Master

by Colette Gale

  One more night, and he would be gone.

  And she would be alone with his father.

  Fernand followed through on his threat to come to her chamber the next night.

  Mercédès was exhausted from the party of the night before, and the emotion of saying farewell to her son earlier that day.

  She had just been divested of her gown, crinolines, corset, and chemise, and had been dressed in a warm flannel night rail. Her maid was brushing her long dark hair.

  “Charlotte, you are dismissed,” said her husband as he came in the door.

  The maid took one look at the set expression on the comte’s face and, glancing at Mercédès, gave a quick curtsy and left the room.

  Her mistress couldn’t blame her: the comte hadn’t darkened her door for nearly a decade—since Albert had become old enough to realize what was going on in the house—and Charlotte had only been with her for five years.

  “Fernand,” she said by way of greeting. It was neither welcoming nor frigid. It was a statement. After all, he was her husband. He had every right to come to her bed whenever he wished.

  Mercédès was not foolish enough to attempt to deny him. During the early part of their marriage, she’d tried to love him— or, at least, to pretend that she didn’t wish he was Edmond, to hide the tears that came after they copulated, to allow her body to try to respond to his. But she couldn’t fully let herself go, and that was, ultimately, what caused his anger . . . and then the humiliations and torments that followed.

  Fernand was jealous of Edmond. He always had been, and always would be—despite the fact that Edmond had been dead for more than twenty years.

  “You can take that off,” he said now, walking over to the bed, pulling off his own nightshirt as he did so.

  This, she could do. This was simple. Hundreds, thousands of other wives had done so, did so, every night.

  Mercédès unfastened the six cloth-covered buttons that marched down the front of her pleated nightgown, and pulled it over her head. She glanced at herself in the mirror as she made her way to the bed, where Fernand lay, naked and waiting.

  Her skin was still golden, and mostly firm, except for the angry red lines from the bones of the corset that still marked her skin ten minutes after it had been removed. Her breasts had lowered a bit over the years, but they had become fuller after her pregnancies—four of which had ended in early miscarriage— and even more generous in these last five years, when her curves everywhere had become more pronounced. Her waist was much slimmer when tamed by the corset, of course, yet there was still a definite hourglass shape to her figure, and her belly made a gentle curve. But Mercédès knew that she was still a beautiful, desirable woman.

  Standing in front of the bed, she divided her waist-length hair into two parts and tied it together at her nape, then again, and again, before pinning it into a makeshift knot at the back of her head, aware of how her breasts lifted tantalizingly when she raised her arms.

  Fernand’s eyes were flat as he watched her, and his cock lay like a large white worm, curled into the dark hair that spread between his legs. It didn’t look as though it was ready to rise to the occasion.

  Mercédès lowered herself onto the blanket next to him, and closed her eyes as he reached for her. Any vestige of affection she might have had for him had evaporated long ago, when he’d turned ugly and humiliating in their chamber. Now she merely lay there and let him do as he wished.

  Or tried to do.

  Her nipples reacted partly to his ministrations, and partly to the chill in the room—tightening, pointing—but when his mouth closed over one of them, and he began to suck loudly and avidly, she felt hardly any response twinge down in her belly. She made a soft moan, however, knowing that men appreciated that, and drew herself up to touch his cock. It had made a bit of an effort to come to life, but there was still much further to go. Perhaps if she took it into her mouth, it would hurry things on a bit.

  But even after she closed her lips around it, and worked up and down over its head, letting her saliva lubricate the flimsy length, it was still loose and soft. His fingers dug into the tender skin of her back, as though to encourage her, but even her soft moans and teasing tongue made little difference.

  It was the same story as before.

  During the first months of their marriage, Fernand had been only a bit more easily aroused. It wasn’t until a few months after Albert was born, and Fernand returned to her chamber, that she realized why mating with him was so difficult.

  He preferred men.

  Though he’d wooed and married a beautiful, desirable woman in order to display her as a symbol of his masculinity, and in an attempt to banish his homosexual tendencies, it hadn’t worked as well as he’d obviously hoped it would.

  Mercédès wouldn’t have cared so much about his preferences—after all, she’d agreed to marry him although she loved another—if it hadn’t been for the humiliations that ensued: when he could not find satisfaction with her, he brought others to their bed, most usually men—but sometimes a second woman would help provide enough stimulation for him.

  The memories of those nights of twining bodies, limbs everywhere and grasping hands, too many mouths and the sight of Fernand bowing over the back of some other man, while Mercédès remained within his easy reach, had been burned into her brain. The shame of having to disrobe in front of another man—or woman—to be fondled and kissed and touched by her husband, or whomever else he invited. The gasps and deep groans, the slip and slide, the questing fingers and the demanding mouths . . . she preferred not to think about those dark nights, the way they’d made her feel, the humiliation of being beneath or next to two grunting men, or being entwined with another woman while her husband labored above her, in her. The way her body often responded to unsolicited stimulation, becoming aroused and titillated.

  Even now she gave a shudder and tasted grease in the back of her throat.

  And on those nights when Fernand didn’t have a willing addition to their bed, and he was unable to find his release . . . his hand or fist would fly, his roughness would send her sprawling onto the bed or, worse, the floor.

  A night like that had sent her running the next morning to Marseille those ten long years ago. But fear that he’d keep Albert from her had brought her back home.

  After another night like that, a year after she’d returned to Paris, Albert had begun to ask questions his father didn’t want to answer. Questions that had given Mercédès nearly nine years of peace from her husband’s whims.

  And tonight, the night after Albert had left, when Fernand found himself in the same frustrating position, he could not contain his anger and humiliation.

  He raised his hand to strike Mercédès once—only once. But this time she was ready for him. She had a gun in her hand, procured from under the mattress. “I will be leaving in the morning for Marseille, for Julie is ready for her confinement. I shan’t return until Albert is home. Now leave my chamber.”

  He did, dangling white worm and all.

  And the next morning, once again, she left the house on rue du Helder. But this time, it was not a frightened flight. It was a calculated plan.

  She’d decided long ago that she would never beg or plead again.

  Mercédès visited with Julie Morrel and her husband, Emmanuel, when she arrived in Marseille.

  “Will you stay away from him this time?” Julie asked her. Her belly was so round that it protruded higher than the walnut table next to her.

  “Until Albert returns,” Mercédès told her truthfully. “There is no telling what Fernand will say to Albert if I’m not there when he comes back. And while our son is home, he won’t bother me.” She didn’t know why her husband had been motivated to come back to her bed, but whatever the reason, it appeared that his tastes had not changed over the years he’d stayed away.

  How foolish of him to put himself in such a humiliating position again.

  “And when Albert marries Mademoiselle
Danglars? What will you do then?”

  Mercédès shuddered. “I don’t want him to marry Eugénie Danglars. There is something about the girl that puts me off, let alone that her father himself makes me ill. I don’t believe Albert wants to marry her either.”

  “My brother, Maximilien, has returned from the army, just in time for the birth of his fifth niece or nephew,” Julie told her, obviously attempting to change the subject to something more pleasant. “He is a captain now, and quite a hero, having saved the life of a nobleman while he was in Constantinople.”

  “Just like his father,” replied Mercédès with a smile. “Doing good for others.”

  “And Lord Wilmore and Sinbad the Sailor,” Julie added, glancing at the red velvet purse that sat in a small glass case on the fireplace mantel of her home. “I only wish I knew how to reach them, to thank them yet again for saving my father. We have never had any correspondence from either of them these last ten years.”

  Mercédès felt a little shiver. She had visited Marseille several times during the last decade and had spent an inordinate amount of time near the wharf. But she’d never seen the tall, bearded, exotic sailor again.

  She’d been so foolish—she could have gotten with child; she could have been carried off and raped or beaten and left to die, or even killed outright. Yet Sinbad had given her a gift by bringing back long-submerged emotions and sensations.

  He’d helped her realize that she was still alive, and could still feel.

  Which was why, although she would never admit it even to herself, when she ran from Paris, she came to Marseille and walked along the wharf, hoping.

  And so, later that afternoon, on her fourth day in Marseille, Mercédès once again made her excuses to Julie and left for her walk. Her friend could have accompanied her, but at her late stage of pregnancy, a nap was more prudent.

  Dressed in a simple day gown of pale pink wool, and a cloak of heavier wool to protect her against the bite of the November sea wind, Mercédès made her way along the streets, following the path she took every day. Past Morrel and Company, toward the tang of the salty air and the busyness of the docks.

  She watched for a time, looking for the tall, bearded Sinbad and remembering the tall, lithe figure of Edmond striding toward her, lately from a ship’s deck. The cold bit the tip of her nose, and her fingers had become stiff. The pungent smell of fish filled the breeze, bothering Mercédès, and at last she turned to go back.

  But just beyond the bustle of the wharves, she felt someone behind her. Her heart began to thump in her throat, and the back of her neck prickled. She turned.

  It wasn’t Sinbad. It was no one she recognized. A man, perhaps in his middle forties, of average height and with the swarthy skin of a Greek, approached her. She realized he was holding a gun when he came close enough to prod her with it.

  “Now you shall not be hurt, madam,” he said calmly. “But you must come with me.”

  “Who are you? What do you want?” she asked, looking around. But no one passing by seemed to notice what was happening. There were four sailors, carrying a heavy crate hoisted on their shoulders. A cluster of women, giggling and pointing and watching the display of muscles from the aforementioned sailors, paid no mind to the single woman being edged back toward the docks.

  “I am Jacopo,” said the man. “Come with me.” He poked her a bit harder with the weapon, and Mercédès had no choice but to follow. “You will not be injured if you do as I say.”

  “But what do you want from me?” she asked.

  “I am taking you to my master.” He directed her around a corner, and suddenly she realized they were at the far end of the docks, near one that was fairly deserted but for a single, well-appointed yacht that sat all by itself. Honey-colored wood gleamed in the sun, and startling white sails snapped under the sea wind. As she neared, Mercédès recognized that the small figurehead, carved of ebony, was that of the Greek goddess Nemesis.

  Mercédès was prodded up the gangplank and found herself on the smooth deck of the small vessel. By now she was becoming truly frightened. At first, she had thought, perhaps crazily, that this was a trick of Sinbad’s . . . that somehow he had found her again and wanted to see her. But there was no sign of the tall, bearded man, and before she had any chance to think, she was urged with the prod of the gun down a short flight of stairs. The passage was so narrow she had to turn sideways in order to fit her heavy skirts through, and she tripped on the bottom step, barely catching herself from falling.

  She heard the shouts and calls, and the sudden shifting of the vessel, and realized that they were setting off.

  “No! What are you doing?” she cried, pounding on the door that had closed behind her after she was shoved down the four steps. “Where are you taking me?”

  No one answered for a long while, but she could tell by the rocking of the yacht that they had left the dock and were setting out to sea. She peered out the small porthole, watching in apprehension and disbelief as the dark patch that was Marseille disappeared over the horizon. At last she sank onto the narrow bed, staring into the falling darkness, wondering if she’d ever see Albert again.

  At last, hours later, the door opened, and she was treated to the dark face of the man called Jacopo. She realized how much he looked like a pirate, with his unshaven face and red scarf tied over his head. “Now you may come up if you like, madam. We have food if you are hungry.”

  “What do you want from me?” she demanded much more bravely than she felt. She remembered now that ten years ago, Sinbad had saved her from being kidnapped by several men who’d threatened to do this very thing. Her mouth was dry, and her stomach churned so much she was certain she would never consider food. Yet fresh air was a must.

  She came out onto the deck and realized that the sun had lowered quite a bit in the sky. The wind chilled her almost immediately, but she drew in deep breaths of the cool air. Besides Jacopo, there were only two other men on the small vessel.

  They’d been sailing for several hours now, and behind them, she could see the outline of the rocky Château d’If, the island prison etched against the horizon. And behind that great craggy island, far beyond her sight, would be the shoreline of Marseille, and the village where she’d been raised along with Fernand.

  Perhaps she would never see him again either. Her fingers shook and her stomach pitched, and it had nothing to do with the rhythm of the yacht.

  “You are the Comtesse de Morcerf, are you not?” asked Jacopo.

  “I am the comtesse, oui,” she told him, her hands clasped. Yet she would not plead. “I wish to be taken back. My husband will pay handsomely for my return.” She had no doubt of that. He did not wish to lose his wife—of that she was certain, for it was of great importance to him that he was wed to a beautiful woman he could show off in the ballrooms and theater, as well as in the privacy of his bedchamber.

  Jacopo nodded in agreement, the tails of his headwrap flapping. “Indeed he will, madam. And that is exactly our wish. Or, I should say, the wish of Luigi Vampa.”

  “Luigi Vampa? Who is he?” Yet the name sounded familiar to her. A moment later she recalled the brief reprimand Sinbad had given her would-be kidnappers ten years earlier. It would be best for you to release the woman, else I shall have to tell Luigi Vampa that you have tread beyond your boundaries. Only the briefest of mentions, but since she had committed every detail of the event to memory, one that came to her immediately.

  “A fearsome bandit.” Jacopo’s smile revealed a gold tooth. “But not a murderer, unless he is crossed. Nor does he involve himself in the slave trade, so you may consider yourself safe, madam. Now, if you do not wish to eat, you must go back below. We shall arrive at our destination in two days.”

  Two days!

  It was indeed late in the second day that the yacht edged around the shoreline of Corsica and steadied itself straight on toward a small island. As they drew nearer, Mercédès, who had been allowed on deck, saw that it was little more than a
massive rock. Straggling trees and a few tufts of grass were evident as they drew nearer, but other than that, the island looked completely uninhabitable.

  “Monte Cristo,” announced Jacopo with a flourish.

  Mercédès looked with dismay at the rugged land. There was no sign of any buildings or even tents, nor anything remotely civilized. As the yacht came near the shore, she saw two goats stumbling along the ridge of ragged rocks, and then down below, in the beach, the black ashes of a fire’s remains.

  Surely they didn’t mean to stay there?

  “Where is this Luigi Vampa?” she asked boldly. “Surely a man who is as great a bandit as you claim doesn’t live in such primitive conditions.”

  Jacopo laughed as if in delight at her pointed question. “No, no, Signor Vampa does not live here . . . but you are wrong if you believe these are primitive conditions.”

  Mercédès looked at him, brushing messy, tangled hair away from her forehead. Two days since she’d seen a brush or comb, or even a cloth to wipe her face! The marks from her stays must be permanent by now, and her dirt-hemmed, sea-crusted gown would never be the same. She’d given up wearing her gloves since getting on the yacht, and they were crumpled on the floor in a small puddle of seawater. “I see nothing but rock that’s difficult even for the goats to maneuver. And do you mean to say that Signor Vampa, who is certain to demand a ransom from my husband, will not even be here to greet me?”

  “No, not Signor Vampa. You will be kept here in comfort in the quarters of his friend while all arrangements are made for your husband to retrieve his wife. And now,” he said, making an odd sort of tsking sound, “that is all I will say. You may ask the remainder of your questions to my master. Go below until we have dropped anchor, madam.”

  Another two hours passed before the vessel was secured enough for Mercédès and Jacopo to disembark. By then, the sun was resting on the edge of the sea, ready to dip beneath it, and she was hungry.

  And nervous.

  The yacht couldn’t be beached, of course, so there was knee-deep water through which she had to slog—or would have had to, if Jacopo hadn’t lifted her and handed her down to his companion. Mercédès closed her eyes against the mortification of being carried by the burly, sweaty sailor who looked—and smelled—as if he hadn’t bathed for weeks.