Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo by Colette Gale Read Free Book Online Page A

diplomacy in sailing the ship back to Marseille that had earned him Monsieur Morrel’s admiration—and had caused him to be named the new captain of the vessel.
    Since Edmond had told her about Danglars’ anger and jealousy over his promotion, Mercédès had been wary of the man before she even met him. Later, after she married Fernand, she realized that the two men had become known to each other in their business dealings. Still, the man’s greasy demeanor, and his hands—which had grown pudgy, along with the rest of him—with their short-clipped nails and soft white skin, made her queasy when she thought of them touching her.
    He’d tried. Oh, he’d tried. And Fernand—
    “You’ll do as I say, Mercédès,” her husband said. “Or you will regret it.” With one last meaningful look at her, he moved away so that she could exit the room.
    She hurried past him, noticing that he was still close enough that her full, dome-shaped skirt and heavy crinolines brushed against his trousers.
    “Mercédès,” Fernand said just as she entered the hall, “now that Albert is leaving, I will be returning to your bed. Tomorrow. Be prepared to welcome me.”
    She froze, her hand on the doorjamb. Her heart gave a nasty dip and she turned back, wondering if her face looked as pale as it felt. “If that is your wish, then of course, husband. As long as you come alone.”
    His lips narrowed, along with his eyes. “You’re no longer in a position to be making demands, Mercédès. Albert is leaving, and you have no more leverage. Now go be nice to Danglars and ensure that this marriage is to take place, and perhaps I’ll consider your request.”
    “It isn’t a request,” she said, her heart pounding. “It’s a requirement.”
    She would have darted away then, but he grabbed her arm and yanked her back into the library. The door slammed behind them, and Mercédès found herself being shoved against it. One of Fernand’s hands cupped her throat, holding her there, and the other one circled one of her wrists.
    “What ever happened to the quiet, unassuming, desperate orphan girl I married?” he asked, his voice deceptively sweet. His hand wasn’t close enough around her throat to cut off her breathing, or to leave marks—he wasn’t that stupid—but just enough to remind her of his strength . . . and the power he had over her.
    “You were so biddable those first years of our marriage. You understood our agreement, and held up your end of the bargain so well. And then you got it in your head to run away from me. As if I wouldn’t have been able to find you—Marseille was the first and only place I looked.”
    “I’ll run farther the next time,” she said, refusing to let her lips tremble.
    “You dare not, Mercédès. Just as you learned before, you know now: You cannot get away from me, and you cannot have a life without your son. Just because Albert is leaving doesn’t mean I can’t prevent you from seeing him. I’ve left you alone—nearly alone—for these last ten years—relegated to merely showing you off on my arm as my beautiful, accomplished, distinguished wife. But now that Albert is leaving, I will return to your bed. And you will welcome me . . . in whatever fashion I require.” He shifted the weight of his hand so that the palm pressed into the top of her chest, heavy and threatening. She coughed softly under the pressure. “Perhaps, since you are so attached to the comte, I will ask Salieux to join us.”
    Then, with a great heave, he shoved her to the side. She stumbled into a chair, losing one of her beaded mule slippers in the process. By the time she righted herself, Fernand was gone.
    He’d left the library door open.
    Mercédès smoothed shaking gloved hands down the front of her spun-gold taffeta skirt, then gingerly felt at the back of her head to see if her hair was still intact. A bit looser than when Charlotte had finished with it, the twisted mass was still pinned in place. The two