Rogue's Mistress(76)
Far from placated, Julian advanced on her. “Aha! So you knew Justine was pregnant again, and you assumed . . . ?” He waved a finger at her angrily. “But of course! It wasn’t enough that I told you repeatedly how things were with the two of us. You never listened to me. You never trusted me—”
“Why didn’t you tell me about her and Henrí?”
“You wouldn’t have believed me,” he accused. He turned away and added in a low, strangled tone, “You never believed me. You never loved me.”
The words fell like a curtain of doom in the awful silence. Even as Mercy tried to reach for him, he strode away, pausing before the fireplace and resting his arm on the mantel. She watched a tremor of emotion course through his tall form, and her heart ached for him.
“Julian, I’m sorry. Please forgive me for not trusting you. I’m—I’m going to have your baby.”
He whirled to face her, a blinding joy in his eyes. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. It happened that night in Natchez.”
He almost reached for her then. She saw what the struggle cost him as his hand advanced, then retreated, as his features clenched with terrible yearning and uncertainty.
At last he said stiffly, “I am happy about the child. And she—or he—will always have a place in my life and in my heart. But a child alone is not enough to bind us together, chère. Neither will guilt—or obligation, or pity.”
Tears stung Mercy’s eyes. She couldn’t believe it—after she had come to him, openly and honestly, he was still casting her aside! Brokenly, she asked, “What if I say I love you?”
Naked longing burned in his eyes. “Don’t say it unless you mean it!”
With a wrenching cry, Mercy threw herself into his arms, her pride at last abandoned. “I love you, Julian,” she choked out, burying her face in the hollow of his throat.
Another shudder gripped him. “For the love of God, Mercy, don’t—”
“But I do—I love you!” she cried desperately. “So much. I have for so long.”
Abruptly, he seized her face and his eyes smoldered down into hers. “Then why didn’t you ever tell me so?”
She swallowed the huge lump in her throat. “I couldn’t trust you before because I never could believe you truly wanted me, or that you’d return my feelings. And every time we tried to talk, it just seemed as if we ended up hurting each other.”
“I know,” he murmured fervently.
“But no more. Now, I don’t want to go to Natchez—or anywhere. I just want to be with you.”
Her raw words at last reached him, and, with an agonized groan, he caught her close. “Oh, my darling, how I’ve yearned to hear those words from you! I love you, too, chère. I think I’ve loved you from the very night I sat by your mother’s side.”
“Have you?” she cried.
“Oh, yes. It’s truly ironic how we’ve both been at war with our pride.”
“But we’re together now,” she whispered, staring up at him with her heart in her eyes. “Please, say we’re together now.”
He brushed tears from her cheeks, and his voice broke as he replied, “Yes, my love, we are. Now and for always.”
They kissed rapturously, devouring each other in an outpouring of emotion. The intense desire to express their love soon consumed them both. Julian lifted his wife into his arms and carried her toward the settee. He couldn’t believe she’d at last come back to him, that she truly loved him. The anguish of years was gone, and in its place was a beauteous tide of healing, redemption, and forgiveness. His heart welled with love for her—his sweet, proud, passionate wife.
As he pressed her down, he gloried to the light of surrender in her eyes. He fumbled with her skirts, his hands trembling with need. Suddenly, he felt as awkward and shy as an adolescent, he wanted her so badly.
Her need was equal to his. She eagerly assisted him, staring up into his eyes. At last he was perched above her, rock hard, near bursting with need.
In a fierce, wanton move, she took him inside her, hungrily and deeply. Crying out in delight, she pulled his lips down to hers and sank her tongue into his mouth.
Above her, Julian was in such heaven, he could have wept. He returned his wife’s passionate kiss and lifted her into his riveting thrusts, until they were truly one.
There on the narrow divan, they made their reconciliation complete.
Epilogue
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New Orleans, 1854
“M’sieur, it’s a boy! Madame is fine, and the doctor has already left.”
As Risa’s delighted voice rang across the parlor, Julian stepped forward. “A boy? You’re sure?”
“M’sieur, please,” the young woman demurred, lowering her eyes.
Chuckling, Julian crossed the room and shoved a cigar into Henrí’s astonished mouth. “It’s a boy, my friend. Now your little Fabian will have another playmate.”
“Congratulations,” Henrí said proudly.
Julian turned to the two small children who were playing nearby on the rug in a beam of morning sunshine. His daughter, two-year-old Corrine, was an exuberant moppet with her mother’s red curls and her father’s blue eyes. She looked adorable in her blue summer dress, lacy white pinafore, and matching stockings. Henrí’s son, two-and-a-half-year-old Fabian, was a beautiful, quiet child with Justine’s smile and his father’s honey brown eyes.
“Corrine, my love,” Julian said, kneeling beside the child. “We have a brother.”
Dropping her block, Corrine glanced up at her beloved father in astonishment. “Brudder? Brudder boy?”
“Brudder boy,” Julian confirmed, laughing. He pulled the toddler into his arms and stood, kissing her soft cheek.
“Papa, go see!” Corrine trilled, waving her plump arms.
“By all means,” her doting father agreed. “Henrí, if you’ll excuse us?”
Henrí chuckled as father and daughter left the room. Upstairs, Julian carried Corrine into the bright bedroom. His heart welled with joy at the sight of Mercy lying asleep on the bed, looking more beautiful than ever with her long lashes resting against her cheeks and her red hair spread out across the pillow. In her arms was a tiny bundle—a sleeping infant with a small shock of coal-black hair.
Admonishing his daughter to be quiet, Julian carried Corrine to the bed. Both father and daughter stared solemnly at the new arrival. The sleeping babe was busily chewing on a tiny fist; Julian’s heart twisted with tenderness at the sight. Even Corrine’s expression was awed as she stared at her new brother.
“Well?” he asked his daughter.
“Papa keep?” she whispered eagerly.
“Of course Papa keep,” Julian replied with a chuckle, kissing the top of Corrine’s head.
Hearing a low laugh, Julian belatedly noticed Justine standing on the far side of the bed, her figure partially obscured by the bed curtains. She stepped forward, her stomach large with Henrí’s second child.
Julian slanted her an admonishing look. “Justine, you should not be on your feet still. It’s bad enough that you sat up with Mercy half the night.”
Smiling serenely, Justine came around the bed to join them. “I was delighted to help where I could. Henrí and I do not get to see you and your wife often enough.”
A muscle worked in his jaw as he glanced at the bed. “He is beautiful, no?”
“Oh, yes.”
His arms clenched around his precious Corrine. “I’m glad the first one was . . . I mean . . .”
She touched his sleeve. “I understand, Julian. But Arnaud would have wanted us to continue with our lives.” They shared a poignant look. Then, as Corrine wiggled, Justine spoke to the child. “My dear, would you like to come downstairs with me and have some cookies and milk with Fabian?”
“Oh, yes!” Corrine cried.
Julian set his daughter on her feet. Smiling, Justine took Corrine’s small hand and led her from the room.
Julian sat down on the bed next to Mercy, taking her hand and kissing it. He again feasted his eyes on her and his son, and it occurred to him that he’d never felt happier than he did at this moment.
Mercy’s eyes blinked open, and she smiled radiantly up at him. “Darling, we have a son.”
“So I’ve surmised,” he returned proudly.
“Does Corrine know?”
“Oh, yes. She’s already decided we should keep him.”
Smiling, Mercy shifted slightly to stare down at the infant in her arms. “Oh, I adore him, Julian. He’s going to look just like you. What shall we call him?”
“Now, that is a question,” he mused, scratching his jaw.
“We named Corrine after my mother,” she pointed out, “so why don’t we name him after your father?”
“Jacques,” Julian murmured. “Yes, I like that.”
She sighed dreamily. “I can’t wait for us to make another one.”
“What?” he cried. “This, after I listened to your screams half the night?”
She smiled. “The pain is already forgotten.” She wrinkled her nose at him and added in a sultry purr, “But not the pleasure.”
He grinned. “Why, you vixen.”