Rogue's Mistress Read Online Free Page B

she
snapped.
    Julian was amazed at the small
child’s spirit and forthrightness. “I am M’sieur Devereux, Mercy. A—a friend of
your father’s. I came to tell your mother that your father has been detained.”
    “Then leave us, M’sieur Devereux,”
Mercy said angrily. “This is none of your affair. I shall care for my mama.”
    Julian was again flabbergasted by
the child’s pride and mettle. Meanwhile, Corrine O’Shea said weakly, “Mercy,
you must not be rude to our guest.” Then she blissfully slipped from
consciousness.
    The child turned to her mother
with alarm. “Mama! Mama! No! You must wake up! You must!”
    Julian firmly drew her back.
“Mercy, you must let your mother rest.”
    To his stupefaction, she turned on
him with fists flailing. “No!” she screamed, her small hands ineffectually
pummeling his thighs, his stomach. “I must not let her rest. I must not! If I
do, she’ll—”
    Abruptly, the blows stopped, and
Mercy O’Shea became a child again, convulsing into tears. She didn’t resist
when Julian hauled her up into his arms and held her tightly against his chest.
Her small body shuddered with sobs, and her pain wracked his very soul. He
smoothed her silky hair and patted her back, wondering at how small and soft
and helpless she felt in his arms.
    At last she drew back. She spoke
with her heart in her voice. “She’s going to die, isn’t she, m’sieur?”
    Julian swallowed hard, finding he
couldn’t answer her. The desperate sorrow etched on her lovely face was more
than he could bear. Why did one so young and beautiful have to know such
unspeakable heartache? he wondered. He brushed a tear from her smooth cheek and
looked into her brimming eyes. “You’ll be cared for, Mercy. I vow it, my dear.”
    She shivered and laid her head
against his shoulder. The trusting gesture filled Julian with an emotion so
powerful that sudden tears stung his eyes. He’d never had a brother or a
sister, but suddenly he felt a brother’s fierce protectiveness toward this
needy, precious child.
    He carried Mercy back to her room
and laid her on her modest bed, pulling the heavy quilt over her. He fetched
her doll from the other room and laid it beside her. Mercy was already asleep,
her sweet face still streaked with tears.
    Julian sat with Corrine O’Shea all
night. She became delirious. He held her hand and listened as she spoke
disjointedly, her mind going back to the happier days of her youth, when she’d
first met Brendan O’Shea, when he’d courted her. Though her account was
garbled, Julian surmised that Brendan and Corrine had met when she was a novice
nun working at a local Catholic hospital; he’d been a laborer, ill with yellow
fever, whom she’d nursed back to health. Corrine had forsaken her final vows
for Brendan and had married him. Corrine’s family had promptly disowned her.
Nonetheless, she’d been blissfully happy with her husband during those early
days—they’d even named their child Mercy, after the hospital where they’d met.
    As the end grew near, Corrine
began to call Julian by her husband’s name, Brendan. He didn’t resist. She asked
him to promise to care for Mercy, to be a kind, attentive father—and he gave
his promise eagerly, his voice thick and hoarse.
    Sometime during the night, she
died. He held her hand until it grew cold.
    ***
    Sunrise found Julian, rumpled and
unshaven, sitting in the drab little parlor, drinking cafe au lait from a
cracked demitasse. His gaze was grim and bloodshot, and he was staring at some
unseen point in space. In the bedroom beyond, the black woman was dressing the
corpse.
    Julian felt as if he had aged a
lifetime over the past night. Before yesterday, he had never witnessed
death—yet last night, he had watched two people die. In a way, he felt
responsible for the demise of both.
    Julian set down his cup, got up
wearily, and walked over to the archway. The servant had finished her
ministrations; Corrine O’Shea had been