Yet that moment was horribly fleeting, and when it had past, she was back in the hay, gasping for breath, her mind reeling with the thud of her head against the hard earth of the stable. She closed her eyes, fighting the pain and the swamping sensation of dizziness.
Then she felt weight about her, a tight and heated vise. Gasping out a scream, she opened her eyes, only to find a less than gentle hand clamped over her mouth and her husband’s burning eyes searing into her own, his thighs straddling her hips.
“What would you, madam, make a beast of me in truth?” he demanded in a harsh and furious whisper. He moved his hand from her face quickly, distastefully, assured that she would not dare to push him further.
In that, he was right. Dazed, she returned his stare, too keenly aware of the hard cold floor beneath her, the terrible heat of his thighs around her, and the subtle scent of him, clean like the night, but carrying a hint of raw masculinity that was so threatening, her limbs seemed to grow warm and uselessly weak. What would he do to her now? she wondered despairingly.
He leaned low against her, surveying her again with fury. “Ingrate!” he spat out suddenly, and she gasped again as his fist clenched and muscles bunched beneath his shirt with the thunderous movement of his arm. Instinctively she closed her eyes against the coming blow, but there was none. His hand slammed into the earth at the side of her head, and a second later he was on his feet, staring down at her.
“Get up,” he told her coldly, and when she found that she could not move, he impatiently reached down to her, dragging her to her feet, swearing beneath his breath. “So I saved a horse thief as well as a poacher and God alone knows what else! Pray, tell me, my lady,” he mocked tightly, a pulse ticking with a fervor in his throat, his fingers like steel as they held her, “what is it I did to you that you are ever so determined to leave me for the life of a starving, filthy renegade once again?”
Ondine could not look into his eyes; she stared at his hand, and its brutal hold about her own, wondering if her bones would snap beneath it. Didn’t he know, didn’t he care? Or did he intend far worse?
He released her so suddenly that her instinctive pull against him sent her back to the front wall of the barn, where she stood still, her hands braced against it. “By God, what will I do with you?” he muttered, and at last she was ready to strike back.
* ‘It matters little to me, my lord!” she cried with sudden passion. “There is naught that you can do”—she choked on her own words—“little that can compare to Newgate, to running, to starving, to vicious murder by tra—”
She cut herself off suddenly; desperately she fought back tears. At this moment, she needed her pride. It was her only remaining source of strength. She lifted her head and met his curiously narrowed eyes with despair, bringing her voice to a casual disregard.
“Beat me, lash me, hang me—I care not.”
He took a step toward her and for a moment she regretted her hasty words, certain he intended to take her up on one—or all— of her suggestions.
His fingers twined around her elbow, but their touch now, though firm, had no painful bite. “If starvation is so appealing to you, my lady,” he drawled sarcastically, “I must then apologize for keeping you from it. But you’re not leaving, and I pray ask you not to contemplate such a thought again. I’m weary. Let’s end this night.”
There was no fighting his grip. Still feeling her heart beat so quickly that she feared it would tire and cease, Ondine came along with him. They crossed the yard and reached the rear door. He opened it, and his gaze and the inclination of his head suggested that she precede him. Ondine did so, but when the span of his fingers fell on her waist, propelling her toward the staircase, dread rushed up to flood her features once again, and she couldn’t help but turn to him. “My lord …”
“Go, my lady.”
She closed her eyes, fighting the sensation of faintness. She remembered that upon the gallows she would have willingly married any man, and that men naturally demanded intimacies of their wives. Old men, ugly men, fat men, stinking men …
Yet in her heart and mind she had counted, even then, upon escape. She had been saved by marriage. Her husband was neither old nor ugly nor fat, and his scent was a fascinating one, like the night wind …
But she had not escaped. And so she wondered with a quiver what it would be, how it would feel to have those hard thighs, naked and demanding, against her own. She bit her lip, promising herself that she would scream, and she began to wonder a little desperately how vehement his passion would be, if he would hurt her, if she could endure intimacy without longing to rake his eyes out, without fighting … Would he be cold and brutal, furious at rejection? Where would his lips touch her? Would she be split by his size, bruised by his strength?
“My lady, walk!”
Swallowing, shaking, feeling a tremor as if the earth moved, she walked up the stairs. She could not open their door when they reached it.
He did so. His prod sent her forward into the room, and he bolted the door firmly once he, too, was inside. Ondine floated nervously to the window. Her body seemed to be nothing but hot liquid as she waited, wondering again if she wouldn’t shriek out with fear of his next movement.
He sat upon the foot of the bed and doffed his boots, giving her no heed. And when he was done, he rose, stripping the white shirt over his head and casting it upon the footboard of the bed. Ondine felt her heart flutter and seem to sink ever deeper as she watched him. His appearance of leanness, brought on by the casual wear of his fashionable clothing, was totally deceptive. Bands of muscle, defined and well knotted, rimmed his shoulders, back, and chest. His waist was flat and slim, also a band of muscle. His figure was that of a fighter, of a man who had learned to handle heavy weapons. She could not draw her gaze from his chest, slick and powerful in the moonlight, and when he turned to her, he must have seen her dismayed anticipation, for he suddenly, wickedly smiled and approached her. She would have backed away, but there was nowhere to go. He paused before her, and his fingers moved deftly to the ribbons at her bodice, brushing her flesh upon the valley between her breasts.
“You must be quite exhausted,” he told her, his words husky and pleasant. Still smiling, he reached for her hem and brought the overskirt high over her head. Ondine could not help a little sound of protest, a gasp that brought her own hands to her breasts, warding him off. He ignored her, moving quickly to strip away the elegant underskirt and bodice, mindless of her wild attempts to resist him, her outraged whimpers when his fingers raked over the rounded curves of her breasts. His touch was barely upon her, yet she felt it so fiercely—his taut power and that essence that was so alarmingly male …
Left with only her flimsy shift, she clasped her arms over her chest, ready to plead with him. He’d married her; she had no recourse, and so she was shaking. Yet she prayed that she could at least move him from what seemed to be a cold and ruthless determination and anger.
Soon his hands, his searing touch, would be upon her naked flesh.
“Please … I …” She felt so naked, even in the garment. So vulnerable. His eyes were upon her with such contempt and scorn, seeming to mock what she might offer him.
He stepped backward, a wry and humorless smile on his lips as he bowed to her. “Madam, your chastity is yours—to savor, or rot with, as you choose. I ask only that you play the countess— a role for which you seem amazingly well suited—with a pretense of effort. Good night.”
He turned from her abruptly, strode to the bed, and cast his length wearily upon it, far to the right side.
Stunned, Ondine stared at him. Incredulous words came to her lips unbidden.
“That is … all? You expect—nothing else of me?”
“Not a thing, madam. You are the last woman upon whom I would think to force my affections,” he replied, his tone one of total disinterest.
She could not believe him, and she stared at him. It was then that he moved again.
“For God’s sak
e, might we get some sleep!”
She took a step forward, and, dazed, she again spoke without thought.
“You wish me to—to sleep in the bed?”
“In the bed, on the floor. You may levitate for all I care. Just give me some peace.”
He meant it, yet still barely able to believe the turn of events, she moved hesitantly to the bed and sat upon it. His back was to her. At length she stretched out, but so nervously so that she was ready to spring at his least movement.
He did not move. It seemed he barely breathed.
And so Ondine lay tensely, her eyes open to the night. She could not resist turning to the broad, muscled expanse of back offered to her.
The bed shifted; Ondine froze. Seconds passed, and at last she twisted her head. He was on his side of the bed, his back turned to her. She could not help but reflect that he was indeed a fascinating man, incredibly fine and sinewed and … striking, in manner and person.
She shivered and closed her eyes. He was her husband. He had saved her from death … he wanted nothing from her.
She would play his wife, play the countess to a perfection that would surely astound him. Aye, she would play the role—and seek out her own revenge from the safety and security of the noble wing of his protection. She smiled. Unwittingly, he might even help her …
Chapter 4
Warwick awoke with the sun slashing in through the panes he had forgotten to close the previous night. He cast his arm over his eyes for a moment, groaning. Then, with a start, he remembered the woman at his side.
He turned to her. Ondine’s back was to him; and she was curled far from him. Warwick swung his legs off the bed, ran his fingers through his hair, then planted his feet on the floor and strode silently around the bed. She was sleeping soundly. The light didn’t appear to bother her in the least.
He meant to move quickly from her; he found that he could not. He studied her in sleep instead. The morning sun caught her hair, so fragrant with its scent of roses. Disheveled and scattered over the white bedding, it gleamed deep and rich, dancing with fire, framing her flawless complexion like a silken fan of intrigue. Her lips were parted slightly as she breathed quietly and peacefully. He noted what a beautiful design they were, the lower lip fuller and hinting of deep and secret sensuality. Her cheeks were a pale rose, high and lovely; her brows high, arched, and enchanting. He shook his head slightly as he viewed her, somewhat bemused. He had noticed something about her when he had seen her in the hangman’s cart, but not this exquisite beauty. Long of limbs, she was still too slender, yet beautifully lithe and curved. Her breasts rose firm and high against the flimsy material of her shift, as if they strained against it, full and round and tempting. Their rouge tips were a dimly veiled taunt. They seemed an invitation, beckoning a man’s caress …
Warwick suddenly scowled. He had no intention of becoming enamored of the prickly little thief!
He cast his head toward the open window, decided it was still quite early, and padded to the door in his stocking feet. Outside, he hurried to the landing at the rear stairwell and called down to Meg, ordering that a bath and food be brought.
Lads came with the tub and water, and Meg cheerfully brought food. Ondine slept through the entire proceedings. Warwick discovered himself pitying her and wondering what in life had brought her to such despair that she should fight even him.
He turned away from her, shedding his hose and breeches, and climbed into the tub, wincing at its heat. He could not allow himself to care for her, admire her, want her.
He leaned back, closing his eyes, wondering if this impulsive plan of his would draw out the murderer.
He opened his eyes, puzzled by a moaning sound that came from the bed. It was Ondine, of course. No longer did she sleep peacefully, her lashes leisurely resting against her cheeks. She tossed about, tangling herself in the sheets and fighting them ever further. Her moans began to take on meaning. Whispered tears, vehement vows.
“Merciful heaven, you killed him! Oh, sweet Jesus! No! No! Never could I forgive you! Treacherous monster! I’d far prefer death.”
Frowning with perplexity, Warwick stood, the water sluicing from him. He snatched up his towel from the floor, wrapped it about his waist, and hurried, still dripping, to her side. He sat upon the bed and caught her shoulders, shaking her, hoping to wake her gently.
Such was not to be the case. At his touch, she went wild. “No! No! Murderer! Your hands are stained with blood, the blood of my own! No! I’ll kill you first—”
“Girl!” He shook her more irritably and was startled when her fist flew out, catching him soundly in the jaw. He released her to rub that sore part in astonishment, then swept both arms about her, crushing her against his chest. “Girl! Who in God’s name do you fight? It is me, your—husband!”
Her head fell back, her eyes open fully at last, huge and luminously blue, like a storm-tossed sea.
“Oh!” she gasped.
He smiled and spoke softly. “You were dreaming.”
“Oh! I’m sorry. I…” Her voice trailed away as she noted her circumstances. Still dripping bits of water, he was clad only in a towel, and she was now damp from the contact with his bare chest, in the shelter of his arms. Alarm sprang to her eyes before she could hide the emotion, and he couldn’t help but chuckle.
“I am sorry if my presence distresses you. As it was, though, my lady, you were the one to bring me from my bath.”
Her eyes darted from him to the tub, to his pants strewn beside it. Then her lashes fell again, and Warwick followed her gaze. They realized together that she might have been as bare as he, so transparent did the dampness make her shift. A swift and merciless shaft of heat tore through Warwick; again he felt the blinding need to touch the fullness of her breast, graze the pouting nipple with his thumb, explore the fascinating fullness of her youth and beauty …
He rose, abruptly turning from her. He cursed himself for having naught but a towel to cover his flagrant response to her sensual appeal. “Go back to sleep if you wish!” he snapped to her far more harshly than he would have intended. Not caring in the least whether he alarmed her or not in his present discomfort, he turned his back, dropped the towel, and quickly descended into the tub. She remained silent, which continued to irk him, and on top of everything else, he had somehow lost the soap.
“There’s food on the tray,” he tossed out over his shoulder, less than graciously.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Not at all,” he responded. ” ‘Tis not a favor, it seems, lady, but the only bribe I might have to keep you at my side.”
He heard her rise from the bed and collect very quickly the clothing he had shed for her the night before. She did not approach the food tray, but moved to the window, leaned against the sill, and stared out at the day.
“You needn’t worry about my disappearing again,” she murmured.
“Oh—and why is that?”
“I have—uh—taken a thorough assessment of my position. And you’re quite right. If all you wish is a young female— ‘suitable,’ as you are so apt to say—to play your wife, then I am happy to play that role. What better have I?”
“Umm.” His eyes turned to her. The water was growing cold and his teeth were chattering.
He watched her, curious at the straight grace of her back, her slender hands upon her lap as she reflected, her eyes on the window.
“Who did you think I was?” he quizzed her suddenly.
“What?” He so startled her that she turned to him, then flushed and stared down at her hands. “What… do you mean?”
“In your sleep, in your dream. You battled someone and battled him fiercely. Who was it?”
“I …” Her voice seemed incredibly soft. “What did I say?”
“Lady, I am questioning you.”
She shrugged, as if the motion could force his inquiry to slip away. “The hangman, I suppose. Or the keeper at Newgate.”
“You accused the hangman
or jailor of treachery and murder?”
Her head lifted, and her eyes blazed into his. “And why not? Spend some time in Newgate, dear sir, you or your precious king, then perhaps you might be fit to judge my words!”
The water seemed to steam again as his temper rose in reaction to her words. “Taunt me, my lady, and you but tempt my wrath at your own peril. Lay taunt against the king again, and you will assuredly draw my vengeance. You, madam, do not know the king.”
She slid from the sill to present her back to him—and hide the sudden rise of tears to her eyes. She did know the king. His sincere interest in others was a large part of his charm, as well as his pleasant wit and his gallant appreciation of women. But Ondine knew that Charles’s years in exile, his bitter decade-long struggle for his crown, had also worn him. The king kept his own counsel; no one knew what truly lurked within his mind. He detested violence, though no man had been a braver fighter. He despised duels, and he abhorred executions.
But that did not mean that traitors had not gone to the headsmen.
He was loath to sign a death warrant, yet he was the king, and he had done so when required.
And to his eyes—as surely as to the eyes of all who had witnessed the event at the joust that day—she was a traitor.
“I hold nothing against the king,” she murmured out loud, having learned that her husband’s temper was something she did not care to test.
He said nothing else on the matter. An explosive silence seemed to reign between them, then at last he spoke, still tensely.
“Bring me the soap, if it will not too sorely tax you,” he drawled sardonically. ” ‘Tis by your foot, and it was your scream that caused me to lose it.”
Ondine stared down at the soap a little blankly, suddenly loath to go too near, especially in his present temper and lack of dress.
“I’m well folded, lady. I can hardly offend your preciously delicate sensibilities.”
After enduring that last mockery, she determined never to let him see her distressed. She plucked the soap from the floor and walked to the tub, smiling quite sweetly as she dropped it down to him.
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