Rogue's Mistress(12)

“No one asked you to—”

“Your mother asked me to, damn it,” he said, his eyes brilliant in his rage. “And I gave her my promise that night. But, of course, all of that is meaningless to you. In your eyes I’ll always be guilty—irrevocably and eternally damned. Far be it from me to expect Mercy to be merciful—”

“Please, m’sieur. You’re confusing me—”

“Please, m’sieur,” he mimicked. He grasped her by the shoulders, his eyes boring down into hers. “Call me Julian.”

Now her eyes gleamed with pride. “Never.”

“Never?” he repeated in a dangerously soft voice. “You always call me ‘m’sieur’—as if I’m anonymous, as if I don’t exist. Well, I do exist—and, by damn, you will acknowledge me.”

“You’re drunk—insane,” she cried. “You must know that I hate you. You must know that I’ll always love Philippe—”

“You don’t love that pup,” he cut in angrily. “You just want him because you can control him. You don’t even know what love is.”

“And do you presume to teach me, m’sieur? You—the very one who shall always fill my heart with nothing but loathing?”

“Damn it, girl, enough!”

Even as she uttered her last, cruel words, Mercy knew she had gone too far. She felt a blinding moment of regret. Yet realization was useless, and came far too late. For Julian crushed her against his hard chest and kissed her ruthlessly.

Mercy had never before been kissed on the mouth by a man, and Julian ravished her virgin lips with the consummate skill of a master. He held her so tightly, she could not breathe. His lips were hot, hard, and demanding on hers, his tongue thrusting past her teeth and plunging deeply into her mouth with raw hunger. He tasted heavily of brandy, and of something else—something unspeakably carnal.

Mercy reeled and sagged against him, appalled, frightened, yet somehow secretly thrilled. The front of her dress was pressing scandalously against Julian’s warm, bare chest. The nipples of her breasts were strangely tingling. She shivered, feeling dizzy, disoriented, caught up in the manly scent of him. The rough texture of his face felt wickedly masculine as it abraded her soft cheek. She was suddenly powerless to do anything but moan and cling to him.

Then Julian tore the kerchief from her head and plunged his fingers into her mane of vibrant hair . . . Blessed Mother, what was he doing to her? She had never felt anything like this before. An uncontrollable shudder seized her entire body. All the while, he held her head firmly with his hand, pressing his mouth forever harder, harder, into hers . . .

At last the kiss ended. Mercy drew a sharp, stinging breath. Her lips throbbed, and when she licked them, she tasted him. She was struggling to regain control of her stupefied senses when Julian’s mouth moved to her cheek, tenderly this time, and then she felt herself coming undone, like a spring being unwound in his hands. Oh, this was insanity! She could not think with her emotions in such chaos, with him so close and her heart beating so madly—

“Sweet Mercy,” he murmured, roving the tip of his tongue over her cheek. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“Please,” she murmured.

“Please what?”

“Please don’t.”

But he only drew her closer still, whispering against her ear, his breath hot and sweet. “Do you hate me so much, Mercy? Don’t you know you’ve been driving me insane for years with that bright red hair, those huge green eyes? And that prim little uniform—just daring me to unwrap you and see what you’re really like inside.”

“M’sieur, this is—”

“Honest?” he supplied. “Ah, yes, I think it’s high time for some honesty between us.”

Even as Mercy trembled in confusion and uncertain desire, Julian drew back slightly and looked down into her wide eyes. “So tell me, what are you really like inside, Mercy? Are you as cold, aloof, and unforgiving as your façade? Or are you as hot and passionate as a flame—as hot as that mane of wild red hair?”

Mercy was so horrified and fascinated by his words, she could only stare at him. Finally she stammered, “M’sieur—”

“Damn it, girl, call me m’sieur again and I’ll see you live to regret it,” he growled with sudden ill-humor. “Call me Julian.”

“No.”

He grasped her chin in a near-painful grip, forcing her willful eyes up to his. “Call me Julian,” he repeated in a frightening voice.

“Never.”

“Hate me if you must,” he continued ruthlessly, “but you will know who I am.”

When he kissed her again, a sob died in her throat. Her fists clenched against his back, then unclenched . . . He sensed her softening and gentled his approach, snaking his tongue in and out of her mouth in a blatantly sensual way. Mercy’s stomach hurt and her toes began to curl. She felt bewildered and helplessly vulnerable.

Suddenly, his hands were everywhere on her, raking down her spine, tangling in her hair. The thumb of one hand settled on the taut nipple of one breast, stroking audaciously, while he splayed the fingers of his other hand firmly over her bottom, pressing her into . . .

Nom de Dieu, what was this? A swollen shaft had sprung up between them, and it was now eagerly seeking her out. Mortified, Mercy squirmed, to no avail. Julian’s hand pinned her to his straining hardness with fingers of steel. All the while, his mouth was seducing, ravishing, plundering her own.

Mercy was losing her mind. Her breasts throbbed where Julian touched her, and deep in the pit of her stomach, a need was gnawing, growing, and seemed to yearn traitorously for the hot instrument now pulsing against her. Oh, what was wrong with her? How could she hurt so much yet feel so good, and know all the while that only he could ease this sweet, wonderful aching?

“Say it,” he demanded.

“Julian,” she sobbed.

“Bien.”

“Julian,” she whispered, shuddering.

He took full advantage of her lassitude, kissing her again in a long, deep, intimate way. This time she put up no resistance, and even reached out tentatively to stroke his thick hair.

“You will marry me,” he said at last.

Reality crashed in on her. “You’re mad,” she managed, staring up at him.

But he only smiled. “You’d make Broussard a wretched wife,” he continued. “You’d cut him to mincemeat in no time. It will take a much stronger man than he to control you—”

“And you’re that man?” she scoffed.

“Indeed.”

“In a pig’s eye, m’sieur.” Yet Mercy clung to him even as she uttered the words.

He laughed softly at her bravado. “You called me m’sieur again.”

“Are you going to beat me, then?”

He grinned wickedly. “No, though it’s tempting.” He drew back and pressed his finger on her wet, passion-bruised mouth. “However, first thing tomorrow morning, with one of the sisters attending you as chaperone, you will go see young Broussard. You will convince him that you have fallen in love with me—”

“You’re an imbecile!”

“You will convince him that you’ve fallen in love with me, and persuade him to drop his challenge.”

“Non!”

Yet Julian continued heedlessly. “You will do this because you don’t want him to die.”

She gazed up at him, horrified, at last comprehending the stark magnitude of his betrayal.

“There’s always a price, Mercy,” he drawled.

“You’re despicable.”

He only repeated softly, “You will marry me because you don’t want Broussard to die.”

She blinked at him. He had her, she thought—locked up, with the key tossed away. And he knew it. “Why?” she asked at last. “You must know I will always hate you.”

He drew her closer again, and, unwittingly, her breathing quickened. She hated herself and she hated him.

“A strong emotion, hate,” he was saying, caressing her hair as he remembered Justine’s words. “Strong enough to bond—”

“Or kill.”

“And, I would think, a most exciting element in bed.”

“Damn you to hell.”

He chuckled again, but his eyes gleamed with a fierce, animal determination. Slowly, he began lowering his lips to hers, his gaze impaling hers until she was sure she would drown in torment and anticipation.

“Then I guess we’ll dwell in purgatory together, ma chère, ” he said huskily. His lips hovered a mere whisper’s breath above hers as he added, “For now, sweet Mercy . . . you’re mine.”





Chapter Seven


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The next morning, Julian Devereux awakened with a screaming hangover. The room was filled with rosy sunshine that seemed to mock his foul mood. Even as he sat up against the pillows, he reeled with dizziness and was assaulted by feelings of impending doom that he couldn’t at first comprehend.

With a trembling hand, he thrust back the moustiquaire, rolled out of his tester bed, and staggered toward the dresser. His mouth tasted foul and as dry as a cotton boll. Propping his palms on the edge of the bureau, he stared at his bleary, bearded, bloodshot countenance, and sorely wished le bon Dieu had chosen never to awaken him.