Page 14 of Ondine

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.

“You’re mistaken, sir. Nothing offends my sensitivity; I come from Newgate, lest you forget.”

He caught the bar of soap and returned her regal stare, tempted to rise and embrace her and force her bluff to a test. He reminded himself furiously that he wanted his distance from her; it was merely difficult with her standing there, so damned assured with the promise of abstinence he had spoken to her last night!

Women . . . nothing would give him greater pleasure at the moment than to leap from the tub, give her a full view of her effect upon him, and sweep her to the welcome softness of the bed.

He contented himself with snatching her wrist and allowing a warning to gleam from his eyes.

“Ondine, did no one ever warn you not to play with beasts?”