Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo (8 page)

The rugs were even softer beneath her feet, and she realized with a start that they weren’t rugs, but animal furs, piled thickly over the entire floor. The tapestries on the walls were decorated with Oriental swords, their hilts heavy with jewels and pearls, the curving blades etched with ornate designs. Lamps shaded by venetian stained glass hung from the ceiling, casting a soft, warm glow over a room that still held edges of shadow. She saw low, fat cushions of ruby, amethyst, sapphire, and emerald, decorated with fringe and tassels, embroidery and lace. A long, wide divan along one wall of the rectangular chamber was covered with more animal furs and smaller pillows.

Placed in front of the divan was a low, narrow table covered with golden platters, Japanese porcelain plates, glass bowls, jewel-encrusted goblets and pitchers, and food. The array of food was such as Mercédès had never seen before, and couldn’t identify some of it. Fruits and vegetables of all colors, fowl of all sizes dressed and roasted, breads, cheeses, wine, tea . . .

Mercédès’ examination of the room was halted when the tapestry across from her entrance shifted, and a tall figure came in.

She recognized him immediately; perhaps she’d expected it all along. He was dressed in wide dark red trousers and a simple white shirt. Over the shirt, his short black jacket had no sleeves, but by the glint at its hem, appeared to be decorated with golden threads and small jewels. He wore a black skullcap with a dangling blue tassel, and as before, his long dark hair was pulled into a straight queue that fell along his spine, well past his shoulder blades. The same heavy beard and mustache hid the sensual mouth she remembered, and the low light in the room obscured the details of his expression—but she recognized him just the same.

“Ah, Countess, so we meet again.” The man who had called himself Sinbad the Sailor gestured to the chamber with an elegant hand, still cuffed with a gold armband. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

THREE

When Sinbad settled on the divan and gestured for her to join him, Mercédès felt foolish continuing to stand in her flowing silk tunic while he appeared so comfortable. So she joined him, leaving a generous distance between them.

The particular fur pelt on which she settled was fine ermine, soft as the silk she wore, and thick and lush under her finger-tips. At first, Mercédès had a difficult time finding a comfortable position on the divan—she simply wasn’t used to the freedom of movement allowed without stays—much less perching on a piece of furniture that was so low to the ground, with no arms or back. At last she settled in a seated position, with her legs curled up to the side, covered by the skirt of her tunic, her long, damp hair gathered to one side. It fell in a heavy swath, pooling over the ermine pelt next to her hip. Even her toes were hidden.

“Please eat,” Sinbad told her in that odd accent she couldn’t place.

The meal tasted just as decadent as the chamber felt. At first, Mercédès wasn’t terribly hungry; nervousness dried her mouth and tossed her stomach. But when Sinbad gestured to a plate of a brilliant golden-fleshed cut fruit that looked and felt like a rich peach, she realized how little she’d eaten in the last few days.

“What is it?” she asked him, after swallowing the delicious, peppery-sweet fruit.

“Mango,” he replied, as if surprised that she didn’t know. “Try this—papaya. And that.” He looked at her with such a steady gaze that she was rattled. “Coconut.”

He seemed relaxed, seated with his legs folded in front of him, knees bent and toes tucked inside. Yet it was dark enough in the room that she couldn’t fully read his face—even what wasn’t hidden by the beard and mustache—and she thought that perhaps his hand trembled a bit when he pointed to the various fruits. But his voice was steady and easy and exotic. She realized her nipples had hardened and poked through the thin silk that had seemed loose and flowing but, now that she’d been seated, seemed to cling everywhere. The slightest movement caused it to rub against her skin like a lover’s caress.

Omania and her companion served them in silence, and Mercédès ate the roasted quail stuffed with rice, and a tiny, sweet grain mixed with raisins and dates. Bloodred wine splashed into her goblet and she drank it, and then water, before she had cheese and bread, pears, and figs.

“You were not injured or frightened during your voyage?” Sinbad asked. He ate, but sparingly.

“Annoyed, perhaps,” she replied, keeping her voice as steady as his. “What is Signor Vampa’s plan? And why are you here?”

“So inquisitive for a . . . guest.” He flashed a smile, then drank from his own goblet. When he replaced it on the low table, he spoke to Omania in a foreign tongue, and she nodded. With a bow, she and her companion left the room. “I am here to ensure that your stay is comfortable . . . and pleasurable.” He looked at her again, his eyes steady and piercing.

Mercédès felt a stab of lust in the pit of her belly, and her breasts tightened. She looked away. Her mouth suddenly went dry, and she realized her heart was pounding so hard that if she lifted her hand it would show the jolts.

“Has Signor Vampa sent word to my husband?” The sooner Fernand received word of the ransom request, the sooner he could pay it, and the sooner she would be released and back to her normal life, back to Albert.

“Ah, yes. We wouldn’t want the comte to suffer in your absence, would we?” Steel laced his words, and he looked toward the table as if to conceal the expression in his eyes. “How terrible it would be for him to endure a moment of pain or worry. Are you so certain he will pay the amount of ransom demanded?”

“There is no question. And . . . is it possible . . . could you ask for a message to be sent to Julie Morrel? She is now married to Emmanuel Herbault, and near the end of her fifth confinement. I don’t wish for her to worry that . . . that the worst has befallen me.”

His demeanor softened a bit, and he gave a brief nod. “I have already seen to that, for I don’t wish any harm to come to her or her family. And word has been sent to the comte.” Then he looked sideways at her, a contemplative look in his eyes. “So you do not think that the worst has befallen you?”

“I’m not dead.”

Sinbad nodded, but his eyebrows raised. “So you believe that death is the worst fate that can befall someone.” He lifted an elegant hand, bringing a choice piece of pheasant to his mouth. The gold band at his wrist glinted in the low light.

“No, I suppose it isn’t. One could be injured or ill and live the life of . . . of a rock, experiencing or enjoying little. At least with death, one is no longer conscious of the ills in one’s life. . . . But with death there is no chance of improvement in one’s condition or situation.”

He’d been chewing thoughtfully, and now he swallowed. “Some consider death a welcome reprieve. For example, the man locked away in a dark prison cell likely wishes for death, rather than day after day of an empty existence. He might consider death an easier way than the madness that awaits him. The eternity of darkness and nothing.”

Mercédès thought of Edmond, of course, and wondered if he too had wished for death before his demise . . . or if he’d believed that someday he would be free. Her eyes stung, and she looked away.

Sinbad continued to speak. “But perhaps there are worse things than death or imprisonment, Countess. If someone wronged you—for example, if something happened to your son—”

“What do you know of my son?” she asked, suddenly frightened.

“Nothing but what you told me, Countess. Ten years ago, when we last met, you told me you had a son of twelve. So he must be past his majority now.” His voice was still relaxed, still exotic and lilting; yet she heard a trace of harshness beneath the superficial gentleness. “As I was saying, if something happened to your son—if he was set upon by bandits, for example, and mercilessly killed, what of revenge? Would you want the brigands who harmed him to die, or would you foist some other form of vengeance upon them?”

“I would want them to know the same suffering as I,” she replied fiercely.

“Exactly so, my dear countess. And would not an execution— a rope around the neck, the kiss of the guillotine, a bullet to the head—be too simple, too easy? Would it not allow the evildoers to be released into whatever afterlife they might expect?”

“I said I
wanted
them to suffer . . . but they will be judged by God,” Mercédès replied firmly. “It’s not my place to judge here on this earth.”

Sinbad smiled, his dark mustache stretching to show a glimpse of suddenly feral teeth. “But I know that God selects avenging angels—avenging ones and rewarding ones—and places them here on this earth to assist Him. And for great sins, very often the best justice is a long-lasting punishment. One in which the sinner lives with the results of his or her perfidy, rather than being released from his earthly responsibilities by swift death.”

He met her eyes again. “Would you not want those who murdered your son to live with a pain and loss as great as your own? Wouldn’t death be too simple, too quick for them?”

“I would want that—yes, I would . . . ,” Mercédès replied, honesty compelling her to speak plainly. “But . . .”

Her voice trailed off. Sinbad was looking at her so steadily, so darkly, that the words simply disintegrated. “What an honest woman you are, Countess,” he said sardonically. “Honest and loyal and true. You would wait for your love forever, wouldn’t you?”

She had waited for Edmond.

She
had
. . . until she’d had no choice.

She knew Fernand had lived in fear for that first year or two after they married that Edmond would return, that he would be furious that Fernand had badgered her into wedding him when she’d promised to wait for him . . . but Edmond had never returned.

The sharp clap of Sinbad’s hands startled her, drawing her from the deep, dark reverie of guilt and loss. “I can see that our debate is upsetting you, Countess,” he said. “Let us move on to more enjoyable pastimes. Please,” he said with a gesture of those elegant, gold-cuffed hands. “Enjoy Omania and Neru.”

Mercédès realized that Omania and another servant, a male—presumably Neru—had returned, and cleared the table of much of the food whilst she and Sinbad conversed. They moved the table across the room, putting it against the wall opposite them. Neru moved another, smaller table next to Sinbad, and on it the servants placed some wine and several small bowls filled with grapes, mango, and a tiny jewellike red fruit Sinbad had called “pomegranate.”

Now the two servants moved to the empty space recently vacated by the table of food, and stood in front of the divan. Omania had changed clothing, and was wearing a skirt made of nothing but countless strips of silk hanging from a golden girdle that settled below her navel. A large sapphire had been set in that small hollow. Her smooth coffee-colored skin was bare from hip to just below her breasts, which were bound with more strips of silk that wrapped around her neck, leaving her arms bare but for numerous golden bangles and bands. Her black hair hung in thick, springy coils from the crown of her head, where they were captured by a wide gold band studded with emeralds. Her feet were bare, but she wore gold rings on her ankles and toes.

Neru, a young man of approximately the same age as Omania—perhaps twenty—was garbed similarly to Sinbad. However, he wore no shirt under his short jacket, which hung open to display part of a well-muscled, hairless chest, and all of a flat belly, ridged with muscle. His arms were well defined and gleamed sleekly, as if they and the rest of his espresso skin had been oiled. His strong, broad feet planted themselves on the rug of leopard fur.

A drum began to beat low, drawing Mercédès’ attention to an as yet unnoticed corner, where the other female maidservant who’d helped her bathe was sitting. The drummer’s attention was trained on Omania and Neru as her sure hands beat an exotic rhythm.

“Countess.” She heard the voice and turned to look at Sinbad. His shadowed eyes held hers.

Suddenly, the room felt soft and warm. And small. It shrank as he moved toward her, uncurling his legs and easing himself closer with the smooth stepping of his palms on the fur pelts. She watched his hands, tanned fingers spread wide and solid, sinking into the furs, and found herself unable to look away as they moved nearer. The drumbeat pounded low and steady in the background, deep enough that she felt it in the depths of her body.

Her heart rammed in her chest, and her own fingers trembled in her lap, crushing and dampening the silk. When his hand brushed against her silk-covered leg, she closed her eyes. Her breathing was unsteady, and she thought she heard raspiness in his breath.

When he kissed her, at last, the bristles of his mustache were the same soft ones she remembered. They brushed against the dry plumpness of her lips, a gentle tickling as if to invite them to open. And they did.

He was still on his hands and knees, their faces even and his head tipping to the side to better fit his mouth to hers. His arms bumped against her legs, and his weight on the divan cushions caused her to lean gently toward him, so she reached out to steady herself. Her fingers clashed with his among the fur.

The slick tangle of tongues, the sucking and nibbling and sliding of lips, the heat of his proximity, a spicy smell in his hair, the sweetness of mango and wine threaded through the kiss . . . a ferocious kiss, saved up for ten years. It was as if a door had opened and sensation burst through her body, awakening it.

Sinbad pulled back. “Enjoy,” he told her, gesturing at the younger man and woman standing before them.

He moved back to his place, and Mercédès stared at him in the dim light, her lips parted, her eyes fastened on him, her breath still coming in little surprised pants.
Dios mio
, what he’d done with a mere kiss!