Rogue's Mistress (17 page)

“Julian.” Staggered by his touch,
Mercy was suddenly terrified—frightened that he would kiss her, even more
afraid that he wouldn’t. As always when she was with him, her emotions were
thoroughly in revolt against her logic. She helplessly clenched and unclenched
her fists. “Please,” she managed.

“Please what?” he teased
remorselessly.

Her desperate gaze met his.
“Please, may we go to the saloon until it’s less . . . hot in here?”

He laughed, then belligerently
crossed his arms over his chest. “And what do I get in return?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she
said in a strangled voice.

“Yes, you do.” His eyes narrowing,
he added, “That wasn’t much of a kiss you gave me back at the church.”

Her defiant gaze collided with his.
“This isn’t much of a marriage.”

Julian glowered back at her. “You
just had to press your point, didn’t you, Mercy?”

Realizing she was hardly
ingratiating herself with her stubborn husband, she glanced away. “I’m . . .
sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” Julian sat down
on the bunk and crossed his booted feet, his jaw thrust out at a contentious
angle. “I think we’ll unpack—after you take off that frock.”

Mercy was reeling. “All right. You
win. You may have your kiss.”

He patted the mattress next to
him. “Come sit down.”

“There?” Her eyes were huge.

“It’s where your husband is,
princess,” he drawled. “And be advised that you—and I—will be spending quite a
lot of time in this bunk during the next few days.”

Gulping, Mercy somehow bit down
the fury aroused by his arrogant words. She gingerly crossed over to sit beside
him. His strong arm gripped her waist, dragging her into his lap. Mercy was
appalled, her cheeks burning, as she stared up into his roguish eyes, as her
senses swirled with his scent.

“Very well,” she murmured at last,
pursing her lips and closing her eyes over the pounding of her heart.

But in the tense silence that
ensued, nothing happened. Mercy opened her eyes to see Julian staring down at
her with cynical amusement. “No,
ma chère
,” he scolded, “you kiss me.”

“W-What?”

His eyes smoldered. “You heard me,
Mercy.
You kiss me
. Convince me to take you to the saloon instead of
claiming my husbandly due right now.”

Mercy’s heart seemed to lodge in
her throat. She moved with the abandon spurred by utter panic and her chaotic
senses. Lurching upward, she pressed her lips to Julian’s. The heat of his
mouth swamped her as he kissed her back with a hunger that kindled an appalling
ache between her thighs. She could feel his manhood rise up, hard and vigorous,
against her bottom, and the shocking proximity of his arousal only intensified
both her fear and her yearning.

Whimpering inarticulately as he
gripped her tighter, she tried to pull away from the mad feelings consuming
her. But Julian would have none of it. “No,” he scolded, groaning into her
mouth, “I am not convinced. Wrap your arms around my neck. Kiss me like a woman
who welcomes this marriage—and her lover.”

“I . . . don’t welcome—”

“Then pretend.”

Mercy hesitated. He was so strong,
so filled with coiled menace. Yet his eyes were so sexy and heated, his manhood
so tantalizing as it pulsed against her. The fact that she was in his lap, that
they were on the bed together, seared and aroused her like a heavy weight
pressing against her very womb. Looking into his burning eyes, she tentatively
curled her arms around his corded neck, then stretched upward again, pressing
her lips searchingly against his firm mouth, then slipping her tongue
delicately between his teeth.

His reaction was immediate and
frightening. He tumbled her body off his lap, onto the bunk, and covered her
with his hard, aroused length. His eyes blazed down into hers as his hand slid
audaciously up her skirts.

“Julian, no! You promised!” she
cried.

For a moment, he blinked like a
man stunned. Then he rolled off her, sitting up at the side of the bunk,
thrusting a hand through his hair and breathing hard.

“You’re right,” he said tightly.
“A quick tumble is no way to begin this marriage.” His gaze devoured her lush
body. “I’m going to savor you—slowly and thoroughly.”

Fighting her own feelings, she sat
up and cried, “That’s all you want, isn’t it? To—to punish me.”

His eyes snapped with anger, yet
his touch was gentle as he reached out to stroke her flushed cheek. “Will it be
a punishment, Mercy?”

She glanced away to cover her own
guilt and shame. Her silence was answer enough for him. Standing, he gripped
her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Since you find my touch such a trial,
shall we adjourn to the saloon?”

***

“Where are you taking me?” Mercy
asked moments later.

The couple was now walking stiffly
down the deck. Beneath them, the Mississippi was a wide expanse of silver in
the afternoon heat. A forest of shimmering green loomed on the bank beyond. The
air was thick with the scent of wet vegetation and the dank odor of the river
itself.

Julian shot his wife a perplexed
glance. “I’m taking you to the saloon for refreshments. Have I lost my mind or
did you not request it?”

She bit her lip. “I mean, where are
you taking me on this wedding trip?”

He laughed, pausing to plant his
palms on the railing and stare out at the churning gray waters. “I find it
fascinating that you and I are such strangers that you never saw fit to ask me
before.” Watching her features blanch, he added, “I’m taking you to St. Louis.”

“What will we do there?” she asked
evenly.

He shrugged. “Oh, the usual. Go to
plays, restaurants.” Reaching out to finger one of her red curls, he added with
deliberate impudence, “Loll about our hotel room.”

She glanced away to hide her hot
blush. “I see.”

“St. Louis is also famous for its
shops, so we’ll want to complete your wardrobe there.”

“Ah, yes,” she murmured bitterly.
“You’ll want to continue to make good your investment,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“
Oui
,” he answered tightly,
offering his arm again.

In tense silence, they descended
the stairway to the main deck, then Julian escorted Mercy through the double
portal and into the grand saloon. The long, wide main cabin was fabulously
ornate, with glittering chandeliers and a lush Oriental rug. White-uniformed
stewards circulated with trays, while fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen
sat at linen-draped tables sipping lemonade or mint juleps. A silver-haired
lady plied the cabinet grand piano, spilling out the sweet strains of Foster’s
“Open the Lattice, Love. ”

A steward showed them to a vacant
table toward the center of the saloon. Mercy’s heart skidded as Julian held out
her chair. He took his own seat and ordered them both a lemonade; afterward,
they waited for their drinks in grim silence.

Julian stared at his proud little
wife, who sat with her gloved fingers primly laced together. He was not proud
of himself for practically ravishing her the moment they had arrived in their
quarters upstairs. But, damn it, the little chit had maddened him with her
studied indifference.

He’d been without a woman far too
long, he realized ruefully. He felt a stab of sympathy for Mercy, knowing how
deeply, how thoroughly, how often, he intended to bed her, starting before the day
was over. Even now, the memory of her delicate tongue stealing into his mouth
sent a stunning heat streaming through his loins. He could certainly count on
her passionate nature. Afterward, she might still hate him, but at least they
would share that pleasure.

The steward deposited their
lemonades. Picking up the cool glass with fingers that trembled, Mercy sipped
the bittersweet drink and thought of the appalling scene that had just occurred
between her and her husband upstairs. Perhaps she had been thoughtless to
suggest that they leave their stateroom so soon. But what did the cad expect
her to do—toss up her skirts the instant they arrived in their cabin?

Trying to distract herself from
the mortifying images that thought evoked, Mercy glanced about the saloon. To
her right were two dowagers with feathered hats and silk fans; both were
bemoaning the bilious fever that had just claimed the life of a nephew. To her
left was a middle-aged couple bickering over their son’s recent losses at the
racetrack.

In the far corner, gathered around
a small table, four men were playing cards. Three were nondescript businessmen
or planters. But the fourth—
mon Dieu
—this black-eyed stranger oozed
depravity. He was dressed in a silk top hat and a black velvet suit, complemented
garishly by a crimson vest and white ruffled shirt. His features were sharp,
hawklike; a large mustache slashed across his clever face and a smoking cigar
dangled from his thin lips.

Mercy realized that she was
staring straight at a genuine riverboat gambler. Perversely fascinated, she
continued to study him, and at that same moment, the stranger caught her eye.
He grinned, winking lecherously at her before he leaned over to scoop up his
winnings. Mercy gasped at his boldness, high color blooming in her cheeks.

A sharp tug on her sleeve brought
her back to reality. Her eyes widened with guilt as she faced her glowering
husband.

“Am I going to have to call out a
man on our wedding day?” he asked with dangerous mildness.

“I was just looking around,” she
said defensively.

“You were staring quite boldly,
quite improperly, at a stranger, a river rat. Did the nuns not instruct you
that it’s dangerous to encourage such a man?”

“
Non
,” she replied
flippantly. “But then, neither did they warn me about not encouraging
you
.”

Julian’s eyes snapped with fury.
“Mercy, a man such as that would think nothing of dragging you off to his room
and having his wicked way with you.”

She tossed her curls and stared
defiantly at the gambler again. “Ah, yes.” Her gaze slammed into Julian’s. “He
strikes me as the kind of man who might want to tumble his woman the minute
they arrived in their stateroom.”

“Enough, by damn.”

Julian was shooting to his feet,
reaching for his wife’s hand, when a feminine voiced trilled out from the doorway.
“Mercy! Mercy O’Shea! Why, what a wonderful surprise!”

Mercy turned toward the entrance,
at first unable to believe her good fortune. Deliverance had arrived! In the
portal stood Mercy’s ex-schoolmate, Lavinia Morgan, and her entire family!

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“Lavinia!” Mercy rushed forward to
embrace her stouthearted friend. Julian followed, wearing a dark scowl.

“Mercy, imagine seeing you here!”
Lavinia prattled gaily as the two women moved apart. Lavinia was a brown-haired
young woman with a sparkle in her eye. Unfortunately, though, she possessed a
long, squarish face and blunt features that were almost horselike. Now, she
glanced confusedly from Mercy to Julian. “And this must be—”

“I’m married now, Lavinia,” Mercy
explained uncomfortably. “You remember my guardian, M’sieur Devereux?”

“Why, M’sieur Devereux!” Lavinia
exclaimed, her eyes alight with curiosity. “You mean to say you’ve—”

“Lavinia!” The sound of Mr.
Morgan’s booming voice cut short his daughter’s chatter. Mercy quickly
ascertained where her friend had obtained her lamentable features. Morgan’s
countenance was equally unsightly. “Kindly introduce us to your friends,” he
ordered stoutly.

Lavinia blushed. “Oh, yes, Papa.
Forgive my rudeness. May I present my former schoolmate, Mercy O—Well, I
suppose it’s Devereux now, isn’t it? May I present Madame and M’sieur Devereux
. . .”

A round of introductions and
handshakes followed. Julian and Mercy met Grant and Myrtle Morgan, as well as
Lavinia’s older brother, Dempsey. The Morgan son more resembled his mother,
Mercy noted—Dempsey was blond, frail, and rather effeminate. She wondered what
perverse god had allowed the brother and sister to have such outlandishly
mismatched features.

When the Morgans learned that
Julian and Mercy had married just that morning, congratulations spilled forth.
Julian, meanwhile, was enduring all the fond wishes with as much forbearance as
possible. After the small talk had been exhausted, he invited the Morgans to join
him and Mercy at their table. The men drew up additional chairs, and the six
crowded about the small table, with Mercy wedged between Julian and Dempsey.

Everyone ordered coffee or
lemonade, with the exception of Julian, who ordered a double brandy. Mercy shot
her husband a perturbed glance that he would imbibe so early in the day, but
her only reply was a stony, obdurate stare.

“Well,” Myrtle Morgan was saying,
clapping her small hands together, “I can’t believe you two got married this
very day! As it happens, the four of us are on our way to Memphis for a
wedding. My second cousin twice removed, Media Hope Seymour, is marrying a
prominent doctor there. A fine match, I must say!”

Lavinia leaned forward and winked
at Mercy. “I see you’ve finally managed to escape the nuns, my friend.”

“
Oui
,” she replied lightly.
“It seems I’ve gone straight from the proverbial frying pan to the fire.”

Mercy’s dry comment prompted a
titter of nervous laughter from the Morgans and a chilling glare from Julian.

“Well, dear, tell us how you and
M’sieur Devereux became betrothed,” Lavinia continued mischievously.

Mercy blushed. As always, Lavinia
was being appallingly forthright.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Morgan stepped in
to rescue Mercy. “Lavinia, really!” she exclaimed in scandalized tones. “You
mustn’t pry into other people’s private affairs.” She beamed at the newlyweds.
“Why, it’s obvious that the two of them are deeply in love.”

Only Julian’s daunting glower kept
Mercy from rolling her eyes.

“I’m hoping to have the pleasure
of joining men and women in holy wedlock myself before long,” Dempsey put in in
his high, proud voice.

Mercy turned to smile at the young
man with his pale features and white lashes. “Oh, are you, Mr. Morgan?”

At the beautiful young woman’s
attentiveness, Dempsey became so flustered that he could only gulp at Mercy
stupidly. His mother filled the gap. “Our darling Dempsey is studying at
Cumberland Bible Seminary in Kentucky. He’s going to become a Presbyterian
minister.”

“Indeed, Mr. Morgan?” Mercy asked.
“Why, what a noble profession.”

Dempsey at last managed to find
his voice, although his features were still florid. “I feel it is my Christian
duty to help rid this planet of its vice and corruption,” he explained to
Mercy. Straightening his velvet lapels, he glanced with distaste at the card
game in the corner. “Gambling, tobacco . . .” His pious gaze came to rest on
Julian, and he wrinkled his delicate nostrils. “And, of course, the evils of
strong spirits.”

At the young man’s words, Julian
grinned at Dempsey, lifted his snifter in a mock salute, and took a hearty
gulp. Mercy shot her husband an outraged look, and with great restraint, she
managed not to crawl under the table.

“Stuff and nonsense, if you ask
me,” Grant Morgan was putting in disgustedly as he chewed on his whiskers.
“With the price of cotton rising as it is, I swear the boy is much better off
staying on the plantation. But, no—he has to go off with his holier-than-thou
attitudes and embrace a life of poverty and misery.”

“Why, Grant!” Myrtle Morgan was
clearly appalled, while Dempsey puffed up like a washed-out toad and stared at
his father in scorn.

For once, Julian looked interested
in the exchange as he deliberately drew out a cheroot and lit it, despite his
wife’s pleading glance. “You’re a cotton planter, sir?” he asked Morgan.

“Indeed I am, sir. And what might
be your profession, Mr. Devereux?”

“I run a commission exchange house
in New Orleans.”

“Why, isn’t that fascinating! As
it happens, I haven’t been too pleased with my factor there of late . . .”

In no time, Julian and Mr. Morgan
were ordering fresh brandies and intently discussing such boring trivia as the
price of cotton and hogsheads of sugar. Outraged by her husband’s arrogant
conduct—especially his deliberately insulting Dempsey’s sensibilities by
indulging in liquor and cigars—Mercy turned to Lavinia’s brother and placed her
hand on his sleeve. With a sympathetic smile, she murmured, “Do tell me all
about your studies, Mr. Morgan.”

Dempsey blinked rapidly and
practically choked on his lemonade, then launched into a lengthy, overblown
lecture on his studies at the seminary.

The couple at the next table,
overhearing the young zealot, soon pulled up chairs to join them, listening in
fascination to Dempsey’s sermon on the evils of games of chance and questioning
him at length on how they could save their son from his own debauchery. Dempsey
quickly recited a step-by-step guide for their offspring’s salvation. Even the
two dowagers soon became part of the circle, the elder asking Dempsey if her
nephew’s death from fever could have been due to his negligent attendance at
Mass. Dempsey assured the wide-eyed matron that divine retribution was exactly
the cause of her nephew’s demise.

Delighted at his captive audience,
Dempsey went on to inform everyone that all plague and pestilence visited upon
the Creole people was due to their sinful, irreverent attitudes and profligate
lifestyles, including wanton extravagances on expensive clothing, rich food,
strong drink, the theater, and the racetrack. When the steward stopped by to
inform everyone that the evening buffet was ready, Dempsey’s impromptu
congregation fled to gorge themselves on the rich cuisine, the collective
mindset being that if they were all doomed to perdition anyway, they may as
well eat, drink, and be merry.

The evening repast consisted of
crawfish bisque, hot bread, and assorted soups and side dishes. Mercy ate
sparingly, her appetite gone as she realized that soon she would be alone with
Julian. Indeed, she could feel the heat of his gaze boring into her. She dared
a glance at him, almost wincing at the fervent look in his eyes.

“Not hungry?” he asked mildly.

“
Non
.” She could hardly
speak over the pounding of her heart.

Julian deliberately, lightly
stroked his wife’s cheek with his fingertip. “Perhaps it’s time for us to go,
then.”

Mercy’s face burned and her eyes
widened in panic. “I’d really like to visit with Lavinia—and listen to
Dempsey—for a while longer.”

“I’ll just bet you would.”

Overhearing them, Dempsey leaned
forward, delicately blotting his mouth with his napkin. “Mr. Devereux, I’ve yet
to discuss with your wife my ideas on the institution of marriage.”

At Dempsey’s presumptuous words,
Julian’s eyes glittered ominously. “Do not worry, m’sieur. Madame Devereux’s
husband is perfectly capable of instructing her all about the institution of
marriage.” Julian stood, drawing his mortified wife to her feet. “Ladies and
gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us . . . ?”

The others stared at them in mild
shock. Then Lavinia waved her napkin and said gaily, “Mercy, we must have a
long chat before we arrive at Memphis!”

“Of course,” Mercy murmured
woodenly, before she was yanked off by her scowling husband, to a chorus of
hasty farewells.

***

“Did we have to leave so abruptly?”
she demanded the instant they were outside on the walkway. She noted with
dismay that the sun was sinking against the western horizon.
Mon Dieu
—where
had the time gone?

“Abruptly?” Julian repeated with a
furious wave of his hand. “We’ve spent the whole afternoon with those silly
people.”

“Silly people? You didn’t seem to
mind talking with M’sieur Morgan for hours, or giving him your business card.”

“I did not marry M’sieur Morgan,”
Julian ground out, helping Mercy onto the hurricane deck. “At any rate, you’re
just angry because I dragged you away from your fascinating, foppish little
Dempsey.”

“Well, he certainly has better
manners than you! Heaven knows what they must think—”

Julian paused, gripping her
shoulders. The setting sun gleamed in his brilliant eyes. “And just what do you
suppose they think newlyweds do when they go off alone? Knit afghans?”

She blushed miserably. “Oh, you’re
hateful!”

He caught her hand and dragged her
away again. “So you’ve informed me on numerous occasions. But unfortunately,
you’ve married me, not some strutting peacock like Dempsey or your beloved
Philippe—”

“You gave me no choice.”

He flung open the door to their
stateroom and propelled her inside. “Right. And now, in this, I’ll give you no choice
either.” Slamming the door, he dragged her into his arms and kissed her.

His kiss exploded with anger and
pent-up passion, and Mercy was seized anew by panic and traitorous desire.
Somehow, she managed to shove him away. “No!”

“If you think I’m going to allow
you to flirt shamelessly with that pompous ass all afternoon, and then ignore
me, your lawful husband—”

“Lawful husband! You forced me
into this marriage!”

Julian raked a hand through his
hair and caught a ragged breath. “Mercy, many young Creole women are contracted
into marriage by their parents, with no thought given to their own wishes.
Indeed, most are. As your legal guardian, it was my duty to choose your
husband—”

Her hand slashed the air. “So you
conveniently chose yourself?”

“
Oui
. And none of that in
any way changes your obligations as my wife.”

“You would have killed Philippe.”

“That again,” he snapped, rolling
his eyes. “M’sieur Broussard put himself in that dilemma by challenging me. I
merely offered a solution.”

“Some solution,” she said
bitterly, crossing her arms over her bosom.

He cursed vividly in French and
tore at his cravat.

“What are you doing?” she gasped,
her eyes huge.

He had dispensed with his coat and
his cravat and was unbuckling his belt. “What I should have done weeks ago.”

Staring horrified at the heavy
leather belt in his hand, she warned, “If you try to thrash me, I shall
scream!”

He laughed as he dropped the belt
to the floor and unbuttoned his waistcoat. “The punishment I have in mind will
be much slower, much more thorough—and much more enjoyable.”

“Enjoyable for you!”

“You can bet on it.” He yanked
open his shirt, sending studs flying.

Mercy’s hand flew to her mouth as
she stared in perverse fascination at his bare, sinewy chest, the crisp black
hair and hard muscles.
Mon Dieu
—he was so incredibly strong and virile.

He glanced at her hotly. “Take off
your clothes.”

“Go to hell!”

He flung his shirt on the floor.
“If you prefer that I undress you, so be it.”

And, moving with angry economy,
Julian hauled his rebellious wife into his arms, flying skirts and all, and
wrestled her down on the bunk.

Mercy fought like a wildcat. “Let
me go, you brute!”

With great effort, he managed to
subdue her, covering her struggling body with his and pinning her wrists into
the mattress. His grim, implacable face hovered over hers. “Damn it, Mercy, I’m
not averse to thrashing you at this point, if that’s what it takes. We’re
married now and this is my due.”

“Your due! You forced me into all
of this. Now you’re forcing me into your bed as well.”

He glared down at her. “I’ve never
raped a woman.”

“Well, I suppose there’s a first
time for everything,” she spat.

They glowered at each other in the
explosive silence, both breathing hard. Mercy’s discomfort grew as she became
acutely aware of the weight of her husband’s hard, muscled body pressing into
her, of the heat of his bare chest seeping scandalously through her gown and
into her breasts, of the mesmerizing scent of him. Even the darkness of his
scowl, the tightness of his jaw, prompted a treacherous sensual softening deep
within her belly.

“I’ve really been cruel, haven’t
I?” Julian continued at last, in a voice heavily laden with irony. “Forcing you
to become my wife, to share my wealth and position.”

Guilt churned within Mercy, and she
could no longer think of a clever reply. For Julian was right—he couldn’t have
chosen a more socially suitable husband for her than himself, although it
rankled her pride terribly. Nevertheless, the intensely combative climate
between them—not to mention his electrifying nearness—seemed to wear her down
suddenly, and she shuddered, her mouth trembling and her lips opening slightly.