“It has been my pleasure to meet you, madam,” he said, again with a bow.
Mercédès inclined her head, then turned to walk out of the room. She heard Albert offering to take the count about Paris immediately, and then Monte Cristo’s reply that he must beg to decline, for he had to see to the settling of his new residence. “For I only arrived in Paris this morning,” he said, his words clipped off as Mercédès shut the door of the parlor.
She ducked into another small room—the conservatory— and, closing the door behind her, alone at last, she collapsed against it. Violently shaking, her eyes welling with tears and a strange, twisting sensation pummeling her body, Mercédès leaned against the chilly wood of the door.
It was impossible.
Impossible on so many fronts, she could not begin to comprehend it.
Dimly, moments later, she heard masculine voices in the hall and the opening and closing of doors. Servants moved about, and she heard Albert explaining something in an obscured voice.
“Never you mind,” said the count, his words clear through the door as if he were standing on the other side. Likely he was, for this room lay between the parlor and the front entrance. “You have already called for my coach. It will be here in a moment. Please attend to your message, and I will take my leave as soon as the vehicle is brought round.”
“You are most gracious, Your Excellency,” said Albert. “I shall call on you tomorrow.”
“Indeed. And thank you for introducing me to your parents.”
Mercédès waited for a moment, scarcely able to believe her luck. When she was certain Albert was gone, and that the only sound she heard beyond the door was that of the Count of Monte Cristo, she took a deep breath and opened the door.
He was standing with his back partially angled toward her, tall and straight, and, she noticed for the first time, with a steel-nobbed walking stick. He held a tall, dark hat in the same hand and with the other, he was checking the time on a circular watch that hung from a chain.
He looked up when she came out, attracted by her movement, and their eyes met.
“Edmond,” Mercédès said in no more than a whisper. She took a step toward him, her hand outstretched. “Is it really you?”
He arched a brow and tilted his head with an arrogance that had not been present in the parlor. “Pardon me, madam?” There was a quizzical expression in his voice.
She balked for a moment, but reached to touch him, her fingers wanting to close around his wrist. “Edmond, don’t you know me?”
There was a moment, a beat of pulse, that she felt the steady warmth of his skin, and the faint underlying tremors there. And then he pulled his arm away—not with a sharp movement, as if caught off-guard, but with a deliberate, demeaning extrication. As if it were hardly worth his energy to do so. “Madam, are you feeling quite well?” His voice was clipped and cold, and the look in his eyes flat and dark.
He was lying.
He had to be.
Mercédès would have tried again, but the front door opened there next to them, and the groom poked his head in, tugging his forelock. “Your coach, Your Excellency,” he said, then stepped away to gesture down the walkway to the waiting barouche.
Monte Cristo placed the hat on his head and glanced down at Mercédès with another cool expression. It was as if his face was carved of stone. “By your leave, madam,” he said and, swinging his cane, started out the front door.
She hurried after him, close enough to say, for his ears only, “I know it’s you, Edmond. I know it.”
But the door closed on her words, and she was left alone, staring at it as shock trembled through her again.
FIVE
The Bath
Later that day
Paris
Haydée remained tucked in her luxurious suite of rooms until after the Count of Monte Cristo left his residence that morning. The experiment in the bath hadn’t turned out quite the way she’d intended, but at least something had happened. She’d finally touched a naked man, and it was just as lovely and arousing as she’d anticipated.
Of course, the little pip between her legs was still swollen and throbbing, teasing her now that she was alone in her rooms. Haydée knew what to do to relieve that discomfort, but she’d prefer to have someone else’s quick finger do the work.
Ah, then. Perhaps she would call for a bath of her own.
Looking in the large mirror in front of her dressing table, she smiled deviously. Her full lips curled up just a bit at the edges, her dark, exotic eyes sparkled, and her hair—long and dark and straight—hung in a perfect drape over her shoulders, curling just a bit at the ends. Her breasts . . . She let the soft robe slip away from her smooth olive shoulders so she could look at her bare torso. High and lovely, not too large and not too small . . . How could he resist her? She knew she was beautiful. She’d seen the way his eyes followed her when he thought she wasn’t looking.
If only he weren’t so damned honorable.
The bath.
She’d see how bloody honorable he was now!
Pulling the robe back up, she arranged it so that it draped just perfectly over her shoulders so that with the slightest shift of movement, it would slip down and gap open just enough . . . just enough for it to look accidental.
“Mahti,” she called, rapping peremptorily on the door to her outer chamber. When her servant came, Haydée said, “I will bathe now. Tell Galya I require her assistance as well,” she added with a smile. The other woman, knowing what that meant, flushed with pleasure and hurried off to do her bidding.
After Mahti opened the wide French doors to the next room, where the bath was, Haydée rang for another of the house servants. When he came, she gave him his instructions.
And then she settled back in her chair to wait.
She could hear the splash of water in the next room—how convenient indoor plumbing was! The scent of jasmine oil wafted in from the bath, and she heard Mahti and Galya gathering her clothing and other accoutrements. From her seat, she could see the vista of Paris spread out beyond the small balcony on which she’d hardly set foot, but the view didn’t interest her as much as the accommodations in her chambers.
His Excellency was inconceivably generous to her, a slave who’d been saved by his money and his mercy from a horrid existence at the hands of her father’s enemies. She often believed he had some secret reason for having her travel with and serve him, some motive as to why he treated her so like the princess she was.
Whatever the reason, it was not for her to warm his bed.
She’d been a mere twelve years of age when he purchased her in a private sale—the evening before she was to be auctioned off at a public market, saving her from untold humiliation. Haydée couldn’t imagine how much money he’d paid for her, but it had to have been an exorbitant amount, considering that she was the daughter of Ali Pasha. Over the six years they’d been together, he treated her more like a treasure than a slave.
Now her lips curled down. She’d offered everything to him today, but he’d declined . . . some of it. Frustrating, yes, it had been. Confusing too. After all, she’d held his wickedly hot, thick cock in her hands . . . and it had been obvious he needed something.
And so did she.
A single sharp rap sounded on her door. Haydée sat up and called, “Enter.”
The door opened and Ali walked in, tall and big and proud. Just looking at the broad shoulders in his blinding white tunic and the big black hands braceleted with gold bands made her mouth go dry.
He stayed near the door, but bowed regally to her. His bald head was smooth and shone like an onyx marble, his full, soft lips fixed in a faint polite smile. His feet, always bare, were smooth, elegant ebony and decorated with a gold ring on one center toe, and thicker bands encircled his ankles.
Ali didn’t speak, but Haydée had learned to read his sign language as easily as if he did.
You called for me?
Ah. The insolence was there—in his eyes, in the very way those powerful hands signed to her. Haydée gave him a haughty look. “Yes, indeed, Ali. I find that the arrangement in these rooms are not to my liking. Perhaps you shall be so good as to move the furnishings about.”
Of course
. Those full lips firmed ever so slightly, sending a pang down to the very little pip that still throbbed between her legs, swirling harshly in her middle.
He said the words with his hands, but the subservient sentiment was not echoed in his eyes. They were carefully blank, and Haydée, who languidly lifted her arm to point to the bed, shifted so that her robe gapped, and watched his expression carefully.
Yes. Ah, yes, it was there.
She smiled deep inside, letting the knowledge tickle her belly. You’ve not seen anything yet, she thought. “There. The bed . . . it is too close to the window at that angle, and it catches the morning sun. I shan’t be able to sleep as late as I desire if it remains there.”
Where would you like it moved, mistress?
His last gesture, the one for “mistress,” he made with short, peremptory movements.
“Perhaps . . . there.” She pointed to the wall opposite where the bed was now. Currently, her dressing table, covered with perfume bottles and jeweled hair combs and other feminine decorations, was in that position. He would be busy for quite some time. That wall also gave a perfect view into the room beyond, where her bath was nearly filled.
Perfect.
And just then, as if they’d been summoned, Mahti and Galya came to stand in the doorway between the two rooms.
“Excuse me, Ali. It appears my bath is ready.” She felt his eyes on her as she swept past him into the inner chamber, letting her robe slip from her shoulders. She felt the heavy sear of his eyes on her bare skin as she walked away from him.
Slowly. Rolling her hips.
As she was climbing into the bath, which was positioned lengthwise in front of the doorway to the bedchamber, she saw Ali start to close the French doors between them.
“No, leave them open,” she said, feeling her breasts jounce prettily as she turned toward him and propped herself up on the edges of the tub. “How else shall I give you directions?”
As he turned abruptly away, Haydée sank into the tub, closing her eyes, brimming with satisfaction. The steaming water enveloped her, and the sweet tinge of jasmine filled the air with every flutter of her hands. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the edge of the tub, her long hair flowing over the side and pooling onto the floor behind her.
Mahti gathered up the heavy tresses and twisted, then pinned them at the top of her head and left Haydée to relax for a moment. She heard the soft clink of bottles from the next room as Ali moved them off the dressing table, and she imagined those massive hands closing around such feminine and delicate knickknacks.
When His Excellency had sent her, dripping and unsatisfied, from his bath and ordered her to send Ali, Haydée had been annoyed and frustrated. But she’d managed to hide her feelings when, wrapped only in a soft towel, she approached the huge man, her face and body flushed and warm and humming.
So you’ve succeeded
, he had signed when he saw her standing there, knowing whence she’d come. His handsome countenance, trimmed with a tiny square beard under that luscious lower lip, had been stony and calm . . . but Haydée was certain there was a pinpoint of emotion in those black eyes.
“His Excellency wishes you to attend him,” she’d told him, wearing a haughty expression despite the fact that she was completely naked and vulnerable beneath the white towel.
Ali turned to go, but he stopped and looked at her again, slowly raking over her from head to toe.
Did you?
Haydée summoned a slow, deep smile designed to hide her confusion regarding the fact that she still bore her maidenhead and to leave Ali just as discomfited. “Our master is no longer in need . . . although I cannot say the same for myself.”
And then, her heart pounding and her mouth dry, she turned and flounced away.
And felt his gaze burning into the back of her, just as it had moments ago when she walked away from him into the bath.
Now, her eyes still closed as she enjoyed the heavenly feel of Galya’s hands massaging her feet, Haydée smiled, but her grin was laced with frustration. If only Monte Cristo had taken her bloody virginity, then she would be free to do as she wished. But he owned her, and thus he owned her maidenhead, and it must be left intact until he chose to take it . . . or to sell her.
Or to free her.
He’d spoken of freeing her someday soon, and she both yearned for and feared that day. So it was best not to think about it, and instead to concentrate on the matter at hand.
The clinking of bottles had stopped, and now Haydée heard the low, dull scrape of the dressing table being moved. She opened her eyes and, with a nod to her servants, knelt in the tub.
Water sluiced down her body, running between her breasts and around her thrusting nipples, and she wished for a moment that she’d told Ali to bring the dressing table mirror into this room. She wanted to see what he would see.
But she could imagine what vision would greet his eyes were he to look beyond the doorframe. And look he would, for she would ensure it.
As Mahti’s fingers filtered around her mistress’ nipples, rolling them gently and erotically between her knuckles, Haydée felt Galya smooth her small hands down along the sides of her torso, tracing the flare of her hips with the same slippery soap, then sliding between her mistress’ parted legs. The water surged over her sensitive skin with every movement, in an ebb-and-flow rhythm that felt like the one her hips wanted to make, leaving her alternately warm and cold, wet and dry.
Haydée sighed as the long, sensual strokes on her inner thighs raised bumps on her flesh and the incessant tug and pinch at her nipples sent lust curling tighter in her belly. She thought of Ali, on the other side of the wall, just beyond the doorframe, and his massive black shoulders and strong black hands, imagining them here with her instead of the two little maids, and the coil burned tighter in her belly. She wanted to call his name . . . wanted him here, with her . . . his thick lips sucking on her, his tongue snaking in between the lips of her quim, his heavy cock raging in her hands.