Page 30 of Ondine

“Oh?” He arched a cautionary brow to her, his eyes narrowing in warning.

“Aye, milord,” she replied coolly, contempt pointedly marking her use of the title. Warwick sat upon the edge of his desk, pretending little interest in her words as he drew off a high boot.

“Talk, then, milady.”

She took a sip of the whiskey, and he was glad to see it, for in that action he noted her nervousness and sighed inwardly, certain that no matter what her bravado, he would disarm her.

But then her eyes came to his again, blue flames richly edged in darkest lashes that added to their searing intensity and beauty. “I was congratulated this evening upon a child that does not exist. Perhaps it would not trouble you too greatly to explain the lie?”

Warwick reached for the whiskey bottle, returning her stare and swallowing a long draft. He set the bottle down carefully. “What was your response?”

She laughed dryly. “Oh, I did not refute your story, milord.” Her lovely lashes tightened about her eyes. “Not yet!”

“Oh—is that a threat, my love?” he queried with a pleasant yet deadly tone.

“Aye, it is,” she replied with a contemptuous smile.

“You see, milord, you’ve never explained the game.

Therefore, I play at a disadvantage. She straightened, pulling her bare toes from the desk to hide them beneath her on the chair.

“It is a cold game, milord. One in which I remain in the dark. I challenge you, I receive but further orders. I am left, then, to create a few of my own rules. And this, then, is one of them. I’ll smile sweetly to each lie I hear.

I’ll cheerfully stand behind your ever absurdity.

And in return . . . I stay here. I do not go to court. ”

He leaned against the desk suddenly, stroking the line of her upturned chin, bitterly returning a twisted smile. “Poaching, thievery, blackmail! My, what talents you have amassed at such a tender age, my love!”

“I begin to think you married me for such talents, Warwick Chatham,” she returned, unnerved by his touch.

He released her and slid smoothly from the desk.

He walked behind her to rest his hands upon the top of her head, and cast her into further tumult, as he stroked his fingers softly, like a night breeze, through her hair.

“I don’t think, milady”—he murmured the last mockingly, bending close to whisper by her ear and tease her throat with the warmth of his breath—“that you will deny anything. The lie is one I so thoroughly wished stressed that I would even be willing to force it into truth.”

Ondine closed her eyes, gritting her teeth so as not to shiver or cry out at the ruthless nature of his words. Oh, that there were caring in them! But there was not; only the whipcrack of the master giving orders.

He dropped his hand from her and walked to the mantel.

“Don’t ever threaten me, Ondine,” he said flatly.

“Don’t threaten you!” Her voice rose in fury and she leapt from the chair, despairing and wild from her failure.

“Don’t threaten you! Milord, there need be no threats!

You, sir, should be most grateful that shock alone did not keep me from calling you a liar!

By God, you will tell me what goes on here!

Not only am I constantly taken off guard by your evasions and deceptions, but I am annoyed at sleep by pranksters! ”

“What?” The question was a sharp explosion. He spun to her, his body rigid, his eyes like piercing fires, so intense that she stepped back, her rampantly pounding heart rendering her speechless.

He was instantly across the room to her, his stride so furious that she cried out as his fingers bit into her shoulders. “What?” he insisted, eyes ablaze. “Tell me what you speak of!”

“You’re hurting me—” she gasped, her teeth chattering, her head falling back.

His hold eased; he did not release her. “Tell me!”

“Tonight . . . an hour ago, as I lay in bed, someone whispered to me.”

“You imagined it?” He asked the question carefully, so intently that she didn’t think he doubted her at all.

“Nay! I do not imagine things!”

“What was said?”

“My name.”

“And what else?”

“I don’t remember—”

“You must!”

“I—I think it was something like, ‘I am cold and lonely. Come to me.’”

He released her, turned and strode quickly through his own chamber and the bath to hers. Ondine followed him. As she had done, he searched it thoroughly and looked beyond the window.

And as she had done, he at last sat on the foot of the bed and shook his head, pressing his temples between his palms. Then he looked up suddenly, as if remembering that she was there. An elusive shield seemed to form over his eyes.

“You must have imagined it.”

“I did not!”

He shrugged and lifted his hands to her. “As you can see, there is nothing.”

She laughed dryly. “My lord Chatham, I am all that you say—horse thief, poacher, blackmailer; I survived forests and prisons—but I do not imagine things.”

“Be that as it may . . .” He rose and approached her slowly, pausing before her. “Then you must listen again, mustn’t you, lady? And if you hear the whisperer again, call me then. Immediately. Do you understand?”

“Oh, aye, sir!” she responded tartly. “Another order, and, yes, orders must be obeyed!”

His fingers closed about her arms, and his face lowered to hers. “Ondine! You must cease to fight me! Trust in me . . . and in the end I will see that you are free and cared for for the duration of your natural life!”

She lowered her head, trembling. Oh, it was true! He was using her for something, and intended only to discard her! She didn’t want him touching her, she didn’t want him near her, she didn’t want to ache and long for what he would never give . . .

She wrenched from his hold, from the vibrant fever of his body against hers, and stood apart from him, trembling.

“’Twill be hard to warn you, sir, when you are seldom about.”

“I will be here,” he told her. “And you will leave your chamber door open, as will I. You need only say my name, and I will hear you.”

She stood mutely, staring down at the floor.

He came to her again, capturing her arm, pulling her to him.

When she would have scathingly upbraided him, she fell silent instead, startled by the small slant of a smile, by the gentle amber lights in his eyes.

“Ondine . . .” he murmured, pulling her against him.

“The name comes from myth and magic. She was, as surely you know, a mermaid. A beautiful seductress of fantasy who enwebbed the heart of a man and, through marriage to him, gained mortal life. And you have, my beauty, gained life . . . trust me. I will preserve it for you, by my own, if need be, I swear it!”

Stunned and shaken by the heated depth of his emotion, she could do no more than meet his eyes, and cherish the tender smile he gave her. She nodded slowly.

And to her further surprise and fascination, he lifted her into his arms, carrying her fleetly to her bed, where he placed her upon it, pausing still to fan her hair about the pillow with a fascination of his own.

Then he straightened and said hoarsely, “You are a magical beauty, Ondine.”

His eyes closed; he clenched his teeth and a small groan escaped him. His body stiffened, and when he gazed at her again, he was once more the cold and rugged man who had so coolly ordered her release from the gallows.

“Good night,” he said brusquely. “And do not forget that in three days time we head for London.”

“I—I can’t go!” she pleaded in a whisper, a plea that he ignored with an oath of impatience.

“We’ll not go through this again! Try to escape and I shall drag you back. Defy me when I seek to leave, and I will haul you, bound and screaming if I must, to the carriage. Have no doubts, madam, that it will be exactly as I say!”

He continued to stare at her. She could find no voice to protest; no magic thought came to her mind. She wanted to lash out at him, but she was still cast beneath his spell.

He turned and walked through the door. He did not close it, and she trembled, painfully aware that nothing but the night breezes lay between them, hating him . . .

Hating herself . . . for loving him.