Rogue's Mistress(67)
Julian approached with both snifters half filled, his eyes once again devouring her. He handed her her drink, and both tensely, silently took a sip.
Mercy drew a ragged breath and decided to begin. “Why did you come here after me, Julian?”
He raised a dark brow in feigned amazement. “You left me. Or had you forgotten?”
She stared at the rug, blinking rapidly. “I mean, why bother?”
He laughed bitterly. “Suffice it to say, it wasn’t because I missed your piano playing.”
Her head shot up, her cheeks flaming at his bald words. She fought back a surge of temper and traitorous desire. “Julian, you must not duel Anton.”
Cold anger flashed in his eyes. “Your devotion to your suitor is most touching.”
“He’s not my suitor! And furthermore, I had no knowledge that he’d sent you divorce papers.”
“No knowledge, hell,” Julian countered. “Then why have you come to plead his cause?” With stinging acrimony, he added, “You always beg for others, but never for me.”
She shook her head incredulously. “How can you claim to be the wounded party here, when your arrogance initiated this entire fiasco? It’s just like before with Philippe, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” he agreed ruthlessly. “And, once again, I’m offering you the same choice.”
“No choice,” she replied bitterly. “It’s my life or his, isn’t it?”
He downed his brandy angrily. “Ah, but there’s a difference. Him I would kill—you I want in my bed.”
As much as she hated him in that moment, a hot spear of arousal shot through her at his impudent words and insulting gaze. She paced angrily. “That’s all you’ve ever wanted from me.”
“Hardly,” he drawled.
“But it’s true.” She turned on him, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “You’ve never felt any sense of devotion or loyalty toward me, much less . . .”
“Love?” he supplied cynically.
“Love!” she mocked with a furious wave of her hand. “Now, there’s a fine joke. If you love anyone—besides yourself—it certainly isn’t me.”
“What do you mean by that comment?” he demanded.
She couldn’t help herself; tears were now spilling over. “I mean that you’ve never loved anyone except your precious Justine.”
That shot scored, and his eyes glittered ominously. “That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is!” she retorted, unheeding. “Tell me, Julian, why did it take you so long to come after me? Because you could not pry yourself away from Justine’s arms?”
She was unprepared for his response, for the naked rage now blazing in his eyes. He actually trembled as he stood before her, his expression so violent that she feared he might strike her. He hurled his empty brandy snifter across the room, and it smashed explosively against the fireplace. She jumped, wincing at the sound of shattering glass. Then the awful crash was forgotten as Julian advanced on her with the vengeance of hell burning in his eyes.
“Because I had to bury my son!” he roared.
In the next instant, Mercy feared she might crumple up and die, right then and there on the rug, so great was her shock and devastation over this stunning announcement.
“What?” she somehow managed to gasp. “Arnaud—Arnaud died?”
“Yes,” Julian blazed back with eyes gleaming. “He contracted scarlet fever and passed away two nights later.”
“Oh, my God! Oh, no!” Mercy cried, devastated by the news. “Julian—”
But even as she reached for him, he held up a hand in warning and continued with killing bitterness. “Even as I came home to tell my dear, devoted wife the news, even as I yearned for her comfort, I found that she’d left me—in the company of another man.”
“Oh, Julian!” Mercy’s hands flew to her face and she stared at her husband in crazed horror. All at once, she understood everything—Julian’s being away from the house for so long, and especially the scene she had witnessed at Justine’s house. That had been no romantic tryst she had spotted—only two grieving parents embracing over the deathbed of their child! Heaven help her! She had misinterpreted everything.
Mercy stared at Julian through her tears, knowing she had once again blamed him for something that was not his fault, that she had once again acted unforgivably. She knew now that he was not really angry—he was hurt, desperately hurt. Indeed, she was the very one who had wounded him to the soul.
She started toward him with tears streaming down her cheeks and arms outstretched in entreaty. “Oh, Julian—that dear, sweet child—I’m so sorry!”
“Spare me your lies!” he denounced.
“But it’s true!” she declared, gesturing distraughtly. “You must understand—back in New Orleans when you stayed away all night, I was beside myself with worry, and eaten up with jealousy. I went to Justine’s cottage, and that’s when I spotted the two of you embraced through the window. I didn’t know what was really happening, and I assumed—”
“You always assume! You never trust me!” he cut in angrily.
“But can’t you understand how I reacted, under the circumstances?” she pleaded. “Can’t you understand why I felt I had to leave?”
“Damn it, Mercy, you left with another man!”
She wrung her hands. “I realize this. But Anton is my cousin, and he was only acting on my grandparents’ behalf. It was all quite proper, I assure you.”
“All quite proper,” he mocked. “You underestimate your power over men, my dear. You traipse through life cheerfully and cruelly, leaving behind a trail of challenges—and broken hearts.”
Whose heart did he mean? she wondered wildly. Searching his features for an answer, and finding no hint of softness there, she clenched her fists miserably and repeated, “Julian, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” he echoed incredulously. “You left without a word—not one single, damned word.”
“All right, I shouldn’t have left that way. I didn’t trust you, and I apologize. Can you forgive me?”
His back turned on her was ample answer.
But the emotion welling in Mercy could not be denied. Undaunted, she went up to him, wrapping her arms about his waist and pressing her cheek to his stiff back. She expected him to fling her away, yet, curiously, he did not, though a mighty shudder seized him. She could feel the emotion coursing through him at that moment—the terrible anger, the feelings of hurt and betrayal and despair.
“Darling, forgive me,” she begged hoarsely, kissing his rigid back through his shirt linen, inhaling his intoxicating scent. “If only I had known . . . I’ve been so terribly wrong. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to thrash me now.”
He shocked her by turning violently in her arms. He grasped her shoulders, and his eyes burned down into hers. “I’ve never had any desire to punish you physically.”
“Then what?” she cried. In a small voice, she added, “Why did you come after me, Julian?”
He caught her close with a groan. His voice was filled with both irony and raw emotion. “Fool that I am, I still want you, chère.”
“You have me,” she whispered in anguish.
He tilted her chin with his fingertips. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Because you want to save Anton Gerard?” he demanded.
“No, because . . .” She almost blurted out that she loved him, but the words were somehow strangled in her throat. Instead, she shuddered and whispered, “Because I still want you, too.”
He stared down into her wide, anguished eyes, as if trying to gauge her sincerity. Evidently, what he saw convinced him, for he pulled her roughly against him; he was silent for a long moment, his arms trembling about her.
“How can I make amends?” she asked. When he stiffened, she added, “Please, I want to try.”
His embrace tightened. “You may not want to hear what I have to say,” he said hoarsely.
“Please, I do.”
He groaned, then whispered against her hair, “Give yourself to me without reservation.”
She drew back, staring up at him in confusion. “But I do.”
“No,” he said obdurately, “you don’t. You haven’t ever since we returned from St. Louis. We’ve not been really close since then.”
Mercy swallowed hard then, knowing Julian had spoken the truth. She had yielded her body to him, but her heart and soul had remained cold and unforgiving ever since they’d returned from their honeymoon. Now, she had to admit that she was half frightened by the prospect of laying herself open to him, of making herself vulnerable to this violent stranger.
Yet how else could she convince him of her utter sincerity and remorse? Perhaps through true physical intimacy, emotional intimacy could at last be restored in their marriage.
“I will,” she said in a tear-filled voice, “if only you’ll stop hating me.”
At her tormented words, Julian emitted a strangled, heartrending cry, and Mercy could actually feel something breaking in him, as if all the restraint of months past had suddenly crumbled away. He thrust hot hands into her hair, forcing her head back, compelling her to meet his anguished gaze.