Master

by Colette Gale

  For she had her own battle with him.

  And as for that long night filled with memories that she preferred not to remember, but could not banish from her dreams—sounds, smells, sensations; skin to skin, lips on lips, heat and friction and dampness—Mercédès allowed herself little thought.

  She refused to let herself dwell on the way she’d been left for Charlotte to find—arms bound, legs splayed, tight, cold breasts tipped to the ceiling. And Charlotte, who in that morning proved that she was without a doubt worthy of the high salary she was paid, merely untied her mistress’ numb arms and immediately called for a warm bath.

  So, for the two weeks since her bedchamber had been invaded by her husband and her former lover, Mercédès had resolutely pushed the thoughts away and concentrated her attention on the fully blooming gardens that needed to be cut and deadheaded. Certainly the gardeners did most of the work, but harvesting a few lavender branches and admiring the tiny yellow-star blooms on the few tomato bushes reminded her of simpler days back in Marseille, where she had worked in the gardens daily, and sat beneath olive trees with Edmond Dantès.

  And thus it was that she was bent over a fragrant rosemary topiary, sticking several of its branches back into place so that the bird it depicted didn’t look as though it was furred, when she heard the shouts from inside, the loud slamming of a door, and . . . Albert? Was that his voice raised in anger and shock? But he was supposed to be in Normandy with Monte Cristo. . . .

  Mercédès stood, her heart pounding hard for no apparent reason.

  “Father!” Now she heard Albert’s bellow from the inside, the pounding of footsteps as he raced up the sweeping of stairs. He had returned early.

  Unsure why she suddenly felt faint, why her mouth was desert dry, Mercédès gathered up the skirts of her oldest gown, crinolineless for comfort, and dirty now from where its hem had been trodden into the soil, and hurried toward the house. Disregarding the clumps of dirt that scattered from her slippers, she half ran through the French doors from the patio into the sitting room.

  “Albert!” she called, and noticed that the house seemed particularly empty. And quiet. Except for the pounding of her son’s feet.

  “Slander!” she heard him cry from upstairs. “And libel! How dare he! Father!”

  When he came bounding down the stairs, her son was alone. “Where’s Father?” he said, and Mercédès saw that he was carrying the newspaper she recognized as L’Impartial. One that Fernand refused to read, for it was a product of the opposition government.

  Albert’s face was blotched red with fury, his hair mussed and hanging messily in his face. His eyes bulged with blue veins in their lids, and he looked as though he’d been traveling for days.

  “I don’t know, but, Albert, what is it?” Mercédès asked, uncertain whether he was accusing Fernand of libel and slander, or someone else of the crime.

  “It’s here, in the paper. I warned Beauchamp that if he ever printed anything like this again, I’d have satisfaction—and he did it a second time, this time with full-out accusation.” Spit flew from his lips, he spoke so angrily. “The last article was bad enough, hinting that Father had something to hide, that he’d done something immoral when in Janina . . . but this! This horrible article, actually accusing Father of betraying the Ali Pasha outright! The man he was supposed to protect—Father would never have done that! Never!”

  Mercédès didn’t know what to think or to say. Something inside her was whirling and spiraling, and she felt absurdly faint. What had Fernand done? What had he done?

  “Mama,” Albert said, “you didn’t know anything about these articles, did you? You haven’t seen them—the first one was earlier this week, and I warned Beauchamp at the paper. . . . I told him. And then I got word in Normandy that this article had appeared. . . . The count of course allowed me the use of his best horses to get me back here immediately. Mama, you must sit down. And you must tell me where Father is.”

  “He is at work, at the upper house, of course,” she told him. Her brain was functioning so slowly. She took the paper from Albert, and saw it, splashed over the front page: the story that Fernand de Morcerf had bought his count’s title by betraying and foully murdering the man he’d been sworn to protect . . . that he’d sold the man’s wife and daughter into slavery . . . that he’d been believed to be a hero when he received his title of comte . . . when, in reality, he was a murderer.

  “It’s not true, Mama,” Albert was raging. “Don’t look like that! It’s not true, and this will be retracted! I’m going down to the paper now, and then I’ll find Father. I cannot imagine how he’s taking this, but he won’t be alone. There’s talk on the streets of a hearing to be held tomorrow, at the chambers. So quickly, but it’s best to clear his name immediately.”

  Mercédès couldn’t stop him. She watched the tails of his coat flap as he dashed from the room, and her heart shattered.

  Not for Fernand, never for him. Never for that man.

  Not for herself, for how her life would change if these accusations proved to be true. And she had no doubt they were, for she knew the kind of man Fernand was.

  No, her heart broke for her son, who loved his father so, and would no longer be protected from the knowledge of what the man was really like.

  Haydée sensed an air of anticipation about His Excellency as they settled in the coach, on their way to the opera again.

  She had a strong feeling that, unlike the last time they attended the opera, the Morcerfs would not be in attendance this evening. Only yesterday she, Haydée, had appeared at a hearing at the chamber of the upper house in the Palais du Luxembourg to testify that the Comte de Morcerf had indeed murdered her father and sold his wife and daughter into slavery.

  The Comte de Morcerf had been convicted and humiliated, and had left the palace in disgrace. For all she knew, he was locked away in some beautiful house somewhere here in Paris, with his kind wife, Mercédès.

  But His Excellency, here in the carriage with her, had a certain aura about him, as if he were waiting for something. Something else. For it had been he who, returning early from Normandy, had ordered her to appear at the upper house, and to at last tell the story of what had happened to her family. And to point out the man who had betrayed them.

  Monte Cristo looked particularly formidable tonight, handsome and dark and sleekly groomed, yet that harshness, that intensity that had been a part of him ever since she’d known him—but which had grown more noticeable since their arrival in Paris—seemed to simmer just below the surface more than ever.

  Haydée felt as though something ugly was to occur, and that he was merely waiting for it.

  “I hope that you shall be happy, at last,” she said suddenly, there in the dimly lit carriage.

  Monte Cristo turned his sharp-planed face toward her, and even in the low light, she could feel the spear of his eyes. “What do you mean, Haydée?”

  She wasn’t afraid of him, despite the frigidity in his voice. And since she’d unburdened herself in front of the upper house of Parliament, she felt freer. Her tragedy was now fully known.

  If only Ali would stop averting his eyes whenever she came within his sight.

  If only he would not have that flat, empty look in his face.

  Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she pushed those worries away. She couldn’t dwell on them now . . . though, dear heaven, her heart felt as though it was being shredded every time she saw him, she sensed there was something else at stake tonight in relation to her guardian . . . something bigger.

  “I mean, Your Excellency,” she began carefully, blinking rapidly to get rid of the tears, “you have been set upon this scheme of vengeance for so long . . . perhaps at last, now that it is done, you will find happiness.”

  For a long moment, as a taut silence stretched, Haydée feared she’d spoken out of turn. After all, she was a slave, even if he didn’t really treat her like one.

  “I do not think I know what happiness is,�
�� he said at last. Instead of being soft and contemplative, his words were cool and emotionless. “But I must believe that, having carried out God’s will as His avenging angel that He’ll look kindly on me when I’m no longer on this earth.”

  The carriage lurched to a stop, ending the conversation abruptly. When Haydée alighted from it, she tried to brush against Ali, to catch his eye, as she moved past him . . . but he set his dark gaze resolutely over her head. His face was sober and still, and she felt another stab in her heart.

  Her moment of fulfillment, of deep, soul-crushing passion, had been so fleeting . . . and now meant absolutely nothing.

  She had begun to understand that emptiness that seemed to pervade the Count of Monte Cristo.

  Whatever it was that he expected to happen didn’t occur as they strolled to their box—as always, the most prominent in the theater. Monte Cristo greeted everyone politely and even graciously, and of course it was Maximilien Morrel to whom he gave a kiss on each cheek and a heartfelt embrace.

  Haydée saw some of the edge ease from the count’s face now that he was in the presence of Monsieur Morrel. She was glad that the lonely count had at least one person about whom he truly seemed to care, and who showed the same affection for him.

  It wasn’t until the first intermission that the door of their box slammed open.

  Haydée jumped and spun around in her chair, but the count merely craned his head. “Ah, Albert,” he said calmly, “I trust my horses brought you safely and speedily back from Normandy— what was it, two days ago?”

  “I am not here to exchange false courtesies or to extend the pretense of friendship,” replied the young Morcerf. “I have come to demand an explanation.”

  Haydée noticed, as the man stalked to the front of the box in what was clearly a confrontation, that he was pale and trembling. His voice carried easily beyond their box, and other operagoers were looking on in curiosity. Two other young men, both with set, serious faces, followed Albert Morcerf into the box, and she saw the way Ali shifted, making certain he was in their view.

  “An explanation? At the opera?” Monte Cristo asked.

  “Since you have hidden yourself away, it seems the only place that I can find you to demand an explanation for your perfidy is here,” replied Albert Morcerf, still in a voice he took no care in subduing.

  “I’ve been at my home all day,” responded Monte Cristo mildly. “I would not consider bathing in one’s own home ‘hiding away.’ Now, if you would kindly leave until you are in better control of your faculties, perhaps—”

  “Do not play word games with me. I shall get you out of your home, and on my terms, for certain,” Albert responded, and Haydée noticed that he was holding a white glove in his hands, twisting it about angrily, nervously. She thought that there must be some hidden meaning to this, for she saw the count’s attention flicker to that white glove. “I demand an explanation for your actions, for disclosing these lies about my father—and you must understand that I—”

  “And you should understand,” interrupted the count silkily, “that if you wish an argument with me, you will get it. But I might also remind you that the truth is the truth, and accosting the bearer of such news will not change that. And, might I also suggest, Monsieur Morcerf, that it is also a bad habit to announce one’s challenges from the rooftops so that all can hear.”

  Haydée heard the others outside the box, all of whom had been watching from their own seats, gasp. It was true: The name of Morcerf had been shouted from house to house during the last day, as the downfall of the Comte de Morcerf became public knowledge. And now the Count of Monte Cristo had all but announced to the city at large that there was an altercation between the two.

  There was a sudden movement from Albert, as if he were about to step toward the count, the white glove brandished in his hand, but Maximilien Morrel caught his wrist in midair. The white glove fell to the floor, and as a silence more complete than during any performance descended over the theater, Monte Cristo reached over and picked up the mangled glove.

  “Monsieur Morcerf,” said the count in a horribly still voice, “I will consider your gauntlet thrown. Know that I will return it to you at dawn. Now leave or I will have you thrown out.”

  THIRTEEN

  The Visitor

  Later that night

  Paris

  Later that night, Haydée sat alone on the terrace in the back of the house at number 30 Champs-Élysées.

  She and His Excellency had returned from the opera no more than an hour ago, having left during the second intermission amid the stares and whispers of the other theater-goers. There had been no sign of Albert Morcerf, but within the ripple of murmurs, she’d heard the sibilant syllables of his name following them out of the theater.

  The chair she’d chosen here on the terrace was made of curling, curving wrought iron, and its handle was cool under her fingertips as she closed them around it. Other than that, she tried not to feel anything, for she feared if she thought about what had happened . . . and what was to occur at dawn this morning . . . she would suffocate.

  In her lap lay the paper His Excellency had given her upon their return—and the very reason she’d fled the confines of the house, needing to breathe fresh night air. It was the only way she could keep from crying and screaming.

  She could not bear to lose another father.

  A quiet noise drew her attention, and she looked up as one of the doors opened onto the covered, flat-stoned patio on which she sat.

  Ali.

  Her stomach burned and she looked down at the paper in her hands; it was too dark to read the words there, but she knew what they said.

  When he touched her shoulder, she shook her head, willing him to leave. When he did not, when those strong fingers curled a little more deeply into her shoulder, she said, “I want to be alone. Go away, Ali.”

  He removed his fingers and, before she quite knew what was happening, yanked her out of the chair and onto his massive lap as he sat on a stone bench. His arms were large and warm and so strong around her, and Haydée felt a bit of something stir within her . . . deep in her belly . . . but she pushed it away.

  She couldn’t let it bubble up, let the hope rise again.

  Then she became aware that the light filtering from the house illuminated Ali’s face, and her own, on the bench where they sat. Firmly, he turned her so that she faced him and could see his strong, solid face and the gleam of his ebony head and chin and cheeks. His hands moved sharply, briefly.

  He won’t die.

  Haydée shook her head, the tears starting to well there again. “There’s always a chance,” she said.

  He was challenged, so he will shoot first. He won’t miss. He never misses.

  “But . . . what if Albert Morcerf shoots out of turn? I couldn’t bear it, and, Ali . . . it’s not because I love him like—” She caught herself from finishing and snatched in a deep breath, then steadied her voice. “He’s like another father to me, and I don’t want to lose him.”

  He made you free. He’s protected you by making you free.

  She looked down at the paper, still clutched in her hand. Yes, he’d always said he would make her free, and now he’d done so—but free to do what? He’d never treated her like anything but a daughter, and there was no other place she wanted to be, no one she wanted to be with—

  He told me what you said.

  Haydée looked at Ali now, realizing his mouth was so close to hers . . . so close, and she could feel the warm, gentle brush of his breath, scented minty with caraway seed. She almost gave in to her need and moved into him for a taste, but she didn’t. No, she couldn’t do that to herself again.

  You asked him to free me instead of you. His arms tightened around her, and she felt the soft touch of his hand over her hair, still coiled and braided, French-style, at the back of her head. Thank you.

  “But he didn’t listen,” she replied, and shoved the paper at him. He pushed her hand back to her own l
ap.

  There are things you don’t understand. Things like honor betweenmen.

  “I don’t care about honor,” she raged, suddenly feeling the sorrow and fear ready to burst forth. “Honor caused my father to die. It caused him to believe in a man who had none and who killed him in cold blood. Honor is nothing.”

  Suddenly, she was bawling into Ali’s tunic, her body shaking, his arms tight around her. He smelled so good, felt so strong and warm and close, and that little swirling sensation in her belly began to uncurl and simmer there. And she held her breath and forced it away.

  The next thing she knew, he was kissing her, carefully, sensually . . . in a manner that had never been between them. As if he wanted to show her how gentle he could be, his full lips molding softly to hers, his hands open wide over her narrow back, pushing her close to him.

  Haydée felt the stirring of his cock between them, shifting in his thin, silky trousers beneath her thigh, and a sudden spear of lust shot to her sex as she remembered the feel of him inside her. Oh, wonder.

  She pulled away. She wanted to be with him. She wanted him so badly her fingers trembled and her breasts were tight, and her quim was awakening . . . but not this way.

  Not because he thought he owed her. Not because of his foolish honor, believing that she should be thanked for asking for his freedom—for offering to exchange.

  She wanted him to want her as an equal. As one he loved, and with no qualms, no regrets, no hidden agendas.

  “No,” she said, pulling herself away from him. The taste of him was still on her lips; they tingled and pounded now, and she wanted nothing more than to bury her mouth back against his. “No, Ali, not . . . this way,” she said.

  Then, before he could respond, a sudden altercation in the house drew their attention.

  “I must see him!” a voice cried urgently. A woman’s voice.