Free Ondine by Heather Graham, Shannon Drake Page B

rope, and then she bolted, pitching all her speed and strength and youth into her sudden run. The door, the sweet scent of night, was before her.
    She might have been afloat in the clouds, so desperately did she hurl herself along. And then it seemed that she was flying, for there was a moment when there was nothing beneath her, nothing but the air.
    Yet that moment was horribly fleeting, and when it had past, she was back in the hay, gasping for breath, her mind reeling with the thud of her head against the hard earth of the stable. She closed her eyes, fighting the pain and the swamping sensation of dizziness.
    Then she felt weight about her, a tight and heated vise. Gasping out a scream, she opened her eyes, only to find a less than gentle hand clamped over her mouth and her husband’s burning eyes searing into her own, his thighs straddling her hips.
    “What would you, madam, make a beast of me in truth?” he demanded in a harsh and furious whisper. He moved his hand from her face quickly, distastefully, assured that she would not dare to push him further.
    In that, he was right. Dazed, she returned his stare, too keenly aware of the hard cold floor beneath her, the terrible heat of his thighs around her, and the subtle scent of him, clean like the night, but carrying a hint of raw masculinity that was so threatening, her limbs seemed to grow warm and uselessly weak. What would he do to her now? she wondered despairingly.
    He leaned low against her, surveying her again with fury. “Ingrate!” he spat out suddenly, and she gasped again as his fist clenched and muscles bunched beneath his shirt with the thunderous movement of his arm. Instinctively she closed her eyes against the coming blow, but there was none. His hand slammed into the earth at the side of her head, and a second later he was on his feet, staring down at her.
    “Get up,” he told her coldly, and when she found that she could not move, he impatiently reached down to her, dragging her to her feet, swearing beneath his breath. “So I saved a horse thief as well as a poacher and God alone knows what else! Pray, tell me, my lady,” he mocked tightly, a pulse ticking with a fervor in his throat, his fingers like steel as they held her, “what is it I did to you that you are ever so determined to leave me for the life of a starving, filthy renegade once again?”
    Ondine could not look into his eyes; she stared at his hand, and its brutal hold about her own, wondering if her bones would snap beneath it. Didn’t he know, didn’t he care? Or did he intend far worse?
    He released her so suddenly that her instinctive pull against him sent her back to the front wall of the barn, where she stood still, her hands braced against it. “By God, what will I do with you?” he muttered, and at last she was ready to strike back.
    * ‘It matters little to me, my lord!” she cried with sudden passion. “There is naught that you can do”—she choked on her own words—“little that can compare to Newgate, to running, to starving, to vicious murder by tra—”
    She cut herself off suddenly; desperately she fought back tears. At this moment, she needed her pride. It was her only remaining source of strength. She lifted her head and met his curiously narrowed eyes with despair, bringing her voice to a casual disregard.
    “Beat me, lash me, hang me—I care not.”
    He took a step toward her and for a moment she regretted her hasty words, certain he intended to take her up on one—or all— of her suggestions.
    His fingers twined around her elbow, but their touch now, though firm, had no painful bite. “If starvation is so appealing to you, my lady,” he drawled sarcastically, “I must then apologize for keeping you from it. But you’re not leaving, and I pray ask you not to contemplate such a thought again. I’m weary. Let’s end this night.”
    There was no fighting his grip. Still feeling her heart beat so quickly that she feared it would tire and