Page 46 of Ondine

And, dearest God, all that he said was true!

He’d known beauty, vast and wide, in many guises.

Anne’s feline tempest, Genevieve’s angelic delicacy, and many arts and graces in between.

Never had there been a woman to occupy him so, to take his heart, his mind, his soul, to shake him with a passion that could not be slaked!

Ah, this water witch! Nymph of cascading glory, strong in spirit, unbreakable.

Love me! That is all that I command of you, he might have cried, but though he could live sanely no longer without touching her, the vow of freedom was one he could not break, more binding than ever with the tangle of his heart.

And he was Warwick Chatham, earl and lord, a man, a champion who did not falter or fail.

For all that he was, he could not fail himself now.

But neither could he leave her, her beauty, the symmetry of her sweet movement, endless splendor . . .

He caught her hands and brought them to his chest, reveling in their tentative touch, in the sharp and ragged tremble of her breath. “No shyness, milady, for it is this for which we are made, man and woman, and truly given!”

And with that glad cry he kissed her again, giving free rein to the throbbing thunder of his blood, the pulse of his groan.

With his hand he parted her thigh, with knowledge and tenderness he moved thumb and fingers against feminine secrets, stroking, soliciting, bringing the blaze that urged her to match his own.

All around him he heard the snap and crackle of the fire, the shriek of the wind, even the howl of the wolves in the forest, and they were all a part of him.

He led her to touch him further, burst in glory at the tentative measure of her fingers, and shuddered with a new desire, unlike any he had known.

He teased her still, in torment that was divine, for when he had her at last, it would be the greatest bliss.

He moved and manipulated her, ever stunned by her beauty, the fine perfection of her back, of her buttocks.

He stroked her spine and whispered that he would see that the lick of the fire had harmed her not.

As his kisses seared her flesh the rasp of his tongue was a greater flame.

Never was there such reward, for her whispers came in turn, pleading that he came to her, and he did, a thrust of mercury and steel, heat and midnight magic.

He was all, and more, that she had craved. He was a tempest, giving to her a sweet, shattering climax. What wondrous God had given man and woman! And when they lay spent, he remained at her side.

* * *

Ondine awoke, but did not open her eyes. A coldness about her warned her that Warwick lay with her no more, and she could not still the heavy feeling of fear that this morning would bring with it the mockery of that past occasion.

She lay still, not moving, feeling that sunshine entered the room, that the air was fresh, that everything should be beautiful.

Carefully she raised her lashes slightly, then started, for she was not alone at all, her senses having played her false.

He was there, on the bed, an arm’s span away from her, watching her curiously, smiling just slightly with amusement at her obvious pretense of sleep.

He was completely clothed, leaning upon an elbow so that he might stretch out his length for easy perusal of her while keeping his booted feet from dirtying the bed.

Ondine shrank further into her covers, her eyes wide but wary, tensed as she awaited his words. His smile deepened with a rueful humor, and his lashes shielded all expression.

“We can never go back now, you know,” he told her softly, and for a moment she wished that he had left or been cruel, for the sight of his fine chiseled features in that daylight touched her with emotion from the depths of her heart.

She did love him, all of him, the hazel eyes that so oft loomed amber and gold; the twist of his jaw, willful, strong, determined, even arrogant.

She loved his pride, she loved his stance, the set of his smile, the arch of his brow.

The tender, wistful, rueful smile that marked him now as younger, a man not to be bested, but to be met upon his terms.

“No,” she murmured.

He sighed, a soft expulsion of air, as if he might have said more, and withdrew his touch. He rose, tense and brooding once again, great shoulders squared as he strode to her dresser, idly drumming his fingers upon it.

“I have been to the tombs.”

Ondine frowned, made aware that more was at stake here than the state of her heart. She did not like his tone, and still within the shelter of her sheets, she twisted to watch him.

“And?”

His back was to her, and she saw the dark knit of his brow in the mirror. He turned to her, his questing gaze that of a stranger, one that seared into her as if he might see truth.

“There was nothing amiss.”

“What?”

“There was nothing amiss. Stones were all in place; Genevieve’s coffin was tightly sealed. There was no sign of cape or mask or—talons.”

She sat up, furious at the insinuation that her mind might have wandered, that her imagination had tricked her.

“I tell you, milord, that a creature, caped and cowled and, aye, taloned, did accost me! What is this now, that you doubt my word! How absurd, Chatham! Would I cast myself into a crypt for amusement, run with spiders and rats and mold and darkness for the fun of it all?”

He leaned back against the dresser, casually crossing a booted foot and shaking his head with a grin.

“Nay, lady, I accuse you of nothing of the like. I wished only to see that certainty from you. I should have gone there straight last night; alas, you were my concern. I do not doubt your word; I but asked to see that streak of certainty come from you.” He hesitated and appeared dark and strained once again.

“There were times . . . there were occasions when I knew that Genevieve did see things with her mind, and not her eyes.”

Ondine brought her knees to her chest, hugging them there.

She lowered her eyes from his absent gaze, swallowing tightly.

The pain and tenderness that brought low his voice when he spoke of Genevieve seemed to clench about her heart, and she longed to cross herself, for in truth, she was so sorry for the woman slain, and yet yearning that she herself might be so gently regarded.

Ondine had his care; that much she believed. Yet something about her felt hollow, and she reflected in misery that he might think of her somewhat as it seemed he did of Anne—healthy sport and amusement, to be enjoyed, perhaps even gallantly so, yet never truly cherished.

And did it matter? she queried herself bleakly. She had no more than this time she had sworn him—payment for her life. The king had given her leave and grace to prove her own quest, and it was something that must be achieved. The freedom Warwick had sworn to her was a gift she must take.

She gazed up, startled, when he moved across the room to her, sitting at her side, taking her chin.

“Ondine, I have seen before such a costume as you described.”

“Where?” she demanded breathlessly.

He smiled bitterly and released her, walking to the window from where the day streamed in. At Westchester. After Genevieve was killed, I tore apart her chamber and found a passage, and at the foot of the passage I found a discarded cloak and mask.”

“Then you knew, for fact, that it was murder! Why didn’t you go to the king?”

He shrugged. She saw only the movement of his shoulders. “I did go to the king. He thought that the death had unbalanced my mind, because, you see, he hosted many masques and balls at that time, and thought surely that some clandestine lover, innocent and removed from the deed, had lost the cloak.”

“But it is all real,” Ondine murmured, then said, eyes widening, “at Hampton! That was why you tested the structure of the chamber, why the steward spoke so strangely.”

He nodded.

“Well, then,” she murmured a little tartly, “we have failed at any attempt to find this creature! Last night, milord, was the time to act. To question all, to discover its whereabouts—”

“Do you think me a fool?” he charged her, turning about.

“Whilst I saw to you, Jake sought out the others. No one was seen. Clinton claimed to have been at the stables, Justin swore to have been in his chambers. Mathilda said all the servants appeared to have their tasks, and a rider sent to Hardgrave’s castle was told that he and lady Anne were dining together at the time.

Who lies? Who speaks the truth? We are back full circle. ”

“There must be a motive.”

“What motive would you wish, milady? Hatred, revenge, jealousy, greed—they all might be applied.”

“Your brother loves you!” She instantly rose to Justin’s defense, though he had not been pointed out.

“Hmm, and I think, perhaps, Countess, you love my brother far too well.”

“Perhaps I should,” she retorted. “He, milord, is never brooding or aloof, nor prone to rages, but rather ceaselessly pleasant.”

“Ah, and there lies your truth!” he exclaimed, smiling now, but with a sharpness to his eyes that warned his humor veiled a darker emotion.

Returning to her in a stride, he swiftly wrenched her sheet from her grasp and brought her naked breasts hard to his chest in a passion so sudden she could only gasp.

“Ondine! Wouldst you see blood among brothers?”

“Nay! I speak merely of his temperament—and of yours! And you, milord, stray from the conversation at hand!”

“My temper became, from your lips, the conversation at hand. And, aye, sorely has it been vexed as of late. Such is the nature of a beast, madam. Tease it, taunt it—it growls and paces. Offer kindness, and it comes sweetly to heel.”