His Mistress

by Treva Harte

  He smiled, a lazy but satisfied grin. "Start with a little riding here."

  The memory made her smile. Arrogant beast. He made her do things she’s never done before. Had never had any intention of doing. But he made her enjoy them, too, and she’d made him do things—things she’d had no idea she could make a man want to do.

  Better yet, now it was starting all over again. The magic of the night hadn’t left even though it was morning. Cullen nuzzled his face against her neck and then whispered, “I want to fuck, Mercy. You. I want you.”

  She could feel his cock, hard, eagerly agreeing with his words, thrusting against her as if it couldn’t bear to be without her a moment more. And she knew she couldn’t bear to be without it any longer, either.

  "Are you insatiable then?" Mercy gave a loud sigh and fought a giggle. "Oh, all right. If you have that big a problem—“

  “It’s a very big problem. A huge problem. Want to see?”

  Mercy rolled over to face him.

  Her breath caught. This wasn't Cullen. She was seeing yet another body stretched out on the bed. The blood was coming too fast through the formerly white linen shirt. And his lips looked blue.

  "Captain Bryant?" Her voice shook. "Randall?”

  His eyes opened. She could hear his breath, rasping hard in his chest. No. She didn't want to see any more death. But Mercy knew what she was looking at.

  "Again."

  She bent forward to listen to the faint voice that still had a trace of ironic amusement left.

  "Never learn—happened again. Picked us off."

  Without him saying more she could imagine the slow, deadly retreat back to Boston. The sound of bullets whistling out from behind walls and trees. The crumpled bodies. Randall had staggered into the house using his man's shoulder for strength. And his own will power. He wouldn't fall in front of his enemies. But he collapsed as soon as he entered the house.

  "Has your man called a doctor? Should I fetch one?" His eyes shut again at her words. Mercy reached out to take the hand that had no blood dripping on it. The wrist's pulse was faint. "Oh, Randall."

  "Unfair."

  Damnably unfair, Mercy had to agree. If he lived in modern times perhaps more could be done. But right now he was bleeding to death in front of her and all she could do was try to stop the worst of the wounds. She was no doctor.

  "Bad timing. I didn't see you first. What we might have done together, Mistress Baines…"

  If James hadn't been there what would have happened between them? His chest moved upward one more time. Then stopped.

  "Is he dead then?" James stood at the doorway.

  "Yes. Yes, I believe he is. God rest his soul."

  Not just his soul. All of them. Men died in war and this was only the start of one. James had eight years to risk himself still. God, how she hated knowing this—knowing what was history to her, what was the present reality for him and unable to change any of it for either of them. What good did it do to know so much and yet not know anything that mattered for her?

  “Damned rebels! They killed the best soldier in the whole damned army—“ The voice behind them was Bryant’s sullen manservant, silent no more, shaking with tears and anger. “And we could do nothing in return. Just march, fast as we could. There was no one to shoot at, nowhere to hide. Blast them to hell!”

  And, without more warning, there was a pistol in the man’s hand and—oh God, she couldn’t even remember his name!—he shot into James’ chest.

  This was what she’d feared all along. This was what she knew would happen. Death. Always death.

  “Mercy—“ James choked the word out.

  She saw James stagger back, fall, the surprise still on his face before it changed into agony.

  “There’s one gone anyhow! One spying rat! My master let him free but he didn’t deserve to live!” The man’s voice rose almost in hysteria but she heard the satisfaction in it.

  And Mercy got up from her knees on the bed with the captain’s pistol in her own hand. And she fired at close range.

  What if the British caught her? What difference did it make now? She could finally avenge this death. It wasn’t much, but it was something. They might as well all die together…

  Mercy blinked and the world rearranged itself. She reached out to touch Cullen's face very gently. This time. He looked so much like the captain. And if he was, then this time he had shown up in her life when no one else was there. There was a big hole in her world that he could fill if he wanted.

  Mercy caught herself. Careful. Careful. This time slipping was going beyond dreams or explanation. She traced Cullen's face. His face felt real.

  Yes. This was today. Now. She wasn't crazy. Perhaps she'd been too stressed with her brother's death. But she knew where she was. In her bed. With a man who'd told her he wanted her, needed her and then shown her how much. Safe. She was alive and so was he.

  "I saw you and wanted you. I wanted you before then."

  How many people had said that to her before? When? Mercy wasn't sure. She knew Cullen had. Was it when Cullen had arrived on her doorstep late last night? She had agreed he could visit when he called on the phone, wondering why she agreed even as she said it. After all, he might be out for her newly-acquired money. She didn't know him. She hesitated before answering.

  When she didn't say anything, he did. Cullen's voice hadn't been laughing when he said, "I need to see you tonight. I have to."

  He'd waited at her door while she stood on the other side, wondering if she should let him in. Wondering what trouble she would open the door to. But he'd looked as if he'd wait there forever if she kept the door locked.

  And she didn't want to keep it locked.

  She'd had to open the door. To open herself to him.

  They hadn't said much more. Nothing but his words, half-whispered— "I saw you and wanted you. I wanted you before then." And then both of them had stripped, quietly, looking at each other the whole time. They hadn't hurried. They knew they didn't need to. They enjoyed.

  She'd never done all that for another man. Not in this lifetime anyhow.

  Before her dreams she would never have done such a thing. But when he was naked and he reached for her, she’d been there. Waiting. Ready. And when his cock had finally slid inside her, it was as if he'd been inside her before. How many times had Mercy known and met him? And what had they done then?

  Mercy looked at Cullen's face, where she had traced her fingers. She wasn't surprised any more to see the blood she'd carried on her hands from another man's wounds—now, faintly, on Cullen's face.

  She thought she'd been in control back then. There wasn't any control left now. No time, no permanence, perhaps no real death. Just people who returned over and over to almost, but not quite, relive their old lives.

  Or else she was dreaming.

  Or lost her mind.

  Why couldn’t she stop remembering, dreaming, having the past return to her?

  "If you're from the future does that mean you will go into the future again?"

  Mercy looked at her man. She saw that James had accepted what she said at last. He'd done it more gracefully than she ever would had someone said the same thing to her.

  "You're asking difficult questions today, love." The endearment slipped out without thought.

  "Then the answer is yes."

  "I don't seem to have a choice whether I stay or go any more. I don't know anything."

  "Will you come back?"

  Mercy held the palms of her hands up, helplessly. He had to realize the answer to that. Or what her lack of an answer meant.

  James took those hands, pulled them to his lips to kiss them. He didn't let them go.

  "We belong together, Mercy. No matter who you are or where you go. I know that inside me. I've known that always."

  "Don't you understand? If I could, I'd be with you always. But this isn't my place. The future—my present—doesn't seem like home any longer, either. My only home is with you. But n
one of that matters because I can't stop what's happening any more!" There was a long silence before Mercy whispered at last, “I do love you, James. I didn’t want to admit it to you or myself. But I do. For all the good that does.”

  Someone began to bang on the door. Now she knew it would be Bryant and his servant and she knew how this scene would end.

  "Don't cry, love. You never cry. No matter what happens." She wanted to deny she was crying but she realized her eyes were wet. Besides, his hands were around hers now, his warmth comforting her. She wanted comfort. "Hush. You can’t leave me any more than I can leave you. We'll manage. Somehow."

  Those should have been empty words. Empty comfort. She already knew they were untrue. James was going to die. He had died. But…

  "Don't cry, Mercy."

  "I can't help it."

  "But…oh, hell. Maybe you should cry. I bet you haven't since Luke died. Have you?"

  "Yes. No." Did crying over two hundred years ago count?

  Cullen's arms were around her tightly. She let herself absorb the strength in him. She needed that or she'd fly apart. All that would be left would be millions of grieving, bewildered pieces.

  "I don't understand anything any more." She said that, knowing he couldn't begin to know what she meant. She got up from the bed, starting to pace. Cullen rose and placed himself in front of her, stopping her. "I'm not even sure what I don't know."

  "We're together. That's all we need to understand for now."

  Then, just as everything had come clear when she told James she was from the future, things came clear again. This was real. She felt sure again—sure of herself and what her future could be. With him.

  She looked into the blue-gray eyes. She'd thought she'd known who those eyes belonged to. Cullen was smaller, slighter, with a swagger in his walk like Randall Bryant had. Used to have.

  But she'd ignored other things. Cullen was younger than she was. Twenty-seven perhaps? Six years younger. She had to be right. Even more important than the age, the warmth and the awareness of her, the comfort and the intensity was—

  "You—you look different." God, what if she was wrong? Mercy touched his cheek. The way she had when they started once before. Then she whispered, "James?"

  This smile wasn't the quick one she'd seen in Cullen before. This smile came more slowly, then spread out across his face and lit her within.

  James.

  "Call me what you want, love. The name doesn't matter. What we look like doesn't matter. I'm here. With you. Where we're supposed to be. Always."

  He bowed low over her hand, like the gentleman that he wasn't.

  And she curtseyed, equally low, like the woman she had been. Was still.

  And he turned over her hands and kissed the palms again.

  --The End--

  Also by award winning author Treva Harte:

  Ellora’s Cave

  www.ellorascave.com