Rogue's Mistress (37 page)

“My God!” he cried raggedly.
“After all this time, how can you still think—”

But she wasn’t allowed to hear the
rest, because he was crushing her against him and kissing her with savage,
consuming need. His tongue slashed hard against hers; his teeth ground into her
lips. A moment later, he dragged her across the room to his bed.

As he pressed her down, his first,
impassioned words surprised her. He gripped her face between his hands and
demanded, “Are you in love with Gerard?”

“No!” she cried, her pulse
thundering in her ears.

Yet the wild light in his eyes did
not diminish. “Has he bedded you? Has he tried to? Tell me the truth now, damn
it.”

“No.” As much as she feared the
violence in Julian’s eyes and body, Mercy knew that cringing from him now would
only confirm his suspicions and drive a deeper wedge between them. He was hurt,
and only her unequivocal gift of self could heal that hurt. She threw her arms
about his neck, covering his face with wild kisses. “No, Julian, never! I could
never want Anton or Philippe, or anyone else. I only want you.”

Her heartfelt words seemed, at
last, to reach him. He moaned and buried his lips against her throat, nipping
her soft flesh. She reeled in delight at the heat of his mouth, the roughness
of his masculine cheek against her neck.

Having his wife back in his arms
at last, Julian felt equally consumed with emotion. He couldn’t believe that
Mercy had actually come back to him, .that she had begged his forgiveness and
was now giving herself to him freely. Yet, despite her reassurances to the
contrary, he still smoldered with hurt and anger that she had left him, and
burned with jealousy over every moment she had spent with the Dubois—and
especially with Anton Gerard. He still wondered if she had come to him mainly
to save Gerard’s life. His feelings of pain and possessiveness and suspicion
only added fuel to the flames of his ardor now.

His hungry fingers pulled down the
bodice of her gown, and he teased a taut nipple. She gasped as he caught the
tight bud between his teeth. She thrust her hands deeply through his hair and
held him tightly to her breast. He groaned in satisfaction. When he flicked his
tongue to and fro over the sensitive nipple, she bucked wildly; but he merely
pinned her to the bed and continued relentlessly, delighted that he had made
her lose control.

A moment later, he muttered an
impatient curse and brought her to a sitting position. She tried to kiss him
again, but he held her at arms’ length. She viewed him with wide, languorous
eyes, her moist, bruised lips slightly parted as he began quickly stripping her
of clothing. Never had she looked more beautiful to him. His gaze raked over
every inch of her supple flesh that he revealed—her creamy shoulders; her ripe
breasts with their puckered nipples; her flat, smooth belly; the downy curls at
the joining of her thighs; her long, slim legs. Yet it was the vulnerable,
giving light in her green eyes that most aroused him, making his heart pound
with fierce need, making his manhood stiffen to an agonized readiness.

“Julian, I’ve missed you,” she
whispered tenderly.

“Oh, God,” he groaned.

He tore off his vest and shirt,
then covered her lush body with his own. She felt heavenly beneath him—soft,
naked, and supple. He felt a shudder seize her slim body as his hair-roughened
chest abraded her soft breasts; he watched her toss her head in abandon and
chew on her index finger. He loved what he was doing to her, loved what she was
doing to him. With a sensual growl, he pulled the finger from her mouth; when
she winced in frustration, he leaned over, replacing the digit with his tongue
and lips. She moaned and sucked eagerly, drawing him into her mouth, and he
thought he would die of pleasure.

He kissed her until she was dizzy
and mindless, deep, rapacious kisses that explored every recess of her mouth
and made her whimper in near-painful arousal. Afterward, his hot, tormenting
lips streaked down her trembling body. He nipped her aching breasts, sucking
hard until she cried out in joy; he plunged his tongue brazenly into her belly
button, thrilling to her shocked moans. He moved even lower, teasing the soft,
curly mound between her thighs with his lips and tongue.

She stiffened and protested, “No,
Julian.”

But he was not to be denied
anything this afternoon. He shot his wife a quelling look and firmly parted her
thighs, burying his lips in her sweetness.

A powerful tremor seized Mercy and
her hips arched off the bed. It was scandalous and electrifying, having Julian
kiss her so intimately, in the full light of afternoon. His face was rough
against her soft inner thighs; his tongue and lips were hot, wet, and
tormenting against her most secret, forbidden parts. She felt intoxicated,
aroused to an unendurable level, straining to breathe.

Yet there was even more, realms of
agonized pleasure she had never even dreamed of. When Julian found the tiny nub
of her passion and flicked his tongue over it inexorably, the ecstasy grew so
intense, she couldn’t bear it. Yet he wouldn’t stop—he simply wouldn’t. He held
her down firmly and continued to taste, torture, and tantalize her at his
leisure, refusing to ease up one iota, even when she sobbed and begged and
pleaded. She could only claw at the sheet and bite her lip, straining for each
breath as he drove her to madness again and again.

At last, he freed his turgid
manhood from his trousers and moved upward, clasping her hands with his and
pinning them down on the sheet. His teeth began to nip her soft face, then his
mouth crushed into hers again. His hot, engorged shaft was pressing against her
throbbing, aroused womanhood, teasing her relentlessly, and she felt as if she
would surely die if he didn’t possess her fully, now. She pulled her hands
free, digging her fingernails into his shoulders and begging, “Julian, please .
. . Oh, please.”

With a satisfied growl, he rolled
on his back and drew Mercy astride him. He caught her breasts roughly in his
hands and stared up into her wide, fervid eyes; he wanted to watch her come
apart as he drove into her.

When he surged into her, she was
very tight, and at first he couldn’t get in deeply enough. He slipped his hands
beneath her buttocks and lifted her, plunging powerfully. She cried out at the
exquisite friction of him inside her. She was not sure she could contain him;
yet she arched her back eagerly and settled herself against his raised thighs,
her feverish body demanding more, though it was impossible.

Beneath her, Julian was in heaven,
buried in the hot constriction of her, drowning in the look of surrender in her
beautiful eyes. His gaze roved over her fiery, tumbled hair, her sleek body,
and lingered on the tight, sweet place where they were joined. Mercy’s soft
lips, her welcoming heat, were the first peace or pleasure he had known in so
many weeks. His soul might still be in purgatory, and Mercy’s heart might
forever elude him, but in this way, at least, she was all his. He yearned to
devour her until they melded into a single being.

“
Mon Dieu
, I can’t get
enough of you,” he whispered thickly.

Abruptly, he sat up, and she
whimpered in delight as he locked their bodies even more deeply. When he
stroked her aching nub with his thumb even as he thrust into her vigorously,
the ecstasy grew so intense that she cried out.

They mated there in the fading
light, without shame, two supple bodies in perfect alignment and harmony. Mercy
gave herself to her husband as never before. She knew that only these moments
of shattering oneness could heal the estrangement between them.

“Do I reach you when I make love
to you?” he whispered raggedly, his teeth sinking into her shoulder. “Do I
touch your heart at all?”

“You—have my heart,” she panted back.
It was as close as she had ever come to admitting that she loved him, and it
was enough to disintegrate all that remained of his control.

In the next instant, her very soul
lay open to him as he poured his life-giving seed inside her womb.

***

What followed was a night without
pride, without shame.

The second time Julian made love
to her, he stood at the edge of the bed, wrapped her legs around his waist, and
stared into her eyes as he took her until she begged for mercy. He had none.
When at last he sagged against her, when both of them were trembling and
replete, she realized that it wasn’t mercy she had wanted, after all.

The third time, she made love to
him. She slowly worshipped his muscled body with her eyes, her lips and her
tongue. Then she boldly latched her mouth onto his manhood, delighting in his
savage moans. Afterward, he rolled her beneath him and loved her so long, so
exquisitely, that she wept in his arms . . .

They talked, lying naked in bed,
sipping wine by candlelight. Mercy laced her fingers through his and kissed the
corner of his mouth, telling him again how sorry she was about Arnaud. When his
jaw tightened and his eyes flashed with hurt, she merely repeated her words of
sincere condolence, comforting him until he no longer looked at her with such
pained suspicion. Only then did she ask him gently if the child had suffered,
and he replied with soft anguish that Arnaud had passed peacefully.

“And Justine,” Mercy added
awkwardly. “How is she?”

“As well as can be expected,” he
answered with a sigh.

Gazing back at his wife, Julian
was tempted to tell her that Justine was about to marry Henrí. They’d come so
far today, and he longed to completely bridge the chasm between them.

But then he wondered if Mercy
would believe his words, or even believe that the child Justine carried wasn’t
his. He decided he should wait until the fragile rapport they had achieved was
stronger . . .

Studying Julian’s abstracted
expression, Mercy wondered what else she could say to comfort him. She realized
that it might be some time before he could talk freely about his lost little
son. She thought of telling him that she hoped they would have a child soon,
but then caught herself in time. While she would pray for a baby and she knew a
child would be well-loved and special to them both, she didn’t want to risk
intimating that their child could replace Arnaud.

She squeezed his hand. “I wish
there was something I could do to help you with your grief, Julian.” Her voice
faltered. “I know what loss is like.”

He gently brushed a tear from her
cheek. “Of course you do, after you lost both your father and your mother.”

She shuddered, resting her head
against his shoulder. “I’m so glad you were there with her that night.”

He wrapped an arm about her and
kissed the cloud of her hair. “I am, too,
chère
. Your mother spoke of
you, you know.”

Mercy drew back. “Did she? What
did she say?”

He smiled tenderly. “She told me
how good you were, how bright and quick and beautiful, how proud and spirited.
How much joy and love you brought her. How you always tried to help, small as
you were.”

She sighed, snuggling against him.
“I’m glad her memories of me were good ones. Tell me more.”

Julian went on talking, relating
everything he could remember from that night so long ago. His voice broke when
he spoke of the peaceful moment when Corrine had passed away, of how he had sat
with her dead mother until dawn.

“Oh, Julian, you’re so dear,”
Mercy whispered afterward. She hugged him tightly and wept in his arms in a
great emotional release. Julian held her but did not interrupt her private
moment of healing. Mercy felt as if she had finally come full circle, letting
go of her grief over both of her parents and, with it, all her bitterness
toward Julian.

A long time passed before she
squeezed Julian’s hand, before she dared to ask, “Do you remember me, too, from
that night?”

He twisted to look adoringly down
at her. “Oh, yes, love. I remember holding you—how piteously you sobbed, how
helpless I felt trying to comfort you.”

“But you did,” she whispered
hoarsely. “You were always there when I needed you.”

He raised her chin with his
fingertips. “Mercy, can we make this night a beginning?”

“Yes,” she whispered back. “No
more secrets?”

He nodded, pressing his fingers
against her mouth. “And no more running away?”

She nodded, hugging him tightly.

Yet a troubled frown flitted
across Julian’s brow. “What about the Dubois?”

She sighed. “I’m glad I met them,
and I want to see them again. But this place is not my home.”

He gazed deeply into her eyes. “Where
is your home, then,
chère
?”

“With you,” she whispered back
brokenly, stretching upward to press her trembling lips to his.

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The next morning, Mercy and Julian
prepared to leave for New Orleans. When Julian took his wife by the Dubois home
to fetch her things, they suffered through a brief, emotional scene with her
grandparents. Gradually, though, the elderly couple acceded to Mercy’s wishes
in the face of her absolute determination. Mercy was grateful that Julian did
not interfere in her exchange with her grandparents, although she caught him
clenching his jaw more than once. This time, her grandparents were wise enough
to treat Julian with detached courtesy. Mercy ended the visit by thanking the
Dubois for their hospitality and by promising that she and Julian would visit
again in the future. She also asked them to inform Anton of her decision and to
bid him farewell on her behalf.

Later that morning, Julian and
Mercy boarded the small steam packet
Sprite
and headed back for New Orleans. The voyage downriver was rainy and rather chill, but neither seemed to notice
or care; they spent most of their time in their small stateroom, making love.

Mercy felt even more ecstatic
being with Julian now than she had on their honeymoon. The terrible anger and
jealousy that had haunted them for so long had at last receded.

Mercy realized that Julian still
grieved for Arnaud; indeed, sometimes when he didn’t know she was watching him,
she glimpsed a faraway, haunted look in his eyes. But at least his grief was
out in the open now. She often hoped that she was no part of that lingering
sadness in his eyes, that he felt as joyous regarding their reunion as she did.

For Mercy was still not completely
sure where she stood with her husband. She knew he wanted her in his bed, but
he’d never once said he loved her. And, while she was virtually certain now
that he was no longer sleeping with Justine, she continued to stew about her
husband’s relationship with his former mistress. She often feared that Justine
was still the first choice of Julian’s heart, a choice denied him due to the
constraints of law and society.

Thus, Mercy wondered if she and
Julian could ever have a true marriage in the deepest sense—with complete love,
trust, and sharing. She also dreaded their return to New Orleans, since she and
Julian had never truly been happy there. Other people and bitter memories had
always crept between them.

The afternoon they docked at the
levee was mild and bright, suffused with the sweetness that came after rain.
Nonetheless, there was a discernible tension between Julian and Mercy as Henrí
met them at the docks and drove them home.

Back at the town house in the
Quarter, Mercy felt somewhat reassured when he caught her hand as they crossed
the fragrant courtyard together. “I must go out for a while now, dear,” he told
her apologetically. “Go see Mother, and—”

“Go check on Justine?” Mercy
finished, but without anger.

He nodded soberly. “Do you mind?
As time goes on, I won’t need to visit her quite as much. But now . . .”

“I understand,” Mercy said
bravely. “Go see her, Julian. I think you should.”

He smiled in obvious relief. “I’ll
be back early.” Giving her a wicked wink, he added, “Why not have dinner sent
up to our room?”

She tried to pick up his bantering
mood, though it was hard. “I take it you want to make an early night of it,
then?”

“Indeed.” He gave her a mock leer
and lowered his voice. “I want you waiting in our bed, with nothing on.”

Mercy smiled as she watched him
turn and stride across the courtyard, his male figure so tall and splendid in
the gilded, late afternoon light. Yet her expression became troubled as she
turned toward the cypress stairway and started upstairs.

Though they were both making a fine
show of things, the mood between them had definitely changed since they had
returned to New Orleans. Still, Julian had been honest with her just now—she
had to grant him that. It was a big step forward for him, and it was incumbent
on her to trust him in return.

***

Half an hour later, Julian arrived
at Justine’s cottage. He sat with her on the settee; their expressions mirrored
their shared grief.

Justine was dressed entirely in black,
and there were pale circles beneath her eyes. Julian noted her stomach was
still relatively flat, but figured her pregnancy would soon begin to show. All
in all, she did look much better than she had weeks ago when Arnaud had passed
away. “You have been well?” he asked gently.

“Yes. And you?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“I know just what you mean,” she
returned with a heavy sigh.

Julian glanced about the room,
absorbing the eerie silence. Only the tick of the mantel clock sounded in the
void. “The house seems so empty without him.”

“I know,” she replied. Her
pain-filled eyes met his. “I just can’t adjust to it, Julian. I keep listening,
as if at any moment I’ll hear—”

He squeezed her hand convulsively.
“I understand.” Eager to distract her, he asked, “The pregnancy is progressing
well? What does the doctor say?”

She smiled. “He says I am doing
just fine.”

“
Bien
.” Julian slanted her
an admonishing look. “You must marry Henrí right away, you know.”

“Do not fret—we still have plenty
of time. And what of you and Mercy? When you arrived, you mentioned you’d
brought her back from Natchez . . .”

Julian smiled tightly. “Yes, she’s
home. And I’m proud to say we’re back together now.”

Justine’s eyes gleamed with joy.
“Oh, Julian. I’m so glad. Did she tell you why she ran off?”

He nodded, his eyes suddenly
glazed with pain. “The morning when Arnaud died, she came here and saw us
through the window, in an embrace. You see, she didn’t know our child was
desperately ill, and she assumed . . .”

Justine’s hands flew to her face.
“Oh,
mon Dieu
! I do hope you explained everything to her?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And what about me and Henrí? Have
you told her of our plans to marry?”

“No, I haven’t. Frankly, I’m
afraid—”

“That she’ll think the child I’m
carrying is yours?” Justine finished wisely.

“Yes,” he admitted, his stark eyes
meeting hers. “Even after you marry Henrí, I’m afraid she’ll still suspect it.”

“Oh, Julian.”

He sighed. “God, Justine, even
after all this time, I’m still scared to death I’ll lose her.”

She reached out to touch his
trembling shoulder. “Should I speak with her, then?”

He shook his head and spoke with
deep emotion. “I fear it wouldn’t do any good. It won’t take much for her to
turn her back on me again. She has always believed the worst of me.”

“Oh, my poor dear.”

“In Natchez, she told me she has
her own money, her own life now. That she doesn’t need me anymore. Then later,
when she found out about Arnaud, we reconciled. I was so desperate for her,
Justine, that I took her back on any terms. Now I’m bedeviled by doubt,
wondering if she really wants this marriage, or if she only came back to me in
the sympathy of the moment.”

“Julian.” Justine squeezed his
hand, and her compassionate eyes met his. “I’m sure she came to you because she
loves you.”

“If only I could believe that.”

“And there’s nothing I can do to
help?”

He shook his head and patted her
hand. “Just many Henrí. And soon.”

Justine bit her lip. “We do plan
to marry in a few more weeks.”

“In a few weeks?” he cried.

“Henrí wants to get a good start with
the tobacconist shop you bought him,” she explained. “And we also want to wait
until after All Saints’ Day, in deference to Arnaud.” When Julian would have
protested again, she held up a hand. “It’s bad enough that we must marry during
the mourning period, but I cannot countenance draping my son’s grave as a new
bride. We plan to marry the day after, which will still be several months
before the baby is due.”

Sobered by her words, Julian
nodded, raising her hand to his lips. “Whatever makes you happy, dear.”

“I’m afraid happiness may elude us
all for some time,” Justine returned morosely. “But you will tell Mercy of our
plans?”

“Of course,” he said, though his
eyes remained troubled. “I’ll be sure to tell her before you marry.”

***

Two weeks passed, and things went
relatively smoothly between Mercy and Julian. He was at her side every night,
and as far as she knew, he had not seen Justine again. In bed, Mercy and Julian
could not possibly have been closer, though she still hungered for more
communication between them outside the bedroom.

While Julian could be warm,
tender, and loving, he could also be closed and taciturn. As the days passed,
Mercy noticed that Henrí was now absent from the house most of the time; yet
when she remarked on this to Julian, he shrugged off her query, offering no
explanation. Of course, this was not a matter of earth-shattering importance;
still, this small evidence of Julian’s unwillingness to share with her made her
feel left out of his life in some measure.

Mostly, though, their days passed
happily. Soon after they returned to New Orleans, Madelaine Devereux invited
the couple to dinner at her home; the instant they arrived, she expressed her
joy at their reunion. Then she quickly changed the subject to spare them both
any awkwardness. She spoke at length of her plans to sail off to the East and
marry Robert Townsend. Julian and Mercy expressed their congratulations, and
Julian assured his mother that he would handle her affairs after she departed,
including the sale of her home.

“But I want you and Mercy to have
this house,” Madelaine protested. “Won’t you need it for the brood of children
you’re planning to have?”

Julian and Mercy exchanged an
amused, secretive glance.

“Besides,” Madelaine continued,
“Robert and I will need a place to stay when we come back on visits. And you
can always stay in your town house in the Quarter during Mardi Gras, or if you
go into the city for the opera or balls.”

In the end, Mercy and Julian
agreed to keep both houses, and Mercy prayed that she and Julian would soon
have a “brood of children” to fill Madelaine’s huge home.

The following week, Julian and
Mercy saw Madelaine off at the New Orleans docks, where she boarded a
three-masted clipper ship bound for New York. Their parting was warm and loving,
with Madelaine promising that she and Robert would return to visit within a
year.

But as Mercy and Julian drove away
from the docks, she felt troubled. She knew that Julian had not married Justine
in great part due to respect for his mother. Now that Madelaine had found her
life, and her happiness, elsewhere, would Julian regret that he had married her
instead of Justine? If such were his thoughts, he revealed no outward sign;
still, Mercy’s doubts persisted.

As the weeks passed, Mercy’s
conscience began to nag her that she hadn’t expressed her condolences to
Justine. She knew that Julian regularly visited Arnaud’s grave; she hoped that
one day he would ask her to accompany him. In the meantime, however, she owed
Arnaud’s mother, at the very least, an expression of her deep sympathy. Despite
her jealousy, her heart did go out to the woman; if she herself were ever
blessed with a child, she could not even conceive of trying to endure the agony
of losing it.

Mercy had the gardener, Rubin,
drive her that mid-October afternoon. They went by the French Market, where she
purchased a large spray of red roses to give to Justine. She inhaled the
perfume of the flowers as they clattered along. Perhaps, she mused, if she and
Justine could become friends, that might be best in the long run.

Soon after they turned onto Rampart Street, Mercy tapped the gardener’s shoulder and pointed ahead toward Justine’s
small bungalow. As he began reining in the horse, Mercy spotted Justine outside
in a faded dress and a slat-bonnet; she was bent over, tending flowers.

When the buggy had almost pulled
to a stop, Mercy watched Justine straighten with a dandelion in hand.

Justine was clearly several months
pregnant!

Horrified, Mercy leaned forward to
address Rubin. “Don’t stop! Take me home! At once!” she ordered in an urgent,
half-hysterical whisper.

The old man could only shake his
head and dutifully snap the reins. The conveyance rattled past before Justine
even spotted them. The red roses lay discarded in a fragrant heap at Mercy’s feet.