by Colette Gale
Haydée froze. She’d been about to put her hand over his calf, to slip it up under the leg of his trousers and smooth it over the warm, hairy skin there. But she stopped.
“Who is he?” she managed to ask, her heart pounding madly.
“The Comte de Morcerf” was the reply. “You will meet him someday. Perhaps Albert, his son, as well. But you may not”— his voice became whiplash sharp, yet he still hadn’t looked away from the vista outside—“say or divulge that you are the daughter of Ali Pasha in any manner. To them, or to anyone in Paris. Until such time as I permit.”
Haydée’s belly twisted deep inside her as she remembered that night in the caves where she and her mother thought they were safe . . . that her father had been set free from those who’d captured him during his exile. And then the shrieks, the shouts, the screams as he and his men were slaughtered.
After giving their word, and receiving one of safety and trust.
Morcerf. So that was his name. The man who’d assassinated and betrayed her father in the most dishonorable way.
She felt ill, and wondered how she would ever hide her disgust and fury if she met him. “I’ll kill him myself,” she murmured, her fingers closing as if to hold the knife that would do the job.
“Revenge must be slow and deliberate and fitting,” Monte Cristo said quietly; and she was surprised that he’d heard her. “And it will be, Haydée. It will. If it is speedy, it is over too quickly, and the man will never know what—you have suffered. Will suffer.”
She looked up at him, but his face was still marble.
“The sins of the fathers will be visited upon their sons,” he said after another long moment. “For evil tendencies in the father will be passed on to the son, just as goodness and heroicism in the father is also given to the son.”
Silence fell again. Haydée remained still, watching as her fingers curled into the thickness of the rich wool rug beneath her, crushing the pattern of rich red and subtle gold.
“All of them,” he murmured, as if musing to himself. “Long and deep suffering.” His voice became a bit louder and clearer. “And it shall be of their own making.”
She wanted to ask Who? but something held her back, and she continued to watch the swirl in the rug’s pattern next to the soft leather of his shoes.
“She as well,” he whispered, his lips barely moving. “Most of all. By God.”
The venom in his voice made a shiver zip from Haydée’s scalp down along her spine, and unease pooled in her belly. She knew he needed comfort—she thought he did . . . but she didn’t know how to go after it. He was so removed and harsh. Fearsome. She brushed against his leg and felt a faint trembling there in his muscles, as if he controlled some great fury.
“Haydée,” he said suddenly, jerking her to attention.
Her heart pounding, she looked up at him, into flat, flinty eyes. Her fingers began to tremble and she was suddenly afraid of him in a way she’d never been. “Yes, Your Excellency,” she managed in a steady voice.
“You are a treasure to me,” he said.
She nodded, a huge lump growing in her throat.
“I do not want a repeat of the events during my bath today.” No! “But, Your Excellency, I wish to serve you . . . service you in every way,” she cried, her hands clasping in front of her. For if her master didn’t take her maidenhead, who would? Not Ali, damn him! He had made that quite clear.
“And you have done so. But I don’t wish for that kind of service from you. You are my slave in name only, and someday that will be rectified.”
“But . . . please.”
“There are many young and handsome men here in Paris— doubtless you will meet them and perhaps find one to love”— this last word came out with a bitterness that made it different from the others—“if you choose. With my blessing. But I—” He stopped abruptly.
A flash of something akin to kindness softened his features, just barely. “There is a kind young man, a good one—he is the perfect example of evil begets evil and goodness begets same. His father was one of the three best men I’ve known, and he, Maximilien Morrel, is just as fine a person. A hero, they call him, for all of the lives he’s saved.”
Monte Cristo’s thoughts were clear, but Haydée rebelled. She didn’t want this faceless Maximilien Morrel. She wanted Ali.
And he wanted her too. He just wouldn’t take her.
But neither would the count.
Not far from the Champs-Élysées, very near to the Jardins de Tuileries, was the very grand home of Monsieur Villefort. Such a residence was only fitting, for the crown prosecutor was an immensely powerful, well-respected man in the city, and had been since he had moved from a lower position in Marseille up through the ranks here to the capital.
Behind the stately house was a vast garden filled with oaks and maples, boxwood, sage and lavender, rosebushes, lilacs and lilies. Stone pathways and wrought-iron benches marked and divided the area. Its beauty and variety were always remarked upon during the spring, summer, and autumn months when the Villeforts entertained and their guests spilled out from the building into the thick green garden. What occurred among the bushes and behind the trellises and upon—or beneath—the benches perhaps was best left to the imagination; but suffice to say the garden was a popular place.
Perhaps a week after he had dined with the Count of Monte Cristo at the home of Albert de Morcerf, Maximilien Morrel approached a stone wall at the most distant part of this garden, where, among a cluster of apple trees and lilacs, there stood a little gate. It was barely wide enough for two men to walk through abreast, and its face was made of narrow iron bars, slats crisscrossed like regular little stitches, leaving small diamond-shaped openings perhaps the size of a child’s fist.
The gate was locked, as it always was, with heavy chains; but Morrel hadn’t expected to find it open. He had expected to see the lovely figure of Valentine Villefort sitting on a small bench on the other side, however, and he was not disappointed.
She had not heard him approach, and so he just looked for a moment . . . just gazed upon the beauty before him. Her profile was to the gate so that she faced the house and the pebble path upon which she’d walked in order to be warned if anyone approached. No one could see her from the house, but it was not prudent to take a chance.
Looking upon her face took his breath away. Honey-colored hair fluttered in a soft spring breeze that brought the scent of lilacs, tickling her rosebud lips and dancing around eyelashes as dark as ink. Her heart-shaped face with its little pointed chin and deep widow’s peak was turned away from Morrel, but he knew every detail, and contented himself with looking at her pert little nose and the long line of her neck.
He curled his fingers through the diamond-shaped holes of the gate, and it creaked ever so slightly. Valentine turned, her face immediately aglow with pleasure.
Morrel fell in love all over again, which was fairly difficult to do, as he’d adored her for months now.
“Maximilien,” she said in her sweet voice, low and careful, “I was afraid you weren’t coming today.”
“I would never miss our meetings, Valentine,” he told her. “You must know I live for them. You look beautiful today.”
A faint pink tinged her cheeks as she ducked her head. “You always say that.”
“You always are, but even more so today. Tell me, how are you? How is your grandfather?”
“I am fine, and so is Grandpère. I will tell you more about what he has done in a moment . . . but first, Maximilien, tell me about you. How have you been?”
“Missing you, of course. As always.” His fingers curled through a lower hole of the gate, and to his delight, she shifted so that she might touch them. Warmth spread through his body— a pleasant shock—and he gently stroked the undersides of her fingers, enjoying the feel of her flesh. “As for what to tell . . . well, I have met the celebrated Count of Monte Cristo.”
“You have? I have as well. He came to our house to call on Papa, a
fter Papa called on him. There was an incident with a pair of wild horses—they belonged to the Danglarses—and they nearly ran away with Heloise, my stepmother. Somehow, the count’s manservant was able to stop those wild horses and save Heloise and her son, right in front of the count’s home. So, of course, Papa called on him to thank him. And the count returned the favor.”
“He is a wonderful man, is he not?” asked Maximilien fervently. “I have had the pleasure of dining with him several times, and on other occasions we have ridden together about the city.”
Valentine hesitated; he felt it in her fingers. “He intimidated me, Maximilien. He wasn’t frightening or rude—no, he was the epitome of grace and all that is polite, but he had this cold expression on his face. An intensity that made me nervous.”
Maximilien tightened his grip around her fingertips. “He is not like that to me. He is warm and friendly, and I like him very much. I would count him as one of my greatest friends, and if I were ever to be in trouble, I would go to him for help. He has indeed offered to help me.” He shifted so that he could look through the gate holes and catch her eye. “I have considered asking him for his advice in regards to our situation.”
Valentine’s eyes widened, and her lips trembled in a soft smile. “You would trust him that much, then, that he might help us find a way to be together?”
“If anyone can help, it would be the count. I am sure of it. He is wickedly intelligent and immensely wealthy, and he does everything with such ease and skill. The man has power beyond belief, much of which I think comes from his own self-assurance. He does not care what others think of him, and so they cannot help but admire him. He could find a way to help us.”
Now he saw Valentine’s thick dark lashes drop, covering sky blue eyes. “Perhaps we might need his assistance.”
Maximilien’s chest felt tight, and he scrabbled at the gate with his other hand, wanting to touch her but unable to do so. His fingers thrust through as long and straight as they could, brushing the rough lace that trimmed the back of her gown. “What is it?”
“Papa wishes me to marry Franz d’Epinay, the friend of your acquaintance Albert de Morcerf. He is insistent.”
The band around his chest tightened further. “No, Valentine!”
“But Grandpère Noirtier, whom you know loves me above all, knows that I don’t wish the match. Though he is old and feeble, he has more power than my father. And he has called for the lawyers and has had me disowned from his will, which will leave me with a much smaller dowry. I believe he intends to make me undesirable to d’Epinay so that he will deny the betrothal.”
“But . . . your grandpère cannot move or speak. How could he make his wishes known?”
Valentine, whom Maximilien knew loved her grandpère nearly as much as she loved him, smiled at her would-be lover. “But Grandpère can speak with his eyes, my love. He blinks once for yes and twice for no, and as such, we have a whole manner of communicating.” Her smile faded. “But my papa is still insistent that I marry Monsieur d’Epinay, and although my grandpère’s disowning me has struck a great blow to my dowry, it may not keep the monsieur from agreeing to a betrothal.”
Maximilien felt a great wave of relief. “So there has been no contract, no formal agreement yet. That is good. Let us wait and see, and in the meantime, I will try to find a way for us to be together. You know I love you more than life, Valentine.”
Heedless of the garden path stretching behind her, she’d turned to fully face him at the gate, and curled her own fingers through two different diamond holes. He brushed a gentle kiss over her delicate knuckles, and then followed it with little ones on each fingertip.
“How I wish I could touch you, my love,” he said, resting his forehead against the gate, pressing his eyes to the openings there. A chill iron slat pressed into his nose, and he was close enough to see the fine hairs that grew along the edge of her temples, melding into thicker, darker honey-colored tresses.
She brought her head to the gate so that they were eye to eye, but she was also far enough away that he could focus on the parts of her face that he could see: pink lips, a smooth white forehead, two brilliant blue eyes, the point of her chin, the sweep of blond hair away from the tops of her temples.
“As do I,” she murmured.
He ducked his head, breaking their gazes, but moving closer to her fingers, which still curled through the hole. Instead of merely kissing them this time, he gently took one of them into his mouth. Valentine’s quiet gasp sent a shriek of desire shooting through him, and Maximilien closed his eyes as he slid her finger deeply into his mouth. She tasted sweet, of course, for it was Valentine.
He took each finger into his mouth in turn, sliding them in and out gently and slowly. Her fingers unbent, relaxed, sagged. He could hear, over the chattering of a nearby squirrel, the increase in her breathing. By angling carefully, he was able to keep her forefinger in his mouth, yet see through the small openings in the gate that her eyes had drifted closed, and her lips were gently parted. A rosy flush colored her cheeks, and with another adjustment, he was able to see the rise and fall of her chest. And he sucked and stroked, his lips full and his tongue sliding around her trembling fingers, over the sensitive fold of skin between them. His teeth nibbled faintly at their tips, clicking quietly against her nails, all the while his own need for her building into an incessant pounding as his hands clutched the gate.
At last, he pulled away, his cock pushing against the confines of his trousers, his own breathing faster than it should have been.
“Valentine,” he sighed. His forehead slammed gently against the metal bars that bit into his palms.
“Maximilien,” she sighed in return. The fingers from both of her hands—one set moist, the other dry—poked through the openings as if to grab at him. He couldn’t help it. He brushed his face against them, and he felt the beauty of her fingertips smooth over a small area of his cheek. The only part she could touch.
“When will I be able to kiss you, Valentine?” he asked, knowing that his voice was heavy with want and agony. “Touch you?”
“Oh, Maximilien,” she said, and then he saw her mouth against one of the openings. “Kiss me now. Please.”
She didn’t need to make the suggestion twice. He moved flush against the gate so quickly it jolted on its hinges and the chains clinked. Maximilien pushed up against it and so did she . . . and they touched each other, piecemeal, where parts of their bodies pressed through. His fingers touched the upper part of her arms, then moved to another opening and brushed her waist and the impossibly wide skirts there. Her hands thrust into the openings—they were almost small enough to fit her fist completely through the holes. And below . . . her little shoes peeked under the edge of the gate brushing between his.
He fitted his lips to hers, framed by the diamond opening, pushing them as far through as he could. The sharp edge of the slats cut into the flesh around his mouth, but the discomfort was wiped away by Valentine.
Her lips were sweet and soft and just as delicious as he’d imagined. He did nothing more than press his mouth to hers at first, but that wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. He pressed harder, and heard the clink of the chains around the gate again, and felt her mouth open slightly. Slipping his tongue through, Maximilien jammed his fingers through the openings on either side as far as he could, struggling to touch her cheeks, to pull her face closer.
Her lips parted wider, and their tongues slipped and slid around each other as an iron grid kept them from delving deeply and thoroughly. Her skin was soft as silk, and he even managed to capture a lock of hair for a moment, twisting it between his fingers.
At last, Maximilien pulled away, his cock raging between him and the welcome pressure of the gate. He was breathing heavily, and Valentine’s gasps matched his.
“Soon, my love,” she said. “Oh, soon, Maximilien . . .”
“I won’t let anyone else have you,” he promised. “Wait for me.”
“Yes .
. . yes. I love you.”
“I love you, Valentine.”
“In two days,” she said. “Let us meet again in two days.”
“Only death would keep me away,” he vowed. He allowed himself one last thrust of fingers through the gate to brush her mouth and cheek, and then he took himself off.
SIX
A Cluster of Grapes
Two weeks later
Paris
"The Count of Monte Cristo,” announced Francois, the Morcerfs’ butler.
Mercédès looked up at the tall, elegant man who had just crossed the threshold of her home, and now stood at the entrance to the parlor where all of the dinner guests had gathered.
The count was the last to arrive, and he cut a striking figure with his broad shoulders and erect posture. Although he wasn’t the tallest man there, his presence seemed to make him that much more imposing.
“Good evening, Your Excellency,” Mercédès said as he approached. She raised her gloved hand and looked him steadily in the eye—familiar eyes. Oh, God, they were so familiar to her . . . yet they were cool and empty. Polite.
“And to you, madam,” he replied, raising her hand to his lips and pressing a deliberate kiss there. She felt it through her gloves. “You look incredibly well.”
And then she saw the faintest flicker of . . . something . . . as he cast his gaze over her, then seemed to pull it away and onto Fernand, who stood next to her.
Mercédès had of course dressed in her finest and most flattering for the occasion, and she’d made certain Charlotte’s handiwork was more impeccable than usual. It had been two weeks since Edmond—Monte Cristo—had visited their home, and this was the first time she’d seen him since. She’d heard about him and his activities through conversations with Albert, but there had been no occasion in which their paths had crossed again.
At first, after he’d left her house, Mercédès hadn’t known what to do: how to act, what to think and feel, how to proceed. This was the man she loved—the one she’d never stopped loving and grieving for. And here he was, suddenly, after twenty-four years. With a different name, and cold, blank eyes.