by Treva Harte
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His Mistress
An Ellora’s Cave Electronic Publication in association with author
Treva Harte
MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-165-6 Mobipocket (PRC) ISBN # 1-84360-166-4 Other formats (no ISBNs): Rocketbook, HTML, Adobe
All Rights Reserved. http://www.ellorascave.com
© Copyright Treva Harte, 2002.
This book/e-book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by email forwarding, copying, fax, or any other mode of communication without author and publisher permission.
Edited by Cris Brashear
Warning:
The following material contains strong sexual content meant for mature readers. “His Mistress” has been rated NC-17, erotic, by three individual reviewers. We strongly suggest storing this electronic file in a place where young readers not meant to view this e-book are unlikely to happen upon it. That said, enjoy…
Chapter One
2002
His breath hesitated, then began again. Mercy watched it move slowly in and then out. There was a pause. The hospice nurse came in and watched as he began to suck the air into his lungs again.
"It won't be long now," the nurse whispered. She touched Mercy's shoulder and Mercy fought not to shudder.
Mercy wanted to argue. But she looked up into the face of the nurse. The nurse knew. The eyes in that face knew everything.
Luke wasn't in pain. Not now. Not as far as Mercy could tell. She ought to be happy for that. She was happy. A tear ran down her face and she wiped it away, impatiently. The tear was for her, but she could do that later. Right now was for Luke. The last right now he'd ever have, they'd ever have.
Without Luke, who was she?
Mercy looked down at herself, wondering if she was physically becoming as invisible as she felt. Luke was her brother, her twin. They'd been born together. Would they die at the same time? She felt dead already.
Luke's breath drew in, made a gurgling sound. Then nothing more.
Mercy bent her head into her hands and fought herself.
"Let me give you something." The nurse's voice was soothing, but not as quiet as before. She no longer felt the need to whisper. "To sleep for a while."
Mercy wanted to say no. What did she need? She was the strong one. When his friends had heard and deserted him, when Luke grew weaker and more frail, she had been there. Steadying him. The two of them had always been a team. Luke was the one everyone adored. Mercy was the one who took care of things.
But she didn't have to be strong for Luke now. There was nothing more that needed taking care of. Her work was gone.
"Yes. I want to sleep." Mercy could hear her voice, slurred and distorted. Was that her voice? Maybe she was disappearing. Maybe she could sleep and be gone herself. Off to oblivion.
1775
"He's dead then."
Mercy pulled the blanket over her husband's head. She took one strong, deep breath. People were depending on her. Those people were waiting outside the half-opened bedroom door. They entered the room after she spoke. She could feel the apprentices staring at her. Her apprentices now.
"Paul, go fetch the undertaker." Mercy made her voice calm and firm. "There are things that need to be done here."
She heard Paul clattering down the hall, eager to be gone.
James stayed. She could feel him watching her. He always watched her, saying nothing, stepping forward to help when he saw what was needed. For one weak moment Mercy wanted to turn to him, to ask for advice. James was the only one close to an adult in the house now except for her. He was tall and quiet, strong and competent. Her husband had come to depend on him in the shop more and more as he grew ill.
But she was the mistress now.
Mercy thought about all that she needed to do. The shop would close for the day to pay proper respect for George's demise. She did respect George. He'd been a good printer, a fair master, an honest man.
She would have to inform George's cousins. Greedy bastards. They hated her because George had married her – forty years younger, plain and awkward – solely to thwart their desires for his shop and savings.
He'd have preferred a son for an heir, of course. Mercy tucked her pale, ash blonde hair behind her ear. He already had three wives and five children who waited in the churchyard for him. They'd failed him. His fourth wife had failed to get him a child, too. Or he had failed her.
James' voice broke into her thoughts.
"Mistress Baines?"
"Yes?"
"My condolences. Master Baines was a good man."
Condolences? Of course. She was grieving and widowed. She would be receiving many condolences. And she was sad, in a strange, detached way. If she hadn't had to nurse George for so long, watching him slowly fade away, perhaps she would feel sadder. Right now she felt some pain but she wouldn't lie to herself. She also felt relief.
"Yes. Ah...yes." She wasn't sure what to say. The glittering in James' eyes might be tears. But perhaps it was some other emotion she couldn't fathom then. Whatever was in his eyes made words catch in her throat.
"There. That's the last time I'll speak of that." James pushed himself from the wall. "What do you want me to do next?"
What? Mercy tried to think what had been done when her mother died. She'd been younger then but—
"My father!" Mercy recalled. "Please go tell him."
He nodded without saying more and walked out, leaving Mercy alone. She twisted the wedding ring on her finger. She'd given James and Paul their orders. But what was she to do next?
She hesitated and went back to the bed.
"Thank you." She wasn't sure precisely why she whispered those words to George. Because he'd married her? Because he'd been fair if not loving? Because now he'd died and she was freer than most women ever were in this lifetime? Perhaps all of that.
At any rate, she was a twenty-five year old widow with a printing business, a house and two apprentices. She had to answer to no one in this world. She was in control.
"No, Father. I have no intention of selling a thriving business to you." Mercy's head throbbed. All morning she'd dealt with relatives and neighbors and friends. The cousins had been bad enough, but they knew there was nothing more they could do. Her father refused to know that. Well, he'd pushed her into her marriage. He could live with the consequences. "George's shop makes more money that your bookstore ever has. Why would I?"
"Because it won't stay a thriving business when people see a young, foolish wench runs it!"
"I guess I'll find that out for myself." Mercy ignored the nervous little throb in her stomach. Of course she could manage. Hadn't she managed everything for the past few months?
"Damn it!" Her father took a step toward her and she braced herself. If he was going to hit her she see herself in hell before she would cry.
Then he stopped.
"May I see you to the door, sir?" James' voice was emotionless.
Mercy turned her head. James might sound emotionless but her father had been wise to stop. James looked formidable—and he towered over her parent.
"I'll see myself out." Her father allowed himself one last glare. "Mind my words, girl. I didn't marry you off to get nothing!"
"You got George's help with printing all these years and a considerable loan when we married!" Mercy snapped back. She stopped and then spoke more calmly, trying not to smile a
t her words. "Of course I'll be happy to continue business with you, Father. But you may find me less lenient about extending credit."
Father looked like he might want to continue arguing but first he looked up, past Mercy's shoulder at the apprentice behind her. No one moved. Her father glared for a moment more, then he simply stalked away.
"Thank you, James!" Mercy turned, laughing, reaching out to touch his cheek. She could feel stubble on his chin. Of course he hadn't had time to shave today. "You're a godsend."
That was when everything changed. James moved his head back, sharply, almost as if she slapped him—the way her father had threatened to do to her. She took a step back, startled. Then James stepped closer to her. Mercy stepped back again.
Her breath caught because James didn't stop. He came closer yet.
What did he mean to do? She could feel the heat from his body. She could feel his breath on her hair. His two arms reached out to touch the wall behind her, boxing her in. Should she be afraid? Mercy knew she was starting to shake but not from fear.
"Don't tease." The words sounded forced from him. The voice didn't even sound like James.
"What?"
"It's been months, woman. Months and months. Longer. You've been married a year." His voice grew huskier yet.
"Almost a year."
"And all I could do was watch. Listen. Wait. And hate myself for doing it."
Her brain would not work. Simply not work. He couldn't be saying what she thought he was. He couldn't be wanting what she thought he did. But his hands were on her shoulders now. They closed tight on her and she realized she was shaking even harder.
His finger traced from her throat down to the cleft between her breasts, the way she had dreamed about before and been ashamed for fantasizing. And then his mouth followed. That was better than fantasy. She could feel herself beginning to melt.
Had he known all this time? Had he known that she watched him back while they worked? His muscles fascinated her as they moved his body. She'd anticipated seeing him when she'd risen from her bed to cook breakfast for the household. He'd be there at the table, looking drowsy, his hair a little rumpled because he'd just left his own bed. As she cooked, she imagined what he looked like—what they'd look like together—if they'd met before he left his bedchambers.
Neither had said anything to each other. She hadn't been sure why he watched her. But she'd known why she stared and yearned even though she tried not to look. He was so beautiful. So male.
"You don't belong to him now." James murmured the words against one breast. "You belong to yourself. And perhaps to me. If you're willing."
Strong, big hands. Warm mouth and tongue.
Mercy shut her eyes as she felt his erection firmly held against her. Oh God. Not like George's. This one was hard and eager. Briefly she remembered the frustrating sessions she'd had with her husband at the start of their marriage. She'd used hands and mouth and tongue as he instructed, only to have, at best, a hasty thrusting before…
She blushed. Mercy remembered George's groans as he came. Watch. Listen. Wait. Had everyone heard them? Him. Heard him. There had been no moans of satisfaction from her. She'd been his wife. She had a duty to him and she'd fulfilled it.
But James wasn't old. He wasn't ill. He was—eighteen? nineteen?—She'd need to know since he was done with his bonds of indenture at twenty-one. The wave of heat Mercy felt suddenly rose up hotter and more insistent. His bonds.
She found the strength to push his arm down. James was breathing fast and hard but he moved back to let her go. That was as it should be. Mercy collected her scattered wits. Then she stepped forward to speak to him. On her terms.
"I don't belong to you, James Herrick." She made the words slow and distinct. Forceful despite the sudden force of her desire. "You forget yourself. You belong to me."
He said nothing.
"And we're in the shop where anyone might walk in—to offer me condolences on my husband's death!" For a moment she felt a lash of shame herself. How could she have allowed this? How could she have not seen the attraction she had fought was mutual?
"You ought to be punished!" Mercy said, fiercely, more to herself than him.
She saw a slow red flush up across his cheeks. His head dropped.
"I forgot myself." James said. "You can make me do that...Mistress."
"I'll talk to you later." As she said that, she saw him look up at her again, his eyes hot. Had she meant the words as he was taking them? Mercy didn't know any more. Or if she did, she didn't want to think about it now. Later.
"Mistress Baines?" Paul's high young voice called through the house. "I packed up the master's clothes as you bid me. What should I do with them?"
Later she would decide what to do with the tall young man with the broad shoulders and fascinating mouth. Another decision to make in her new life as an independent woman.
"Oh heaven, what a day." Mercy dropped on the bench by the fireplace and for a moment just let herself relax by the fire.
Had she ever had a more difficult one? Since George's death—had it been only this morning?—she'd been pestered right and left. The undertaker, the clergyman, the visitors came and went. She'd told James to set up the type for a notice of George's death but the news had flown faster than newsprint. She'd told Paul to put up the mourning wreaths but people began to knock on the door before he had finished. On and on and on.
So many things for her to order and do. She tried to remember all the duties of a widow. She wore black. She kept her mouth grave and unsmiling as she performed her role. But she would now and then catch James' eyes and feel a surge of warmth lick up inside her.
She had to stop. Stop looking. Stop feeling. Had to—
"Mistress?" It was James' voice. "Let me help."
Someone to help would be pleasant. But what could he do? It was nearly dusk now, another early twilight for a Boston winter night. She just had to endure until tonight—
Mercy looked up at him towering over her. Before she could blink, suddenly, he was kneeling in front of her.
Mercy's eyes widened as she realized he was easing off the shoes she'd put on earlier. They were her best ones, but they cramped her feet horribly. James' fingers rested on one rosette decorating her shoe's instep. She looked down at him, on his knees submissively, his dark head bent over her feet.
"What are you doing?"
"Helping. You're exhausted and worn."
He took off one shoe, his fingers kneading the arch of her foot as he did. Oh! Mercy tried not to jump. His fingers were touching parts of her body that seemed especially sensitive. Mercy wondered if she should warn him he was being too—too...forward. But it did feel good. He had such remarkably gentle hands for such a big man.
Then she felt his mouth on her instep, his tongue making its way up to her toes. Mercy's breath caught. This wasn't helping her not look, not feel, not want.
How could the warmth and pressure of hands and tongue on her feet make her so close to screaming? Looking at James' head bent over her, watching him kneel before her made her body feel...odd. His two hands grasped the heels of her feet, spreading her legs apart as he leaned over, nuzzling at each foot in turn.
This want was stronger than anything she'd felt before. Ever. She felt warm and flustered and parts of her were aching. James was doing more to her by touching her feet than George had managed to do even when they were most intimate. Mercy's fingers almost reached out to touch James' hair before she realized what she was doing and forced herself to stop. She mustn't encourage this. Mercy knew she had to make the right choice. She wouldn't know what that choice was unless she could stop to reason, not feel.
But she sighed helplessly, before saying, "No."
"Please."
James' one word caught at her heart. And it made her want him even more. She fought herself and the scream of desire inside her. She watched her legs tremble and tried for sanity.
"Don't, James." They were viciously hard words to say
. God, what might he do for her? She wanted him to make this need, this heat stop. She wanted him to stoke those feelings even more. She could imagine his tongue, his hands, his cock driving her even more mad—and satisfying her. She wanted to know that. She wanted to know him. But instead she said, "I can't let you do this now. I don't want to tease. Or promise something I might never give you."
His hands rested just lightly on the balls of her feet.
"As you wish." The desperation was gone from his voice. His hands withdrew from her body. For the moment she wished he'd ignored her commands. But only for a moment. Mercy knew she wasn't quite ready yet. “It’s your choice what you will do with me.”
"Thank you, James." She tried to make it sound like a dismissal, but it came out a little too breathless and grateful.
He stood, looked down at her consideringly. Mercy looked up, feeling suddenly smaller than usual and more defenseless.
But all he said was, "You're very welcome, Mistress Baines."
* * * * *
What would she do?
He'd been a madman to suggest anything. He'd been a worse lunatic to try what he did. But he hadn't lied. Mercy could make him forget everything. Everything but her.
He knew what she thought of herself. Or didn't think of herself. She thought she was unattractive. He'd heard her say that. James had no idea why, though he'd heard her reasons, too. She wasn't too tall—she was one of the few women he knew that didn't make him feel overgrown. She wasn't plain. Her pale hair and skin fascinated him. He wanted to see it closer, to contrast it against his own darker complexion and hair. She wasn't too bookish for a woman—she knew everything a printer needed to know and more. Mercy never mentioned her body. But he knew what it must be like. He could see those high, lush breasts, the tight waist, the...Oh damn. Everything about her had fascinated him from the time she first entered the shop as the master's betrothed. He thought he'd die then from the wanting and never having.