Page 60 of Ondine

“How . . . did I come to be here—so?” She indicated her long white gown and the cleanliness of it all. And—God help her!— as intimate as they’d been, a blush suffused her cheeks and her voice was a bare, husky whisper. “Did you bathe and gown me so?”

“Aye, that I did, with Lottie’s help,” he told her.

He touched her cheek and spoke earnestly with a rueful smile, “Ah, lady! Brute that I have been, fear nothing from me this night! Even beasts have their limits! Ondine, this—”

She brought a finger quickly to his lips, casting him into a questing confusion. He grew silent, but hiked a brow to her, barely breathing.

“Milord, I want no words. Just as you say, morning comes, and matters might be settled then. But tonight . . .”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight I pray that you do not leave me.”

“I’ll not, lady, if that is what you require. I’ll sit by your side all night—”

“Oh!” she cried in frustration, staring at him with flaming eyes. “Surely, Lord of Chatham, you are the daftest among all beasts!”

A slow smile curled into his lips, and he watched her with vividly sparkling eyes.

“Lady, watch your words, that they say what you mean. It costs me harsh and rigid control when I must be near and keep from touch! My heart has been heavy and near shattered; such bliss as that of your arms is pure temptation. Yet, you have been sorely abused by relation to my name this night, and I would have you know only peace.”

She crawled from the bed and stood before him, desperate to make her wishes known, for never again would she place a palm against his most beloved cheek, or know the exquisite ecstasy of his love.

Tender, savage, tempest, sweet; his passion was wondrous, and she yearned to know it, hungered deeply, this last night.

Ah, she was aching, empty, quivering, touched by wildfire by having him this near, pondering what might come.

“Milord! The last that I seek at this moment is peace!”

Still he stared at her. She emitted a soft cry of aggravation and hated him briefly for forcing her to such a wanton perusal! But if needs must this night, she would pursue! For surely, surely, pray God, he could not refuse her!

She touched the gown where it lay on her shoulders, shook her body lightly, and it shimmied down from her.

The gown wafted luxuriously along the length of her body and came to her feet like a mist of soft fog, leaving her naked before him, her body touched to richest flame by the fire’s glow, sleek and rich by that enhancing light; angelic and pure—and totally carnal.

Warwick inhaled sharply, stunned and rigid, instantly tense, and instantly aroused beyond all measure.

He swallowed quickly, felt the speed of blood that raced and bubbled, of the pulse that beat from his groin and echoed throughout his body.

And, oh, this! This most wondrous, most incredible love.

For all that he had done to her, she could still come to him . . .

His magic sea-nymph, she was truly given life by her marriage to a mortal, standing before him like some Aphrodite, eternally glorious. Ah, she was the fire, she was the light, she was everything that guided him now! This love was pain, it was fear, it was all encompassing . . .

Who was she, this water nymph of his? Something ever so fine, commoner or countess, it was true, she was the greatest lady he had ever met; she was his beloved.

“Warwick!” she breathed at last, a cry, a desperate plea.

He reached for her hand. She gave it to him, and he rose, still then in the blue depths of her eyes, adrift—and completely aware of her and himself and the explosive power between them.

He came to her, touching her hair, then clutching her shoulders and pressing his lips ardently upon that bare flesh, where he held for the long heartbeat of an eternal moment. Then his lips grazed her ear, and his whisper came hoarse and ragged.

“Be sure, madam, that this is what you wish this hour, for if I stay longer here, I will not be able to leave.”

She slipped her arms around him and pressed close to his body. She stood on her toes and touched his lips with her own lightly, again and again, parting them, nipping at them, coming to them again, and finding a fiery mating with his tongue.

His arms embraced her in a crush. A glad and muffled cry tore from him, and he was indeed lost. Ah, all that she was!

A cascade of sunlight and fire, wind and tide, sweeping through him, over him, within him.

He started to speak; she stopped him with another kiss. “No words this night,” she whispered.

“No words . . .”

No truths would come between them; no harsh realities would dispel illusion.

There would be moments when the wind beyond the walls rushed with the soaring flight of their longing, when the rain beat no harder than the pulse of their blood.

The storm outside was a storm inside, beautiful and wild, impetuous and free.

He held her breasts and gloried in their weight, kissing the fair peaks and savoring the taste.

He carried her to the bed and laid her upon it, shedding his clothing; then he came to her again.

Every touch was a reverence, each stroke an adoration; each kiss a cherishing anew.

Ah, sea nymph, witch, most magical creature! She touched him, again and again. She loved him sweet, loved him with most exquisite abandon. She moved, her body liquid over his. She gave to him as never before.

And he gave to her, all of him. He filled her, again and again, held her, shivering, trembling, quaking, shuddering . . . again and again, until she sighed against him and buried her head into the dampness of his chest, exhausted and spent.

“Ondine . . .” They were there; words he didn’t know how to say; eloquence had deserted him. They were simple words: I love you. They hovered on his lips, and they must be spoken.

But once more she touched her finger to his lips, shaking her head strenuously. “No words!” she pleaded, almost sobbing. “No words tonight, I beg you!”

He cradled her against his chest. They were both aglow with satiation. His arm was strong around her, and exhaustion claimed him at last.

There was always tomorrow. Tonight . . . tonight excelled dreams and fantasies.

Tomorrow there would be time for words. And perhaps none would be more eloquent than their love this night.

He nodded and dared close his eyes, secure at long last that he could sleep without fear—for her.

* * *

She knew that he slept quickly; he had been so very drawn, so dearly in need of repose.

His breath became even; strain eased from his features, and for this rare moment he appeared very young, handsome and wonderfully tousled.

She remained beside him for at least an hour, watching him, taking all of him into her mind and heart and memory.

The texture of his face, its strong and rugged lines, the full and sensual curve of his lip, the arch of his brow, the length of his nose.

She dared even to run her fingers over his chest, to feel the muscle there, the dark tufts of hair.

She stayed and watched and felt her tears rise.

Then, at last, she rose, silent, broken.

She paused at his dresser, smiling slowly, bitterly. It was laden with gold coins, coins she knew he meant her to take to the Colonies.

And, after all, she forced herself to accept the bitter truth.

He was a master lover; a man of lusty appetite, and he’d never denied attraction to her. But attraction was easily discovered, easily had and lost—easily a delusion of love.

All bargains were fulfilled—and now she should be grateful for the proof that he intended still to ship her away; she needed the coin.

She treaded softly into her own chamber, most grateful for his absolute exhaustion, since she’d learned early how lightly he normally slept.

She dressed in her simplest gown, a plain velvet in soft dove gray, in warm hose, and her best boots.

All had been bought by his coin, yet the Duchess of Rochester could pay him back easily and well.

She found her warmest cloak, dull brown wool with a heavy cowl that gave the appearance of a pilgrim’s garb.

She dared not take more clothing, for she needed to travel light; speed would be of the essence.

At some time he would wake. Possibly he would give chase, for the simple reason of his arrogance—the lord of Chatham did not tolerate disobedience to his high command.

The lord of Chatham . . .

Time spun too quickly for her then, but after she had carefully dropped the coins into her pockets, she still could not leave, but watched him again, completely in love.

In love! Oh, it was weak, it was shattering! Honor and a daughter’s duty called. Her pride and the morals bred into her since birth forced her hand. But love, this treacherous, fickle thing, kept her here, craving the sight of him, her beast, her beautiful, beautiful, manly beast.

The sweet sound of a bird’s cry at long last startled her from tender hypnotism. Now it was all still beautiful, before morning’s light, and the truth of his feelings could tarnish memory or send her captive far away.

One last touch . . .

She kissed his forehead, willing back her tears. Then she fled, hand to her mouth to hold back a moan of anguish.

There was no Jake in the hallway—no loyal friend to guard the night—there was no more danger. She found her way along the hall and down the stairs, and out of the manor.

She did not dare look back, but raced to the stables. Quietly she whispered to the bay mare. With as little fuss and noise as possible she set bridle and saddle to the mare, praying that no young stable boy would awaken in confusion to accost her.

She mounted the mare and took her from the stable. And then, only then, did she turn back.

The rain had ceased; the wind had died. Chatham stood upon its mound in all pride and strength, for always it would brave the wind and the storms of the rugged north.

Chatham, harsh and hard, it bred men as graceful as its lines, as strong as its stone, tender, brutal, fit as the manor to face the wind and storms.

Warwick! her heart cried.

She was no longer Countess of North Lambria, Lady Chatham, no longer Warwick’s gallows’ bride. From this moment she would again be the Duchess of Rochester, a power in her own right.

“Away now to home!” she told the horse. “My home,” she added softly. “My rights, my heritage.” She swirled the mare around and sent her galloping into the night.

It was strange then that she heard the wolves howl. There were plaintive cries, sharp cries. They were mates calling out to one another—males, she thought, with bittersweet amusement, creatures bound to claim and hunt their females, taken for life.

It did not occur to her then that a Chatham might be like the beast, the wolf, that prowled his forest, that he, too, would relentlessly pursue his mate, no matter how far she might wander. She was far too wretched to think much at all.

“Rochester!” she cried to the breeze.

Taunting her, it seemed to echo the name.