Page 72 of Ondine

She shook her head again in vast embarrassment. “You don’t understand! They’ve a giant to watch me! Berta cares for my things, and she would—ah—”

“What?”

“Notice such filth upon the bedclothing!”

He sat back, grinning, then chuckled aloud.

“No problem, my love.” Standing, he retrieved from a chair his cloak, a vast garment in dull wool, but set with a lining of soft linen.

And it was clean, since he did not wear it in the smithy.

He cast it over her bed, and its great size amply covered the finer fabric there.

“Come to me,” he whispered, reaching for her hands.

She took his, watching his eyes, disbelief and wonder still expressed in her own. But when he would pull her against himself, she protested softly with a little cry.

“Wait!”

“What now!” he demanded sharply, dragging in a ragged breath, his patience near at an end.

“My chemise . . . your clothing will soil it!”

He swore out some soft oath, then instantly set about tugging upon his boots and shedding his worker’s heavy trousers and shirt and thick wool hose.

Ondine found herself standing very still to watch him, entranced, and somehow very sedate, smug, and pleased.

He cast his clothing aside with such ease, such natural grace, such disregard, as if he need bear no consciousness in the act, for she was so much a part of him.

It was either that, or, she reminded herself, he had such confidence and pride in his simple, basic being that hesitancy could have no place in him.

Ah, and why should he falter, for was that not part of her own pride?

Blackened or fastidious, he entranced her, the hard line of his body beguiled her, fascinated her, making her hands yearn to touch him without command from her mind.

She loved the breadth of his shoulders, gleaming beneath dust and grime in the firelight.

She adored the oaken sturdiness of thigh and calf, the leanness of hip, flatness of belly, rounded wonder of muscle and sinew, the beat of the pulse at his throat . . .

She smiled, secretively, thinking that, aye, she loved all of him, and most certainly, that wonderful evidence of “endowments,” hers now, potent and rigid, alive and impatient with desire.

And ever more her smile increased, for there was the sweetest pleasure of all in knowing that she was what he yearned for—she the creator of all this male beauty, she the total heartthrob of his being.

He made her feel a bliss, a liquid trembling, warm and shaky.

And now she was ablaze, savoring just that ecstasy of anticipation, knowing that soon they would touch . . .

“What? You smile, or laugh, milady?” he accused her, coming toward her.

She shrieked softly, eluding his hold.

“My chemise . . .”

“Best remove it, then. Quickly,” he warned her in a tone so much like a growl that she chuckled softly. Yet quickly, indeed, she made haste to obey, most aware then by his expression that his ardor left no more room for care or reason.

She shed the chemise, letting it fall to the ground, and found herself most instantly crushed against his chest, a prisoner of his arms. So delicious the sensation!

Her flesh was so bare against his naked own; she felt him with all of her, softness of breasts against hardness of muscle.

She was so vulnerable, so trusting, so smiling in wonder, her head cast back, the sea-magic and liquid beauty of her eyes gazing into the amber glow of his.

“Duchess, lady, wench—wife! You dare to laugh at me still!” he chastised her with ferocious challenge.

She shook her head, smiling still, near to feeling that the liquid of her must soon seep through him, embrace and blanket him.

“I smile, milord, with delight only,” she answered honestly, so dazed with this night, she could not pretend.

He gave some distant glad cry of triumph, and that hoarse, guttural sound made her smile curve deeper, for with him she had learned that triumph was an equal thing, given, taken, shared.

As was surrender, for even as she succumbed to him, a part of him became indubitably hers, captured for all time, an eternity.

In his arms she came upon their bed of rough linen; in his arms she tasted rhapsody, heard its joyful ringing.

That rough touch of his stubbled beard was coarse against the tenderness of her flesh, yet she cared not; sensation came all the greater.

She could give no heed to the dangers that lurked beyond the door, for heaven help her, once his touch stirred her blood, her mind knew no other reality.

She wrapped him in the silken ribbons of her limbs; he buried himself in the erotic entanglement of her hair.

Thrusting rhythms lifted them on the wings of heartbeats where that very pulse became a song of union, of glistening flesh, naked bodies, straining limbs .

. . yet with all the ethereal purity of endless clouds, silver magic.

And only when their song, their beat, reached its crescendo did she feel the earth again, for his hand covered her mouth, muffling that ardent, mindless cry which would have escaped her.

Staring into his eyes, she flushed, and he chuckled softly, a sound breathless and deep, for still he remained with her, loathe to leave the sheath of her body.

She buried her head well against his chest, sighing, and then as the heat of passion cooled in drifting satiation, she tensed, for fear had returned.

“You’ve got to go!” she urged him.

Reluctantly he rolled from her at last, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. “I tell you, I do not like this.”

“Please, Warwick, we—”

He rolled back to her, clutching her hands beneath his fingers, fervently pressing his lips against her breast. He stared deeply into her eyes and said, “If at any point I feel no hope remains, you will come—leave this quest—when I say.”

She lowered her lashes humbly, grateful that as yet he knew nothing of their child, for surely then he would drag her away, kicking and screaming if need be.

“Aye, Warwick.”

Still she felt his eyes upon her, and slowly she opened her own, meeting his curious gaze.

“I love you, milady.”

“Oh, Warwick!” She freed her hands from his grasp, threw her arms about his neck, and pressed herself to him in a new ecstasy of joy. Dark clouds seemed to shatter and break; all seemed sunshine and the sweetest whisper of a clean breeze.

“Wench or lady, horse thief, Duchess, I love you,” he added tenderly, arms tightening in return. And she whispered that she loved him, too, had loved him for an eternity . . .

On it went—muffled, inaudible words, clearly understood. Yet Warwick, so determined that his avowel must come now, and so desperate to hear hers in return, pulled away with explanations still unsaid, for the hour grew late no more, but early. Outside dawn came too near.

“My love—”

“Love . . .” she repeated, near delirious in her happiness.

He cleared his throat, catching her hands and eyeing her once again with a satanic gleam of wanting.

“My lady wife, my love! Though I find this the greatest ecstasy ever offered by life, I beg that you not bring your hips so hard against me, nor torture so my flesh with the stirring beauty of rosebuds and cream mounds, else I shall not leave, but drown again my lover’s sword in the velvet cloak of your body.

Alas, ’twould be the most beguiling action of the moment, but perhaps not the most wise. ”

“Oh!” she murmured, suddenly wide-eyed and sober and well warned, for only then did she know that his ardor was once again growing strong against her thighs.

“Go!” she pleaded, pushing him from her.

He chuckled softly, kissed her one last fleeting time, and, with the greatest reluctance, rolled from her and rose.

She closed her eyes, twisting away, not daring to watch him dress, heartsick to see him go.

Warwick, clad once again, pulled on his boots and stared at her, a smile of great tenderness curving his lip.

How glorious she appeared there, so wondrously sleek and rounded, pure and fair upon the poor material of the cloak.

What a golden sunburst the rich strands of her hair seemed against the dull brown covering.

“Ondine!” he whispered softly.

She turned to him, and he smiled. “I need my cloak, lest you would keep it. Ah, if you wish, gladly will I freeze—”

She was instantly up, naked and beautiful, snatching the garment from the bed to toss upon him. Yet even as he wrapped it about himself, she cast herself into his arms, and once again they held tight, lovers blissful in the discovery of love, ecstatic—yet torn and anguished.

At last he set her away from him, glad that she could be so easily natural in her state of nudity with him, wishing that she were clad so that his leave-taking might be less difficult!

But then worry for the future seized him, and at the last it was with a hint of roughness that he touched her.

“Watch your step with Raoul, milady! Take the gravest care; all will most certainly be lost should you come too close to each other in my presence, and my temper should shatter.”

“I never—”

“You did! Today, my lady, it almost ended—your would-be husband might well have died a quick death from a hammer wound!”

She flushed. “I will take care.”

“And I, my love, will return to you here.”

Smiling at last, he kissed her forehead. She backed into the room, shivering as he opened the balcony doors.

Then he was gone.

For a moment she stared after him, touching her lips with her fingers, still amazed at his kiss . . . amazed at his love, at the very fact that he had been there, that he had come to her . . .

That he loved her, oh, really loved her! There was a future beyond this horror that loomed over her, a future together, a life of love and laughter, good and rich. All things lay ahead with promise and splendor.

But there was still this matter of danger first, treachery to be revealed.