Ondine (14 page)

But she was a gallows’ bride, a horse thief. A possession.

Angry, frustrated, and hurt in that new and aching way that left the heart and flesh alive with longing, Ondine swore out a last oath and determined to go to sleep. Tomorrow she would blackmail him, since he forced the issue.

Despite her determination, she lay awake a long while. When she did at last sleep, that sleep was fraught with dreams of her cousin, Raoul. She saw his eyes, dark and handsome; his face too gaunt, his lips too narrow and dissatisfied. He had been sullen as a child when she bested him, triumphant when he rose the leader. She had never thought to hate Raoul; he had been a companion, like any other, with virtues and faults. She had never sensed his envy of her, nor his father’s simmering jealousy. Surely it was not Raoul who had devised such a plan to strike upon his stepuncle; it had been his father, longing all those years for title and property never to be his.

But it was her cousin she saw in her dreams: holding her hand too long as they journeyed to Charles’s court; leaning with amused disdain when she wearily repulsed him. How many times must he be told that they were friends? She could never love him. He had not been angry then … merely triumphant. But he had known, as she had not, that he would be the victor; her father the traitor— she totally at his mercy.

Except that she had fled …

His face continued to spin before her. Then it slowly took on another look. Dark eyes became Justin Chatham’s laughing green. Dark hair took on a hue of gold, and in her sleep Ondine shivered, and she wondered why she should see gallant Justin where she had seen Raoul. Then it was no longer Justin who laughed at her, but Clinton, child of the woman who had been the product of illicit Chatham love.

Chatham. It was her husband then who laughed at her—Warwick, who never doubted his power. Yet his eyes warmed to amber. Suddenly the men were around her, coming toward her, brandishing swords. She knew, as one knew in dreams, that some wanted to save her, that one meant to slay her. Yet she did know which way to run.

She awoke, not screaming, but trembling uneasily. She knew it had been a dream, and she was annoyed that she could not prevent herself from entering these nightmare realms.

“Oh, may they all rot!” she whispered aloud impatiently. She hesitated. “Especially my lord Warwick Chatham!”

She lay silent then, watching the moonbeams playing about her chamber and wondering if she was forced to meet Charles, whether she might find a way to see him alone first and lay her case at his feet, pleading that he give her a chance to prove her innocence. The king was known to be just, to despise violence, especially that violence of death to a woman.

It would be her last recourse. She would do battle against her husband first! Fierce battle, for though she was dearly grateful for her life, he did not now own her!

While her thoughts traveled thus in the darkened room, with only the moonbeams to cast a veiled light, she first heard the whisper.

It was soft, so soft she thought she might have imagined it at first. It carried on the breeze, sexless and plaintive. So very sad.

“Ondine …”

She tensed in bed and waited, and it came again.

“Ondine … Ondine … Ondine. Come to me, for I am cold and lonely. Ondine …”

It was not her imagination!

She sprang from the bed, but could see nothing in the darkness. “Who are you? Where are you?” she called out softly.

“Ondine …” Only her name came to her faintly, fading wistfully away.

She could see nothing but shapes and shadows in the soft glow of the moon. With shaking fingers she quickly lit a lamp, raising it high. “Please—who are you? Where are you?”

There was no response, except for a rustle of the breeze.

Perplexed, she searched the room studiously, pulling back drapes, searching the latrine, and even opening chests and drawers. She hurried to the window and looked out. There was no one below, nor was there sign of anyone on the slender ledge that ran along the second floor eave.

Frustrated, she sat upon her bed again, then in fury she rose and slammed through to the music room. She rummaged until she found whiskey in Warwick’s drawers. Pouring herself a dram, she sat back in his chair, determined that she would confront him— even if she waited all night.

Coming in near dawn, Warwick was quite startled to find her there, a glass in her hand, hair a crest of silken flame about the white lace of her gown, toes resting atop his desk as she stretched in casual rebellion from his chair to his desk.

Her eyes, he noted, were blue fire, and her righteous gaze fell upon him.

Warily he kept his features rigid, bracing himself against the door as he watched her, removing his gauntlets.

“Well,” he said quietly, “to what, madam, do I owe the honor of your wakeful presence at this hour of the night?”

She didn’t answer right away, but continued to study him with her sea-fire eyes. Irritated to feel himself on the defensive, he strode into the room, casting his gloves upon the desk before her.

She lifted her glass to him. “Milord, I think it is time we had a discussion.”

“Oh?” He arched a cautionary brow to her, his eyes narrowing in warning.

“Aye, milord,” she replied coolly, contempt pointedly marking her use of the title. Warwick sat upon the edge of his desk, pretending little interest in her words as he drew off a high boot.

“Talk, then, milady.”

She took a sip of the whiskey, and he was glad to see it, for in that action he noted her nervousness and sighed inwardly, certain that no matter what her bravado, he would disarm her.

But then her eyes came to his again, blue flames richly edged in darkest lashes that added to their searing intensity and beauty. “I was congratulated this evening upon a child that does not exist. Perhaps it would not trouble you too greatly to explain the lie?”

Warwick reached for the whiskey bottle, returning her stare and swallowing a long draft. He set the bottle down carefully. “What was your response?”

She laughed dryly. “Oh, I did not refute your story, milord.” Her lovely lashes tightened about her eyes. “Not yet!”

“Oh—is that a threat, my love?” he queried with a pleasant yet deadly tone.

“Aye, it is,” she replied with a contemptuous smile. “You see, milord, you’ve never explained the game. Therefore, I play at a disadvantage. She straightened, pulling her bare toes from the desk to hide them beneath her on the chair. “It is a cold game, milord. One in which I remain in the dark. I challenge you, I receive but further orders. I am left, then, to create a few of my own rules. And this, then, is one of them. I’ll smile sweetly to each lie I hear. I’ll cheerfully stand behind your ever absurdity. And in return … I stay here. I do not go to court.”

He leaned against the desk suddenly, stroking the line of her upturned chin, bitterly returning a twisted smile. “Poaching, thievery,
blackmail!
My, what talents you have amassed at such a tender age, my love!”

“I begin to think you married me for such talents, Warwick Chatham,” she returned, unnerved by his touch. He released her and slid smoothly from the desk. He walked behind her to rest his hands upon the top of her head, and cast her into further tumult as he stroked his fingers softly, like a night breeze, through her hair.

“I don’t think, milady”—he murmured the last mockingly, bending close to whisper by her ear and tease her throat with the warmth of his breath—“that you will deny anything. The lie is one I so thoroughly wished stressed that I would even be willing to force it into truth.”

Ondine closed her eyes, gritting her teeth so as not to shiver or cry out at the ruthless nature of his words. Oh, that there were caring in them! But there was not; only the whipcrack of the master giving orders.

He dropped his hand from her and walked to the mantel.

“Don’t ever threaten me, Ondine,” he said flatly.

“Don’t threaten you!” Her voice rose in fury and she leapt from the chair, despairing and wild from her failure. “Don’t threaten you! Milord, there need be no threats! You, sir, should be most grateful that shock alone did not keep me from calling you a liar! By God, you will tell me what goes on here! Not only am I constantly taken off guard by your evasions and deceptions, but I am annoyed at sleep by pranksters!”

“What?” The question was a sharp explosion. He spun to her, his body rigid, his eyes like piercing fires, so intense that she stepped back, her rampantly pounding heart rendering her speechless.

He was instantly across the room to her, his stride so furious that she cried out as his fingers bit into her shoulders. “What?” he insisted, eyes ablaze. “Tell me what you speak of!”

“You’re hurting me—” she gasped, her teeth chattering, her head falling back.

His hold eased; he did not release her. “Tell me!”

“Tonight… an hour ago, as I lay in bed, someone whispered to me.”

“You imagined it?” He asked the question carefully, so intently that she didn’t think he doubted her at all.

“Nay! I do not imagine things!”

“What was said?”

“My name.”

“And what else?”

“I don’t remember—”

“You must!”

“I—I think it was something like, ‘I am cold and lonely. Come to me.’”

He released her, turned and strode quickly through his own chamber and the bath to hers. Ondine followed him. As she had done, he searched it thoroughly and looked beyond the window.

And as she had done, he at last sat on the foot of the bed and shook his head, pressing his temples between his palms. Then he looked up suddenly, as if remembering that she was there. An elusive shield seemed to form over his eyes.

“You must have imagined it.”

“I did not!”

He shrugged and lifted his hands to her. “As you can see, there is nothing.”

She laughed dryly. “My lord Chatham, I am all that you say— horse thief, poacher, blackmailer; I survived forests and prisons— but I do not imagine things.”

“Be that as it may …” He rose and approached her slowly, pausing before her. “Then you must listen again, mustn’t you, lady? And if you hear the whisperer again, call me then. Immediately. Do you understand?”

“Oh, aye, sir!” she responded tartly. “Another order, and, yes, orders must be obeyed!”

His fingers closed about her arms, and his face lowered to hers. “Ondine! You must cease to fight me! Trust in me … and in the end I will see that you are free and cared for for the duration of your natural life!”

She lowered her head, trembling. Oh, it was true! He was using her for something, and intended only to discard her! She didn’t want him touching her, she didn’t want him near her, she didn’t want to ache and long for what he would never give …

She wrenched from his hold, from the vibrant fever of his body against hers, and stood apart from him, trembling.

” ‘Twill be hard to warn you, sir, when you are seldom about.”

“I will be here,” he told her. “And you will leave your chamber door open, as will I. You need only say my name, and I will hear you.”

She stood mutely, staring down at the floor. He came to her again, capturing her arm, pulling her to him. When she would have scathingly upbraided him, she fell silent instead, startled by the small slant of a smile, by the gentle amber lights in his eyes. “Ondine …” he murmured, pulling her against him. “The name comes from myth and magic. She was, as surely you know, a mermaid. A beautiful seductress of fantasy who enwebbed the heart of a man and, through marriage to him, gained mortal life.

And you have, my beauty, gained life … trust me. I will preserve it for you, by my own, if need be, I swear it!”

Stunned and shaken by the heated depth of his emotion, she could do no more than meet his eyes, and cherish the tender smile he gave her. She nodded slowly.

And to her further surprise and fascination, he lifted her into his arms, carrying her fleetly to her bed, where he placed her upon it, pausing still to fan her hair about the pillow with a fascination of his own.

Then he straightened and said hoarsely, “You are a magical beauty, Ondine.”

His eyes closed; he clenched his teeth and a small groan escaped him. His body stiffened, and when he gazed at her again, he was once more the cold and rugged man who had so coolly ordered her release from the gallows.

“Good night,” he said brusquely. “And do not forget that in three days time we head for London.”

“I—I can’t go!” she pleaded in a whisper, a plea that he ignored with an oath of impatience.

“We’ll not go through this again! Try to escape and I shall drag you back. Defy me when I seek to leave, and I will haul you, bound and screaming if I must, to the carriage. Have no doubts, madam, that it will be exactly as I say!”

He continued to stare at her. She could find no voice to protest; no magic thought came to her mind. She wanted to lash out at him, but she was still cast beneath his spell.

He turned and walked through the door. He did not close it, and she trembled, painfully aware that nothing but the night breezes lay between them, hating him …

Hating herself … for loving him.

Three days time …

Ondine spent those three days in a torment of anxiety and fear. She did not even think of the whisperer—of her name called to her in the night. She was too preoccupied with the desperate search to find a way to avoid King Charles’s court.

Warwick was determined; when he was determined, he wasn’t to be crossed. There was no help.

She could not escape. Warwick did not leave the manor at nights; he remained in the music chamber while she tossed and turned in her own. It seemed he carefully avoided her during the day, as if he would avoid a headache. During the evening meal, in Justin’s presence, he was absolutely charming. Justin liked to tease about the child, and, thought Ondine, surely a lord was supposed to be caring and tender to the lady who carried his child.

On these occasions Ondine gritted her teeth and did not refute the lie.

Mathilda was so solicitous of her that Ondine wished she might crawl into a dark hole each time she saw the housekeeper. How could Warwick be so cruel! Mathilda’s hopes were destined to be dashed.

Even Clinton applauded her on the apparent speed with which she set about to provide Chatham an heir. But at least Clinton tended to be a quiet, straightforward man, and though Ondine knew he would not let her on a horse, she spent a great deal of her time in the stables, stroking the animals, fervently wishing and dreaming that she might find a way to steal one and disappear. As the first day passed she would tell herself that she had time to plan an escape. But as the second day came and went she began to realize that she would never, never have an opportunity to get away. Jake, though quite unobtrusively, followed her constantly. She practically tripped over Mathilda or Lottie anytime she attempted to move. It was hopeless.

Mathilda helped her pack her trunks, with only the best apparel. Charles maintained an elegant court, one filled with artists and poets, women dressed beautifully in designs inspired by the latest fashion dolls from France. She simply must pack her very best— not that Mathilda thought it mattered a whit. With a sniff she informed Ondine, “You’ve natural youth and the most exquisite beauty! You’ll outshine them all! Ah, but it’s fascinating. I do love it!”

“You’ve been?” Ondine wondered.

“Ah, yes! I accompanied …”

“Genevieve,” Ondine finished for her, and she found herself giving Mathilda a quick hug.

Mathilda wiped a tear from her cheek, then flashed a bright smile. “Ah, but I would love to see you there! To take haughty -tottie Lady Anne down a peg!”

Ondine smiled in return—stiffly. Always she endured the most horrible mixture of emotions! The logical: she couldn’t go to court! And the dreadfully illogical: the searing pain of jealousy. It seemed most likely that Lady Anne wouldn’t be taken down a peg at all, for she would have her lover in her arms once more.

When Mathilda left her, Ondine threw her pillow viciously across the room. One more night … they were due to leave at dawn, and she simply could not go. For her life, she could not

g°-

And Warwick! Oh, the atrocious nerve of the man, that he should think to drag her—unwilling!—with him to the place of his old immoral haunts. He was welcome to his whore, but not when he shackled her along!

But, no … he was not welcome
to her! No matter how she
hated the feelings, they were there. Ondine cared. She was falling in love with him—loving him almost as passionately as she hated him.

At dinner she was charming, laughing with Justin, quite pleased to flirt with him. Warwick was exceptionally quiet, yet his eyes were always on her, and she knew that he was as wary and tense as she. She tried to disarm him, chatting ridiculously about the gowns she would bring and how dearly she would love to get her hands on the newest fashion dolls. She had barely consumed half the food on her plate before Warwick was standing behind her chair, pulling it from the table.

“Warwick—” Her voice was tinged with annoyance, since she had been quite taken by surprise.

“My love!” he returned smoothly, bending near so that his breath touched her cheek, the underlying danger of his words piercingly clear to her. “We’re to leave with the sun, and in such case, I’d have you not lose sleep this night.”

Oh, how she longed—just once!—to turn about and soundly box his ears! To destroy his charade. To wound him … as he wounded her!

She lowered her head quickly. This was not the time to argue, not if she wished to carry out her plans, her last desperate chance for escape, before it was too late.

She stood quite meekly. Justin was up, kissing her hand, giving her a courtly and courteous bow.

“Sweet sister, this rogue of a brother of mine constantly sweeps you away. Alas, that I could not have seen you first!”

“Umm, alas,” Warwick murmured dryly. “Good night, Brother.”

Justin laughed. “Good night!”

Beyond a doubt, I am a prisoner! Ondine thought woefully as Warwick led her along the hall. His prisoner … and one of my own making. For even as she moved, she shrank from what she had devised. To leave him …

Leave the touch like fire upon her. The warmth of his body, close to hers. A mockery, yes. Yet these small crumbs were hers. His hand upon her wrist. His breath, his voice, his eyes. His occasional tenderness, and his passion when he swore to protect her. She closed her eyes tightly as they walked. Fool! He cared nothing for her—she was here to be used.

He opened the door. She started to walk through the music chamber, straight for her own.

“Ondine!”

Her heart faltered, and she paused, turning back. She felt his stare, wary, just as it had been at dinner. He smiled, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning nonchalantly against the spinet.

“Milord?”

“We do leave in the morning.”

“Aye, milord.”

“My love,” he said softly, coming toward her, smiling a warning as he gently stroked her cheek, “I remember your protests were most vehement—so much so that I cannot help but doubt this sudden meekness of yours.”

She lowered her eyes and stepped back, keeping her head bowed as she lifted her hands helplessly.

“You have said that I shall go, walking or dragged. I prefer to walk. If you’ll pardon me, I am quite tired, and we do leave early.”

She turned quickly and fled, not daring to see if he had believed her performance.

In her own chamber she discarded nothing but her shoes and quickly scrambled beneath the covers on her bed. How long would she have to wait? she wondered bleakly. Until she was absolutely certain that he slept?

It was her only hope—to escape their chamber while he slept, to reach the stables when Clinton was absent and steal a horse. And even then she could only pray that Jake did not sleep at the door, since he needn’t stand guard when his master was doing so.

Oh, how interminably time passed! She seemed to lie forever, barely breathing, holding the covers closely to her. She could hear Warwick pacing in the music chamber. What was he thinking of? Did he yearn to reach court and the passionate arms of his mistress?

Oh, but it would be best to be away from that arrogant beast! He thrilled her, he infuriated her! He excited her, he frightened her. She wanted all of him and none of him! Be damned with him! She did not want him! She wanted only her freedom, to clear her father and herself.

Finally he went to bed. The candles were doused; only the fires burned. And she had to wait …

At least an hour had passed since the last candle had been doused. Oh, surely, God help her, he slept by now …

She was about to rise, but instead she went rigid, stunned to realize that he did not sleep at all, that he stood in the doorway, his grim, ever-mocking smile in place against the hard and handsome features of his face.

She swallowed, closed her eyes quickly, and prayed that the shadowed darkness of night had hid her startled glimpse of him.

With her eyes so tightly closed she felt ever more at a disadvantage. She could only wait in the absolute and tense darkness.

More time passed. She tried to breathe easily. He must have decided that she slept, returning to his own chamber to sleep. He must have done so.

She opened her eyes—and let out a startled scream.

He hadn’t gone to bed at all; he was standing right above her, hands on his hips, his golden eyes devilish in the glow of the firelight.

He moved like a whip at the sound of her scream, wrenching the covers from her, baring her completely clad figure.

“Dear wife! What is this, then? The latest in bedroom fashion?” He sat beside her, fingering the ruff at her throat. “How remiss of me! I would have sworn I had seen fit to clothe you properly for bed!”

Ondine closed her eyes again, weary, desolate.

“Go to hell!” she said with the little emotion remaining in her.

“Sorry, my love, but it is to court that I go, with my cherished bride on my arm.” He stood, caught her arm, and wrenched her to her feet, despite her startled—and guttural—oath of protest. Then she was facing him in defensive fury, aware that her plans were dashed, wondering what new torture this meant,

“What now!” she cried out. “You’ve found me. I cannot leave—”

“Conniving witch!” he interrupted harshly. “You intended to speed past me? I told you, love, I wake at the slightest sound.”

“I made no sound!”

“Ah, but the devious wheels of your mind churned all evening!”

“So! I am caught! Leave me be!”.

“Nay, how could I, Countess? Leave you—to sleep in such discomfort?” he cried in a facsimile of gravest concern. “Turn about!”

She didn’t have a chance to obey the command; his fingers closed around her shoulders, performing the act for her. Then those same fingers began to unhook her gown.

“Stop! I’m caught! I only wish to salvage what sleep I—”

“You’re not sleeping so well prepared to leave, my love. Hold still—or I’ll rip it from you.”

There was no venom in his words, just truth. Trembling, she stood still as he finished with the hooks; then she wrenched away from him, choking out her words.

“You needn’t bother. I’ll disrobe myself.”

He lifted a hand with casual agreement, but gave no ground. “Then do so, my love.”

She stared at him.

“Now,” he said.

Labeling him every vile thing that she could, she turned once more, still shaking, and stepped from her gown. He remained behind her, and she could not turn to him.

“Do go on, Countess,” he drawled.

She repeated the names she had already called him, having run out of fresh derogatory titles. She still shook so badly that her fingers could not find the ties to her corset.

He stepped forward. Her flesh burned where his fingers touched. Her form had never been more rigid.

Seconds later her corset fell, along with the lace frills of her underskirt. Swearing ever more vehemently, she bent to cast away her hose, then plunge back into her bed, burying herself in the covers.

“Now, will you please go away!” she cried out miserably.

He did not. He sat upon the bed once again, and she stiffened at the touch of his hand upon her back.

“Ondine, why are you so set against a trip to court?”

His voice was strangely gentle and puzzled. She held her breath, listening to the thunder of her heart. She did not open her eyes; she had no wish to see his when they were amber, warmed by concern, curious … caring. They could too quickly grow cold and severe.

“I do not like courts,” she said stiffly.

“If you told me—”

“I’ve told you all I intend to!”

She heard his soft sigh, as if he wished he might penetrate her wall of reserve. But then he stood up from the bed, and when he spoke again, his voice was once more sharp with command.

“I’m sorry, then, that the journey distresses you. But it will take place.”

She knew that he left her, not by sound, but by the sudden chill that invaded her. She dug her fingers into the sheets to keep from crying out in her desperation, tears of self-pity and fear.

But she didn’t cry. She would never let him hear her cry. And then, once again, she began to plot and plan. Once it became morning …

It was such a wonderful plan that she slept at last, smiling.

In the morning Lottie came to her. Ondine washed and dressed and instructed Lottie on her hair. She couldn’t have been better prepared for a journey.

But as servants ran about with the trunks to be brought to the carriage, with both Mathilda and Warwick in the music chamber, she suddenly gasped out a terrible cry of pain and doubled over.

She was quite good! Ondine decided elatedly. Her act was so convincing that Warwick ran straight to her, clutching her shoulders, supporting her. She could easily have been on the stage!

“My lady—?”

“Oh, my lady!” Mathilda gasped worriedly, rushing to her, too. “Is it the child?”

“Oohh!” Ondine groaned out. “Surely not! Ohh, if I could just lie down again, the pain …”

She barely noticed that Warwick released her. Mathilda—dear Mathilda!—set her arms about her mistress and started walking her through to her own chamber.

“We’ll get these constricting things off of you at once! You’ll lie down and stay down. We won’t take a single chance with that precious wee babe!”

“But Warwick—”

“The earl shall have to go on by himself. Now you lie down and I’ll find a loose and flowing nightdress—Oh, dear, I fear the best of them are packed!”.

Barely able to contain a smile of triumph, Ondine sank back to her bed weakly, casting an elbow over her eyes to await Mathilda’s tender administrations.

But the next touch she felt was anything but tender. Hard arms swept around her, lifting her. She opened her eyes wide in alarm, only to meet her husband’s fierce ones, narrow and glittering.

“There’s nothing my lady needs so much as fresh air,” Warwick announced, “and the sooner the better.”

“But, Warwick—” Mathilda began.

“My lady is as healthy as a brood mare, Mathilda—just nervous, nothing more! I promise you, the air will do her wonders.”

With Ondine in his arms he strode from their chambers at such a furious pace that Mathilda could not keep up to make her protests heard.