Rogue's Mistress (30 page)

Mercy tilted her chin proudly.
“And you think you can help?”

He nodded solemnly. “I felt it was
time someone told you the truth. And frankly, your husband seems unwilling or
incapable of doing so.”

Mercy’s eyes narrowed. “The truth?
What truth?”

“Regarding your father’s death.”

Mercy gasped and leaned toward him
intently. “How can you know anything about that?”

“I was there, madame.”

She stared at him in fierce doubt,
then snapped her fingers. “That’s right—I remember you vaguely from that night.
You were Julian’s coachman then, too.”

"
Oui
, I was. And I was
with him the entire night.”

“Then you were with him when he
killed my father at a grogshop?” she inquired in a sharply rising voice.

Henrí sighed and regarded her
sadly. “But that’s just it, madame. Your father did not die in a grogshop.”

“What do you mean? Of course he
died in a grogshop!”

“Madame, he did not. Your husband
concocted that story to protect you.”

“To protect me?” Mercy echoed in a
stunned voice. “Why, this is preposterous! How do I know you’re not weaving a
new lie right now?”

Henrí gestured in entreaty.
“Because I have no reason to lie to you, madame. And aren’t you curious to know
the true circumstances of your father’s death? Afterward, if you choose not to
believe me—well, that’s your choice.”

Mercy sighed heavily. “Very well.
You may proceed.”

Henrí cleared his throat and spoke
in a strained voice. “Nine years ago, before he ever met you, Julian Devereux
was deeply involved with a young demimondaine, Genevieve Dupree. I think he may
have been in love with her, for at one time he mentioned wanting to move her
out of the bagnio and set her up as his paramour.”

“What?” Mercy cried. She sat bolt
upright, outraged by these disclosures. “What idiocy are you spouting here?
What does any of this have to do with my father?”

Henrí held up a hand. “Please, madame,
it is a complicated tale and you must hear me out.”

She sighed fiercely. “Very well.”

He took a moment to gather his
thoughts. “Unfortunately, your father also fancied himself in love with
Mademoiselle Dupree—”

Mercy’s eyebrows shot up. “I beg
your pardon? My father in love with a prostitute? You’re lying!”

“No, madame, I am not,” Henrí
replied with strained patience. “Furthermore, Madame Sophie, who still runs her
bagnio in the Quarter, will confirm my entire story. Will you listen?”

Mercy glared at him, then waved a
hand. “Go on.”

“As I understand it, your father
and Mademoiselle Dupree had a”—he paused to cough—“liaison on one occasion. I’m
not sure just what happened, but I do know that afterward she insisted that he
never return. Evidently, this rejection drove your father mad with jealousy. On
the night of your father’s death, Mam’selle Dupree was—er—entertaining Julian.”
Henrí paused to flash her an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid there’s no delicate
way to put this, madame—the two of them were in bed together. Your father
forced his way into the brothel, then burst in on them with a gun.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Your father was overcome with
rage and jealousy. He fired a shot, wounding Genevieve in the shoulder, and
only
maître's
quick action stopped him from murdering them both on the
spot.”

“What happened?”

“It was very dark, madame. Julian
jumped out of bed even as your father was firing another round. I believe that
particular shot blew out a window. At any rate, the two men struggled over the
gun, it discharged again, and your father fell dead to the floor.”

“Oh, merciful saints!” Mercy
cried, shaking her head. “Tell me none of it is true!”

“But it is true, madame—all of
it,” Henrí said vehemently. “I would never lie to you on a matter of such grave
importance. And I implore you to be honest with yourself now. While you were
only a child at the time, surely you must have some recollection of what your
father was truly like?”

Mercy gulped as Henrí’s words
forced her to confront the bitter truth she had shoved into some dark corner of
her mind, devastating memories she had buried as she idealized her father
through a fierce need for self-preservation. Now, those harrowing images sprang
forth to haunt her: her father spending all of his money on liquor and cards,
while she and her mother went without; her father losing one job after another,
and always blaming someone else; her father coming home late, drunk and
abusive; her father hitting her mother, hitting her . . .

With a tormented cry, Mercy buried
her face in her hands. Again, her trembling voice entreated, “Please, say it
isn’t true.”

Henrí’s voice was also anguished.
“But I cannot, madame.” He paused to cross himself. “I swear by
le bon Dieu
that I have spoken only the truth.”

Her eyes mirrored her shattered
emotions. “You mean that while my mother was dying of pneumonia, my father
was—”

“Forcing his way into a
whorehouse.”

“Why wasn’t I told?” she cried,
beating her fists on the settee.

“Because
maître
chose to
protect you!” Henrí said passionately. “When he went to your home and saw your
mother dying, when he saw you—a helpless child—he swore that neither of you
should ever know what a true monster Brendan O’Shea was.”

“He did . . . all that for us?”
Mercy asked numbly.

Henrí’s fervid gaze met hers. “All
that and much more. He had a magistrate cover the true circumstances of your
father’s death. Officially, the incident went down as a fight in a grogshop, so
that you would never be burdened with the actual shameful details.”

“Julian was . . . generous,” she
somehow managed.

“Indeed,” Henrí concurred. “His
generosity knew no bounds. He became your guardian, madame. He provided for
your every need over the years. He protected you, at the cost of suffering your
everlasting scorn.” At Mercy’s wince, he finished ominously, “A most generous
attitude, considering everything that happened.”

She stared at him in deepening
desolation. “Everything? Don’t tell me there’s more?”

“But there is, madame. You see,
Genevieve Dupree died.”

Mercy gasped. “But I thought you
said she was only wounded!”

“
Oui
, it was a simple flesh
wound, but it putrefied. She died two weeks later, in my master’s arms. Julian
took it very hard.”

“
Mon Dieu
!” Mercy bit her
clenched fist, not knowing how many more of these shattering revelations she
could endure. “Did Julian truly love her?”

“I’m not sure—but I do know that
something was not quite the same in him after her death.” Henrí sighed, his
eyes taking on a wistful look. “I wish you could have known him before, madame.
He was so full of life and vitality. But after that one incident—and after
Genevieve died—all the idealism in him seemed to fade away, as well.”

Mercy stared miserably at her lap.
“Why are you telling me all this now?”

“Because it’s not fair that you go
on blaming him.”

“I realize this,” she conceded
hoarsely. “But what can you hope to accomplish at this late date? Surely Julian
must hate me.”

“No, madame. He does not hate
you.”

“Then what should I do?”

“Madame, I think you already
know,” he replied wisely.

Henrí got up and quietly left the
room.

Mercy stared into space, in a deep
state of shock. Then the emotional aftermath of Henrí’s disclosures hit her
with such force that she staggered beneath it, thrusting her hands to her face
and uttering a low, heartbroken cry.

To think that all this time she
had blamed Julian for her father’s death, when he hadn’t been responsible at
all! She had flung endless guilt and recrimination upon him, instead of laying
fault where it truly belonged—squarely on Brendan O’Shea’s head. Now, she felt
deep outrage at her father for his selfish, heartless behavior, and even
greater anger at herself for judging Julian so harshly.

She couldn’t even blame Julian for
withholding the truth from her, since his motive had been to protect her.

Her pain-filled thoughts drifted
back to that first, fateful night when she had met him. She remembered Julian
spending the night at her dying mother’s side—and this after her father had
almost succeeded in killing him and his lady friend! She realized that her
husband was truly a remarkable, compassionate man to minister to the family of
a man who had wronged him so grievously.

Because of her father, Julian had
lost one woman he loved. And now, because of her—because of the guilt she had
heaped on him—he had married her, giving up his own true love, Justine. All
this time, he’d been trying to atone for something that wasn’t even his fault!

Wiping away a tear, she wondered
what she should do. Perhaps, now that the truth was known, she should release him
from his obligation, leaving him free to be with Justine. After all, the two of
them had a child together, and what if she could never bear him children?

This thought brought new,
scorching tears to her eyes. Oh, merciful heavens, it was too much to be borne!

Yet through the haze of her pain
and confusion, one undeniable fact emerged. She knew she must apologize to
Julian for blaming him so cruelly. She must release him from the shackles of
guilt she had unconsciously used to bind him to her for so long. Then perhaps
he would at last be free to choose his own happiness.

Would he forgive her? she wondered
achingly. Or was it already too late for redemption?

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That night, Mercy stayed up late,
determined to speak with Julian alone. In their bedroom, she took special pains
with her appearance, donning a lacy, pale pink peignoir set that he had bought
her in St. Louis. She brushed her red hair until it shone like a glorious
mantle about her head and shoulders, and dabbed on a few drops of rosewater.
She turned the lamps down low, then opened the windows, letting the warm,
honeysuckle-scented breeze waft in from the courtyard below. She even had Henrí
bring up a bottle of wine and two glasses, although she chided herself for her
foolishness.

Once all was in readiness, Mercy
paced the room and wrung her hands. She had no idea what sort of reception
awaited her when Julian came home. While she desperately hoped that he would
accept her apology and forgive her, she also knew that she had to be prepared
for any contingency. She must set him free from the burden of guilt she had
imposed on him. Whether or not his future included her was for him to decide.

Her wait was not nearly as
protracted as she thought it would be, for just after nine o’clock, the door to
the bedroom swung open and Julian stepped in. Mercy whirled, her heart pounding
at the sight of him. For a terrifying moment, she wondered if she could follow
through with what she knew she must do. The mere sight of him seared her senses
and staggered her resolve.

Julian looked so handsome and
intimidating in his elegantly cut black suit; the lamplight shone in his thick
black hair and glittered in his penetrating blue eyes. He appeared somehow
taller, more masculine than ever, especially with the deep lines of fatigue
etched across his face and the hard set of his mouth. There was a stiffness to
his shoulders, a wariness about his countenance, a cynical and world-weary air.

Could she truly break through his
barriers and communicate with him?

She stepped forward tentatively
and braved a smile. “Good evening, Julian.”

“Good evening,” he replied in
deep, guarded tones.

He removed his coat and cravat,
and laid them on a chair. Staring at his wife, he wondered what she was about
tonight. After wrestling with his conscience for much of the day, he had come
home early to apologize to her, to try to mend the rift in their marriage. But
when he had swung open the door, he’d been stunned by what he saw. The last
thing he had expected was this touching, domestic scene—his wife eagerly
awaiting him, dressed in a sexy negligee.

Not that he wasn’t stirred by her
ploy. While his countenance remained impassive, Julian’s heart was beating out
a fierce, hungry rhythm. He’d almost forgotten what a ravishing beauty Mercy
was, especially with her sumptuous red hair catching fiery highlights from the
lamp, with her lush lips sweetly parted and her wide green eyes fixed on him
with such melting softness. Memories of their previous intimacies slammed into
him, shooting agonized arousal through his loins. He was sorely tempted to haul
her into his arms and take the sexual relief his body so desperately craved.

Yet pride and caution held him
back. What was the reason for this sudden, remarkable transformation? Why had
his wife—who had only yesterday been shouting at him—waited up for him tonight
in a seductive nightgown? Why was there the scent of rosewater in the air, and
a bottle of wine laid out on the dressing table?

Was it just sexual gratification
that she once again sought? Or was some other crafty purpose spurring her
actions? Julian knew that Mercy’s sweetness had a price, and he wondered
cynically just what payment she intended to exact from him tonight.

An awkward silence stretched
between them. At last, Mercy cleared her throat and asked, “Would you care for
a glass of wine?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She went over to the dressing
table, picking up the bottle of wine Henrí had uncorked. She poured a glassful
for herself and one for Julian. Returning to his side, she handed him his
glass, taking a sharp breath as her hand brushed his. Both of them warily took
a sip.

He studied her through narrowed
eyes. “So, Mercy, what’s the occasion?”

She took a hearty gulp and set her
glass down on a nearby table. “I needed to talk with you.”

He laughed dryly, taking a deep
draft of the wine. “It’s apparent that you want something from me tonight. So
talk.”

She hesitated, her heart pounding.
At last, in a small voice, she whispered. “Henrí came to see me this morning.
He told me everything—how my father really died, and how your—er—friend,
Genevieve Dupree, died.”

Julian swung away, thrusting his
fingers through his hair. “He had no right.”

“But he did,” Mercy said
plaintively. “He was right to tell me. You should have told me yourself, long
ago.”

He whirled on her, his eyes bright
with bitterness. “Would you have believed me? And would you really have wanted
to know what your father did?”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes,
I would have believed you. It would have helped me to understand . . .”

“Understand what?” he demanded
cynically.

“You,” she whispered intensely.
“How much you’ve endured and sacrificed, how good you’ve really been to me.”

He laughed ruefully. “I don’t want
your damned gratitude.”

“But you’ve gotten my scorn—just
as Henrí said!” she cried in anguish. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“You were a child,” he muttered.
“A child who had already lost both parents.”

“You wanted to protect me?”

“Yes,” he admitted hoarsely.

“But you didn’t protect yourself!
You lost so much because of my father. And to think of how I blamed you . . .
I’ve been wrong—unforgivably wrong, for so long.” She dared to touch his rigid
shoulder. “Did you love her?”

The muscle jumped beneath her
fingers. “Love whom?”

“The girl who died—Genevieve
Dupree.”

He stared at her, his eyes
expressing a world of emotion. But he did not speak.

“Henrí told me how you suffered,”
she went on, twisting her fingers together. “How you were shattered by it all.
Oh, Julian. I’m so sorry.”

He clenched his fingers over the
stem of his wineglass, as if that gesture alone could hold at bay all the
emotion teeming inside him. He stared at Mercy’s stark, anguished face. So the
girl finally knew the truth. Indeed, he appeared to be witnessing a
transformation in his bride; the cold hatred of years seemed to be slipping
away. Truth to tell, he hungered to drag her into his arms and kiss her until
nothing existed but the two of them—

But then he saw the pity in her
eyes, and something died inside him.

She did not care for him! She was
only motivated by guilt! She was only offering pity, misguided
sympathy—something he’d never wanted! He’d much rather deal with her malice.

“Sorry?” he repeated ironically.
“It must be quite a burden,
ma chère
, not knowing what to do with all
your hatred. You’ve been carrying it around for ages, directing it at me.”

“Wrongly so!” she cried.

“Ah, yes, wrongly so,” he agreed
with heavy irony. “But you couldn’t have trusted me, could you? You had to
believe the worst, always. Now, what do you do when the object of your loathing
becomes—what?—the object of your pity?”

“Julian, please, I don’t—”

He strode away from her and
slammed his empty wineglass down on the dressing table. The silence that
followed was awful, screaming out at them both.

Mercy drew near and touched his
arm. “Julian—”

She gasped as he turned and hauled
her violently into his embrace. She staggered on her feet as she stared up into
his blazing eyes.

“No matter, my love,” he said with
a mocking softness that slayed her. “Do not worry your sweet head. There’s no
need for pity, or apologies, or empty declarations of your devotion. Haven’t
you told me before precisely what I mean to you? What this marriage means to
you? Let’s be done with pretense for once and admit it. What we have is this .
. .”

And he dragged her off to bed.

Amid her smothered protests, they
fell across the counterpane together, his hard body pinning hers to the
mattress. Mercy reeled with desire and fear as Julian’s mouth caught hers with
savage hunger. His hand moved brazenly to raise her gown, and she trembled at
his intention, desire twisting painfully in her belly.

While Mercy’s body craved her
husband’s possession, all her instincts told her that this was wrong. He had
scoffed at her apology and her feelings. He was trying to demonstrate that what
they had was just physical, and this debased them both. She pushed against his
chest.

“Julian, no,” she implored,
blinking back tears. “Not this way.”

“Then how?” he cried in an
agonized voice, searing her lips once more.

His tongue was deep in her mouth
now, plundering rapaciously. Her gown was hiked high above her waist. As he
paused to free his manhood from his trousers, her hands relaxed against his
shoulders. Let him take her this way, she thought fiercely, if only it would
ease this terrible dark hurt in him.

At this sign of softness in her,
he drew back and glanced down suspiciously. “What—no more protests, Mercy? Are you
ready to accept this marriage for what it really is?”

“Please—just don’t hate me,” she
whispered back brokenly.

At her unexpected words, all the
violence in him died. They stared at each other, breathing hard.

Julian’s expression was stark, his
words the barest whisper. “You think I hate you?”

“Yes!”

His expression grew shuttered
again, and his voice was filled with hoarse fatalism. “If this is hate,
chère
,
then God forbid that we should ever love each other.”

Ironic though his words were, they
soothed something in Mercy. When Julian kissed her again, she threw her arms
around his neck and kissed him back hungrily, trying to communicate with her
body the truth that he would never believe coming from her lips. When he
pressed his hand between her thighs, she opened to him willingly. Desire
consumed her in a throbbing wave as his rough thumb found her aching nub. She
stared up into his burning eyes, ripping open his shirt and perching her hands
lightly on his bare, muscled chest. When his hot manhood moved boldly between
her thighs, her fingernails clawed his smooth flesh. His hands seized hers
then, his fingers digging into her wrists with fierce possessiveness as his
fervid gaze held hers.

Mercy was unprepared for the shock
of his sudden, deep penetration. Her mindless cry brought out the wildness in
him; he locked his arms about her waist and held her to him fiercely. Even as
he pressed hard to possess her, his lips settled over hers in a trembling kiss
that was sweetest torture. Mercy whimpered and tossed her head in abandon,
writhing in ecstasy beneath him. Julian gripped her chin and stared into her
passion-flushed face. He drove her mad with slow, deliberate thrusts and
watched the shock waves of pleasure drift outward to dilate the very pupils of
her eyes. He listened to her sharp, out-of-control breathing.

Her passionate surrender seemed to
ease some demon in him. “
Chérie”
he murmured raggedly, taking her lips
with enervating tenderness.

Mercy kissed Julian back with all
the torment and need in her body. She yanked down the straps of her gown and
brought his mouth to her breast. She encouraged him with wanton whispers as his
teeth hungrily took her nipple. Then she kissed his hair, his rough cheek, his
strong jaw, his lips, and moaned inarticulately into his mouth. She gasped her
delight when his arms trembled about her, when his loins broke into a frantic
tempo. She moved her hips provocatively in return.

Their lovemaking grew fevered and
intense. They devoured each other, each one seeking the love that both held
tightly imprisoned in their hearts. Emotional release did not come, but soon
physical pleasure stampeded them both with an intensity that rocked them to the
depths of their beings.

For a moment, they struggled to
regain control of their racing hearts, their ragged breathing. Then they fell
back onto the mattress together, their bodies still locked.

An unexpected, aching sadness
welled up in Mercy’s heart, her throat. The mating had been glorious, yet why
did she feel this sudden, wrenching emptiness? Why was she blinking back tears?

Julian gently disengaged his body
from hers. He stood at the side of the bed, his expression unreadable as he
began to methodically remove his clothing. Minus his shirt, he looked golden,
fierce and determined in the soft light, especially with his blue eyes fixed on
her so intently.

Staring at his bare, muscular
chest, she gulped. “Julian—

“Don’t talk,” he ordered hoarsely.
“Sometimes I think we should never talk, you and I.”

Even as she tried to protest, he
silenced her with a rough, possessive kiss. As he straightened, he pulled the
gown from her shoulders.

“No words, love,” he whispered
intensely, pressing her back. “Only this.”

***

The next morning, Mercy somehow
faced Julian over the small breakfast table in their room, after a night that
had afforded them little rest, but much passion.

Mercy’s fingers trembled as she
lifted her demitasse of cafe au lait. Every inch of her still seemed to throb
from the imprint of her husband’s fierce lovemaking. Yet why did she feel so
strangely unfulfilled? Why was she again on the verge of crying?

She eyed him sitting across from
her. He had shaved and dressed for work, and he appeared quite formidably
handsome as he scowled over his newspaper. She realized that she felt this appalling
emptiness because she was certain now that he would never love her.

Hadn’t he made it clear last night
that she was only a convenience to him? Now more than ever, she felt certain
that he’d only married her out of some sense of guilt or obligation. Surely he
would much prefer being with Justine and Arnaud. The very thought made her
choke back a sob. She realized she simply could not go on with so much hurt and
dishonesty between them.