Free Ondine by Heather Graham, Shannon Drake Page A

it, and Ondine slipped the rope quickly and led the horse to the center of the stable. Swearing softly against the volume of her skirts, she slipped the guide rope over the animal’s head to secure it on the other side as a rein, then collected her skirts in one hand before leaping upon its back. The animal made no protest and stood still while she awkwardly mounted.
    She nudged her heels against his ribs. “Now, my lad,” she whispered, “we’ve a need to leave here quietly and then race like the wind.”
    The horse pranced obediently toward the door. But just as he did so, a shadow streaked into the opening. Cast against the glow of the single lantern, Ondine could see nothing but the figure of the man, looming tall and stalwart, legs apart, hands on his hips.
    “And to where, madam, might you be ‘racing like wind’?”
    It was a question most cordially voiced, but there was an edge of steel behind it, low and throaty and menacing in the very control with which it was spoken. He stepped forward, and the candlelight fell on his face, the jaw slightly twisted and clamped hard, the lean features taut. His eyes seemed to catch the energy and fire of the candle’s glow; they were alive in themselves with a blaze of taunting gold. He smiled as he stepped forward, surveying her, his movements curiously negligent, as if he had truly come to offer no more than his casual interest. His head tilted toward her, the tawny arch of a single brow raised pleasantly, a mockery of concern. Yet beneath the fine white cloth of his shirt she saw a ripple in the sinewed breadth of his shoulders … and in his arms, as if they twitched with the desire to lash out. And beneath his tight breeches she saw the powerful knots of muscle in his thighs, so restrained was his stance.
    When it would have served her best, Ondine did not take the time to think. Seeing him caused her heart to catch, then race in a flurry of raw panic. She gasped, throwing her heels hard against the horse, praying madly that she could race away. But even as a cry escaped her and she thought to rule the horse, Warwick’s arm streaked out and caught the halter rope. The animal reared high, snorting. Ondine fought to stay mounted, but to no avail. She slid from the horse’s back to the hay and cried out again, closing her eyes and praying that the massive hooves would not fall upon her.
    They did not. She opened her eyes. The horse was standing at his master’s side, shivering but still to Warwick’s soothing whisper. Ondine scrambled to her feet, trembling like the horse, yet taut and ready to run.
    He still blocked the doorway—the beautiful entrance to the cool breeze of the night and freedom.
    He stared at her for long moments without moving, long moments in which dread rose in her to a point where she thought she would scream and collapse with it. And then he spoke, quietly, pleasantly.
    “Perhaps you would be so good as to return Wick to his stall.” He patted the animal’s gleaming neck, eyeing him with affection. “Good carriage horses are hard to come by, my lady. I’d just as soon not lose him to the night.”
    Abruptly his gaze returned to her. Ondine did not think she was capable of moving forward to reach the horse’s halter. Yet caught by the blaze in Warwick’s eyes, she did so, stepping with stiff and jerking motions, touching the halter with care to avoid any contact with him. Shaking, trembling, her feet leaden, she walked the horse back to his stall, fumbling with the lead rope as she tethered him there. Her breath caught as she realized that Warwick had followed her and that she had not heard his movement. He stood behind the horse. Gazing beyond the animal’s tail, she could see only his legs, spread slightly with his feet planted firm upon the earth.
    Her mind seemed to spin and then go numb. Then suddenly it took flight again. He was to the left of her now, no longer between her and the doorway. She pretended to take her time with the