Ondine by Heather Graham, Shannon Drake Page A

backward, a wry and humorless smile on his lips as he bowed to her. “Madam, your chastity is yours—to savor, or rot with, as you choose. I ask only that you play the countess— a role for which you seem amazingly well suited—with a pretense of effort. Good night.”
    He turned from her abruptly, strode to the bed, and cast his length wearily upon it, far to the right side.
    Stunned, Ondine stared at him. Incredulous words came to her lips unbidden.
    “That is … all? You expect—nothing else of me?”
    “Not a thing, madam. You are the last woman upon whom I would think to force my affections,” he replied, his tone one of total disinterest.
    She could not believe him, and she stared at him. It was then that he moved again.
    “For God’s sake, might we get some sleep!”
    She took a step forward, and, dazed, she again spoke without thought.
    “You wish me to—to sleep in the bed?”
    “In the bed, on the floor. You may levitate for all I care. Just give me some peace.”
    He meant it, yet still barely able to believe the turn of events, she moved hesitantly to the bed and sat upon it. His back was to her. At length she stretched out, but so nervously so that she was ready to spring at his least movement.
    He did not move. It seemed he barely breathed.
    And so Ondine lay tensely, her eyes open to the night. She could not resist turning to the broad, muscled expanse of back offered to her.
    The bed shifted; Ondine froze. Seconds passed, and at last she twisted her head. He was on his side of the bed, his back turned to her. She could not help but reflect that he was indeed a fascinating man, incredibly fine and sinewed and … striking, in manner and person.
    She shivered and closed her eyes. He was her husband. He had saved her from death … he wanted nothing from her.
    She would play his wife, play the countess to a perfection that would surely astound him. Aye, she would play the role—and seek out her own revenge from the safety and security of the noble wing of his protection. She smiled. Unwittingly, he might even help her …

Chapter 4
    Warwick awoke with the sun slashing in through the panes he had forgotten to close the previous night. He cast his arm over his eyes for a moment, groaning. Then, with a start, he remembered the woman at his side.
    He turned to her. Ondine’s back was to him; and she was curled far from him. Warwick swung his legs off the bed, ran his fingers through his hair, then planted his feet on the floor and strode silently around the bed. She was sleeping soundly. The light didn’t appear to bother her in the least.
    He meant to move quickly from her; he found that he could not. He studied her in sleep instead. The morning sun caught her hair, so fragrant with its scent of roses. Disheveled and scattered over the white bedding, it gleamed deep and rich, dancing with fire, framing her flawless complexion like a silken fan of intrigue. Her lips were parted slightly as she breathed quietly and peacefully. He noted what a beautiful design they were, the lower lip fuller and hinting of deep and secret sensuality. Her cheeks were a pale rose, high and lovely; her brows high, arched, and enchanting. He shook his head slightly as he viewed her, somewhat bemused. He had noticed something about her when he had seen her in the hangman’s cart, but not this exquisite beauty. Long of limbs, she was still too slender, yet beautifully lithe and curved. Her breasts rose firm and high against the flimsy material of her shift, as if they strained against it, full and round and tempting. Their rouge tips were a dimly veiled taunt. They seemed an invitation, beckoning a man’s caress …
    Warwick suddenly scowled. He had no intention of becoming enamored of the prickly little thief!
    He cast his head toward the open window, decided it was still quite early, and padded to the door in his stocking feet. Outside, he hurried to the landing at the rear stairwell and called down to Meg, ordering that