Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo by Colette Gale Page A

asked her. Her belly was so round that it protruded higher than the walnut table next to her.
    “Until Albert returns,” Mercédès told her truthfully. “There is no telling what Fernand will say to Albert if I’m not there when he comes back. And while our son is home, he won’t bother me.” She didn’t know why her husband had been motivated to come back to her bed, but whatever the reason, it appeared that his tastes had not changed over the years he’d stayed away.
    How foolish of him to put himself in such a humiliating position again.
    “And when Albert marries Mademoiselle Danglars? What will you do then?”
    Mercédès shuddered. “I don’t want him to marry Eugénie Danglars. There is something about the girl that puts me off, let alone that her father himself makes me ill. I don’t believe Albert wants to marry her either.”
    “My brother, Maximilien, has returned from the army, just in time for the birth of his fifth niece or nephew,” Julie told her, obviously attempting to change the subject to something more pleasant. “He is a captain now, and quite a hero, having saved the life of a nobleman while he was in Constantinople.”
    “Just like his father,” replied Mercédès with a smile. “Doing good for others.”
    “And Lord Wilmore and Sinbad the Sailor,” Julie added, glancing at the red velvet purse that sat in a small glass case on the fireplace mantel of her home. “I only wish I knew how to reach them, to thank them yet again for saving my father. We have never had any correspondence from either of them these last ten years.”
    Mercédès felt a little shiver. She had visited Marseille several times during the last decade and had spent an inordinate amount of time near the wharf. But she’d never seen the tall, bearded, exotic sailor again.
    She’d been so foolish—she could have gotten with child; she could have been carried off and raped or beaten and left to die, or even killed outright. Yet Sinbad had given her a gift by bringing back long-submerged emotions and sensations.
    He’d helped her realize that she was still alive, and could still feel.
    Which was why, although she would never admit it even to herself, when she ran from Paris, she came to Marseille and walked along the wharf, hoping.
    And so, later that afternoon, on her fourth day in Marseille, Mercédès once again made her excuses to Julie and left for her walk. Her friend could have accompanied her, but at her late stage of pregnancy, a nap was more prudent.
    Dressed in a simple day gown of pale pink wool, and a cloak of heavier wool to protect her against the bite of the November sea wind, Mercédès made her way along the streets, following the path she took every day. Past Morrel and Company, toward the tang of the salty air and the busyness of the docks.
    She watched for a time, looking for the tall, bearded Sinbad and remembering the tall, lithe figure of Edmond striding toward her, lately from a ship’s deck. The cold bit the tip of her nose, and her fingers had become stiff. The pungent smell of fish filled the breeze, bothering Mercédès, and at last she turned to go back.
    But just beyond the bustle of the wharves, she felt someone behind her. Her heart began to thump in her throat, and the back of her neck prickled. She turned.
    It wasn’t Sinbad. It was no one she recognized. A man, perhaps in his middle forties, of average height and with the swarthy skin of a Greek, approached her. She realized he was holding a gun when he came close enough to prod her with it.
    “Now you shall not be hurt, madam,” he said calmly. “But you must come with me.”
    “Who are you? What do you want?” she asked, looking around. But no one passing by seemed to notice what was happening. There were four sailors, carrying a heavy crate hoisted on their shoulders. A cluster of women, giggling and pointing and watching the display of muscles from the aforementioned sailors, paid no mind to the single woman being