Rogue's Mistress(33)

“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.

“Mon Dieu!” One glimpse of his wife’s sweetly parted, trembling lips was all it took to incite Julian’s ravenous senses. His head swooped down, his mouth slamming into hers with raw hunger, his tongue invading her mouth and thrusting deeply, rapaciously.

An incoherent cry was smothered in her throat. Floundering, Mercy at last managed to push him away, licking braised lips that treacherously hungered for more of his plundering kisses. “It’s not—what I wanted,” she whispered through her tears, her words sounding weak and thready even to herself.

“You’re much too young to know what you want,” he said, kissing her again.

Julian ravished her mouth with fierce, shattering kisses. His tongue licked her lips, played with her teeth, then plunged freely, tasting the sweetness inside in an appallingly seductive way. Mercy moaned, drowning in razor-sharp sensation. A tight fist of desire clenched deep inside her with an intensity that actually hurt. Julian continued kissing her with this same unendurable intimacy until she shuddered deeply and surrendered. He sensed her softening then and released her wrists. She curled her arms around his neck and sobbed as she opened her mouth wide to the hot thrust of his tongue.

After a moment, though, he confused her by pulling back. He stared intently into her dilated eyes, as if trying to gauge her feelings. “I’d like to suggest a compromise.”

“A compromise?” she repeated, perturbed.

He stroked her stubborn chin with his fingertips. “Let me hold you and kiss you this night. Anything else that happens . . . will be up to you.”

Mercy blinked at him in amazement. She hadn’t expected him to make her responsible for what happened between them tonight. It was a clever stratagem on his part, she had to concede. And she had no idea how to respond to it.

“There are already too many bad memories between us,” he continued, gently nuzzling his warm lips across her forehead, her temple, her cheek. “I’ll not make tonight another nightmare for us both to live down. I’ll not have you looking back for the rest of our married life and saying I forced you on our wedding night.”

Mercy was caught off-guard, disarmed by his honesty and his sweet, sensuous kisses. “Well . . .”

“Mercy, I am being generous in accepting less than a bridegroom’s due,” he continued sternly. “But you must give something in return.”

“I knew there would be a condition!”

“Just for tonight,” he said, ignoring her flash of temper, “you must promise to set the past aside.”

She stared up at him, stunned. This was the very last thing she had ever expected him to say, and it devastated her defenses!

“Just for tonight,” he continued in his deep, hypnotizing voice, “you must promise to start anew.” His passionate eyes impaled her. “If you must reject someone tonight, let it be me—not some ghost of our tormented past.”

Mercy gulped, totally undone by his honesty, his probing gaze. By now, she was also reeling with guilt. For she knew that she was largely responsible for the “torment” he spoke of, by insisting, year after year, on blaming him for her father’s death. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she wasn’t being completely fair, yet she had clung tenaciously to her bitterness.

“Well, Mercy?” he challenged.

Her cheeks heated with shame and something more—stunning sexual excitement. Julian was so strong, so filled with ardent determination. She realized he would likely have her tonight—one way or the other. No one would rise up to save her—not even her own traitorous self.

“All right,” she murmured at last, in a strangled tone.

He further shocked her then by rolling off her and sitting up at the edge of the bunk. He smiled down at her. “Surely the nuns prepared some lacy concoction for you to wear tonight,” he murmured, extending his hand. “Why don’t you put it on?”

Mercy could only blink at him.

He chuckled, tugging her upright. “I’m not going to rip your clothes off, chère.”

With commendable haste, she clambered off the bunk. She went to her trunk, drew out her gown and wrapper, and disappeared behind the dressing screen. She was trembling all over, her lower limbs throbbing with a leaden lethargy. She wondered idly if she had lost her mind. When she had married Julian earlier today, she had inwardly vowed to fight him for the rest of her life; and now, mere hours after the wedding, she was doing his bidding like a lamb.

Yet what was to be gained by goading him into raping her? She realized he was right—it would be a disastrous beginning to a marriage that might well already be doomed.

Her fingers trembled as she drew off her dress and undergarments. Though the room was still warm, she shivered as the air hit her naked body. She hastily donned her lacy handkerchief-linen gown and matching wrapper.

After a long, agonizing moment, she timidly emerged from behind the screen. Spotting her husband, she drew her hand to her pounding heart.

Julian lay stretched out on the bunk, looking sleek, hard-muscled, and dangerous. He was naked to the waist; his chest appeared broader than ever. The sheet covered the dangerous territory below his waist. He held a glass of champagne in one hand. The fervid look in his eyes, the way his hair was tousled, the dark line of whiskers along his strong jaw, were all unspeakably sensual. Her heart tripped into an even more dizzying rhythm.

On the mattress next to him lay her hairbrush; staring at it, she gulped. She dared to glance back up at him and found his gaze burning into hers. A delicious tingling shivered across her senses and teased mercilessly between her thighs.

“Chère, how beautiful you look,” he murmured. “However, I’m afraid I mussed your hair when we tussled before. Come here and drink this while I brush it.”

She was unprepared for the intimate gesture—just as she was unprepared for everything having to do with this wedding night! She went to sit gingerly on the edge of the bunk, her back to him. Turning, she took the glass of champagne, struggling not to betray a shudder when his warm hand touched hers. “Aren’t you having any?”

“Non. I had enough brandy in the saloon.” With a kindly smile, he added, “Drink it, love. It should help.”

Blushing, she turned away, sipping the champagne as Julian began brushing her hair with exquisite gentleness. Her senses swam at the slow, seductive rhythm, and the way his firm fingers smoothed down her heavy locks.

“I’ve always loved your hair,” he murmured. “It’s so thick and shiny.”

“Thank you,” she managed in a high, squeaky voice.

“I’d adore it if we could have a child with hair this flaming color,” he went on seductively, leaning over to kiss a shiny lock.

Mercy shivered and gulped champagne.

He reached around her and took the emptied glass. “Do you want more?”

More what? she wondered, almost in a panic. She shook her head, her wide eyes meeting his tenderly amused gaze. He leaned past her to set the glass on the floor.

Straightening, he gripped her chin and turned her toward him. He studied her trembling mouth, her wide green eyes. “Damn, you’re so incredibly lovely.”