Rogue's Mistress Read Online Free Page A

gray—prematurely so, he surmised.
Fever spots gleamed on the hollows beneath her high cheekbones, and she was
frail to the point of emaciation. Again, fury welled in him that her husband
had gone whoring on this of all nights, leaving this unfortunate creature alone
to die.
    Soon, Henrí returned with wood and
built up the fire, then discreetly slipped from the room. Then there was
silence, interrupted only by the piercing whistle of the wind and the occasional
thud of a log sliding in the grate. Julian had no idea how long he’d sat
there—an hour, perhaps even two—when Corrine O’Shea opened her eyes. All at
once, he found himself gazing into the loveliest cerulean-blue eyes he’d ever
seen.
    The woman stared back at him, her
expression strangely lucid. “Brendan?” she murmured.
    Julian felt a surge of guilt and
helpless frustration. He forced himself to smile gently at the woman and to lie
as convincingly as possible. “Your husband has been detained, madame. He bid me
come check on your welfare.”
    Corrine O’Shea’s expression
brightened with a false hope that lanced Julian’s heart. “You’re a friend of my
husband’s, m’sieur?” she rasped, trying to sit up.
    Julian gently pushed her bony shoulders
back down on the mattress. “Yes, madame. Now, you must conserve your strength.
May I get you something?” He glanced at the pitcher and glass on the
nightstand. “Some water, perhaps?”
    She shook her head, as if speaking
required too much energy. She drew several labored breaths, then murmured,
“Mercy.”
    “Mercy?” Julian repeated. “Oh,
yes, your child.”
    “I must speak with her.”
    Julian was glancing about in
confusion when he heard a frightened, childlike voice whisper, “Mama?”
    He turned and stood, spotting a
little girl standing in the archway leading to the home’s farthest room. The
sight of the child stunned him, momentarily robbing him of breath. He felt
almost as if he’d seen a ghost. For Mercy O’Shea was a younger version of her
mother—delicately, aristocratically beautiful—but with Brendan O’Shea’s flaming
red hair and green Irish eyes.
    Those enormous, lovely eyes were
now fixed with fear on Corrine O’Shea. “Mama?” she repeated anxiously. She
glanced suspiciously at Julian, then took a tentative step forward. She was
dressed in a handkerchief linen gown and was clutching a rag doll.
    Corrine O’Shea again opened her
eyes. “Come here, child,” she said weakly.
    As Julian tactfully stood aside,
Mercy hurried across the room on her bare feet and knelt by the low bed. She
flung down her doll and clutched her mother’s hand. “Mama, you look so ill,”
she fretted.
    “Mercy, I must leave you,” the
woman said raspily.
    “No, Mama! No!” Mercy said, her
eyes wide and terrified, her young voice tinged with hysteria. “I don’t want
you to leave me.”
    “My darling, I have no choice,”
the mother whispered back through tears. “Don’t worry—your father will care for
you. He’s been . . . detained, but he’ll be here soon.”
    “No, Mama, no!” Mercy cried. “I
don’t want Papa to care for me! All he does is shout at me, and come home
smelling of something so vile—”
    Corrine continued to speak in a
halting, convulsive whisper. “It’s all right, Mercy. I know your father has
been through . . . hard times . . . but after I’m . . . gone . . . I’m sure
he’ll live up to his responsibilities. You’ll see.”
    “No, Mama, please, no!” the child
exclaimed, her voice piteous. “I don’t want you to go! I don’t want Papa to
care for me.”
    Julian observed the poignant
exchange between mother and child with an aching heart. Now, recognizing that
Corrine O’Shea was near exhaustion, he stepped forward and placed his hand on
the child’s shoulder. “Mercy, your mother is quite ill. She must rest now.”
    Mercy flashed angry green
eyes—eyes too old for one so young—up at Julian. “Who are you, m’sieur?”