Read Online Ondine by Heather Graham, Shannon Drake - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Heather Graham, Shannon Drake
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aware only that Warwick’s eyes followed her intently all the way.
And, sitting still at that table, he frowned slightly as he watched her retreating back. She quite astounded him, for she was far more than he had imagined possible; slim, erect, shapely, dainty. As hollow as her cheeks were, their texture was as soft and pure as silk. She was truly a stunning beauty. None would doubt his attraction to such a woman; nor would anyone think to question her background.
Still scowling, he poured himself some ale. The only flaw seemed to be her temper. He had expected a great deal more humility and appreciation. She should have listened eagerly to his every word and not only been willing, but grateful to accept the life he was offering her.
Warwick leaned back and drank a long swallow of his ale. Then he grinned slightly. Her apprehension had been so evident, he’d been unable to resist the desire to taunt her.
To be fair, he should have told her bluntly that he had no intention of touching her—ever.
His smile faded. She assumed he would require the “duties” of a wife. He should have informed her that he would never desire such duties just because she was his wife and that, in time, he would see that she was freed from all obligation, yet supplied with an income to live out her natural days as she chose.
His fingers curled around his goblet, and he slammed it against the table with such vehemence that it almost cracked. He couldn’t tell her that, not yet. He pushed the goblet away, frowning with weariness. He might as well go up and let her know she need have no fear of him, “beast” that she claimed him to be.
And yet …
Strange how the memory of her eyes, deep and hauntingly blue, remained with him. And her scent … now one of the richest, sweetest rose. And the velvet touch of her hair between his fingers—fire hair, dark in shadow, yet gleaming with strands that caught the color of the sun.
He smiled slightly. He even liked the pride she wore as a shield about her, though it could irk him sorely. The cast of her chin, the haughty retort in her eyes.
Yes, she might well have been born to rule a manor. And—by God!—he would see that she survived to have her freedom.
Warwick frowned suddenly, his muscles tensing as an inexplicable sensation of danger seized him. He thought of his new bride: the utter disdain in her delicate features when he had surveyed them, cleansed, for the first time; her quick temper; her immeasurable pride. She was not ungrateful for her life, yet it seemed that she had no intention of compromising her newfound freedom.
She hadn’t appeared really frightened of him, but she had been wary—and suspicious. She was prone to staring him straight in the eye, instead of batting her lashes with the charming ease of the born coquette.
“Damn!” he swore suddenly, furious with himself as his jaw locked grimly. She’d played him for an idiot and done so very well.
“Beauty” was attempting to escape the “beast.”
Still swearing softly beneath his breath, Lord Chatham traversed the stairway, two steps at a time.
Ondine had managed to walk sedately up the front stairs from the public room. Once upon the darkened landing, she ran. Her heart was thudding as she passed the common rooms and the more expensive private rooms … the door to the room where she had so recently bathed and exchanged her rags for riches.
At the back stairway she paused for a moment, clutching her hand to her heart as she gasped for a deep breath. The kitchen, she knew, led off the door where she had entered earlier. It was time to remember all that she had learned about evasion; not to bolt, but to wait and listen, carefully …
There was no one near the door. She forced herself to ascertain that fact as a surety, then glided silently down the back stairs. The tavern was busy now, for the tables were filled when she fled the public room. All the lads and maids and Meg herself should be busily occupied.
And, sitting still at that table, he frowned slightly as he watched her retreating back. She quite astounded him, for she was far more than he had imagined possible; slim, erect, shapely, dainty. As hollow as her cheeks were, their texture was as soft and pure as silk. She was truly a stunning beauty. None would doubt his attraction to such a woman; nor would anyone think to question her background.
Still scowling, he poured himself some ale. The only flaw seemed to be her temper. He had expected a great deal more humility and appreciation. She should have listened eagerly to his every word and not only been willing, but grateful to accept the life he was offering her.
Warwick leaned back and drank a long swallow of his ale. Then he grinned slightly. Her apprehension had been so evident, he’d been unable to resist the desire to taunt her.
To be fair, he should have told her bluntly that he had no intention of touching her—ever.
His smile faded. She assumed he would require the “duties” of a wife. He should have informed her that he would never desire such duties just because she was his wife and that, in time, he would see that she was freed from all obligation, yet supplied with an income to live out her natural days as she chose.
His fingers curled around his goblet, and he slammed it against the table with such vehemence that it almost cracked. He couldn’t tell her that, not yet. He pushed the goblet away, frowning with weariness. He might as well go up and let her know she need have no fear of him, “beast” that she claimed him to be.
And yet …
Strange how the memory of her eyes, deep and hauntingly blue, remained with him. And her scent … now one of the richest, sweetest rose. And the velvet touch of her hair between his fingers—fire hair, dark in shadow, yet gleaming with strands that caught the color of the sun.
He smiled slightly. He even liked the pride she wore as a shield about her, though it could irk him sorely. The cast of her chin, the haughty retort in her eyes.
Yes, she might well have been born to rule a manor. And—by God!—he would see that she survived to have her freedom.
Warwick frowned suddenly, his muscles tensing as an inexplicable sensation of danger seized him. He thought of his new bride: the utter disdain in her delicate features when he had surveyed them, cleansed, for the first time; her quick temper; her immeasurable pride. She was not ungrateful for her life, yet it seemed that she had no intention of compromising her newfound freedom.
She hadn’t appeared really frightened of him, but she had been wary—and suspicious. She was prone to staring him straight in the eye, instead of batting her lashes with the charming ease of the born coquette.
“Damn!” he swore suddenly, furious with himself as his jaw locked grimly. She’d played him for an idiot and done so very well.
“Beauty” was attempting to escape the “beast.”
Still swearing softly beneath his breath, Lord Chatham traversed the stairway, two steps at a time.
Ondine had managed to walk sedately up the front stairs from the public room. Once upon the darkened landing, she ran. Her heart was thudding as she passed the common rooms and the more expensive private rooms … the door to the room where she had so recently bathed and exchanged her rags for riches.
At the back stairway she paused for a moment, clutching her hand to her heart as she gasped for a deep breath. The kitchen, she knew, led off the door where she had entered earlier. It was time to remember all that she had learned about evasion; not to bolt, but to wait and listen, carefully …
There was no one near the door. She forced herself to ascertain that fact as a surety, then glided silently down the back stairs. The tavern was busy now, for the tables were filled when she fled the public room. All the lads and maids and Meg herself should be busily occupied.
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