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

cut fruit that looked and felt like a rich peach, she realized how little she’d eaten in the last few days.
    “What is it?” she asked him, after swallowing the delicious, peppery-sweet fruit.
    “Mango,” he replied, as if surprised that she didn’t know. “Try this—papaya. And that.” He looked at her with such a steady gaze that she was rattled. “Coconut.”
    He seemed relaxed, seated with his legs folded in front of him, knees bent and toes tucked inside. Yet it was dark enough in the room that she couldn’t fully read his face—even what wasn’t hidden by the beard and mustache—and she thought that perhaps his hand trembled a bit when he pointed to the various fruits. But his voice was steady and easy and exotic. She realized her nipples had hardened and poked through the thin silk that had seemed loose and flowing but, now that she’d been seated, seemed to cling everywhere. The slightest movement caused it to rub against her skin like a lover’s caress.
    Omania and her companion served them in silence, and Mercédès ate the roasted quail stuffed with rice, and a tiny, sweet grain mixed with raisins and dates. Bloodred wine splashed into her goblet and she drank it, and then water, before she had cheese and bread, pears, and figs.
    “You were not injured or frightened during your voyage?” Sinbad asked. He ate, but sparingly.
    “Annoyed, perhaps,” she replied, keeping her voice as steady as his. “What is Signor Vampa’s plan? And why are you here?”
    “So inquisitive for a . . . guest.” He flashed a smile, then drank from his own goblet. When he replaced it on the low table, he spoke to Omania in a foreign tongue, and she nodded. With a bow, she and her companion left the room. “I am here to ensure that your stay is comfortable . . . and pleasurable.” He looked at her again, his eyes steady and piercing.
    Mercédès felt a stab of lust in the pit of her belly, and her breasts tightened. She looked away. Her mouth suddenly went dry, and she realized her heart was pounding so hard that if she lifted her hand it would show the jolts.
    “Has Signor Vampa sent word to my husband?” The sooner Fernand received word of the ransom request, the sooner he could pay it, and the sooner she would be released and back to her normal life, back to Albert.
    “Ah, yes. We wouldn’t want the comte to suffer in your absence, would we?” Steel laced his words, and he looked toward the table as if to conceal the expression in his eyes. “How terrible it would be for him to endure a moment of pain or worry. Are you so certain he will pay the amount of ransom demanded?”
    “There is no question. And . . . is it possible . . . could you ask for a message to be sent to Julie Morrel? She is now married to Emmanuel Herbault, and near the end of her fifth confinement. I don’t wish for her to worry that . . . that the worst has befallen me.”
    His demeanor softened a bit, and he gave a brief nod. “I have already seen to that, for I don’t wish any harm to come to her or her family. And word has been sent to the comte.” Then he looked sideways at her, a contemplative look in his eyes. “So you do not think that the worst has befallen you?”
    “I’m not dead.”
    Sinbad nodded, but his eyebrows raised. “So you believe that death is the worst fate that can befall someone.” He lifted an elegant hand, bringing a choice piece of pheasant to his mouth. The gold band at his wrist glinted in the low light.
    “No, I suppose it isn’t. One could be injured or ill and live the life of . . . of a rock, experiencing or enjoying little. At least with death, one is no longer conscious of the ills in one’s life. . . . But with death there is no chance of improvement in one’s condition or situation.”
    He’d been chewing thoughtfully, and now he swallowed. “Some consider death a welcome reprieve. For example, the man locked away in a dark prison cell likely wishes for death, rather than day after