Page 11 of Ondine

The dizziness swamped her in a burst of alarm and searing heat that brought a weak quiver to her limbs. Was he the beast, the rake, or the gentleman? She didn’t want to know. It was time to be the charming damsel now, herself; time to make good her elusive goal of freedom—and vengeance.

“Is appearance so important, then?” she murmured, stalling for time.

“Aye, especially so with us, milady.”

“Then why did you marry me, a common poacher? Please, don’t tell me you needed a wife! Surely you could have secured a dozen wives from better places, had you so chosen!”

“A dozen wives? A man may have but one, milady.” He hesitated.

“I’ve grown tired of the pressure to marry, that is all.

And I did not care to have a clinging countess about my neck, quizzing my movements.

A gallows’ bride, madam, best suits my tastes.

You are alive. I may be at peace and live my life as I choose.

Does that satisfy you?” he inquired coolly.

“It must, if it’s what you wish to tell me.”

She lowered her eyes, fluttering her lashes carefully.

A flash of guilt caused her heart to skip a beat.

He had saved her life, had given her the pure ecstasy of cleanliness, and had caused her stomach to cease its habitual growl.

Perhaps she could get an annulment for the marriage.

She fervently hoped so, since there would be nothing she could do for quite some time.

And she didn’t forget for a moment that she meant to pay him back.

“My lady, may we leave?”

She raised her eyes, allowing her lip to tremble. “Dear Lord Chatham, I implore you, may I have a minute for myself?”

“What?” He crossed his arms over his chest, scowling with a sudden impatience.

A flush that could not have been enacted rose to her cheeks, and she stuttered out her request again. “I’d have a moment. I—I wish to take care with my—”

“You needn’t—” he interrupted her abruptly, but she would not allow him to go on. She reached across the table, resting her fingers lightly on the top of his hand, staring at him with all the tender innocence she could muster.

“I implore you!”

He shook off her touch—almost with distaste—and lifted his hands into the air. “Do whatever pleases you. It makes no difference to me.”

Smiling graciously, she lowered her head and stood, willing her knees not to wobble. Hurriedly she swept from the bench, but she did not breathe until she had passed by him.

And then she gulped for air, blindly making her way through the tables for the stairway. There were still voices and laughter in that room; they all blended together as she raced up the stairway, aware only that Warwick’s eyes followed her intently all the way.

And, sitting still at that table, he frowned slightly as he watched her retreating back.

She quite astounded him, for she was far more than he had imagined possible; slim, erect, shapely, dainty.

As hollow as her cheeks were, their texture was as soft and pure as silk.

She was truly a stunning beauty. None would doubt his attraction to such a woman; nor would anyone think to question her background.

Still scowling, he poured himself some ale. The only flaw seemed to be her temper. He had expected a great deal more humility and appreciation. She should have listened eagerly to his every word and not only been willing, but grateful to accept the life he was offering her.

Warwick leaned back and drank a long swallow of his ale. Then he grinned slightly. Her apprehension had been so evident, he’d been unable to resist the desire to taunt her.

To be fair, he should have told her bluntly that he had no intention of touching her—ever.

His smile faded. She assumed he would require the “duties” of a wife.

He should have informed her that he would never desire such duties just because she was his wife and that, in time, he would see that she was freed from all obligation, yet supplied with an income to live out her natural days as she chose.

His fingers curled around his goblet, and he slammed it against the table with such vehemence that it almost cracked.

He couldn’t tell her that, not yet. He pushed the goblet away, frowning with weariness.

He might as well go up and let her know she need have no fear of him, “beast” that she claimed him to be.

And yet . . .

Strange how the memory of her eyes, deep and hauntingly blue, remained with him. And her scent . . . now one of the richest, sweetest rose. And the velvet touch of her hair between his fingers—fire hair, dark in shadow, yet gleaming with strands that caught the color of the sun.

He smiled slightly. He even liked the pride she wore as a shield about her, though it could irk him sorely. The cast of her chin, the haughty retort in her eyes.

Yes, she might well have been born to rule a manor. And—by God!—he would see that she survived to have her freedom.

Warwick frowned suddenly, his muscles tensing as an inexplicable sensation of danger seized him.

He thought of his new bride: the utter disdain in her delicate features when he had surveyed them, cleansed, for the first time; her quick temper; her immeasurable pride.

She was not ungrateful for her life, yet it seemed that she had no intention of compromising her newfound freedom.

She hadn’t appeared really frightened of him, but she had been wary—and suspicious. She was prone to staring him straight in the eye, instead of batting her lashes with the charming ease of the born coquette.

“Damn!” he swore suddenly, furious with himself as his jaw locked grimly. She’d played him for an idiot and done so very well.

“Beauty” was attempting to escape the “beast.”

Still swearing softly beneath his breath, Lord Chatham traversed the stairway, two steps at a time.

* * *

Ondine had managed to walk sedately up the front stairs from the public room.

Once upon the darkened landing, she ran.

Her heart was thudding as she passed the common rooms and the more expensive private rooms .

. . the door to the room where she had so recently bathed and exchanged her rags for riches.

At the back stairway she paused for a moment, clutching her hand to her heart as she gasped for a deep breath. The kitchen, she knew, led off the door where she had entered earlier. It was time to remember all that she had learned about evasion; not to bolt, but to wait and listen, carefully . . .

There was no one near the door. She forced herself to ascertain that fact as a surety, then glided silently down the back stairs.

The tavern was busy now, for the tables were filled when she fled the public room.

All the lads and maids and Meg herself should be busily occupied.

And which of them would think that the common bride of a great lord would think to elude him?

The wood of the back door seemed to have swelled with the coolness of the night. Ondine gnawed at her lower lip, fighting a wave of panic as the door refused to give. She tugged upon it with greater effort and almost gasped when it sprang quite suddenly from the force of frantic desperation.

Collecting herself, she sped outside, bringing the door shut behind her, and leaned against it for one moment to collect her breath.

She stared out across the dirt and pens of the yard, across the rolling fertile fields to the forest beyond.

Her heart seemed to sink within her, for the distance to that forest was great, far greater than she had realized before.

On foot, wearing the delicate pumps her strange “husband” had purchased for her, she would take forever reaching the ebony haven of nature’s succoring retreat.

Think! Quickly! she warned herself. By God, she hadn’t escaped the king’s guards and dozens of petty sheriffs to find herself frantic against a single man.

It had taken a posse of fifty trained horsemen to capture her party of poor men and thieves in the forest outside London.

And if Little Pat hadn’t fallen then, she would have eluded even them.

There was no way out of it, she decided quickly, drawing upon learned instinct.

She was going to have to steal one of Lord Chatham’s carriage horses.

Nor could she allow herself to feel guilty for the theft; she hadn’t the time.

She could only vow to herself once again that she would find revenge against those who had so tricked and used her—and her poor woefully betrayed father!

And she would pay the Earl of North Lambria back for his gift of life and substance at a later date.

So determined, Ondine raced across the dirt to the stable, praying that no one would be about.

The massive doors were still open to the night, and a single lantern burned near them, high on the wall.

Despite the flame, she blinked as she swept around the open doorway, pausing once again with her back to the wood structure as she attempted to see clearly.

The stable was as neat as the inn: fresh hay was strewn richly over the ground; harnesses, bits, bridles, and saddles were polished and hung on pegs by the entrance.

Horses pawed the ground from two opposing rows of stalls, separated by low, thin barriers of wood.

The right horse . . .

She had been condemned to die one time too many and was determined now to steal only one of her “husband’s” horses, lest she be caught with the beast. She didn’t intend to be caught, but having borne the label of “traitor,” felt the promised horror of the headsman’s ax, and, in truth, the scratch of the rope, she was hesitant despite herself.

Another man could claim her a thief, but not the man who had so curiously chosen to marry her.