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

edged back toward the docks.
    “I am Jacopo,” said the man. “Come with me.” He poked her a bit harder with the weapon, and Mercédès had no choice but to follow. “You will not be injured if you do as I say.”
    “But what do you want from me?” she asked.
    “I am taking you to my master.” He directed her around a corner, and suddenly she realized they were at the far end of the docks, near one that was fairly deserted but for a single, well-appointed yacht that sat all by itself. Honey-colored wood gleamed in the sun, and startling white sails snapped under the sea wind. As she neared, Mercédès recognized that the small figurehead, carved of ebony, was that of the Greek goddess Nemesis.
    Mercédès was prodded up the gangplank and found herself on the smooth deck of the small vessel. By now she was becoming truly frightened. At first, she had thought, perhaps crazily, that this was a trick of Sinbad’s . . . that somehow he had found her again and wanted to see her. But there was no sign of the tall, bearded man, and before she had any chance to think, she was urged with the prod of the gun down a short flight of stairs. The passage was so narrow she had to turn sideways in order to fit her heavy skirts through, and she tripped on the bottom step, barely catching herself from falling.
    She heard the shouts and calls, and the sudden shifting of the vessel, and realized that they were setting off.
    “No! What are you doing?” she cried, pounding on the door that had closed behind her after she was shoved down the four steps. “Where are you taking me?”
    No one answered for a long while, but she could tell by the rocking of the yacht that they had left the dock and were setting out to sea. She peered out the small porthole, watching in apprehension and disbelief as the dark patch that was Marseille disappeared over the horizon. At last she sank onto the narrow bed, staring into the falling darkness, wondering if she’d ever see Albert again.
    At last, hours later, the door opened, and she was treated to the dark face of the man called Jacopo. She realized how much he looked like a pirate, with his unshaven face and red scarf tied over his head. “Now you may come up if you like, madam. We have food if you are hungry.”
    “What do you want from me?” she demanded much more bravely than she felt. She remembered now that ten years ago, Sinbad had saved her from being kidnapped by several men who’d threatened to do this very thing. Her mouth was dry, and her stomach churned so much she was certain she would never consider food. Yet fresh air was a must.
    She came out onto the deck and realized that the sun had lowered quite a bit in the sky. The wind chilled her almost immediately, but she drew in deep breaths of the cool air. Besides Jacopo, there were only two other men on the small vessel.
    They’d been sailing for several hours now, and behind them, she could see the outline of the rocky Château d’If, the island prison etched against the horizon. And behind that great craggy island, far beyond her sight, would be the shoreline of Marseille, and the village where she’d been raised along with Fernand.
    Perhaps she would never see him again either. Her fingers shook and her stomach pitched, and it had nothing to do with the rhythm of the yacht.
    “You are the Comtesse de Morcerf, are you not?” asked Jacopo.
    “I am the comtesse, oui ,” she told him, her hands clasped. Yet she would not plead. “I wish to be taken back. My husband will pay handsomely for my return.” She had no doubt of that. He did not wish to lose his wife—of that she was certain, for it was of great importance to him that he was wed to a beautiful woman he could show off in the ballrooms and theater, as well as in the privacy of his bedchamber.
    Jacopo nodded in agreement, the tails of his headwrap flapping. “Indeed he will, madam. And that is exactly our wish. Or, I should say, the wish of Luigi Vampa.”
    “Luigi