Rogue's Mistress (21 page)

“Julian!” Mercy’s eyes were wide
as saucers. “You’ve ruined my frock!”

He stared with raw hunger at her
bared, heaving bosom. “I can buy you another one—dozens, hundreds even. But I
won’t have you wearing this gown again. I’m sick and tired of watching other
men devour your bosom.”

“Julian! Of all the arrogant,
asinine—and after you just promised—”

“Hush,” he commanded, smothering
her protests with his lips and clutching a bare breast hungrily. Her rebellion
died out instantaneously. Once she was limp and languid against him, he
murmured, “Now I’ll cool you off.”

To Mercy’s horror and fascination,
her husband quickly stripped her of all clothing, then passionately ordered her
to lie down on the bunk. She did so, but when she would have covered her
nakedness with the sheet, he said simply, “No.”

Mercy complied, reclining in
unabashed nakedness, her gaze shamelessly devouring Julian as he undressed.
Mon
Dieu
, he was magnificent, so strong, so hard and muscled—especially the
part of him that now strained robustly at his belly, the part of him she
hungered for so wantonly.

Once he was gloriously nude, he
came to her bearing a basin of water and a cloth. He laid the basin on the
floor and wrung out the rag. “Turn over.”

Shivering, dizzy with arousal, Mercy
flipped onto her belly. She almost swooned with anticipation as Julian moved
aside her heavy hair and perched his body above hers. When his hard manhood
grazed the curve of her hip, her fingers clawed the sheet.

Slowly, he began sponging off her
body, starting with her sensitive nape. His ministering to her so intimately
was exquisite sensual torture, especially as he followed the soft cloth with
his lips and tongue, lapping up the moisture left behind. When she reared up
off the mattress, she was rewarded with a sharp slap on her bottom and a terse
order to lie still—an order she eagerly obeyed.

Julian moved as if he had all the
time in the world, and in the torturous moments that followed, Mercy was seized
by one uncontrollable shudder after another. The room was so hot—he was so hot,
she was so hot, burning alive. Indeed, she would never have dreamed that the
delicate flick of his tongue could sear her so. As he tantalized her spine,
tasting and teasing, she again tried to buck away, but he held her firmly. She
felt her backside breaking out in gooseflesh as his tongue roved the small of
her back, moving in mesmerizing slow circles. He slipped a hand beneath her
then, increasing the torture to an agonizing level as he stroked her aching nub
with his skilled fingers, even as his tongue continued to torment her spine.
She went crazy, panting shamelessly and moving wantonly against his hand. A
low, feral chuckle escaped him. Then, when he abruptly changed tactics, sinking
his teeth greedily into the soft mound of her bottom, she screamed and rolled
over.

Julian was grinning at her,
unrepentant as the devil himself. Several dark curls dangled rakishly over his
forehead. She lurched upward to kiss him, but he pressed her shoulder back,
scolding her to lie still. He began to sponge off her front, beginning with her
fevered brow, running his tongue all over her hot checks, her delicate nose,
her burning lips. When she tried to steal another kiss, he wagged a finger at
her and turned his attention to her creamy throat—and lower. Mercy could barely
breathe. He seemed to linger forever on the tight, swollen mounds of her
breasts, circling, tasting, dipping, and stroking.

After a moment, he glanced up at
her flushed, breathless face. “Do you want children, Mercy?”

The unexpected query seized her
with a stunning wave of sexual excitement. She had always secretly yearned to
have her own children someday. Then she remembered Julian’s past arrogant words
and she stiffened. “You once said you wanted children as a way to control me.”

"
Non, chère
. ” His
eyes were suddenly filled with regret. “I said those words in the heat of
anger.” His tongue lapped over her nipple with a delicacy that curled her toes.
“I want children to bring us joy. Do you?”

“
Oui
,” she murmured
shamelessly, thrusting her fingers through his hair.

“Do you want my child?”

A fierce joy streamed through her
as she imagined cuddling Julian’s baby. And the thought of how healing a child
might be in their relationship touched her deeply. “Yes,” she whispered.

He groaned in pleasure. “
Bien
.”
He ran his tongue delicately over the underside of her breast. “I would think,”
he continued huskily, “that it would be difficult to hate a man whose child you
carried.”

“I don’t”—she gasped—“really want
to hate you.”

His mouth closed hard over her
puckered nipple. “But you do.”

She squirmed and chewed a fist
helplessly. “No. Not—not anymore,” she admitted in a small, raspy voice.

He smiled, stretching upward to
reward her with a searing kiss.

He let the damp cloth drift down
her belly, leaning over to lap up the delicious wetness. Again, she writhed
like a madwoman; again, he pinned her to the bed, continuing to enjoy her at
his leisure. When a drop of moisture slid between her thighs, she cried out in
wanton pleasure. Watching avidly, Julian leaned over to follow the drop with
his tongue until she panicked, tangling her fingers in his hair and begging
hoarsely, “No. Please, Julian, don’t.”

“It’s all right,
chère
, I’m
not going to force you,” he soothed, moving upward to lock his mouth on hers
again. He kissed her with debilitating gentleness as his fingers boldly parted
her thighs. His tongue danced provocatively in her mouth as his thumb
exquisitely pleasured her nub. His fingers sank inside her, stretching and
probing expertly, creating a tension she could not endure. She gasped into his
mouth and dug her fingernails into his spine as he brought her to a fevered,
electrifying climax. Somehow, he managed to make her pleasure last so long that
she almost fainted away from the sheer intensity of it.

Afterward, she gazed languidly
into his eyes. “You didn’t get to . . .” She glanced at his erect manhood, then
back into his eyes.

“Darling, you brought me great
pleasure,” he whispered. Drawing her hand to his engorged manhood, he added,
“Now you will bring me even more.”

His hand helped her set the
rhythm, then she needed no further instruction. Moving her fingers up and down
the hard shaft, Mercy gloried in his rough moans and the burning look in his
eyes. Touching him so intimately made her mouth go dry. He was so hot, so hard,
so magnificent, and suddenly she ached to feel his wondrous dimensions
straining deep inside her. She pressed her trembling lips to his. “Julian,
please,” she breathed. “Please.”

With an agonized groan, Julian
brought his wife astride him and penetrated her in a single, riveting stroke.
She cried out as his hugeness impaled her, yet she took him greedily,
struggling to hold him deeply inside her.

Julian was in ecstasy.
Mon Dieu
,
she felt divine, squeezing about him, so hot and exquisite. He looked up into
her deeply dilated eyes, watched the sun pour over her lush body and riotous
curls. “I—didn’t want to do this to you again today,” he somehow managed with a
weak, contrite smile.

She stared back at him unabashedly,
loving the hard, swollen feel of him inside her. And she loved much more about
him—more than she dared to name.

Still, she offered him all of
herself that she could. Grasping his strong hands, she whispered, “Touch my
breasts.” With a smile, she added, “Darling.”

Julian’s heart welled with joy. He
caught her to him and captured her lips in a crushing kiss. Then he raised his
knees and pressed her back, clutching her breasts with rough hunger.

Mercy tossed her head in delight,
arching her back and moaning at the incredible waves of ecstasy crashing over
her.

Watching his wife’s uninhibited
passion, feeling himself buried to the hilt in her snug sheath, Julian was
dying in the best possible way. With several deep, shattering strokes, he
exploded inside her.

***

Later, lying on the bunk, they
talked.

Julian laced his fingers through
Mercy’s and kissed her soft hand. “Tell me about your days at the convent.”

She laughed. “You received a full
report from the sisters each week.”

He propped himself on his elbow
and twined a red curl about his fingertip. “But I never heard things from your
perspective—we were always so at war with each other.”

She frowned. They seemed to be
drifting far too close to bitter memories.

“Were you always so miserable
there?” he prodded.

“I always resented the strictness
of the sisters,” she replied carefully. “I guess I never possessed convent
sensibilities.”

“Now that’s an understatement,” he
agreed, laughing. “From the things the sisters told me of your antics—”

“Oh, you don’t know half of it.”

“
Non
?”

“
Non
.”

As Julian listened in fascinated
silence, Mercy told him of various pranks she had pulled over the years—like
the time she had substituted wine vinegar in Father Giovanni’s communion chalice,
and the time she had poured pink dye into the laundry vat containing the
sisters’ underclothes.

“The sisters never told me of all
this!” Julian exclaimed at last. “I’m surprised they didn’t summon me to the
parish house much more often.”

Mercy shrugged. “Perhaps they were
a little afraid of your reaction, and a little protective of me. When I think
about it, they were really quite patient and kind to me in a lot of ways.”

“And you were a hellion.”

She grinned up at him. “Now I’m
your hellion, m’sieur.”

Julian laughed, then stroked her
hip and growled ominously. “I think I’ve repeatedly warned you not to call me
m’sieur.”

Utterly remorseless, she wrinkled
her nose at him.

“
That
, minx, calls for
swift retribution.”

Julian claimed her lips in a
thorough, breathtaking kiss that was no punishment at all.

Mercy sighed contentedly and
snuggled next to him. “Now you must tell me more about your family.”

Julian seemed pleased by her
interest, and spoke eagerly. He told her of his parents, his upbringing, and his
education—partly in France and partly in this country. He spoke of how his
father had died. He then traced his lineage back to his grandparents, telling
her of how Pierre Devereux had settled in New Orleans in the first place and
had taken a bride.

Mercy rolled her eyes. “Him! Your
mother already told me all about your wicked grandfather.”

“Indeed?”

“
Oui
. He was just like
you—forcing his wife into marriage.”

“Forcing?” Julian’s eyes danced
with merriment.

“Of course! Don’t you remember? He
kidnapped her and dragged her off to a keelboat, where he had a priest waiting.
When she still balked, he threatened to . . .”

“Yes?” Julian prompted
delightedly.

Mortified, she whispered the rest
in his ear.

Julian howled with laughter.
“Mercy, you have your facts all wrong. First of all, my grandmother couldn’t
wait to be kidnapped by lusty old Grand-père. Secondly, my grandfather never
threatened Grand’mère with such dire consequences on the keelboat. My mother
embellished the truth for the sake of a good story.”

“Then what?” Mercy asked in
shameless fascination.

Julian grinned wickedly. “He only
threatened to spank her.”

***

The next morning, the steamboat
arrived at Natchez, docking at the port of Natchez-Under-the-Hill. A four-hour
stop was announced.

Mercy stood with her husband on
the hurricane deck, watching the busy stevedores unloading cargo and loading
wood along the gray, sagging wharves. The smells of mud and ripe vegetation
filled the humid air.

Mercy glanced out at the
ramshackle buildings of infamous Natchez-Under-the-Hill. Warehouses, saloons,
hotels, and brothels sprawled out in rowdy, haphazard rows along the slanting,
muddy earth, in stark contrast to the looming, celestial bluff above, where
ivory-pillared mansions stretched toward the heavens.

“Do you want to go into town,
dear?” Julian asked. He grinned endearingly. “I do need to buy you a new
frock.”

Mercy smiled back at him. Then a
look of uncertainty flashed across her eyes. “That’s where my mother’s people,
the Dubois, live,” she murmured. “If they’re still there.”

“I know,” he replied solemnly.

She stared up at him. “You
remembered?”

He smiled sympathetically. “I
remember everything about that night, and your mother. Most of all, I remember
you.”

Mercy glanced away to hide her suddenly
smarting eyes. So far on their honeymoon, they’d managed to leave their
troubles behind them. It was a fragile peace, and now Mercy struggled between
her natural curiosity about her mother’s people and her fear of ripping open
old wounds between herself and Julian.

Yet her memory drifted back
irresistibly to that night so long ago, when Julian had been there to ease her
mother’s passing, when he had comforted her, a small, lost child.

She tried to set aside what had
happened between Julian and her father earlier that fateful night, and when she
did so, it occurred to her at last that Julian had always been more loyal to
her and her mother than the Dubois family had ever been.

She still couldn’t meet his eyes,
but her fingers reached out to clutch his. “I’m glad,” she managed at last,
swallowing a huge lump of pride, “that you were there with her.”

He nodded, wisely not pressing
her.

“You’ve stood by me all these
years,” she continued.

“Of course I have,
chère
.”

“Did you ever . . . ?” She bit her
lip.