Rogue's Mistress (16 page)

Oh,
mon Dieu
! She had
thought he could not possibly arouse her more, but she was so wrong! As he
sucked and nipped at the aching bud, she came unstrung, bucking against him
ecstatically, uttering a low cry that was half desperation, half an impassioned
plea. He continued, unheeding, rolling his tongue relentlessly over the
hypersensitive tip; she panted and helplessly thrust her fingers through the
thick silk of his hair. She knew that Julian was doing all of this to degrade
her, to prove what a wanton she was. But if this was shame, then, by the
saints, she wanted him to debase her utterly! She wanted his hot mouth on hers,
and the hard, searing length of him deep inside her. She wanted to let out the
scream seething inside her, the scream his passion inspired, the scream
propriety kept strangled in her throat.

Julian straightened to kiss her
again, his bold hands pulling her hips against his turgid manhood. She could
not help herself. She reached down to touch and explore that tantalizing, hot
shaft. He stiffened in shock and she yanked her hand away. At once he grabbed
her fingers and pressed them intimately to him . . .

When at last he pulled back, both
were struggling to breathe. Their fervid gazes locked as the velvet night
surrounded them. Water splashed in the fountain, a curiously erotic sound; a
night bird called from its perch high in a tree. From the distant ballroom, the
lyrical strains of Strauss’s “Lorelei” spilled out.

“Why won’t you let me go?” she
asked at last, anguish and yearning in her eyes.

He stared at her almost sadly. “I
might have, earlier,” he admitted honestly. “In fact, I was thinking of doing
so only an hour past. But your actions over the evening have not inspired my
kindness, or my forgiveness.”

“Then you won’t—”

“I won’t,” he replied in a tight,
clipped voice.

She tossed her head. “Why, Julian?
Why do you insist on this madness?”

He glanced baldly down at her
still gaping décolletage. “Isn’t it obvious by now?”

Ignoring the hot blush spurred by
his insulting words, she cried, “I’ll make you miserable—I vow it! I’ll hate
you always and—I’ll see that you regret every day that I’m your wife.”

Julian’s smile remained, but his
eyes glittered with a hard, unforgiving light. Reaching out to straighten her
bodice, he murmured, “You might do well to remember,
ma chère
, that
you’ll be at
my
mercy after we are wed.” His gaze flashed up to hers.
“I’m planning to take you off on a wedding trip, Mercy. A long wedding trip.”

She gasped. “If you think you’re
going to—”

“Not think. I am going to,” he promised.
“Actually, I’m planning on our first child by spring. We’ll see how well you
flirt on the dance floor, mademoiselle, once your belly is thick with my seed.”

“You devil! You would get me with
child just to control me?”

“I will get you with child,” he
thundered, his eyes brilliant with rage, “because it will be my pleasure to do
so.” As she stared at him with mouth agape, he reached out to straighten the
errant curl at one ear and continued in a voice laced with steel. “And now, you
will go back inside with me and you will act the proper, devoted fiancée for
the rest of the evening.”

“Or?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I have
rebuked you in private, Mercy. But, I swear, if you so much as look at another
man tonight, I will rebuke you in public. And it will be a remonstrance you
will never forget.”

“Then it seems I must bow to your
brute force!”

“Indeed.”

“You cad!” She ripped at the clasp
to the sapphire necklace and thrust the jewels at him. “I don’t want these.”

“You will keep the necklace,” he
ground out. “And you will wear it.” With unflappable confidence that daunted
her, he firmly fastened the sapphires back around her neck. Again, the cold
weight of the stones made her feel as if she were strangling.

He smiled down into her flashing
eyes. “Don’t worry,” he quipped. “After we’re wed, I’ll see to it that you earn
each and every one of those jewels.”

Mercy could only glare at him, her
chest heaving.

He extended his arm. “Shall we
rejoin the others, my dear? I think Mama would like to make her announcement.”

***

For the balance of the evening,
Mercy played the proper fiancée. She danced only with Julian and stayed by his
side, her expression cool and sullen.

The Creoles again chuckled behind
their hands—this time, in appreciation of M’sieur Devereux’s stunning coup.
Obviously, the man had taken his headstrong, flirtatious little fiancée outside
and had straightened her out royally. Indeed, wagers were made that the first
Devereux issue would arrive within nine months of this very night.

Madelaine, too, watched with
relief from the sidelines. Thank
le bon Dieu
, Julian had taken the
recalcitrant girl in hand. From the smoldering look in her son’s eyes, there
would surely be a grandchild by spring. She smiled at the thought.

At the appropriate moment, Madelaine
stepped forward to the conductor’s stand with Julian on one side and Mercy on
the other. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “I am most proud to announce my
son Julian’s engagement to Mademoiselle Mercy O’Shea.”

As a delighted cheer went up from
the crowd, Mercy could manage only the briefest, most frozen of smiles.

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All too soon, Mercy stood beside
Julian Devereux at the altar of St. Mary’s Church, with Father Giovanni intoning
the wedding Mass. Behind them, the pews were filled to bursting with stylishly
dressed friends of the Devereux family. The nuns sat together near the front,
beaming as they observed the service. Soft morning sunshine burnished the
lovely sanctuary with a golden glow, and the fragrance of flowers hung heavily
in the air.

Mercy looked beautiful in a white
satin wedding gown embellished with seed pearls; her veil was of the finest
Spanish lace, her bridal bouquet composed of lush camellias. Julian looked
dashingly handsome dressed in his formal black velvet tailcoat, matching
trousers, and ruffled linen shirt.

The two hardly looked at each
other during the service. Both were enmeshed in their own turbulent thoughts.

Mercy thought of the three weeks
that had passed since their engagement party. After Julian had taken her to
task so fervently out in the courtyard of the St. Louis, an uneasy, unspoken
truce had been established between them. She had not dared to embarrass him in
public again, fearing he would once more force his advances on her.

Most of all, she feared her own
response to those very advances. Unbidden, a provocative image sprang to mind
of the two of them embracing out in the courtyard. She remembered Julian’s hot
mouth latched passionately on her bare breast, and her own wantonness in boldly
touching him. Rivers of flame shot through her. She knew that on the wedding
night—
mon Dieu
, this very night—Julian would expect all that and much
more. Given Mother Anise’s previous lecture, and Julian’s passionate overtures
during the past weeks, Mercy had a pretty good idea of what would transpire.

On many occasions Julian had made
clear that this would never be a
mariage de convenance
, that he would
expect her services in bed upon demand—as well as a child each year. Oh, he was
a cad. She dreaded the night to come—and dreaded even more revealing to him
again her own traitorous, carnal nature.

As he now repeated a vow in his
deep, resonant voice, she dared a glance at him. Her heart fluttered as she drank
in his thick, shiny hair, and remembered thrusting her fingers through that
heavy silk on the night of the soirée. She studied the brilliance of his
deep-set blue eyes, the length of his black lashes, the sculpted perfection of
his high cheekbones, the straightness of his nose, the firmness of his strong
jaw. As he spoke, she caught a flash of perfect white teeth, and remembered
those teeth nipping so deliciously at her nipple.

Holy saints! Shame washed her
cheeks at the memory. She tore her gaze away from him. It never ceased to amaze
her that she could feel these wanton desires for the very man who had killed
her father and made her life hell ever since, by refusing to let her take
charge of her own destiny.

As the priest glanced at Mercy
expectantly, she turned to him and woodenly repeated her vows, feeling as if
fingers of ice had just closed around her heart . . .

Julian, too, was lost in his own
troubled thoughts as the marriage service proceeded. Mercy looked so beautiful,
her fitted gown emphasizing her willowy slenderness, the sleek lines
highlighting her upthrust breasts and tiny waist. Her veil could not mask the
thick riot of her shiny red hair. Beneath that veil, her lovely features were
clenched in pride, and her green eyes were remote and glittering like ice.

How could the little minx look so
ravishing, and yet so cold and unreachable? Each glance he stole at her
reminded him of the shattering power that this willful girl held over his
heart. Every day over the past weeks, he had bemoaned his own idiocy in
proceeding with this marriage. What was wrong with him that he could not let
her go? They were enemies, and now he was about to make them lovers, to entwine
their tumultuous lives forever. He was like a man obsessed with thrusting his
hand into a fire, unable to resist the scorching ravagement of the flames. He
knew now that he would never see in Mercy’s eyes the forgiveness or the love he
so hungered for. The most she could ever feel for him was some misplaced sense
of pity, due to her own waywardness over the years. The most he could ever hope
for from this marriage would be a forced trace, and perhaps a few moments of
pleasure in bed.

His thoughts drifted back to their
engagement party three weeks past, and Mercy’s disgraceful conduct. Clearly,
his little fiancée possessed quite a hot, carnal streak beneath her cool
façade. Indeed, desire stormed his senses anew as he remembered her brazenly
touching him out in the courtyard. What daunted him the most was that she
obviously felt those stirrings for any man who chose to flirt with her. He had
been little more than a convenient outlet for her lusts that passionate night.

He sighed. Perhaps he would own
Mercy’s body, but her heart would never be his. She would never forgive him for
his role in her father’s death. And he also felt hellishly guilty that he still
hadn’t told Mercy about Arnaud and Justine. He had seen Justine again
yesterday, to let her know that he would be gone for some weeks on his wedding
trip. Again, she had prevailed upon him to tell Mercy the truth before they
were wed.

Indeed, he had hated the thought
of beginning this marriage with such a grave omission, but, ultimately, he
hadn’t been willing to risk Mercy’s reaction at this critical stage. He could
only hope that her attitude toward him might soften on their wedding trip, and
then he could tell her . . .

All too soon, the rings were
exchanged, and the service ended. Julian turned, drawing back Mercy’s veil. Her
face was even more beautiful in the soft light, but her eyes were just as proud
and unforgiving as they met his. When he leaned over, briefly brushing his lips
with hers, he could detect no softening of her cool lips. With a sigh, he
extended his arm. They swept back down the aisle, greeted by scores of smiling
guests.

Outside in the lush courtyard,
Madelaine and Robert Townsend were the first to congratulate the newlyweds.
Julian, Mercy, and Madelaine quickly formed a reception line next to a long,
linen-draped table, where the nuns had laid out a repast to honor the nuptials.

The Creole wedding guests
congratulated the bride and groom, then drifted on to sample the wedding cake,
punch, and hors d’oeuvres served by the smiling nuns. A few guests deposited
wedding presents on the table. Mercy recalled that there were dozens of other
presents, still unopened, stacked at Julian’s town house, waiting for them. She
hated to think of when she would live there with Julian as his wife, when they
would open all those presents as a couple.

Mercy was simply trying to suffer
through all the effusive greetings and wishes for happiness that seemed such a
sham to her. She greeted each of Madelaine’s and Julian’s friends with a frozen
smile, and mouthed pleasantries as best she could.

Once the gathering had thinned,
the nuns came forward one by one to hug Mercy and wish her a blessed marriage.
Mercy felt touched by their devotion. When Sister Clarabelle hugged her tightly
and said in a cracking voice, “Godspeed,
mon enfant
,” Mercy was stunned
to feel the sting of tears, and again felt guilty for all the trouble she had
caused the nuns over the years. Grim and austere though the convent might be,
she realized that St. Mary’s had been home to her—a home now wrenched away from
her by Julian Devereux. The nuns had tried their best to be patient and loving
guardians, and, imagining life without their serene influence, she felt like a
lost, vulnerable child.

Madelaine came forward to give her
new daughter-in-law a last hug. The matron looked radiant in her stylish dress
of lilac silk with an overdress of ecru lace. Drawing back, she said sincerely,
“You’re a beautiful bride, darling, and I wish you and Julian every happiness.”

“Thank you, madame.”

Biting her lip, Madelaine frowned slightly
and added, “I can tell, however, that there’s some trouble between you and my
son. Try to give Julian a chance, dear. He’s really a fine boy.”

At her unexpected directness,
Mercy felt embarrassed. “I appreciate the advice, madame,” was all she could
manage to say as she avoided Madelaine’s eye.

With a sigh, Madelaine turned to
her son, who hugged his mama and kissed her cheek.

Robert Townsend now swept by to
add his fond wishes, pecking Mercy’s cheek and pumping Julian’s hand.

“Keep a good eye on my mama while
we’re gone, m’sieur,” Julian quipped with dry humor.

“You can count on it, sir,” Robert
responded with a hearty chuckle. “That is, until I start for home in a
fortnight.”

Before they could be drawn into
another conversation, Julian turned to Mercy with a self-possessed smile.
“Well, Madame Devereux, you’d best go change. We must be off soon, since our
river packet will depart the levee within an hour.”

Staring at Julian’s handsome,
arrogant visage, and hearing him call her by her married name, Mercy felt her
heart skidding into a frantic tempo. She had thought the Mass and wedding
reception were daunting, when clearly the worst was yet to come. Julian was her
husband now, fully in charge of her person and her life—a husband she would be
alone with for several weeks, a husband she had just promised to obey.

Well, she didn’t have to like it.
Staring at him with icy hauteur, she murmured, “
Oui
, m’sieur. God forbid
that we should be late embarking on this propitious marriage.”

***

At the bustling New Orleans levee,
Mercy’s first view of the tall steamboat
Natchez
was intimidating. The
enormous side-wheeler loomed before them in whitewashed majesty, with two
towering stacks, and hundreds of feet of gleaming white railings. Of the many
crafts moored at the levee—flatboats, keelboats, packets, and even ocean
schooners—the
Natchez
was the grandest. Mercy had to admit that Julian
was sending them off on their wedding trip in high style.

As the couple climbed the steep
plank to the main deck, Henrí following with their trunks, Mercy felt as if she
was about to dive into the turbulent waters of the Mississippi itself, leaving
all protection behind her. She and Julian were greeted by Captain Tom Leathers
himself, who had become infamous throughout the region for his hard-drinking,
hard-cursing ways, as well as his consummate skill as a river man. Leathers
smilingly pumped Julian’s hand and offered his congratulations on the marriage.
He then removed his cap and bowed before Mercy. “Madame Devereux—may I say that
the
Natchez
has never been graced by a more beautiful bride?”

Or a less willing one
,
Mercy added to herself. To Leathers, she murmured a demure “Thank you, sir.”
After a few more perfunctory pleasantries, Leathers summoned a steward, who
took their luggage from Henrí. Julian bid his manservant farewell, then he and
Mercy followed the steward to their cabin high on the hurricane deck.

If Mercy’s first glimpse of the
steamboat had been unnerving, her first glimpse of their quarters proved
devastating. Though stylishly appointed, the stateroom was small—much too
small. The cabin was also stiflingly hot in the midafternoon heat, making the
walls seem to close in tighter around them. The double bunk appeared far too
narrow, too intimate, and Mercy hastily wrenched her gaze away from such
dangerous territory. Flowers had been placed on the narrow bureau flanking the
bunk, along with iced champagne—another daunting harbinger of the night to
come. A tapestried screen in one corner offered the room’s scant privacy; a
wooden commode chair and a shaving stand with mirror comprised the other
furnishings.

Mon Dieu
, how would she
survive in this room, alone with Julian, as they traveled upriver?

The steward had now deposited
their luggage, and Julian tipped the lad. The grinning young man left, shutting
the louvered door behind him.

Mercy felt as if a heavy prison
door had just slammed shut on her. She nervously removed her bonnet and gloves
and set them on the bureau. Then she stared at Julian, her heart pounding.

The eager gleam in his eyes was no
comfort. Doffing his hat, he clapped his hands. “Well—shall we unpack?”

Suddenly, Mercy was overwhelmingly
aware of Julian’s blatant masculinity filling the tiny room. Even dressed in
his more casual traveling clothes—a brown frock coat and buff-colored
trousers—he looked every bit as formidable as he had at the altar a few hours
earlier. He was all robust male and vibrant virility.

“You wouldn’t allow me to bring
along Risa,” she muttered petulantly, twisting her damp fingers together.

“Of course not, since I want you
all to myself,” he replied wickedly, drawing closer. The heat of his body, the
muskiness of his intoxicating scent, inundated her. “Besides, madame, I am at
your service—eager to assist you in any way.”

His words held a world of inner
meaning, hidden innuendos they were both well aware of. Struggling to hide her
traitorous response to him, she shook her head, tugging at the top button on
her blue serge traveling frock. “Could we not go to the saloon for a cool drink
first? It’s frightfully hot in here.”

“We have champagne, my dear.” He
eyed her up and down in a frank way that made her pulse surge. “And no one says
you have to remain in that oppressive frock. You could always”—he drew a step
closer, his voice taking on a devastating huskiness—“take it off, and then
perhaps we can find something more suitable in your trunk.” His finger moved to
caress her flushed throat, teasing at the opening to her frock, and his eyes
blazed down into hers. “And then again—perhaps we won’t.”