Master

by Colette Gale

  So. He would have it at last. Have her the way he wanted her, have his revenge, have her under his control. But to save the life of her child, there was no question what she would do.

  “I’ll do it,” she told him without hesitation, without fear.

  For nothing could be worse than she’d experienced at the hands of Monsieur Villefort. Nothing.

  He seemed to relax further, to release his last remaining bit of tension. He glanced out the window, and she saw the faint color of dawn over the squat cream-colored buildings. “You will return here tonight at eight o’clock. You’ll need no clothing, only one dress and perhaps one night rail. You won’t need a maid. Do give my regards to your husband.”

  She stood, pulling to her feet on stiff legs, awkward from the weight and volume of her skirts. He made no move to assist her.

  FOURTEEN

  Acceptance & Regret

  Early the next morning

  Paris

  As dawn approached, he planned for death.

  He wore a dark coat with a crisp white shirt under it. A simple, subdued neckcloth of bloodred, appropriately, and a dark brown waistcoat. Fine trousers of rich brown, and butter-soft leather boots the color of ink.

  No one would say that the Count of Monte Cristo appeared less fashionable in death than in life.

  He walked over to the chair in which he’d sat only hours ago—when Mercédès had begged for her son’s life—looking out once again at the city spread before him. He couldn’t help but recall the day he’d first arrived here in Paris and stood at this very same span of windows, watching the sun prepare to rise.

  How much he’d accomplished in these last two months. Nearly everything he’d planned had been seen to its fruition . . . or soon would be. Caderousse was dead, though by no fault of Monte Cristo. Danglars, Villefort and Morcerf were only days—perhaps hours—from their final ruin.

  And the beauty of it all was the knowledge that these men had created their own downfalls through years of deceit, dishonesty, greed, jealousy—even beyond what they’d done to poor Edmond Dantès.

  All Monte Cristo had done was help expose the ugly underbelly of the lives they’d chosen to live.

  His only regret was that he wouldn’t live to see it happen, that they would never know who’d exposed their true beings. That Edmond Dantès had come back for his revenge.

  Yet perhaps it was best this way, that his life should end at the hands of Albert Morcerf. Monte Cristo smoothed his fingers over the back of the chair, letting his hand drop to the sleek wood of its curved arm as he moved to sit down in it once more.

  In retrospect, he couldn’t believe that he’d given his word to Mercédès—after all this, all of his years of planning and plotting, burning with the heat of vengeance, he’d softened that little bit, edging back from his goals, changing the ultimate ending he’d planned. He’d die instead of Morcerf’s son, and his empty life would end.

  As the one challenged in the duel, Monte Cristo would have the honor of shooting first. He would aim in the air and fire harmlessly into the trees. Then Albert, who was better than a fair shot, would take aim and put a bullet into Monte Cristo’s heart, finishing the destruction his mother had begun years ago.

  And yet . . . for the first time that he could remember, he felt . . . easier. Lighter. Just the slightest bit, but enough that he noticed the lessening of tension in his chest, the ease in his neck and jaw. Something like serenity.

  He would have no blood on his hands.

  Glancing down to where his wrist rested on the mahogany arm, his fingers slipping around under it, he remembered how Mercédès had gripped his hand there just a short time ago. Her pale green skirts were piled awkwardly on the ground around her, her oval face tear-streaked but determined, her rich, thick hair still twisted and braided and coiled into some impossible design . . . from which only a few wisps had dared come loose. Her eyes. Dark and sorrowful, boring into him . . . seeing him.

  Seeing . . . what?

  A little shiver skittered over the back of his shoulders, and he realized his hands were trembling. He saw those lush lips, red, always so red and wide and inviting, her pert chin, the slightly tilted tooth, that smooth golden skin . . . felt such warm curves beneath his palms. Remembered the delicate smell of some flower she preferred.

  Monte Cristo swallowed, gathered his thoughts back together, reminding himself . . . and felt the slow burn of anger replace the tease of lust, of memory, that had tugged at him. Tried to soften him.

  She was the one piece of his plan that would be left unfulfilled, the one bit of vengeance unserved . . . and perhaps the one that dug the deepest. Of all of them—Caderousse, Danglars, Morcerf, Villefort, Mercédès—it had been her face that had haunted and mocked him the most. The one that disturbed his sleep so deeply.

  They’d all been heinous. But Mercédès . . .

  Monte Cristo shuddered in his chair as dawn broke along the horizon.

  He should have done what he wanted to do: what every tendon and muscle and urge, every bit of consciousness, drove him to. He should have dragged her into his arms and kissed those mocking lips, made her cry and sigh and beg for him, taken her to the bed and driven himself inside her until he could forget. Until he was sure she never would.

  Then perhaps he could go to his death satisfied.

  Resolute, he stood, walked to the desk, and picked up the box that held his dueling pistols.

  If, by the grace of God, he made it back alive, then he would know his vengeance was not yet complete.

  And God help her if he returned.

  FIFTEEN

  The Punishment

  Later that afternoon

  Paris

  "His Excellency has returned.”

  Mercédès looked up, her heartbeat jolting into hard spikes. She’d returned to the count’s house as requested—required—some hours ago, well past dawn, and had been shown to his chambers again, only this time they’d been empty. Still smelling of his essence, still vibrating with his presence . . . yet empty.

  Left to her own devices, she’d paced and sat and paced more. . . . She’d opened the windows and the large door that led to the balcony, and walked out there for a time, breathing in the summer air, looking over at the sparkling Seine dotted with boats . . . then back into the lush chamber, wondering what would happen here tonight.

  And every night for the next eighteen months.

  When she had left the home of her husband earlier today to come to Monte Cristo, she’d told Fernand she would never return. She and Albert, after he had returned from meeting Monte Cristo, had both packed the few things they wished to keep from their lives as Morcerfs, leaving him and his false, superficial life. Albert would join the army, and she . . . she would live out this eighteen-month sentence with Monte Cristo. Then she would go back to Marseille and live the simple life she’d always intended. The one she’d been meant to live.

  Now the door had opened without a knock—the first sign that Monte Cristo indeed meant to treat her as a servant, rather than a guest—and Bertuccio walked in as he delivered his announcement. He was followed by a young woman dressed as a servant carrying a pile of cherry red silk.

  “He is uninjured,” said the majordomo after a moment. Perhaps he’d expected her to ask . . . but Mercédès hadn’t needed to. She already knew from Albert that he’d return alive, but no other details about what had occurred. “He is uninjured, and he will expect you to attend him momentarily. Galya will assist you.”

  Mercédès bowed her head in acknowledgment, keeping her face blank and her bearing regal until Bertuccio closed the door behind him, leaving her alone with the maid. He needed to give no further instructions, for it was obvious that the maid was to help her don what appeared to be a simple red gown, little more than a man’s long shirt, shapeless but for a slender belt that tied at the waist. It covered her from neck to floor.

  Perhaps ten minutes after the maid left, the door opened again. Mercédès heard it
behind her; but she’d turned so that her back was to it, and the view of the city was spread in front of her. Monte Cristo might expect her to do his every bidding, but she would not dance attendance upon him. Not when he’d held her son’s life as ransom for her servitude.

  The door closed with a soft click of finality that seemed to hang in the air for a moment, then was banished by the soft swish of trouser legs brushing against each other.

  “You told him everything.”

  Whatever she’d expected, it hadn’t been that half-bewildered, half-angry statement. Unsure how to respond, she remained silent, continuing to stare out over the streets and houses below and beyond, at the shimmer of the river, the vendors and their carts of food . . . as her fingers slipped nervously over the front of the silk tunic. The back of her neck prickled, and she felt him moving into the room, toward her . . . but keeping a distance.

  “When you left here last night, you went to Albert and told him what they did to—Dantès. What his father did. You knew he would call off the duel.”

  “Is that what happened?” she asked at last, still watching the sailboats beyond. There was one with a white sail and blue stripe that zigzagged from shore to shore with amazing speed. “He called off the duel?” Albert hadn’t given her the details, only that Monte Cristo was unharmed.

  “He refused to shoot. He apologized and asked my forgiveness.”

  “So you forgave him for the sins of his parents. How merciful of you.”

  “I forgave him for insulting me.” His words were short and sharp.

  Mercédès said nothing, and remained resolutely facing away, still waiting. Waiting for a command, waiting for a touch, waiting for something. He moved again, closer, and she heard the quiet whisk of clothing, then a soft flutter that sounded as if something had been tossed away, onto a chair, perhaps.

  “Yet you aren’t surprised. You knew I would come back, hale and hearty, and yet you returned here.”

  “To fulfill my part of the bargain. To serve my sentence, to fulfill your need for vengeance. To complete your plan.” Now she turned toward him, knowing that anger sparkled in her eyes even as she kept her demeanor calm and undisturbed. She wouldn’t let him know how the blood was racing through her veins, how her stomach curled and twisted in a combination of apprehension and anticipation, how even now, the sight of this man who was no longer Edmond Dantès—yet was—still managed to move her. To make her mouth dry and her heart slam harder, and her fingers itch to touch his warm skin.

  He stood half a room away, yet it was as if he were pressing against her. His eyes bored into her, dark and sharp, as though trying to read her and understand why she didn’t cower from him. He’d removed his coat and neckcloth and now wore only dark trousers and his white shirt, along with boots and a waistcoat. His hair fell in disarray, in long, straight spikes that brushed his cheeks and jaw, giving him a sort of animalistic look. His sensual lips, the top one straight and narrow, the bottom one full, as though he’d just bitten it—she looked away, down at the hands that were working on the buttons of his waistcoat, and she straightened her spine. She couldn’t allow any wistfulness to surface . . . or he would destroy her.

  “Where would you like me, Your Excellency? On my hands and knees, or spread on the bed?” she said coolly, reaching to pull the pins from her hair.

  His fingers paused, then continued their task as he gave a curt nod toward her. “Take that off.”

  “As you wish.” Her eyes boldly meeting his, challenging, she untied the slender belt and let it fall to the floor. “It seems to me we could have eliminated this step by dismissing the maid after she removed my shift—instead of giving me this to wear.” Her fingers shook, but she held the neckline of her tunic firmly and whisked it over her head. The flair of the silk sent a light breeze over her, tightening her nipples and provoking little shivers over her skin.

  Monte Cristo’s gaze moved over her naked body as he pulled off his waistcoat. “An excellent suggestion, that. I’ll make certain to clarify it in the future.” He sat on the bed and began to pull off one of his boots—a task with which he would normally have his valet assist. Stubbornly, Mercédès made no move to help.

  He glanced up at her with those dark eyes as the first boot thumped to the floor. “As for the future, and my other expectations: You’ll attend social engagements with me. On my arm, in the eyes of society—and make no mistake, the nature of our relationship will be clear to all.”

  “And how will I be dressed during these occasions? Thusly?” She gestured to her naked self. “That would cause quite a stir.” Monte Cristo yanked off his other boot and dropped it to the floor a bit more loudly than the first one, but he did not respond.

  Mercédès felt the need to goad him further; she wanted this tension, this waiting, to stop and for him to do something besides give her those flat, emotionless looks. She knew something else lurked beneath them, and by God, she wanted it out in the open—whether it be passion or anger or sorrow, she wanted something from him . . . something, so she knew how to let herself feel. “And will you also invite your friends to join us as well? The Comte de Pleiurs would be quite interested, I do believe. And Monsieur Hardegree, before he returns to London.”

  He stood suddenly, and she saw that his fingers had curled into his palms. Then they relaxed and he replied, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that will never happen. Come here.”

  “Shall I play the valet for you, master?” Mercédès asked, walking toward him, her heart thumping madly.

  But when she reached to touch the placket of his trousers, his hand whipped out to close tightly around her wrist. He gave a sharp pull and she bumped flush into him. One strong hand came up behind her neck as he released her wrist to wrap his other arm around her waist, and then he bent his stark, angry face to hers.

  His fingers bit into the soft sides of her nape, and his mouth was just as hard and firm. No contest, no mercy, just strong, deep plunder that left her breathless and pulsing. He pulled back just as abruptly, releasing her, and without another word, with no change of expression, he began to unfasten the placket of his trousers. His lips—full and dark red—were slightly parted, and she heard the soft whistle of breath between them as he stared down at her while his fingers fumbled with the buttons.

  Mercédès licked her lips, suddenly dry, but puffy and warm from the kiss. She couldn’t read him, but God help her, that kiss had left her wanting more.

  With rough movements, he opened his trousers, sliding them and the drawers beneath down lean hips. His cock lifted from their depths and was suddenly before her, between them, raging purple and red.

  She didn’t need to be told what he wanted. . . . She sank to her knees on the thick rug and lifted her palms to slide them under his tight, dark-haired ballocks, curling her fingers around the demanding erection above them. He gave a quiet sigh, and she felt his body lurch softly against her, as if in surprise, or relief, that she was touching him.

  He was heavy and warm in her hands, and Mercédès tightened her fingers around his length, moving the foreskin back and forth in a light, teasing motion . . . just enough to reveal the crown of his head. When she leaned forward to slip the soft, round tip into her mouth, she felt the sensation of him tensing everywhere, against her, as if waiting for . . . something. For her to stop, to pull away, to tease—as he’d done to her?

  But then she forgot about the games, and tasted the salty drip of moisture on her tongue, felt the warmth of his flesh stretching her lips, and when he gave a low, desperate groan, she felt a matching wave of arousal slash through her. He was thick and firm, and he swelled more and sighed again as she sank and rose against him, tilted and tongued, pushing and pulling his hips in a long, slow, easy rhythm that had him trembling against her face. His musky male smell, sharply familiar and arousing, filled her nostrils, and the velvety heat of his cock tasted heavy and salty in her mouth.

  With a sudden cry—a low exclamation—he shoved his cock into the bac
k of her mouth, and as she gasped, she felt the shot of his seed spurt into her throat as he pulsed against tongue and lips and teeth.

  When he finished, he released her shoulders roughly and turned away before she could speak. The sticky, salty taste still in her mouth, Mercédès rose to her feet and stood on trembling knees, fully aware of the way her nipples had grown taut and her quim moist.

  “On the bed,” he said curtly, still not looking at her.

  As she walked over, her stomach spinning and her heart slamming hard in her chest, she heard the quiet whoosh behind her and knew he’d taken off his shirt. A soft shucking sound followed, and the hair on the back of her neck prickled. He was as naked as she.

  “What is this?” she asked, looking at the bed as she slid onto the haphazard pile of cushions and pillows. “I see no restraints? No ties? How surprising.” She rolled onto her back and propped herself on one elbow, one knee bent in the air and the other leg extended straight in front of her, facing the side of the bed.

  He walked closer and now she could see him, completely naked in full light for the first time in nearly a quarter century. She suddenly couldn’t swallow; her throat constricted and her tongue felt like a piece of cloth: clumsy and dry. If Edmond Dantès, at nineteen, had been tall and wiry and lean, tanned on the arms and in the vee of the chest, sparse hair growing there and along the line of his belly . . . all with the promise of growing into a fully mature man . . . the Count of Monte Cristo had more than fulfilled that promise.

  Still lean and slender in the torso and hips, he was now darker with hair, which fully covered his upper chest and grew to a long slim line to the curling bush that held his cock and ballocks. His shoulders were wide and square, his arms had grown thicker, curved with muscle, and his thighs . . . powerful and wide, jutting from the sharp edge of hips and a flat, hairy belly. As if skin were a premium, there wasn’t a bit of pudge or paunch anywhere on his body; it was lean and golden and tight, like that of a statue. Tighter than any man she’d seen naked.