Master
Page 28
Ali did not try to stop her; perhaps that hadn’t even been his intent. Yet her arm felt warm and strange after his touch. She knocked again, a bit harder, trying not only to capture the count’s attention, but also to dislodge the tingling on her skin.
At last, she heard the peremptory “Come” from within.
Opening the door, she peered in. The count was standing at the windows, at what appeared to be his favorite spot in the room. “Your Excellency, Monsieur Morrel has arrived. He desires to speak with you on a matter of great urgency.”
Monte Cristo seemed to shake himself from some deep meditation and turned to look at her. The afternoon sunlight glowed behind him, streaming through the window and filtering through his thick mass of messy hair. He wore only a simple white shirt and trousers. The shirt cuffs were undone, hanging over his dark hands. Even his feet were bare, and the three buttons at the throat of his shirt were open.
“Maximilien?” Whatever burden he carried seemed to lighten a bit, and the lines of his face eased. “It will be good to see him. I will tell him all, unburden my heart. Yes, send him in. And . . . I think perhaps I will eat something, Haydée.”
She bowed and, moving backward from the room, gestured for Morrel to enter. The young man did so with such speed and alacrity that she wondered how he had resisted earlier. “My God, Monte Cristo, are you ill?” she heard him say before closing the door behind her.
No sooner had the latch clicked than she turned and started toward the stairs—intent on personally asking Bertuccio to arrange for some food and drink for his master—when Ali’s strong hand reached for her again.
This time, she did not shake off his touch, but stood there, next to the door, looking down at her slippered feet, waiting.
Two large black feet, banded with gold cuffs, moved into view beside her own narrow, blue silk ones. They sidled up, trapping her feet between his large toes and the elegant arches into which those digits swept.
“I’m sorry, Ali,” she said in a low voice, still looking down. The cream of his loose trousers, the hems embroidered with gold designs that she’d never noticed before, was pale and simple next to his rich dark skin and the cerulean blue of her gown. “I should never have . . . I was wrong to act as I did.”
His other hand had closed over her shoulder, and now he held her on both arms. But still, she didn’t look up at him. She couldn’t.
He gave her a little jerk, just enough to get her attention, and at last she lifted her gaze to see him. His eyes were wary, shuttered . . . yet she saw something else there. Hope, perhaps. Or a question.
He released her to sign. I will be leaving soon.
The bottom dropped out of her stomach. She tightened her fingers into the sides of her gown. “Where are you going?”
Home. Back to my home.
Her mouth was so dry, her stomach churning so hard, that she thought she might vomit right there. She’d thought to have more time . . . more time with him, to see him, to talk to him, to smell him . . . to give them another chance. Her another chance.
Haydée wanted to say something easy and light, to wish him well, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she could do nothing but look up at those thick pink lips and think about never tasting them again.
Will you go with me?
“Go . . . with you?” She could hardly believe it; there were all sorts of things blazing through her mind.
But before she could respond, the doors to the bedchamber flew open and out strode the Count of Monte Cristo. Dressed, combed, booted, and determined. Maximilien Morrel followed him, his face much lighter than when he’d arrived.
“You’re sure of it?” Monte Cristo was saying. “Someone is trying to poison Valentine Villefort?”
“There is no doubt, after three other deaths by poison in the household,” the young man replied as they stopped on the landing. “Valentine and I have kept our love secret for so long because her father would never allow us to be together—but I knew I could trust you with the knowledge. I knew you would help us. And now that you have told me you’re Edmond Dantès, as well as Lord Wilmore and Sinbad the Sailor—the men who saved my father from ruin and death—now I know for certain I was right to come to you.”
“Indeed. I’ve been so . . . foolish,” Monte Cristo said, that last word so quiet that Haydée was certain she was the only one to hear. “I could have been the cause of her death,” he muttered to himself as his young companion walked back into the chambers to retrieve his gloves, neither of them appearing to notice her and Ali.
“The sins of the fathers visited upon their sons . . . How could I have believed in that—believed in the destruction of innocent lives? I would have been no better than Morcerf and Villefort themselves. Thank God, Mercédès helped me to see . . . how foolish I’ve been . . . . And now . . . yes, I will save Valentine.” He said this last more loudly, speaking to his friend as he reappeared carrying his gloves. “This, then, is a reason to live. Love.”
Morrel would have started down the stairs, but Monte Cristo stopped him. “I will save her. I vow it. But you must trust me. Will you?”
“As I would my father,” Morrel told him, grasping the count’s arm.
“Now I will go on to see Valentine myself, for you cannot go there, of course, if you are to keep your love secret. But never fear. All will be well in the end.”
Monte Cristo was nodding now; it seemed as if he spoke to himself. “All will be well.” Then he looked up directly at Haydée and Ali for the first time and said, “Ali, I have need of you for one more task. Will you, my friend?”
Ali gave a willing bow and stepped away from Haydée to follow his master. As she watched the count bound away, down the spread of stairs, she was relieved that he seemed to be purposeful again. Yet . . . her sharp gaze had not missed the lines of grief and weariness that seemed to have gone deeper in the last day, as well as the glint of anger that still limned his eyes.
His Excellency had found a new purpose, yet something disturbing still ate at him.
But even that unpleasant realization paled in comparison to the fact that Ali wanted her to go home with him. Wherever and however it could be possible, he wanted her to go with him.
For the first time in weeks, Haydée felt alive. She went through the rest of the day with a glorious smile on her face and warmth in her heart. She sank into bed that night, knowing that the next day Ali would return and she would be able to tell him how joyful she was to be going home with him. It didn’t take much for her to drift off to sleep, for she was no longer worried about what the future might hold.
She awoke suddenly.
Moonlight glowed from beyond her windows, tingeing her bedchamber with all shades of gray and blue and silver. Someone was there . . . large and sleek and silent. Spicy and rich.
Her heart leaped and her stomach twirled as the thick, low cushions that made her bed dipped slightly to the side as he climbed on next to her.
“Ali,” she murmured as his head moved closer, shining in the moonlight. The gold hoop at his ear glinted as he reached for her, and she eagerly wrapped her arms around his thick muscular neck. “You’ve returned.”
She’d had a bit of an awkward day after he left with Monte Cristo, having been unable to immediately accept Ali’s invitation to go home with him. She didn’t care where it was or what it was like, she wanted to be with him. But he’d been called away as she stood there with her mouth open, stupidly repeating his question . . . left to wonder if he thought she’d been shocked or repulsed, rather than delighted. Oh, most definitely delighted.
As she was now, with his thick, soft lips that had found the thrust of one hard, long-neglected nipple. He sucked firmly, magically, using his tongue to swirl around it and tease over the crinkles of its base before drawing nearly her whole breast into his wide, hot mouth. Haydée shuddered and trembled beneath him, as his fingers slipped down over the low rise of her belly and up again onto the lift of her smooth mound, and then down into the
heat and wetness of her quim.
There was nothing . . . nothing . . . like the pleasure, the knowledge, of a man’s touch, she thought dazedly, as he slipped those knowing fingers down and around and between the folds of her skin, spreading her thick juices over her swollen flesh slowly, tortuously. As if he had all the time in the world. Her pip was hard and ripe when he found it under its little hood, the perfect pressure of his fingertip jiggling and teasing her until she writhed beneath him, gasping against the musky skin of his jaw.
She felt the smile on his face as he bent to kiss her again, sucking her top lip deeply into his mouth as he continued to play and stroke and finger between her legs. The sweet, low rise toward her orgasm built, higher and higher, twining through her body as her legs fell open, her nails dug into his arm, her mouth opened in short little pants.
Oh, my . . . oh . . . Her hips moved against his hand, desperate and needy, and she heard his low masculine chuckle next to her face.
“Ali,” she gasped, biting her lip to keep from screaming.
In response, he moved his finger from her and shifted quickly and smoothly to bury his face between her legs. He didn’t wait, didn’t ease into her: Instead, he devoured her, his full, mobile mouth closing over the wet, swollen folds of her quim, sucking and nibbling and licking. . . . Oh, wonderful, nudging and slipping and teasing without pause, as though he’d saved up his hunger forever. She gave a little scream as he found her pearl, ripe and full to bursting, and when he gave a long, undulating pull on it, vibrating it between his full lips and teasing it with his tongue, Haydée felt everything, every part of her, fill up, then explode and fall away into a long, sweet, shuddering tumble.
Her mouth was dry from breathing through open, gasping lips. She drew her tongue over them, wetting them, and suddenly he was on top of her again, his mouth, moist and musky and tasting of her, eating at her lips, thrusting his tongue between them, long and deep and sleek. He grasped her hips, and she lifted them, using her hand to slide between them and wrap around that incredible length and width of cock, hot and heavy.
She guided him to her, then removed her grip as, with a long, easy thrust, he filled her. Tears sprang to her eyes at the beauty of it, the sensation of being one with him, joined so deeply and so fully . . . and then he began to move, and she too, their breath hot and gasping as he held himself over her body, the muscles of his arms bulging like small boulders under her fingers as he thrust in and out, sliding easily into her and out, deep and long and sweet.
He moved faster, and she did, raking her nails over his arms as she tried to pull herself closer, wanting to crawl up and into him, into his hard, rich body, spicy and musky and smooth and powerful . . . in and out and up and down until their movements were frantic and crazy and the only sound was the slam of their bodies together, the soft sucking sounds of her juices holding on to him.
She felt him release, shooting hard and fast inside her, and she met him with her own peak, with one last thrust of her hips up toward him, one last gasp before she fell back onto the cushions, her body sifting lazily into the nothingness of pleasure.
He held himself up on his strong arms for a moment longer. Then he too sagged down, trembling under his skin, and rolled to the side, bringing her with him.
“I love you, Haydée.”
For a moment, it didn’t register through the haze, the satiation of her pleasure . . . but then . . . She would have bolted upright if he hadn’t had those impossibly powerful arms holding her against the slabs of his chest. “You can speak?”
She felt him nod against her, his arms tightening when she tried again to sit up and look at him. “Those are the first words I’ve spoken in more than three years.”
Haydée lay there, her hand open on his warm chest, his skin damp with exertion, the deep ka-thump of his heartbeat beneath her ear. “Why . . . why did you not speak for three years? Does His Excellency know?”
“Indeed, he does.” Haydée was distracted for a moment by the richness of his voice, with an exotic accent that made his syllables short and clipped on the end, yet deep and husky. It was heavy and dark, and it matched him perfectly. “I am from Nubia, as you know—but what you do not know is that I am what you would call a prince, or a duke, of that country. My family is very powerful and rich, and a little more than three years ago when we—my father and mother and siblings—were on a voyage to the Indian Ocean, our ship was destroyed during a large storm. I shouldn’t use the word ‘ship,’ ” he added in his formal, clipped voice accompanied by a soft laugh, “for His Excellency disabused me of the notion when he saw the remains of our vessel. It was little more than a yacht, in fact, and had been unable to survive a great hurricane in the sea. Monte Cristo saved us—all of us—and in return, I, as the eldest in my family, and as is the custom in my country, pledged myself to him in service for ten years.
“At first he wanted to relieve me of the obligation, but I insisted on repaying the debt as a matter of pride and honor. It is what would have been expected of anyone in my country—and such a long period of service was due to the fact that it was not only my life that he saved, at the jeopardy of his own, but also my entire family’s. When he saw that I was intent on it, he at last agreed, but with some modification, and asked that I serve him as his personal guard until such time as he concluded this business in Paris. As is the custom with my people, I took a vow of silence for the duration of my time in service to him, and that is how I came to be here. It took me some time before I was able to communicate easily by signing, but since His Excellency wasn’t fluent in my native language, nor me in his, we began our relationship with hand gestures.”
Haydée could scarcely accommodate the details of the story. “And now?”
“Now,” he said, those soft thick lips moving to slide over her delicate temple, “I have been released from his service, and I wanted the first words I spoke to be the ones that told you how I felt.”
“And you did not . . . that whole time, you never spoke. Even when . . . even . . .” Her voice trailed off as she remembered him bound against the chaise in the gazebo, how he’d fought and struggled, and yet had never said a word. Though he could have.
A man who would keep his vow under such duress . . . She shivered, remembering how she’d wronged him and weakened him.
“I nearly did,” he said, and his lips moved against her skin so she knew he was smiling again. “But I focused on the day when I’d be able to tell you all, and then I . . .” He stopped, pressed a kiss against her cheek. “You nearly destroyed me, Haydée. I couldn’t make you understand that my honor rested on my service to Monte Cristo. . . . I couldn’t take from him. I would not have been able to live with myself if I had.”
“I’m sorry I forced you,” she said. “I regretted it almost the moment it was over.”
“I know. I could see it in your face, but I was angry, and I wanted you to know that you’d hurt me. But I never stopped loving you.”
“And now . . . you are free to go?”
“Yes. His Excellency has released me. I may go back to my people, or I may stay and work with him. Not as a servant, but as an equal.”
“He has finished his business here in Paris, then,” Haydée said, smoothing her hand over the planes of his chest, gently tickling the tight whorls of black hair there.
“Yes. Tomorrow, he says, shall be the last of it, and then he will be free to go.”
“Go where?”
Ali shrugged against her, his arms squeezing her tight. “I do not know, and I’m not certain he does either.”
“I have known him for nearly a decade, and I’ve never known him to be uncertain or indecisive of anything,” she said sadly. For now that she’d found her completion, she felt more aware of her master’s deficits. “But I think you are right. He has lived with nothing but his drive for vengeance for so long. I don’t think he knows how to live without it. He is a very unhappy man. And I think the one person who would make him happy . . .”
"I love you, Ali.”
SEVENTEEN
Confrontation in the Garden
One week later
Marseille
Mercédès crouched in the small garden, pulling up the tenacious weeds that had taken over the plot during the last decade of neglect. June was too late to start many of the plants she liked, but there was still time to plant tarragon and sage seeds, both of which grew quickly, if she could clear out a sunny area in this small, fenced-in yard. Much of it was shaded by olive and oak trees, or by the house on one side, and the tall wood-plank fence that was meant to keep the deer and rabbits from feasting on tender seedlings.
A new shadow fell across the rich Marseille soil, sending Mercédès twisting around and back onto her heels. She had to shield her face against the sun to look up at him.
It wasn’t Albert—he had left two days ago to enlist in the army, refusing to use any of the fortune that had passed to him upon Fernand’s death. Like Mercédès, he would rather create his own life than take something from such a man. He even disdained his father’s name, opting to take Herrera, Mercédès’ surname, for his own.
No, it wasn’t Albert standing over her. Even though the bright stream of sun shadowed the details of his face, she knew those shoulders, that proud bearing. Her heart skipped a beat, and her stomach plunged. “Edmond.”
His boots rested on the stone path behind her, scuffed and worn, spread apart as if he needed stability and power in his stance. “Mercédès.” He said her name as if he’d saved it forever and then suddenly needed to feel it on his tongue. Softly, tentatively.