Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo (36 page)

Haydée stepped forward and said to Bertuccio, “I believe His Excellency would see Monsieur Morrel, of all people. Perhaps you will accompany me?” she added, looking with clear invitation at the young man.

The majordomo seemed ready to argue; but truly, what could he say? The count had been incommunicado from the entire household since the Comtesse de Morcerf had left the day before. Only Haydée had been admitted to his rooms a short time ago, to deliver the news regarding Morcerf’s suicide. She’d found Monte Cristo sitting in his favorite chair, staring out over the city, deep in thought.

He’d looked up at her, turning from the morning sun, his face deeply lined with sorrow and regret. “I’ve been wrong, I think, Haydée,” he’d said quietly. His voice was devoid of emotion. “All this time, I thought . . . I thought God had sent me to wreak vengeance on them all. Yet it was she—Mercédès—who reminded me of honor, of selflessness . . . and who reminded me that He too is merciful.

“She told me what she did . . . for me. What she gave up, how she must have suffered . . . but I didn’t hear her. I didn’t really
hear
her. Her words have been echoing in these chambers since yesterday, and only now have I truly heard them. And understood. About mercy. And honor and selflessness. How I was wrong to judge her for her choices, the difficult decisions she made.

“And that it is not my place to judge and condemn
anyone
— especially those who are innocent.” He’d heaved a great sigh, then turned back to the city’s view beyond. “Yet . . . I cannot imagine a life without the need for revenge burning inside me. What is there for me now?”

But when she’d tried to speak, to comfort him, he’d dismissed her, firmly but with cordiality. “I need a bit more time, Haydée . . . to figure out how to live. And what I can do.”

And so now, with an excellent excuse in the form of Captain Maximilien Morrel, Haydée welcomed the opportunity to look in on His Excellency again. Perhaps the young man for whom the count seemed to have the most genuine affection could entice him back to life.

No one tried to stop her from interrupting the master. Now that she had been made a freewoman, the remaining servants seemed to accept her as the lady of the household.

All except for Ali, who had been stationed outside the count’s private apartments since yesterday afternoon after the comtesse left. He seemed nearly as out of sorts as the count did, and he would make no eye contact with Haydée when she came into his presence. Not that she had tried to speak with him or interact with him . . . not since the night before the duel, when he’d found her crying—for real this time—on the terrace, and had tried to kiss her.

She was simply too confused about what to do regarding the man she loved, now that she was a freewoman and he was a slave. She’d learned that the last thing she wanted was an unwilling man, one she had to order or trick into loving her. She was no longer certain about the difference between what he desired, and what she thought he did—or wanted him to.

As she led Monsieur Morrel up the wide sweep of stairs from the ground floor to the first story, she couldn’t help but wonder again why the count had sent Comtesse Morcerf away after less than a day. Haydée had been told that the woman would remain for an extended time, and she, at least, had expected His Excellency to be in much better spirits after being with her.

In fact she had been certain whatever it was between them would be resolved, if not after the bloodless duel, then after several hours of serious fucking. The last thing Haydée had expected was for him to cut short his liaison with the woman he obviously still had great feelings for . . . and send her on her way.

At the top of the stairs, Ali stood guard, his massive body settled on what looked to be an extremely uncomfortable chair posted just outside the door.

“I have brought Monsieur Morrel to His Excellency on a matter that he has described as regarding life and death,” Haydée told Ali in a cool, businesslike tone. She swept past him and grasped the knob of one of the French doors without waiting for his response.

Ali moved gracefully to his feet, all dark and smooth and strong, his extensive shadow falling over her and onto the door. He closed his fingers around her arm, not tightly, but enough to gain her attention—for she had barely looked at him, and had not allowed their eyes to meet. She couldn’t . . . not right now.

With a sharp jolt, she pulled from his grip and turned the knob as she raised her hand to give a warning knock. “Please, wait here, monsieur,” she said to Morrel, holding up a slender hand.

Ali did not try to stop her; perhaps that hadn’t even been his intent. Yet her arm felt warm and strange after his touch. She knocked again, a bit harder, trying not only to capture the count’s attention, but also to dislodge the tingling on her skin.

At last, she heard the peremptory “Come” from within.

Opening the door, she peered in. The count was standing at the windows, at what appeared to be his favorite spot in the room. “Your Excellency, Monsieur Morrel has arrived. He desires to speak with you on a matter of great urgency.”

Monte Cristo seemed to shake himself from some deep meditation and turned to look at her. The afternoon sunlight glowed behind him, streaming through the window and filtering through his thick mass of messy hair. He wore only a simple white shirt and trousers. The shirt cuffs were undone, hanging over his dark hands. Even his feet were bare, and the three buttons at the throat of his shirt were open.

“Maximilien?” Whatever burden he carried seemed to lighten a bit, and the lines of his face eased. “It will be good to see him. I will tell him all, unburden my heart. Yes, send him in. And . . . I think perhaps I will eat something, Haydée.”

She bowed and, moving backward from the room, gestured for Morrel to enter. The young man did so with such speed and alacrity that she wondered how he had resisted earlier. “My God, Monte Cristo, are you ill?” she heard him say before closing the door behind her.

No sooner had the latch clicked than she turned and started toward the stairs—intent on personally asking Bertuccio to arrange for some food and drink for his master—when Ali’s strong hand reached for her again.

This time, she did not shake off his touch, but stood there, next to the door, looking down at her slippered feet, waiting.

Two large black feet, banded with gold cuffs, moved into view beside her own narrow, blue silk ones. They sidled up, trapping her feet between his large toes and the elegant arches into which those digits swept.

“I’m sorry, Ali,” she said in a low voice, still looking down. The cream of his loose trousers, the hems embroidered with gold designs that she’d never noticed before, was pale and simple next to his rich dark skin and the cerulean blue of her gown. “I should never have . . . I was wrong to act as I did.”

His other hand had closed over her shoulder, and now he held her on both arms. But still, she didn’t look up at him. She couldn’t.

He gave her a little jerk, just enough to get her attention, and at last she lifted her gaze to see him. His eyes were wary, shuttered . . . yet she saw something else there. Hope, perhaps. Or a question.

He released her to sign.
I will be leaving soon.

The bottom dropped out of her stomach. She tightened her fingers into the sides of her gown. “Where are you going?”

Her mouth was so dry, her stomach churning so hard, that she thought she might vomit right there. She’d thought to have more time . . . more time with him, to see him, to talk to him, to smell him . . . to give them another chance. Her another chance.

Haydée wanted to say something easy and light, to wish him well, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she could do nothing but look up at those thick pink lips and think about never tasting them again.

“Go . . . with you?” She could hardly believe it; there were all sorts of things blazing through her mind.

But before she could respond, the doors to the bedchamber flew open and out strode the Count of Monte Cristo. Dressed, combed, booted, and determined. Maximilien Morrel followed him, his face much lighter than when he’d arrived.

“You’re sure of it?” Monte Cristo was saying. “Someone is trying to poison Valentine Villefort?”

“There is no doubt, after three other deaths by poison in the household,” the young man replied as they stopped on the landing. “Valentine and I have kept our love secret for so long because her father would never allow us to be together—but I knew I could trust you with the knowledge. I knew you would help us. And now that you have told me you’re Edmond Dantès, as well as Lord Wilmore and Sinbad the Sailor—the men who saved my father from ruin and death—now I know for certain I was right to come to you.”

“Indeed. I’ve been so . . . foolish,” Monte Cristo said, that last word so quiet that Haydée was certain she was the only one to hear. “I could have been the cause of her death,” he muttered to himself as his young companion walked back into the chambers to retrieve his gloves, neither of them appearing to notice her and Ali.

“The sins of the fathers visited upon their sons . . . How could I have believed in that—believed in the destruction of innocent lives? I would have been no better than Morcerf and Villefort themselves. Thank God, Mercédès helped me to see . . . how foolish I’ve been . . . . And now . . . yes, I will save Valentine.” He said this last more loudly, speaking to his friend as he reappeared carrying his gloves. “This, then, is a reason to live. Love.”

Morrel would have started down the stairs, but Monte Cristo stopped him. “I will save her. I vow it. But you must trust me. Will you?”

“As I would my father,” Morrel told him, grasping the count’s arm.

“Now I will go on to see Valentine myself, for you cannot go there, of course, if you are to keep your love secret. But never fear. All will be well in the end.”

Monte Cristo was nodding now; it seemed as if he spoke to himself. “All will be well.” Then he looked up directly at Haydée and Ali for the first time and said, “Ali, I have need of you for one more task. Will you, my friend?”

Ali gave a willing bow and stepped away from Haydée to follow his master. As she watched the count bound away, down the spread of stairs, she was relieved that he seemed to be purposeful again. Yet . . . her sharp gaze had not missed the lines of grief and weariness that seemed to have gone deeper in the last day, as well as the glint of anger that still limned his eyes.

His Excellency had found a new purpose, yet something disturbing still ate at him.

But even that unpleasant realization paled in comparison to the fact that Ali wanted her to go home with him. Wherever and however it could be possible, he wanted her to go with him.

For the first time in weeks, Haydée felt alive. She went through the rest of the day with a glorious smile on her face and warmth in her heart. She sank into bed that night, knowing that the next day Ali would return and she would be able to tell him how joyful she was to be going home with him. It didn’t take much for her to drift off to sleep, for she was no longer worried about what the future might hold.

She awoke suddenly.

Moonlight glowed from beyond her windows, tingeing her bedchamber with all shades of gray and blue and silver. Someone was there . . . large and sleek and silent. Spicy and rich.

Her heart leaped and her stomach twirled as the thick, low cushions that made her bed dipped slightly to the side as he climbed on next to her.

“Ali,” she murmured as his head moved closer, shining in the moonlight. The gold hoop at his ear glinted as he reached for her, and she eagerly wrapped her arms around his thick muscular neck. “You’ve returned.”

She’d had a bit of an awkward day after he left with Monte Cristo, having been unable to immediately accept Ali’s invitation to go home with him. She didn’t care where it was or what it was like, she wanted to be with him. But he’d been called away as she stood there with her mouth open, stupidly repeating his question . . . left to wonder if he thought she’d been shocked or repulsed, rather than delighted. Oh, most definitely delighted.

As she was now, with his thick, soft lips that had found the thrust of one hard, long-neglected nipple. He sucked firmly, magically, using his tongue to swirl around it and tease over the crinkles of its base before drawing nearly her whole breast into his wide, hot mouth. Haydée shuddered and trembled beneath him, as his fingers slipped down over the low rise of her belly and up again onto the lift of her smooth mound, and then down into the heat and wetness of her quim.

There was nothing . . .
nothing
. . . like the pleasure, the knowledge, of a man’s touch, she thought dazedly, as he slipped those knowing fingers down and around and between the folds of her skin, spreading her thick juices over her swollen flesh slowly, tortuously. As if he had all the time in the world. Her pip was hard and ripe when he found it under its little hood, the perfect pressure of his fingertip jiggling and teasing her until she writhed beneath him, gasping against the musky skin of his jaw.

She felt the smile on his face as he bent to kiss her again, sucking her top lip deeply into his mouth as he continued to play and stroke and finger between her legs. The sweet, low rise toward her orgasm built, higher and higher, twining through her body as her legs fell open, her nails dug into his arm, her mouth opened in short little pants.

Oh, my . . . oh . . . Her hips moved against his hand, desperate and needy, and she heard his low masculine chuckle next to her face.

“Ali,” she gasped, biting her lip to keep from screaming.

In response, he moved his finger from her and shifted quickly and smoothly to bury his face between her legs. He didn’t wait, didn’t ease into her: Instead, he devoured her, his full, mobile mouth closing over the wet, swollen folds of her quim, sucking and nibbling and licking. . . . Oh, wonderful, nudging and slipping and teasing without pause, as though he’d saved up his hunger forever. She gave a little scream as he found her pearl, ripe and full to bursting, and when he gave a long, undulating pull on it, vibrating it between his full lips and teasing it with his tongue, Haydée felt everything, every part of her, fill up, then explode and fall away into a long, sweet, shuddering tumble.