, for the murders of Messieurs Piangi and Buquet and for his role in the opera house fire. If a soldier were to glimpse his mask, questions could arise. The opera house tragedy lay buried beneath a skeletal surface of current dilemmas in the memories of a victimized city - hidden away in the past but not quite forgotten, easy to break through and unearth - and that could lead to a host of new dangers…

"Oui, they are posted all over Paris." Dominique turned to him as they left the parlor. "Did anyone stop you?"

He nodded. "Upon entering Paris, yes, we were detained. Our borrowed title fooled the insolent soldier, and the manner in which we traveled convinced him we were no threat."

"I think, my dear husband, that you had the poor boy shaking in his boots, what with the manner in which you threw our 'borrowed' title around and threatened his post - ultimately hinting that you would speak to his superior about placing him on the opposite side of a firing line if he did not let us continue without delay."

Erik quietly chuckled at Christine's glib retort, the eyes that he turned down to her adoring.

"The autocratic runs in my blood, my love. First as a hapless ruler over a pathetic lot of ex-junk managers who knew even less about an opera; then as a predestined King to a band of ill-equipped gypsies; and now as a Count of pretense. I was born royal and destined to be noble - my blood runs both red and blue, did you not know?"

Christine shook her head in weary amusement and smiled up at him.

Fascinated by the revelation of his recent status Dominique withheld a shiver at the accuracy of his satirical statement and the knowledge that one day he would be entitled to become a Count in verity. It wasn't her place to speak, though she felt ill at ease to withhold such a startling truth from her master of over two decades, and an even higher threshold of anxiety should he discover the identity of the family to which he had been born, especially while under her roof. Such a revelation could not bode well, with all that was involved. With who was involved...

For all his changed appearance, from their words spoken and the hint of danger still lurking in his eyes she sensed his temperament and propensity to fly into rages had gone unchanged.

"It is most fortunate that you were able to escape the soldier's notice. Not everyone has been so blessed. Arrests are made weekly, trials are the regular order of the day - and you do not wish to tempt fate and have someone recognize you by description with regard to your former…exploits." She tempered her words, so the children would not understand.

Erik and Christine exchanged a somber look, and she nodded a little as if in agreement.

"With that said, my home isn't much to offer, but I would be most relieved if you would remain for the night…" Dominique continued, hoping to persuade him since he had not yet accepted her invitation. "I must leave Paris tomorrow, but I wish to speak with both of you before I go."

Erik nodded his consent. "Very well. Then we will stay. One moment."

He turned his attention to the boys. "Armando, Cedric, bring in blankets from the coach and instruct El Capitán to find lodging for the horses. You and the girls may sleep in front of the hearth." He looked Dominique's way. "Our driver will need shelter as well, but he will not mind sleeping on the floor. He has done so, many a time."

Dominique nodded, taking no offense at his giving orders in her home, finding it natural, even a relief to let someone else take charge of the situation for a change. He had commanded all present within his vicinity almost since she had known him as a boy, and she doubted that would ever alter.

Jean-Claude, who to her relieved surprise had lost most of the dirt on his face making him look less like a street urchin, approached the other children from the far corner of the room.

Christine looked at him curiously. "Who is that? He looks familiar."

"I assure you that you don't know him. We helped one another during the Revolution and he lives here now. There is much to say to reacquaint our lives after almost two years, Christine, but for tonight you should rest. I imagine you have been on the road all day. You and the Maestro may have my room. I hope that will suffice."

"Where will you sleep?" Christine asked.

"The sofa in the parlor will suit my needs. I have slept there before."

"Madame … where is Meg?"

Christine watched Erik lay their sleeping child on the bed and cover her with a blanket then looked at Dominique.

She hesitated, not wishing to delve into lengthy explanations that would take more than a few minutes to relate. "She's not here at present."

"Is she well? Her injury - it has healed? I was so worried for both of you when Raoul told us of the fighting, and of the break in Meg's leg."

"Yes, she has recovered as well as can be expected. We will speak of all that tomorrow too. For now, the girls can have her bed. There's no need for them to sleep on the floor."

Dominique turned to go and prepare the room, startled to see both girls now standing in the doorway. The one with the hooded cloak also wore a veil that could now be seen clearly. The opaque blue cloth rested just beneath her huge, thickly lashed dark eyes, covering the middle of her nose and the remainder of her face. Dominique stared without being aware she did so, then realized her rudeness and looked away.

The Maestro turned from the bed and saw them.

"Narilla? Is there a problem?"

"It is Luminitsa, su Majestad -"

"You must now call me by the title I instructed you," he interrupted, his tone firm but gentle. "We are no longer in Spain and must not draw unwanted attention to ourselves."

"Si, my lord Count."

His eyes briefly slid shut as if disgusted. "'Sir' or 'monsieur' will do well enough among us," he intoned dryly. "What is the trouble with your sister?"

"To see the soldiers badly frightened her. Nothing I say or do will calm her…"

The littlest of the four unexplained children trembled, ducking her head further as if to draw completely into her blue woolen cloak and disappear. She looked no more than six, her sister, perhaps fourteen, and again Dominique wondered just who they were. After hearing the Maestro's brief recounting of the startling role he played in the past year she assumed them to be gypsies.

That he would give aid to any child of a Romani further baffled her mind when she considered how horribly that sect mistreated him as a boy in their traveling fair. She had been there, had seen the vicious beating he received for turning away from a jeering crowd and playing the cymbals of his monkey toy. Later, he killed his jailer. Dominique had been the sole witness to that shocking incident … and to so much more involving the Phantom of the Opera.

Erik somberly nodded as if he understood the girl's explanation. He took a seat at the foot of the bed and twisted around to look at the small girl, holding out his hand.

"Come, Little One," he said quietly.

The meek child, who earlier looked as if she might scurry away to find a hole to crawl in beneath the warped floorboards, did not hesitate to move toward him. He drew her onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her, enfolding her within his cloak, then spoke a musical cadence of words in a foreign tongue. The girl visibly calmed and nodded, resting her head against his chest.

Dominique looked on in mystified amazement.

Christine smiled at her. "Luminitsa will sleep with us tonight."

"The bed is not large enough to hold the four of you." Dominique again studied the bewildering sight of the former Opera Ghost - who had shaped terror into the hearts of countless men - now the sole comfort to a tiny, frightened girl.

"We will manage," Christine assured.

"Then I will make up a bed for her on the floor with blankets."

"Yes, thank you, Madame. That would be wonderful."

"Christine, now that you are a married woman, you must address me by my given name."

Christine stared at her as if she had been asked to commit sacrilege.

"As difficult as it is for you to address Erik by name, after so long knowing him, it is twice as hard for me to speak to you without the respected form of address," she softly demurred.

"Yes, my dear. But this is a new season. For all of us. It is time to lay the past to rest, and perhaps we will help one another with this need for change. Hmm?"

With a strong sense that such changes of address were minimal when compared to what would be required for this couple to accept in the unforeseeable future, Dominique tensely smiled and laid her hand on Christine's shoulder in parting.

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xxXxXxx

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Erik brought two chairs from the kitchen table to rest against the edge of the bed as a precaution for Angelique should she roll over in her sleep. Madame Giry bade them a pleasant night's rest and closed the door.

Erik removed his hat and cape, ascot, waistcoat, and boots while Christine tended to settling Luminitsa down for the night. The child lay snuggled in a cocoon of blankets on the floor. With the gypsy way of life, the children were accustomed to sleeping on the ground, on thin pallets, or on pillows, so Christine did not fear for the Little One's lack of comfort.

She slipped off her cape and shoes, leaving her dress in place, and moved to where Erik stretched out on the bed in shirtsleeves and trousers, his feet dangling off the edge. She smiled at the sight, wondering if there was a bed made that was long enough to accommodate her tall husband. He scooted toward the middle to make more room for her and she sat down at the edge, facing him as his hand rested against her hip. Without a word, she carefully lifted the mask from his face, her fingers pushing back the barely visible strand secured beneath a layer of his hair. She bent forward to kiss the ravaged cheek and winced once she pulled away.

"It's as bad as that?" he quipped dryly, his one dark eyebrow sailing up.

She shook her head in a long-suffering manner and gave a disgusted grimace to the mask she tossed to a nearby table. "I still think that the dyes you used from the berries to make it this color are causing this reaction to your skin. It is so red and inflamed, my love, and your skin is fragile enough as it is." She furrowed her brow, gently tracing her fingertips along his twisted temple to his pronounced cheekbone. "I wish you didn't have to wear the horrid thing at all…"

He grabbed her hand and brought the fingertips to his lips, kissing them. "We are in civilized territory now, Christine. I have no choice." His smile came crooked. "Amusing, is it not, that in a gypsy camp in the midst of a forest I could roam free without a mask, secure in the knowledge I would not be ostracized? But here in cultured society, among those who consider all gypsies uncouth, if I were to bare my face, they would hunt me down and cage me as an animal for that alone? Such irony!"

Erik wryly chuckled but Christine found no humor in the situation.

Since aiding the gypsy children of that band by helping to free their captive families, in his recent dealings with the Spanish Romani Erik had worked to lay aside his long-held bitterness with all those of their race, and had lived among them, acting as their chosen king. Yet in all that time, he never truly opened his heart to call any of their number "friend." The men and women had been too much in awe of the Frenchman with the deformed face, the anticipated savior of their ancient prophetic legend as well as a ruler of music - which to the gypsy was as sacred as gold. Only with their children had Erik lowered his defensive barrier of aloof distance, and only with a select few - those orphans they had brought with them, and Armando.

"Perhaps we should have stayed in Spain. At least there, you were shown respect."

"No, mon amour, it was time to return, whatever the consequences. You would not wish for Angelique to grow up as wild and untamed as the gypsies, would you?" he teased gently, seeing her apprehension by the frown between her eyes.

She ignored his attempt at levity and spoke the cause of her fear. "After all that has happened in Paris, with the revolution and the fall of the Commune - after all that Madame told us - surely they will have forgotten you by now?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Yet Madame doesn't think so," Christine said with a little sigh of despair. "And neither do I."

With his arm solid at her back, he drew her closer. She nestled her head in the crook of his shoulder, drawing her arm over his chest and burrowing into his warmth. "I could not bear to lose you, Erik, even for a moment. We have endured far too many separations."

"I'll not let anything come between us again, Christine. You have no reason to fear. Those fool soldiers will not learn my identity, would not even think to draw the comparison - that one of Spain's wealthiest nobles, a Count by title, was also the recluse of a ghost that haunted the Paris Opera? It would be too much for their feeble minds to grasp."

He gave a soft, scoffing laugh but she shivered, still not convinced, and his voice came soothing.

"We will exercise caution, Mon Ange. If asked, it is as we agreed: my face was scarred by a fire in my childhood home of Spain, making the mask a necessity. Miguel will support the story, that I am the cousin of the former Don who died, also in a fire, and the sole heir to the fortune of the de la Vegas. The captain's reputation will aid us - giving influence over anyone who might dare question further."

She nodded against him, wishing she could be as sure of the unlikelihood of discovery as he was. All was silent for a time as they drew quiet comfort from holding one another.

Christine broke the silence.

"Did you notice how strangely Madame acted when I spoke of Meg? Why would she refuse to answer a simple question?" She sat up to look at him, her brow again creased in worry. "You don't think there's something wrong, do you? Do you suppose that's why Madame still plans on leaving, when we have only just arrived…?"

"I think, my Restless Rose that we shall uncover all of that mystery tomorrow too. She did not refuse to answer. She said only that it would be best to wait to engage in such a discussion." He drew his hand to the back of her head to bring her down again, giving her a soft kiss. "For now, you should rest."

"I should, and you would think after weeks of traveling I would be sleepy, but having reached our destination, I find that I am nervous with ill contained energy." She studied his parted lips, drawing her index finger down their fullness, then looked into his smoky eyes. "And you, dear husband, are you so very sleepy?"

A grin curled the corners of his mouth. "What do you suggest, sweet wife?"

She smiled in gleeful mischief. "If we are very quiet…"

He curled his grasp around her finger and slipped the tip into his mouth, brushing it with his tongue, eliciting her shiver, this one of pleasure. Slowly he pulled her hand away. "We were quiet at the inn last night…"

"Yes, but the children are exhausted. Surely they will sleep through the morning this time…" she softly coaxed and blew out the candle.

Moonlight slipped through a chink in the curtains, washing half the bed where Angelique slept in a muted patch of white, leaving their half in shadow. A quick glance from both assured them their littlest Rose did indeed sleep soundly on her stomach, her head turned away.

At the Spanish villa, they had shared their bedchamber with their daughter of nine months, whose cradle rested in an alcove hidden by veils, though when they secured a new residence Erik determined that would change. She was blossoming more each day; it was time she had her own room and her parents again enjoyed absolute privacy. And Luminitsa remained out of view and bundled within blankets, exhausted from the emotional upheaval of the evening. At the inns where they stopped over, they often were crowded into one room, for lack of space. On the rare occasion they were able to secure two chambers, Christine didn't think it wise to put the boys in with the girls, especially since Cedric was no boy, and Erik grudgingly agreed. It was high time Celeste confronted her fears and came out of her disguise. Yet having played the role of Angel for nine years while imprisoned by a dark spirit they called Phantom, Erik was hardly one to demand change.

Since Angelique had come into their lives, gone were the days and nights of making love at whatever hour pleased them. They soon found that with a baby came demands and the need to create an occasion grew apparent - his motto now being to seize whatever opportunity arose, with little regard to time or place. In five weeks, he had only made love to his wife four times on the journey, in spare moments quickly seized, and little else, though not for want of trying!

Slipping her hand beneath his neck, Christine captured his full attention and pressed her lips to his. Erik hungrily reciprocated, needing no persuasion, and carefully moved them so he was over her.

Their tongues entwined, eagerly revisiting the warmth and enchantment of passion, the embers of their need for each other ever glowing, quick to ignite into scorching flame. His agile fingers went to her bodice, swiftly unfastening hooks until he could slip his hand inside. Squeezing her breast, his thumb brushed her nipple and she groaned. The sweetest music, but tonight unwise.

He gave a whisper of a chuckle, even softer words. "Hush, my love. Remember, we must be silent…"

She gave a little nod, biting her lip, and he brought his mouth down to lave the erect bud and gently suckle. She drew a sharp rasp of air, digging her fingertips into his side, her hand having found its way into the loose folds of his shirt.

Erik would love to linger and rediscover every curve and hollow that gave his beautiful Angel delight, would love to bare her naked to his touch, but knew that their slice of stolen passion could soon be interrupted. Reaching down, he pulled the hem of her gown upward, at the same time pulling the blanket with it to cover them. His mouth found hers again. Beneath the coverlet her hand moved to stroke his hardness while his fingers slid up her thigh, brushing her tight curls. He softly groaned inside her mouth to find her so wet.

"I have missed us, dear Erik," she whispered against his chin, her fingers finding his trouser fastenings and at once freeing him. "It has been seven full days…"

He needed no reminder of the number that marked his torture, and his searching lips quickly found the sensitive spot near her ear.

A whimper to their side froze them. They turned their heads in wariness to look, otherwise remaining motionless - did not dare even speak as they attempted to stifle their elevated breaths.

Silence returned, and they waited, thankful when it blissfully remained….

Erik dipped his fingers inside to caress her velvet walls. An involuntary moan escaped Christine's throat and he pressed his mouth to hers, catching the forbidden sound. She curled her fingers around his shaft, stroking in like tempo. Another sleepy murmur came, this time from the floor.

They stopped, again frozen in the night.

After a second lapse of silence, a giggle escaped her lips.

"You find the oddest times humorous, Mon Ange," he whispered, curbing a groan of frustration, his need for her escalating by the second.

"You must see the amusement in this, my love - us married well over a year and sneaking about like youths afraid to be caught."

A grin flickered at the corner of his lips as he spread her legs wider and fluidly mounted her. "You are worth every risk and more, my oh so Passionate Rose," he breathed and slowly plunged in to the hilt.

She loudly gasped. Again he captured the sound with his mouth, stifling his own groan at the drenched heat of her. Her hands moved inside his trousers to cling to his bare bottom.

Five steady, slow, delicious strokes later and the inevitable happened.

"Mm-da…"

Erik pulled out of Christine so fast he almost came off the bed. A hasty glance toward their daughter showed her head of dark curls lift.

"Bloody hell," he whispered, fumbling to put everything back in place.

"Erik, language," she whispered, sounding no less frustrated. "Remember, we have a child now."

"Oh, yes, that is quite apparent, Christine."

While she pulled down her skirts, he again moved to his former position in the middle of the bed.

His naughty little Angel squirmed on the mattress, her head falling back down, her frustrated whimpers growing. He muttered beneath his breath and shook his head, reaching for her and pulling her up to lie on his stomach.

"What ails you, my Little Impish Thorn?"

"Erik," Christine chided on the edge of a giggle. "At least we got a bit further than last night…"

"Somehow, my dear, that gives me little consolation."

"But it is progress. And surely, now that we are in Paris, it won't be so difficult to find an opportunity to be alone as it was on the journey…"

Hearing her mother's voice, Angelique turned her head and reached for Christine as she began to hook her bodice. She shared a look with Erik.

"I think she wants…"

"Mm." Grim-faced he obliged, laying the child in the middle. Angelique grabbed Christine's breast and latched onto the taut nipple as if she hadn't eaten in days though it had been hours. "At least one of us is having our appetite met tonight." He knew he was being selfish and acting childish, but after seven days - he felt he had that right.

"I think she must be upset with all the traveling, going from one country to another. It's been such a change for her, new people, new places …" Christine tried to comfort him. "Perhaps she also senses something amiss, what with the soldier stopping us earlier. This is the first time she's wanted to nurse at night in well over a month."

Angelique grabbed Christine's other breast with her chubby hand in territorial fashion, her eyes wide, her expression set and wary, as if she were afraid Erik might latch onto it and she was staking her claim. He loved his daughter, she was Papa's little girl, but there were these moments when he resented her hold over Christine. Foolish. Petty. Childish. Yes, he was all those things for even allowing the thought to enter his mind, but he couldn't help how he felt.

"If what we suspect is true," Erik said quietly, gently pulling one of the baby's short ringlets, "You will need to wean her soon."

"I don't suspect it. You do."

"Why else would you be sick for two mornings in a row - though I agree, the probability that we could have actually created another child is slim when given the number of opportunities we have been allotted to do so."

She giggled. "It only takes once, Mon Ange."

He didn't know whether to throttle her for her seeming ability to recover with such ease and grace when he was a taut mass of pent up frustration - or perhaps to kiss her senseless until she begged for breath and mercy, neither of which he would give.

"And if it were up to our assorted brood, based on these past months of experience, 'once' would be the sum total of our private encounters, my dear."

She sighed. "It won't always be like this, surely."

"No, indeed. Another baby will make it that much more difficult."

She looked suddenly worried. "You don't want another child?"

His irritation had taken reign of his tongue, his heart remote from such an idea, though at one time he would have done all in his power to prevent the occurrence. Instantly he set her mind at ease, leaning forward to kiss the furrow from her brow and ignoring Angelique's small hand that tried to push him away as if he were an annoying gnat.

"I never said that. I only state the facts - adding another child to our growing family, both the creation of our loins and the orphans we have collected, will not aid in initiating exclusive moments for us to share." His hand strayed to her belly. "But I will love this child as much as I love Angelique."

"Erik, I'm not pregnant."

"So you say."

"My breasts aren't even tender," she insisted. "They were both times before."

"Perhaps you fail to notice, because of Angelique."

"That's silly," she scoffed. "I think I would know if I were with child …I was probably sick from some fleeting illness, or more likely my stomach did not agree with the inn's greasy offerings. Each inn has had fare so much different than the gypsies' stews…"

Erik saw fit not to argue. He remembered how her moods swung like a pendulum when she carried Angelique.

Their daughter's eyes had closed, her swallowing coming less fierce until her hold on Christine slipped from her tiny mouth. Christine fastened her bodice then reached to intertwine her slender fingers with Erik's.

"One thing I will promise here and now, Mon Ange, is that no matter how many children we have, I will always make time for us. I love you, Erik."

"You are my breath and my heart, sweet Christine."

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. Facing one another, they looked into each other's eyes, their hands linked, with their daughter now slumbering contentedly between them. Soon Christine's eyelids also grew heavy and he watched her lashes flutter closed. In time, he also slept, and all was peaceful once more…

Deep into the night, a scream rent the air, the terrified sound of it curdling Erik's blood and tearing him from slumber.

.

xxXxXxx

A/N: I decided to go with a little of everything for an intro. Mystery, drama, danger, romance, humor, etc…and my trademark cliffie. Haha (You guys really didn't think I would start things out calm, did you? Perish the thought! ;-))

Anyway, hope you like the start of this…