Warily she backed away from him, closer to the fire that burned in her grate, cornered against it. “Nay—get away from me!” Ondine cried, her temper soaring. “You, sir, are a beast! I’ll not be among your lusting number, a pet to be pawed and patted and stroked and kept in a cage! I, sir—” “You are my wife,” he reminded her with humor. “Not your wife!” she corrected him fiercely. “Rather an associate, milord! An accomplice, an abettor, paid for my cooperation, as it were, with life—and coin, so you assure me. Jealous? Nay. Hope, have none! You, sir, will respect me, you will—ohhhh!” A long and startling shriek swept away her words, for it was not all the heat of anger she had felt, or even that of his presence. So far had she moved that a spark of the fire caught on her towel, and sensation warned her that her flesh was near to scorching. “Oh!” She spun, on fire, confused, carrying the towel with her. Warwick moved with the swiftness of an arrow hurtling toward her, wrenching the burning linen from her grasp, casting it to the floor and quenching the flame hurriedly with his boot.
