Meg, she was another daughter; a girl to be cherished and reassured.
The feeling was nice. If only she had been simply a starving waif that Jake had found wandering the streets of London. She could have stayed with Meg, worked so very hard that the woman could never have doubted her worth.
But she hadn’t been a waif; she had been a criminal at Tyburn Tree. Her only recourse now was escape.
“I wish I had a glass that you might see yourself, but, alas, I haven’t one! But surely you will see your own beauty in your husband’s eyes, when they fall upon you. Come—you’re ready to meet your husband.”
But she wasn’t ready. Her fingers were shaking and she clasped them together, wondering desperately why she was so afraid of him. She didn’t want to meet his eyes again and feel that strange heat that raked the length of her spine when he touched her.
“And there’s a fine rare roast today!” Meg said cheerfully. “Summer potatoes, and carrots, swimming in gravy—” Ondine could almost smell the dinner from Meg’s words alone.
“Yes, I’m—I’m ready,” she murmured.
Meg opened the door and hurried her down a long hallway. They passed a common men’s room, where there were at least twenty pallets, and there were private rooms for those who could afford them.
And then there was another stairway. From the top of it Ondine could hear voices, mainly male. Men were laughing, drinking ale, relaxing from a hard day’s labor, unwinding from a long and jolting carriage ride. And every once in a while there was softer laughter, a woman’s voice.
“You must go down, my dear, if you’re to eat!” Meg prodded her.
As if awakened from sleep, Ondine nodded. She started down the stairs, then paused again.
She could see Warwick pacing impatiently. He paused with his back to her, then slowly turned as if a sixth sense had warned him of her presence.
She held still, her heart pounding. He was truly an indomitable figure standing there, so tall. He wore a plumed hat that added to his height and to his air of a buccaneer, as the brim fell low over one brow. She noted again that his appearance of leanness was deceptive. His shoulders were very broad, his back strong before tapering, his legs heavily muscled beneath the taut material of his breeches, so fashionably buckled beneath his knees. He’d shed his coat, and his shirt was very white against the deep bronze of his features. His eyes, in contrast to that white, seemed to blaze with startling color.
He stared at her for the first time. Like a deep and blazing touch of the sun, his eyes raked over her, slowly, openly, offering no apology.
A rakish grin tugged upon one corner of his lip; a gleam of laughter touched his eyes. They were gold and seared into her, and it seemed again that her blood heated and sped thoughtout her, causing her limbs to grow weak.
He lifted a hand to her, the gesture a command. She started to walk down to him. His fingers caught and curled around hers, and still she couldn’t draw her eyes from his.
Again he chuckled, a deep, husky sound, and his eyes moved from her face to regard her breasts where the mounds rose smooth above her bodice. He lowered his gaze to her hips, to her toes…
“You’ll do quite well,” he whispered, a breath that touched her throat and the lobe of her ear and made her shiver all over again.
She swallowed, bracing herself mentally against him. “I shall do quite well for what, my lord?” she inquired coolly.
He laughed.
“For my wife, of course. What else?”
Chapter 3
Their table was by the rear wall. He sat across from her, and that fact alone caused her heart to pound more quickly. There would be no escape from this table. Should she rise, he could quickly stand and block her way.
There was food, and she was famished. She would not run now. She grabbed at the bread, and as his hand came down on hers, she raised her eyes, startled, to his.
“No one is going to take it away,” he
The feeling was nice. If only she had been simply a starving waif that Jake had found wandering the streets of London. She could have stayed with Meg, worked so very hard that the woman could never have doubted her worth.
But she hadn’t been a waif; she had been a criminal at Tyburn Tree. Her only recourse now was escape.
“I wish I had a glass that you might see yourself, but, alas, I haven’t one! But surely you will see your own beauty in your husband’s eyes, when they fall upon you. Come—you’re ready to meet your husband.”
But she wasn’t ready. Her fingers were shaking and she clasped them together, wondering desperately why she was so afraid of him. She didn’t want to meet his eyes again and feel that strange heat that raked the length of her spine when he touched her.
“And there’s a fine rare roast today!” Meg said cheerfully. “Summer potatoes, and carrots, swimming in gravy—” Ondine could almost smell the dinner from Meg’s words alone.
“Yes, I’m—I’m ready,” she murmured.
Meg opened the door and hurried her down a long hallway. They passed a common men’s room, where there were at least twenty pallets, and there were private rooms for those who could afford them.
And then there was another stairway. From the top of it Ondine could hear voices, mainly male. Men were laughing, drinking ale, relaxing from a hard day’s labor, unwinding from a long and jolting carriage ride. And every once in a while there was softer laughter, a woman’s voice.
“You must go down, my dear, if you’re to eat!” Meg prodded her.
As if awakened from sleep, Ondine nodded. She started down the stairs, then paused again.
She could see Warwick pacing impatiently. He paused with his back to her, then slowly turned as if a sixth sense had warned him of her presence.
She held still, her heart pounding. He was truly an indomitable figure standing there, so tall. He wore a plumed hat that added to his height and to his air of a buccaneer, as the brim fell low over one brow. She noted again that his appearance of leanness was deceptive. His shoulders were very broad, his back strong before tapering, his legs heavily muscled beneath the taut material of his breeches, so fashionably buckled beneath his knees. He’d shed his coat, and his shirt was very white against the deep bronze of his features. His eyes, in contrast to that white, seemed to blaze with startling color.
He stared at her for the first time. Like a deep and blazing touch of the sun, his eyes raked over her, slowly, openly, offering no apology.
A rakish grin tugged upon one corner of his lip; a gleam of laughter touched his eyes. They were gold and seared into her, and it seemed again that her blood heated and sped thoughtout her, causing her limbs to grow weak.
He lifted a hand to her, the gesture a command. She started to walk down to him. His fingers caught and curled around hers, and still she couldn’t draw her eyes from his.
Again he chuckled, a deep, husky sound, and his eyes moved from her face to regard her breasts where the mounds rose smooth above her bodice. He lowered his gaze to her hips, to her toes…
“You’ll do quite well,” he whispered, a breath that touched her throat and the lobe of her ear and made her shiver all over again.
She swallowed, bracing herself mentally against him. “I shall do quite well for what, my lord?” she inquired coolly.
He laughed.
“For my wife, of course. What else?”
Chapter 3
Their table was by the rear wall. He sat across from her, and that fact alone caused her heart to pound more quickly. There would be no escape from this table. Should she rise, he could quickly stand and block her way.
There was food, and she was famished. She would not run now. She grabbed at the bread, and as his hand came down on hers, she raised her eyes, startled, to his.
“No one is going to take it away,” he
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