Ondine by Heather Graham, Shannon Drake

cease, Ondine came along with him. They crossed the yard and reached the rear door. He opened it, and his gaze and the inclination of his head suggested that she precede him. Ondine did so, but when the span of his fingers fell on her waist, propelling her toward the staircase, dread rushed up to flood her features once again, and she couldn’t help but turn to him. “My lord …”
    “Go, my lady.”
    She closed her eyes, fighting the sensation of faintness. She remembered that upon the gallows she would have willingly married any man, and that men naturally demanded intimacies of their wives. Old men, ugly men, fat men, stinking men …
    Yet in her heart and mind she had counted, even then, upon escape. She had been saved by marriage. Her husband was neither old nor ugly nor fat, and his scent was a fascinating one, like the night wind …
    But she had not escaped. And so she wondered with a quiver what it would be, how it would feel to have those hard thighs, naked and demanding, against her own. She bit her lip, promising herself that she would scream, and she began to wonder a little desperately how vehement his passion would be, if he would hurt her, if she could endure intimacy without longing to rake his eyes out, without fighting … Would he be cold and brutal, furious at rejection? Where would his lips touch her? Would she be split by his size, bruised by his strength?
    “My lady, walk!”
    Swallowing, shaking, feeling a tremor as if the earth moved, she walked up the stairs. She could not open their door when they reached it.
    He did so. His prod sent her forward into the room, and he bolted the door firmly once he, too, was inside. Ondine floated nervously to the window. Her body seemed to be nothing but hot liquid as she waited, wondering again if she wouldn’t shriek out with fear of his next movement.
    He sat upon the foot of the bed and doffed his boots, giving her no heed. And when he was done, he rose, stripping the white shirt over his head and casting it upon the footboard of the bed. Ondine felt her heart flutter and seem to sink ever deeper as she watched him. His appearance of leanness, brought on by the casual wear of his fashionable clothing, was totally deceptive. Bands of muscle, defined and well knotted, rimmed his shoulders, back, and chest. His waist was flat and slim, also a band of muscle. His figure was that of a fighter, of a man who had learned to handle heavy weapons. She could not draw her gaze from his chest, slick and powerful in the moonlight, and when he turned to her, he must have seen her dismayed anticipation, for he suddenly, wickedly smiled and approached her. She would have backed away, but there was nowhere to go. He paused before her, and his fingers moved deftly to the ribbons at her bodice, brushing her flesh upon the valley between her breasts.
    “You must be quite exhausted,” he told her, his words husky and pleasant. Still smiling, he reached for her hem and brought the overskirt high over her head. Ondine could not help a little sound of protest, a gasp that brought her own hands to her breasts, warding him off. He ignored her, moving quickly to strip away the elegant underskirt and bodice, mindless of her wild attempts to resist him, her outraged whimpers when his fingers raked over the rounded curves of her breasts. His touch was barely upon her, yet she felt it so fiercely—his taut power and that essence that was so alarmingly male …
    Left with only her flimsy shift, she clasped her arms over her chest, ready to plead with him. He’d married her; she had no recourse, and so she was shaking. Yet she prayed that she could at least move him from what seemed to be a cold and ruthless determination and anger.
    Soon his hands, his searing touch, would be upon her naked flesh.
    “Please … I …” She felt so naked, even in the garment. So vulnerable. His eyes were upon her with such contempt and scorn, seeming to mock what she might offer him.
    He stepped