Rogue's Mistress (19 page)

“Why, it’s enormous!” Mercy
gasped. “And so hard.”

Julian laughed his delight, then
his gaze grew dark, fevered, as his shaft grew even more distended, harder, in
her eager, unskilled fingers.

With a raw growl of pleasure,
Julian moved to cover her with his coarse strength. The shock of his nakedness
hit her like a thousand hot, piercing darts of ecstasy; the heavy, solid weight
of him crushed her softness so achingly. He simply felt divine, the rough hair
of his chest abrading her breasts, the hot shaft below imprinting itself in her
belly, his muscled legs mastering her soft limbs.

“Kiss me,” he murmured, and she
did so eagerly.

This time, there was no restraint
as their tongues collided hungrily. Julian squeezed Mercy’s tender breasts with
his hands and she sobbed into his mouth. His strong thighs then moved of their
own volition, drawing her legs widely apart. The vulnerability of her position
was also wildly erotic, and she shuddered and looked up raptly into his probing
eyes.

An expression of acute sympathy
flashed across his gaze. “Mercy . . . darling, it’s going to hurt. Did anyone
tell you?”

She gulped, acutely embarrassed.
“Just the other schoolgirls—you know, gossip . . .”

“Damn,” he muttered, brushing a
lock of hair from her eyes. “Sweet, you’re so small, and I’m . . .” He smiled.
“You may hate me in a moment—but just know that it won’t always be like this.”

“I don’t know what ‘this’ is,” she
murmured with breathless confusion. She wanted to tell him that she couldn’t
hate him, not now, but the words couldn’t quite make it past her swollen
throat.

“Darling, I’m sorry,” he murmured
raggedly, crushing her mouth with his own.

She soon found out what his
apology meant, as his erection pressed against her insistently, without
success. Tears spurted into her eyes; she felt as if he were pounding against
her delicate tissues with the blunt tip of a log. She panicked, squirming
beneath him. “Julian, please, it does hurt—”

“Darling, relax,” he cajoled with
tender patience. As she gasped in anticipation and fear, her heart pounding in
her ears, he slipped his hands beneath her bottom, his bold fingers arching her
hips upward. The eroticism of his touch was shattering, and Mercy breathed in
stinging pants.

What followed was beauteous,
plundering torture. Julian held her hips in a firm vise and pressed downward
until her flesh stretched beneath the onslaught. When she cried out, he crushed
his mouth into hers, smothering her sounds of distress and murmuring hoarse
apologies into her mouth.

Julian soothed her with tender
kisses, even as his manhood moved with inexorable confidence and mastery. She
sobbed and trembled, wondering that he could kiss her with such exquisite
gentleness even as he penetrated her with his hugeness. Yet she gloried that
the discomfort brought such a feeling of raw, beauteous intimacy.

He held her powerless until he
delved all the way inside her, pressing against her womb. She dug her
fingernails into his spine with a fierceness that she knew must hurt him, but
he didn’t complain. She whimpered, struggling to hold his enormity inside her,
the walls of her womanhood throbbing and aching. Still, she felt so close to
him—a part of him, no longer really herself.

“There—’twill get better now,” he
murmured.

Yet the sensation of extreme
fullness did not lessen as he began to move slowly but firmly. He gloried in
her smallness and the way she squeezed about him; yet he knew from her taut
expression that he was still causing her discomfort. When she remained stiff,
he reached down and stroked the tender bud of her desire.

At once Mercy’s pain became
indistinguishable from her pleasure. She lurched upward to kiss him, opening
her mouth wide and slashing her tongue inside his mouth.

“Oh, God, you’re so sweet,” he cried,
her eagerness breaking his control. He thrust inside her with sudden, riveting
vigor. Waves of tormenting ecstasy slammed her, and she cried out as he pounded
toward a quick climax, pressing deep, sending darts of rapture shooting to her
very core. As she trembled and clung to him, shock waves of rapture spilled
outward to seize the tender bud he was still stroking with such appalling
gentleness, decrying the hard violence of his loins. She tossed her head and
moaned with helpless abandon, then tensed in an incredible spasm of pleasure.

A moment later, it ended. Julian’s
entire body grew taut, his mouth ground into hers, and with a last, powerful
thrust, he poured his seed inside her.

Afterward, they lay together,
breathing hard, covered with a sheen of sweat. Julian pulled back slightly and
stared down into her eyes.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded, as speech was beyond
her.

He entwined his right hand with
her left one, and kissed the finger wearing his ring. His impassioned gaze met
and held hers. “You’re my wife now,
chère
,” he whispered tenderly. “In
every way. There’s no turning back now.”

“I know,” she said with breathless
misery.

He withdrew from her then, and she
winced. “Poor
chére
,” he murmured, kissing her flushed cheek. “I’m sorry
I had to hurt you so.”

She turned away from him, her eyes
stinging, not trusting herself to reply. In truth, she had loved his hurting
her—for the hurt had opened the doors to wonder.

Behind her, he pushed her hair
aside and kissed the nape of her neck. She shivered as his arm curled
possessively about her waist. “Are you terribly sore?”

She nodded.

“Perhaps I should kiss you there?”
he suggested wickedly.

She twisted to look up at him with
scandalized eyes. “
Non
!”

He laughed, stroking her bruised,
pink mouth with his fingertip. “A bit too soon for that?” he teased.

“Never will be too soon for that!”
she gasped in outraged tones.

But he only chuckled. “Mercy,
you’re delightful. What fun I’m going to have schooling you in the art of
passion.”

She could only blink at him in
horror.

He kissed her mouth tenderly, then
shifted her, settling her back against his warm chest. “Sleep now,
chère
.
Next time it will be better.”

Staring at the dresser beyond her,
Mercy clutched the sheet and blinked at tears of mingled awe and confusion. The
consummation had hurt, it was true, but what had hurt even more was the
shattering intimacy of the act, and feeling so giving, so devastatingly close
to the man she should hate. What had hurt even more was the memory of how the
pain had become indescribable pleasure, an ecstasy she knew she would eagerly
reach for again, as a spoiled child might devour bonbons . . .

Even now, she could feel Julian’s
manhood springing to life against her backside, and she shamelessly squirmed
closer to his heat, nestling her bottom against the hard shaft, delighting in
his rough moan, the way his hand curled tightly around her breast and his teeth
nipped her shoulder.

“Stop it, Mercy,” he warned
hoarsely, “or I swear, you may not be able to walk to the breakfast table
tomorrow.”

Unwittingly, she smiled, then
relaxed in his arms. He uttered a contented growl.

Curled up like two spoons, the
lovers slept.

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The next morning when Mercy
awakened, lying in the bunk in a wide beam of sunshine, Julian was gone. She
scanned the room for him, then smiled. He was at the shaving stand, his broad
back to her as he applied the razor to his lathered face. He wore only his
well-fitting trousers, and she swallowed hard as her eyes greedily perused his
tight buttocks and his bare, muscled back. She studied the sexy, dark curl at
the nape of his strong neck and almost moaned aloud.

Shame and a certain primal
wonderment flushed her cheeks as she remembered the night they’d spent
together. Not only had she given herself to Julian freely, passionately, but
later on—

She had awakened in the middle of
the night in a fever of need, Julian’s firm manhood still pressing against her
bottom. She had turned to him and had stroked him wantonly—

And he had refused her! She
remembered him jerking awake and gripping her shoulders. “No, Mercy,” he had
scolded hoarsely. “We mustn’t again. Not so soon.” Utterly shameless, she had
rubbed her aching breasts against his bare chest. He had heaved a sharp,
stunned breath. “
Nom de Dieu
! You may think you want this now, but if we
proceed in your current condition, I assure you that you’ll be sorry.”

And her husband had clambered out
of the bunk, donned his clothes, and left the room, leaving her bereft in the
comfortless shadows of night. When he had returned hours later, smelling
heavily of cigars and brandy, he had slept far apart from her, his broad back a
barricade to further intimacy.

Mercy knew that Julian had been
right. Even now, her insides twinged with each movement in the bunk. Still,
Julian’s rejection had hurt. She was most appalled by memories of her own
forwardness. Would he tease her about it now, use her own sensuality as a
weapon? This she could not bear, for she was half afraid she was falling in
love with him.

“Mercy?”

At the sound of his low voice, she
glanced up, clutching the covers to her neck, her wide eyes meeting his in the
shaving mirror. He wiped the residue of shaving soap from his face; his
handsome features were creased in concern. He looked absolutely gorgeous with
the sunlight playing over his bare chest, outlining the crisp, dark hair that
had rubbed her breasts so sensuously last night.

“How are you, my dear?” he asked.

His tenderness was practically her
undoing. She sat up, then winced. Trying to cover her appalling reaction to him
with a show of humor, she said, “I feel as if I’ve been pounded by a battering
ram.”

He chuckled and started toward
her. “You have.” He sat down next to her, and her heart leaped wildly as the
wonderful, fresh scent of him filled her lungs. He fondly stroked her tumbled
hair, then leaned over and kissed her trembling mouth. “Are you hungry?”

Catching a sharp breath, Mercy
glanced away in mortification; what she was hungry for, she dared not tell him.

“Get dressed, darling,” he
continued gently, “and we’ll go have breakfast.”

She nodded shyly. He stood and
tactfully handed her her wrapper. She donned it, then he helped her out of the
bunk. It occurred to her that they were as shy as strangers together.

While he went to hunt up a clean
shirt, she dug through her own trunk, pulling out fresh undergarments and a
fine pink muslin dress. She disappeared behind the screen with the items. She
did little more than put on her camisole and bloomers, then she sagged onto the
stool in the corner.

Mercy shuddered as the contact of
the hard wood against her tenderest parts again reminded her of their wild
passion last night. What was wrong with her? she wondered. As sore as she was,
all she could think of was making love with Julian again. He was her enemy, yet
she lusted after him shamelessly. She felt so confused, her emotions raw.
Julian had awakened her to sensuality, and now there seemed no turning back.
She was ravenous to explore with him that dark journey to rapture in all its
many manifestations.

She hadn’t expected the lovemaking
to make her feel so emotionally stripped, so devastatingly close to him. And
she had no one with whom to share these new, shattering feelings—

No one except him.

At last, her overstrained emotions
gave way, and she succumbed to the tears she had been holding back throughout
the mostly sleepless night. Tears of horror at her own lurid conduct. Tears of
wonder at her devastating new feelings for Julian—

She tried not to give away her
sorrow and confusion, but soon a low squeak of anguish escaped her.
Immediately, the screen was thrust back and she looked up to face her
thunderstruck husband.

“What is this?” he demanded. “Are
you ill?”

She shook her head and sobbed.

“I knew it,” he said distraughtly.
“Perhaps I should try to find a doctor—”

“
Non
!” She stared up at
him, horrified.

“Damn it, Mercy!” He scooped his
wife up into his arms. “How can I help if you won’t tell me what’s wrong?”

You’re what’s wrong!
she
wanted to scream at him, even as she reeled at his nearness.
I hate you, but
I love you, and I don’t know what to feel anymore . . .
Still, the words
remained strangled inside her.

She whimpered against his bare
chest as he carried her to the bunk and sat down. His expression was
bewildered. “Mercy, we can’t have these tears,” he pleaded, his eyes those of a
drowning man. “We can’t have these . . . Oh, hell.”

Suddenly, he was kissing her with
all the pent-up passion in his body, and tearing at the tie to her camisole. She
clung to him and kissed him back with a fervor that rocked him to his soul. His
hands eagerly clutched her bare, tender breasts as he whispered hoarse
endearments into her mouth.

“Mercy no,” he protested after a
moment. “We musn’t do this again just yet.”

“I want to,” she wailed, wantonly
pressing her bare, aroused breasts into his chest.

“Oh, God,” he groaned. Moving with
a speed that amazed her, he tugged off her camisole and pantalets, then brought
her astride him. She felt no shame as she perched naked in his lap, felt only
wonder as she watched him free his distended organ from his trousers. Desire
seized her innermost parts as his fingers stroked her boldly.

“You’re sure?” came his agonized
question.”

“
Oui
.”

“Don’t say I didn’t give you
warning,” he said roughly, then thrust himself into her.

Mercy emitted a cry of mixed pain
and pleasure as his erection pierced her still sensitive flesh. Yet the
intimacy was exquisite, wondrous, sense-shattering!

“Damn, I’m hurting you,” he
muttered, his voice anguished.

How could she tell him he was
hurting her, but in the best possible way? “Don’t stop,” she begged, clinging
to his strong neck.

By now, wild horses couldn’t have
stopped Julian. With a feral growl, he clutched her waist and pressed her
downward, straining the limits of her tight passage with his splendid manhood.
She cried out at the deep, fierce pleasure.

He drew back slightly and stared
into her mindless, languorous eyes. Mercy mused that nothing could be more
emotionally revealing than gazing into his eyes even as he filled her to
bursting.
Mon Dieu
, how she burned and throbbed for him, welcoming the
hot spear that pulsed so vibrantly inside her! She leaned over to take his lips
in a tear-filled kiss.

He sensed her softening and went
wild, showering her face with kisses as he began to move inside her, creating a
delicious tight friction that drove her mad.

“How I’ve waited for this,” he
whispered against her wet cheek. “For you to melt against me. I want to bring
you pleasure, to feel you losing control in my arms. Let me feel you
surrendering.”

She did. His words alone were
enough to drive her over the edge, and she squeezed about his driving maleness,
thrusting her tongue hungrily between his lips.

His response was immediate,
violent. He clutched her face with his hands and kissed her until their teeth
ground together. He was out of control now, pounding into her, and she met each
thrust with joy and rapture. All at once, she couldn’t breathe, and her heart
was racing so fast, she feared she might swoon. She dug her fingernails into
his shoulders and sobbed into his mouth.

His fingers sank into her bottom
then—brazenly moving her hips to and fro, teaching
her
the rhythm. It
was more than Mercy could bear. She climaxed with several sharp, stunning gasps.
When he nipped at her taut nipple with his teeth, she exploded again. He
chuckled in delight, glorying in her eager, uninhibited movements. Then he held
her tightly as he took his own tumultuous climax.

They fell across the bunk
together, Mercy’s ear pressed against his pounding heart. Julian looked down at
his precious wife—at her bruised mouth, her tumbled hair, her lush, naked body.
She was a gloriously passionate creature, and with great restraint, he resisted
the urge to roll her beneath him and devour her sweetness once more.

“Are you terribly sore now,
chère
?”
he murmured.

She nodded but smiled, kissing his
puckered nipple.

He groaned. “Can you make it to
the saloon for breakfast?”

She looked up at him and wrinkled
her nose impishly. “We could always have breakfast in bed.”

He roared with laughter. “No way,
minx. What are you trying to do, give your husband a heart attack?” He slapped
her delightful derriere, then sat up. “We’ll be spending no more time alone in
this stateroom today, Madame Devereux.”

“Two rounds, and already you’re
out of the game, m’sieur?” she teased, looking him over saucily.

“Hardly.” Grinning, he stood, his
engorged manhood giving lusty testimony to his unflagging virility. He pulled
his trousers up about his waist, then grimaced as he fastened the lower buttons
with some effort. “Suffice it to say that five more minutes alone with you,
Madame Devereux, and you’ll be incapacitated for the balance of this trip.” He
leered at her. “I’m hardly that shortsighted. I intend to enjoy this
honeymoon—thoroughly.”

Mercy couldn’t contain a delighted
giggle at his words. Oh, he was such a rogue!

“Now,” he continued, donning his
shirt, “I’m going to go find a female to fetch you a bath. When—and if—you
recover yourself, you may join your husband in the saloon.”

He finished dressing quickly, then
hurried out the door, humming, “Open the Lattice, Love.”

Mercy stretched languidly in bed.
She pressed a hand low on her belly. She could still feel the imprint of his
loving—it was wondrous. Even the lingering soreness was but a poignant reminder
of their beautiful coupling.

***

While the crew of the
Natchez
was almost exclusively male, Julian managed to bribe a laundress into bringing
his wife a bath. Mercy enjoyed her leisurely ablution in the porcelain tub,
letting the soreness ease from her body and scrubbing herself with
violet-scented soap. Yet once her toilette was completed, she hesitated to
leave. She paced the tiny stateroom, frowning and chewing her lower lip.

Mon Dieu
, she had acted
like such a wanton last night and this morning! True, she had felt touched and
aroused by Julian’s tenderness, by his persuasive, passionate words. She hadn’t
known that her obdurate former guardian could be so endearingly romantic. He
had suggested making last night a beginning between them, and his surprising
peace offering had touched her deeply. It had also stirred her wildly that he
found her so irresistible, that even as he feared his losing control could hurt
her, he had lost control, utterly. There was a wild, savage quality to the love
act that Mercy had to concede was wondrously addictive.

Yet had her husband really meant
his ardent words last night? Despite everything that had happened, she still
didn’t completely trust him. A part of her could never forget that he had
killed her father. And he was, after all, a man of the world, a man who would
naturally be skilled in how to properly seduce a virgin. He’d made clear all
along that he was marrying her to get her in his bed. What if he had uttered
his words only to secure her favors?

Then couldn’t she secure his
favors, as well? At once, her conscience rebelled at the thought. No, she could
never be that cheap. And, despite everything, she firmly believed that there
had been nothing tawdry about their lovemaking. There had been something so
sweet and self-sacrificing about the way Julian had taken her virginity. And
when he had held her in his arms this morning and begged her to surrender, she
had given over her very soul to him. Right now, she didn’t know if she loved
making love with him or loved him—both feelings seemed inextricably entwined.

One thing she did know. She now
felt terrified of the power her captivating husband held over her!

***

As Julian drank a second cup of
coffee in the grand saloon, his thoughts were entirely of Mercy. What a
delightful, passionate creature his wife had turned out to be! She seemed to
take to the marriage bed like a duck to water. He had hated hurting her last
night and this morning, yet she had been heavenly—so hot, so tight, so eager in
his arms.

Yet her willingness also stirred
niggling doubts within his mind. Their coupling had rocked him to the depths of
his being, yet he couldn’t help but wonder if it was him she truly wanted, or
merely his talents in bed. He wanted her body and soul, wanted to spend the
rest of his life with her, wanted to watch her belly thicken with his child.
Yet it rankled him to think that she might only be exploiting his feelings to
satisfy her physical desires. After all, she had certainly acted the flirt
before—could her eagerness simply be due to a basically prurient nature?