Rogue's Mistress(30)
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.”
“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.