Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo (32 page)

There was a sudden movement from Albert, as if he were about to step toward the count, the white glove brandished in his hand, but Maximilien Morrel caught his wrist in midair. The white glove fell to the floor, and as a silence more complete than during any performance descended over the theater, Monte Cristo reached over and picked up the mangled glove.

“Monsieur Morcerf,” said the count in a horribly still voice, “I will consider your gauntlet thrown. Know that I will return it to you at dawn. Now leave or I will have you thrown out.”

THIRTEEN

Later that night, Haydée sat alone on the terrace in the back of the house at number 30 Champs-Élysées.

She and His Excellency had returned from the opera no more than an hour ago, having left during the second intermission amid the stares and whispers of the other theater-goers. There had been no sign of Albert Morcerf, but within the ripple of murmurs, she’d heard the sibilant syllables of his name following them out of the theater.

The chair she’d chosen here on the terrace was made of curling, curving wrought iron, and its handle was cool under her fingertips as she closed them around it. Other than that, she tried not to feel anything, for she feared if she thought about what had happened . . . and what was to occur at dawn this morning . . . she would suffocate.

In her lap lay the paper His Excellency had given her upon their return—and the very reason she’d fled the confines of the house, needing to breathe fresh night air. It was the only way she could keep from crying and screaming.

She could not bear to lose another father.

A quiet noise drew her attention, and she looked up as one of the doors opened onto the covered, flat-stoned patio on which she sat.

Ali.

Her stomach burned and she looked down at the paper in her hands; it was too dark to read the words there, but she knew what they said.

When he touched her shoulder, she shook her head, willing him to leave. When he did not, when those strong fingers curled a little more deeply into her shoulder, she said, “I want to be alone. Go away, Ali.”

He removed his fingers and, before she quite knew what was happening, yanked her out of the chair and onto his massive lap as he sat on a stone bench. His arms were large and warm and so strong around her, and Haydée felt a bit of something stir within her . . . deep in her belly . . . but she pushed it away.

She couldn’t let it bubble up, let the hope rise again.

Then she became aware that the light filtering from the house illuminated Ali’s face, and her own, on the bench where they sat. Firmly, he turned her so that she faced him and could see his strong, solid face and the gleam of his ebony head and chin and cheeks. His hands moved sharply, briefly.

He won’t die
.

Haydée shook her head, the tears starting to well there again. “There’s always a chance,” she said.

“But . . . what if Albert Morcerf shoots out of turn? I couldn’t bear it, and, Ali . . . it’s not because I love him like—” She caught herself from finishing and snatched in a deep breath, then steadied her voice. “He’s like another father to me, and I don’t want to lose him.”

She looked down at the paper, still clutched in her hand. Yes, he’d always said he would make her free, and now he’d done so—but free to do what? He’d never treated her like anything but a daughter, and there was no other place she wanted to be, no one she wanted to be
with
—

Haydée looked at Ali now, realizing his mouth was so close to hers . . . so close, and she could feel the warm, gentle brush of his breath, scented minty with caraway seed. She almost gave in to her need and moved into him for a taste, but she didn’t. No, she couldn’t do that to herself again.

You asked him to free me instead of you.
His arms tightened around her, and she felt the soft touch of his hand over her hair, still coiled and braided, French-style, at the back of her head.
Thank you
.

“But he didn’t listen,” she replied, and shoved the paper at him. He pushed her hand back to her own lap.

There are things you don’t understand
.
Things like honor betweenmen.

“I don’t care about honor,” she raged, suddenly feeling the sorrow and fear ready to burst forth. “Honor caused my father to die. It caused him to believe in a man who had none and who killed him in cold blood. Honor is nothing.”

Suddenly, she was bawling into Ali’s tunic, her body shaking, his arms tight around her. He smelled so good, felt so strong and warm and close, and that little swirling sensation in her belly began to uncurl and simmer there. And she held her breath and forced it away.

The next thing she knew, he was kissing her, carefully, sensually . . . in a manner that had never been between them. As if he wanted to show her how gentle he could be, his full lips molding softly to hers, his hands open wide over her narrow back, pushing her close to him.

Haydée felt the stirring of his cock between them, shifting in his thin, silky trousers beneath her thigh, and a sudden spear of lust shot to her sex as she remembered the feel of him inside her. Oh, wonder.

She pulled away. She wanted to be with him. She wanted him so badly her fingers trembled and her breasts were tight, and her quim was awakening . . . but not this way.

Not because he thought he owed her. Not because of his foolish honor, believing that she should be thanked for asking for his freedom—for offering to exchange.

She wanted him to want her as an equal. As one he loved, and with no qualms, no regrets, no hidden agendas.

“No,” she said, pulling herself away from him. The taste of him was still on her lips; they tingled and pounded now, and she wanted nothing more than to bury her mouth back against his. “No, Ali, not . . . this way,” she said.

Then, before he could respond, a sudden altercation in the house drew their attention.

“I must see him!” a voice cried urgently. A woman’s voice.

Haydée scrambled off Ali’s lap, her heart pounding. Thank goodness. She was off toward the house, her gown, now crushed and wrinkled and off-kilter, tripping her on her first step before she caught up her skirts.

“I’m sorry, madam, but—”

Haydée interrupted Bertuccio’s calm placation as she hurried into the foyer, which was just beyond the sitting room that opened to the patio. “His Excellency will see her,” Haydée announced, slightly out of breath—due perhaps more to the kisses than her running. She felt Ali as he came up beside her.

“But, Mistress Haydée—”

She laid a hand on Bertuccio’s arm, and with a quick, comforting glance at the Comtesse de Morcerf, she drew the majordomo aside. “If you recall, I assisted you in attending to His Excellency when you needed me to do so,” she said quietly, and much more calmly than she felt. “You must trust me that he will see the Comtesse de Morcerf.”

“He instructed that he was not to be disturbed. He will be furious if his orders are not obeyed.”

“I will take it upon myself, Bertuccio. It was I who sent the message to the comtesse, notifying her about the count’s challenge, and I who will bring her to him. If there is any ire to be dealt with, I shall do it.” And with that, accompanied by a thudding heart and a calm certainty, she turned to Mercédès. “Come with me. I’ll take you to him.”

“Thank you, Haydée,” Mercédès replied. For a woman who must be terrified about the prospect of her son meeting the Count of Monte Cristo in a duel only hours away, she looked remarkably composed. Except for the strain around her mouth, and an unusual brightness in her dark eyes, she looked just as beautiful and gracious as she’d been at the theater.

Haydée could fully understand why His Excellency could not forget this woman.

With a quick glance at Ali, who’d moved to stand behind her, Haydée took Mercédès’ arm and led her up the stairs, fully aware of Ali’s solid footfalls on the steps behind her. If there was to be any problem with the count, Ali would be there to assist.

But Haydée did not think that His Excellency would turn the Comtesse Morcerf away.

No indeed, for this confrontation had been a long time coming.

The house at number 30 Champs-Élysées was even more opulent and exotic than Mercédès could have imagined. Despite her desperation, and the knowledge that her world was crumbling around her, she noticed the fine furnishings, the elegant decor, and the colors and textures that bespoke great wealth and impeccable taste, all with the flair of the Orient—for it seemed easier to let her mind soak up these details than to think about the future. She noticed black lacquer tables, painted with golden grass and shiny red birds. Low tables and many cushions, flat chairs and teapots. Rich, sleek mahogany and olive wood. Bamboo and silk hangings. And some more familiar French and Spanish pieces as well, to set off the Chinese and Indian styles.

Of course . . . for Sinbad had exuded that same aura of the Far East. He must have lived there for years.

Mercédès took a deep breath to ease her racing pulse as Haydée opened two wide, ceiling-high doors at the top of a flight of stairs and, with a little bow, gestured for her to enter.

The doors closed silently behind Mercédès, and she was alone in a vast chamber. Her first impression was the undercurrent of spice—a pleasant, warm scent hovering in the air. She stepped away from the door and looked around. The area was lit by moonlight outlining tall windows across the room, and a few lamps scattered about, giving a soft yellow glow, tingeing gold the upholstery on two low chairs next to a knee-high table. A desk stood nearby, its smooth surface broken by an ink bottle, pens, and a small lamp.

She saw a large bed at the opposite end of the room, its curtains pulled wide and its lake-colored silk coverings shining in the light, piled with tasseled pillows and lush cushions. Mercédès realized with a start that she must be in the count’s bedchamber.

And it was then, as her gaze skittered fully around the room for the first time, that she noticed the chairs in front of the tall windows. And the strong profile of the man seated in one of them, looking out over what would be dawn in a matter of hours.

“How did you get in here?” he asked. His voice, calm and deep, nevertheless held a tightness that clipped the words as they broke the silence.

“Does it matter? I’m here now.” Mercédès walked toward him, her heart racing, her palms dampening under her gloves. She
felt
him. . . . It was if a skein of threads stretched between them suddenly, taut and vibrating . . . but fine and as easily broken as a cobweb. “Why do you sit in the dark like this?”

He shifted slightly in his chair, not to turn to look at her, but, apparently, merely to move his arm to a more comfortable position, for he seemed to keep his attention focused on the window beyond. “Is it dark? I can see everything quite well. The fear in your eyes, the proud lift of your chin. Your gown is a pale green. It reminds me of the depths of shallow sea near Singapore. It’s covered with much too much lace, and too many—what are they called? Those pieces, like little waves near the bottom.”

“Flounces.”

“Ah, flounces. I can even see the tiny pink flowers on the flounces, the dark green braid the color of olive leaves, and pale blue trim along the edge of the neckline and sleeves. It’s all quite clear to me, down to the texture of the tiny plaits in your hair. But then . . . when one has spent fourteen years in darkness, day and night, night and day . . . one’s eyesight in the dark becomes remarkably clear.”

Mercédès had come to stand before him. “Fourteen years?”

“Fourteen years in Château d’If.” The bitterness in his voice made her stomach quail. “Why are you here?”

“I’m fairly certain you know why I am here,” she replied. She knew she should be on her knees, begging him, pleading with him . . . but she just couldn’t. Not . . . yet. Not when this odd quivering sensation buzzed in the air between them, lifting the hair on her arms, making her insides lurch and her heart thump. Not when he was so cold and unfeeling. “If you were smart enough to uncover that which my husband took such care in hiding, and to unravel it just as you obviously have . . . publicly and dramatically . . . then you have no need to ask why I am here.”

“You’re here to ask me why I destroyed your husband. And to ask me not to meet your son at dawn, with pistols and my seconds behind me.”

She couldn’t make out the nuances of his expression, but he sounded bored. Careless.

Mercédès walked over to the nearest lamp, and turned it up as brightly as it would go. Now, when she turned back, she could see his face, the closed expression, the firm lips, the intensity in his eyes. She felt the tension vibrating from him. “I care nothing for Fernand. And if it was because of you that his own perfidy has become public knowledge, then I hold no grudge against you. And in fact I can see that justice should—and must—be done.” She saw surprise release briefly in his face, but she continued. “But I am here to b—ask that you spare my son. That you not meet him tomorrow.”

“But it was your son who insulted me, madam.”

“But you will kill him.” With an effort, she kept the sob from her voice, kept it steady and strong.

“Of course I will.” Now he turned and faced her, his face warm and golden in the lamplight, but etched sharply with shadows and anger. And pain. Pain, lurking there in the depths of his eyes. But no mercy.

Mercédès felt her heart lurch horribly. He truly meant to do it. “But . . . why? What has Albert ever done to you? He is young and innocent of his father’s immorality.”

“It is written in the Holy Bible that the sins of the fathers should be visited upon the sons—to three generations. And aside of that, the loss of his son will further injure your husband.”