Rogue's Mistress (6 page)

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“What are you doing here?” Julian
demanded.

Standing in the doorway with
Henrí, Mercy gulped as she watched her guardian approach with a murderous gleam
in his eyes. Julian appeared to have been drinking. He was not dead drunk, but
just inebriated enough to be dangerous. Several stray dark curls fell rakishly
across his forehead. He looked ferociously handsome and as lethal as a black
panther ready to spring.

Mercy realized that she could not
possibly have come at a worse time. Somehow she managed not to wring her hands.
“M’sieur, I must speak with you.”

Julian turned to Henrí. “Leave us,
please,” he said.

Henrí bowed and ducked out,
closing the door behind him.

As soon as the servant was out of
earshot, Mercy stepped forward. “M’sieur, I have come here to—”

He held up a hand and glowered at
her. “First, you will tell me what
in the hell
you are doing out on the
streets of New Orleans, unchaperoned. I should take you over my knee.”

Mercy bit down the righteous anger
that rose up in her at Julian’s arrogant words.
You must secure his
cooperation,
she reminded herself.
You must
. “M’sieur, I apologize,”
she forced herself to say evenly. “I know I have behaved recklessly, both today
at the school and tonight.”

He regarded her dubiously. “That’s
eminently true.”

“The fact of the matter is, I knew
the sisters never would have allowed me to come here. Still, I had to speak
with you. The situation is—
despéré
.”

“Desperate?” he repeated.
Abruptly, he smiled, and his smile was frightening. “Ah, yes, the situation is
desperate.”

Mercy swallowed hard, foreboding
prickling on her nerve endings.

Julian strode to his desk and
picked up the decanter of brandy and his glass. “A drink, Mercy?” he asked
recklessly.

She shook her head, baffled by the
strange and alarming state he was in.

He turned to her. “So you’ve come
on behalf of young Broussard?”

She nodded.

“To beg me not to duel him?”

She nodded again.

“Certainly, you’ve not come on
behalf of me,” he added ironically.

Her chin came up. “I don’t
understand, m’sieur. It’s well known that you’ve never been defeated on the
field of honor.”

“So why worry?” he asked
insolently. “At any rate, it’s obvious that my death would hardly put you in a
decline.”

Mercy bit her lip, feeling quite
ill-at-ease. “What is it you expect me to say?”

“Ah, to hell with it,” he
muttered, downing his drink. He set down the glass and strode forward, his
bright, piercing gaze seeming to cut holes in her. “You’ve come on a mission of
mercy, then? Strange, coming from a creature who seems to have none in her
heart for me.”

Mercy reeled at his words. “I—I
don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?” He continued toward
her, picking up a ball of crumpled parchment from the rug. He unfolded it
slowly, carefully, and handed it to her. “Is this what you came for, sweet
Mercy?”

She scanned the letter quickly,
then looked up at him. “
Oui
. But it is crumpled.” She forced a
forthright tone. “You must write it again.”

Her imperious tone raked across
Julian’s strained nerves. “Write it again?” He lifted an eyebrow in feigned
amazement. “It is not satisfactory?” He bowed elaborately from the waist, then
took the parchment from her hand, ripped it into several dozen small pieces,
and let them flutter to the floor. “Happy now?”

Mercy was barely able to contain
her urge to claw the mocking grin off his face. “Why did I even come here? As
always, you are an arrogant cad!”

He whistled, feigning amazement.
“Not a very conciliatory attitude from one who has come to beg for mercy.”

She drew a hard, seething breath.
“You would—kill Philippe—”

Now he was angry, too, his hand
slashing the air. “No, damn it! Your precious suitor would kill
me
. He
is the one who issued the challenge, as you’re well aware.”

Mercy fought back hot, stinging
tears. “You know you’ll kill him tomorrow. I overheard Sister Clarabelle saying
once that—that you’ve killed three men beneath the Oaks.”

“Ah, yes, my formidable
reputation,” he said cynically. “’Julian the Terrible’.” He drew a step closer,
his gaze hard. “And you’re right, Mercy. I
am
terrible, and I likely
will kill Broussard tomorrow.” Even as she gasped in horror, he went on. “Why
have you come to me, then, fully aware of the blackened state of my heart? Why
not entreat young Broussard?”

“Because he won’t back down,”
Mercy acknowledged miserably. “I know him. He just won’t.”

“Indeed, it is a most serious
matter, an
affaire d’honneur
between two gentlemen.”

“But you could stop it—”

“Renege?” he asked in disbelief.
“And be publicly posted a coward? It simply is not done, dear Mercy.”

She gestured in entreaty. “Then
send Philippe the note. Let the two of us marry.
Pour l’amour de Dieu
—why
are you being so stubborn about this?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps I think
he’ll make you a poor husband.”

“He’ll make me no husband if he’s
dead.”

“Quite true,” he uttered
agreeably.

Mercy struggled to hold on to her
patience. “There’s an alternative—”

“Yes?”

She drew herself up proudly. “I
could take the veil.”

Mercy’s pride was at once deflated
as Julian threw back his head and laughed. “You—a nun?”

Mercy bristled. “Is the idea so
absurd to you, m’sieur?”

“Utterly.” He looked her over in
an insulting way that could only be called a leer. “You’re far too earthy and
ravishing a creature to become a nun.”

Mercy’s eyes grew enormous even as
she inwardly burned with indignation at Julian’s affront. Enough was enough,
she realized. Julian was clearly drunk. There was no getting through to the
man, and she might as well leave. Perhaps he was right, anyway, and she should
try to change Philippe’s mind.

She stared at him coldly.
“M’sieur, I have had quite enough of your insults. As always, you are a
black-hearted, insufferable scoundrel, and I bid you good night.”

That’s when something snapped in
Julian. Perhaps it was Mercy’s cold departing words, or the contempt that had
been building between them for nine long years. Perhaps it was the unspeakable
passion the girl inevitably spurred in him. But suddenly, he became fiercely
determined to penetrate her icy façade, to discover if the girl possessed a
heart at all.

Even as she turned to leave, he
grabbed her arm. “Not so fast, Mercy.”

She turned to glower at him,
trying to wrench herself free. “This is taking us nowhere, m’sieur.”

“On the contrary. There is a
solution.”

She paused, arrested. “Yes?”

“Obviously, you need a proper
husband, and young Broussard needs to survive to his twenty-first year.”

“What are you suggesting?”

He looked her over again. “You
could marry me.”

“Have you lost your mind?” she
gasped.

“Undoubtedly. Still, the match
might prove . . . interesting.”

“Lethal,” she amended. “How could
you think I could ever—”

“Stop hating me?” he supplied.
“Stop blaming me?”

Even as guilt stabbed her, she
cried, “Yes!”

He loomed closer, the look in his
eyes chilling her, his breath hot on her face. “Do you actually think you are
the only one who has known loss in all of this?”

“I—don’t know what you mean—”

“Don’t you? Come now, dear Mercy.
You can’t possibly be that thickheaded. Your eyes alone have been impaling me
for years, like a knife in my heart—”

“I never meant—”

“Didn’t you?” He laughed, but it
was hollow, humorless. “Do you actually think you’re the only one who has felt
regret, or recrimination?”

“Regret over what?” she cried.

“Do you know what it’s like to
have someone hate you, year after year?”

She was utterly confused. “How
could I think of you any other way?”

“But of course!” he exclaimed
bitterly, flinging a hand outward. “Never mind what the magistrate said. Never
mind that I’ve provided for your every need for nine years.”

“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.