Page 13 of Ondine
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 sake, 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 . . .