Ondine (25 page)

Dear God, what was happening? How had she come to be so very far away? And whose hand was this that constrained her, and what was this sickly sweet odor that robbed her of strength and sense and motion? Her fingers clawed and failed, grew weak and helpless …

She heard a scream and thought that it might be her own, but it was not; it was Anne who screamed. She was on the ground, clutching her torn bodice to her breast. Hardgrave was bending to her; Warwick and Justin, confused in the melee, were drawing their swords.

Ondine saw it all as if from a great distance. She wanted to fight; she desperately wanted to scream for Warwick. She could not. Her limbs had gone leaden; her voice had no substance.

Then everything faded around her and all was darkness.

She awoke with a groan, disoriented. Her head was pounding with a miserable velocity, and she felt quite nauseated. It seemed that she was upon a ship that rocked with the waves in an endless and miserable roll.

She opened her eyes; the world seemed to spin and her head to pound more fiercely. She closed them quickly, wincing as memory came to her. She had been standing with the others at the tree. Then suddenly she had been touched, caught by that unknown hand and—drugged! She remembered now, and still it made no sense. She had been attacked, yet Anne had screamed. Anne had lain upon the ground, as if abused.

Who had been there? A set of thugs? They were bold offenders surely to perpetuate a crime with so many in attendance! Why the attack, and where was she?

She had to open her eyes, had to discover her whereabouts.

She willed her eyes open once again. Light seared into her brain, creating new pain, but she held through it, and in moments her vision cleared. She tried to move and discovered that she could not. Her hands were tied to narrow bedposts, and she felt that she pitched and rolled because her prison, it seemed, was a musty ship’s cabin, stale and disheveled, small and tight. A single window brought in the light, which displayed nothing to quell her growing panic. In the cabin there was a chart chest, a trunk, and the bunk she lay upon, nothing more. An open bottle of rum sat upon the chart table and a dirty coat was cast over it. There was a pitcher on the trunk and a washbowl that seemed permanently etched with grime. The cabin had an unwholesome odor that threatened to make her ill where she lay.

Nay, nay! She gritted her teeth together, willing herself to think. There was no great mystery here; she had been kidnapped and dragged aboard a ship. But by whom? And for what reason?

Anne! Ondine remembered the words she had overheard, the lady Anne demanding if Hardgrave had taken the right vial from the king’s laboratory. Vial! A drug to steal the sense from her …

Was this to be murder, then?

Panicking, she strained and thrashed, yet achieved nothing. Her flesh grew raw, for the more she struggled, the tighter the ropes became. She quieted suddenly, her heart a drumbeat in her ears, for she heard footsteps beyond the door, then voices.

“Hey! What do ye do there, matey?”

“I’m in to ‘er, that’s all!”

“She’s to be left; them’s orders!”

“Orders be damned! I’m the one who risked life and limb to snatch her, and I’ll look if I damn well choose!”

The door slammed opened. Ondine closed her eyes, thinking it best to pretend that the drug still claimed her.

Two pairs of footsteps approached the bunk, and with them a stench of long-unwashed flesh that well suited the cabin. She prayed that she would not cough or sneeze at the offense, that she might lie still and listen and learn some bit of information.

Yet it seemed that she lay there for aeons of agony, with the men saying nothing, and her only sense being that of smell; she smelled the tars so thoroughly that she longed to scream.

At last one spoke in a whisper, the braggart who had “risked life and limb” to snatch her.

“She’s fair and fine, Josh, that she is. Young and firm! Would that she’d awake.”

Josh snorted. “Fer what, my friend? Ye’ve heard the order; she’s not to be touched.”

“And why not, might I ask? She’s married, she is—no virgin lass. And think on it, probably wed to an old and graying noble; she’d appreciate sport such as I could give.”

“Sport such as you, you weasel?” Josh sneered. “Forget it! She goes to the bloke downriver—for the rest of the gold!”

“We get the gold; she’ll be delivered goods. C’mon, Josh,” the weasel cajoled. “Wot’s he to know the difference? Steal the lord’s lady was me order! Well, steal her I did! I deserve some reward!”

“You’ll not risk my part of it!”

“Who’s to know?”

“Him—the man who’s paying us, that’s who! ‘Less you plan to tear out her vocal chords, and he’d not like that a bit! He said he wanted her unscratched!”

“Bah! I’ll not scratch her!”

There was a silence, a silence in which Ondine thought she would surely die, scream, or go wretchedly mad.

And then he touched her. He caught her hair between his fingers, then placed his stinking paw over her bodice.

She did scream. Her eyes came open wide and horrified, gleaming into the weasel’s. And, oh, he was vile! More snake than any a man—jailor or inmate!—she had ever crossed in Newgate. His teeth were jagged, filthy, yellow. And his hand, the hand that touched her, seemed all but gray …

“Don’t! Don’t! Don’t dare! I swear I’ll kill you—”

He interrupted her with a pleased wheeze of laughter. “Spitfire, vixen! All the better. Kill me, will you, bitch? And how?” He reached to the post, tugging at the rope to wrench her wrists in a painful grasp. He started laughing again.

Josh stepped forward; he was not so bad as the weasel, Ondine thought quickly. He was cleaner by far. His clothing, though, was near as threadbare, and he was an older man, lean and pale, apparently agitated by the whole affair.

Ondine held her breath, then let out another long and furious scream, one that pierced the ears and surely threatened doom.

“Leave her, you fool!” Josh commanded.

The weasel chuckled, leaning over her. She inhaled the foul, rummy stench of his breath and thought she would be sick. Dizziness almost overwhelmed her as she realized that he intended to press his stinking mouth to hers.

Her hands were tied, she realized then, but her legs were not. She brought up a knee with all her fury and strength and slammed it fiercely against the weasel’s britches.

He screamed and doubled over, glaring at her hatefully. “Hoity-toity bitch! Nobility! Thinks she’s too damn good for the common man! Maybe not, milady, maybe not! Maybe I’ll decide that the devil can take the gold, and I’ll teach you how to really scream. I’ll—”

She thrashed, aiming for him again. He seemed about to attack her when Josh caught his arms, dragging him away. “Leave her, damn you! Leave her now. That gold is part mine, and part the captain’s, and you’ll not steal it from us!”

He gave the weasel a fierce shrug. The man shook himself, then stamped from the cabin.

“Where am I?” Ondine demanded of Josh. “What gold do you speak of? Free me—and I’ll promise far greater riches!”

Josh didn’t reply. He walked to the table, his back to her.

“Please! I am the Countess of North Lambda! I can—”

“You’ll be nothing but a rich man’s doxy and whim soon, lovely,” Josh said with a weary sigh, turning about. Ondine’s eyes widened as she saw he carried a soaked cloth.

“No!” she screamed.

“Y’er trouble!” he told her flatly. “Too much trouble!”

She squirmed and kicked and twisted, but there was no help for it. Josh sidestepped her legs, swearing that they needed to be tied.

Then the cloth descended over her face. She gasped desperately for breath and found nothing but a void of darkness once again.

Just as Anne screamed, Warwick realized that Ondine no longer held him, yet that scream took his attention and instinctively he sought the injured party, his sword drawn and at the ready as naturally as he breathed, mind and body ever attuned to danger and well honed from past services to his king.

And from that point on, it was madness for Warwick, madness and blind panic.

While Anne gasped prettily, Justin noted that Ondine was gone. Warwick took off into the crowd, bellowing her name.

A young girl selling pastries told him she’d seen a groom carrying an exceptionally heavy load of blankets from the great oak tree to the road. Warwick, with Justin at his heels, rushed to the road. Confused at first, Jake then gasped, remembering that a supply wagon had gone by—and that one of the merchants had mentioned it was bound for the shore and a trader called the
Marianne.

The wagon carried a bulk of blankets that might easily have carried the slim body of a woman.

Warwick, cold and numb with terror, was ready to dash off alone. ‘Twas Justin forced him to wait, until the ever adventurous Buckingham and his cronies could be summoned, with ten of the fleetest racehorses to carry them swiftly m pursuit.

Hardgrave held Anne, soothing her from the assault. Yet, in truth, the two whispered together.

“You must ride with them!” Anne told Hardgrave.

Hardgrave, never so subtle as Anne, answered in a fury she was forced to quickly hush. “Me! See here, lady, what if the filthy swine we paid coin to knows my face—”

“Hush! Only one has ever seen you—the captain of the vessel. That is why you must ride! If Warwick discovers the wagon has gone to the river dock, he’ll not stop until someone confesses to complicity! Implicating us! The captain knows you. He
must
die in battle! Would you have us both in the Tower, or exiled? Or worse still, would you meet Warwick in battle again, without the king to demand that the blades be shielded?”

“I’ll meet him again anytime,” Hardgrave said bitterly.

“Well, I am not prepared to reside in the Tower while you die a glorious death! You have failed, yet all can still be redeemed. Go!”

Warwick and his party of men raced with the wind.

The town slipped behind them as they swept along the road, past shady trees and valleys, rich and verdant rolling hills, flocks of sheep, and fields of grain.

Warwick shuddered as he rode, feeling blinded and maimed by the fear. He was grateful still that he saved her from the hangman, but what a fool he’d been to think he might use her as a pawn. A less arrogant man would have seen her endless beauty and courage, known that she would be an enchantress to humble the strongest man, to seize his heart… God in heaven, he loved her.

This love—it weakened, it crazed a man. Without Justin and Buckingham, he would have just set off and slain any in his way with madness, till he was brought down himself. By the devil, he was no fool! Battle had always shown him cool, a warrior who fought with wits as well as brawn. But this, ah, this love, it robbed him of sense and strategy! It ripped his body again and again with fear. Before God, it was dangerous, and though he would gladly lay down his life for her, that life might not prove to be enough.

If—Oh, Holy God! It could not be “if! When he found her, he would make her safe! He would wait for nothing before sending her away. Her life was ever in danger for being a Chatham; if that precious life ever became forfeit, he would no longer own a soul.

“There, Warwick! I see her! The
Marianne!”
Justin called from his side. “Third upon the river; cast betwixt the fishing craft. Her sailors are casting the ropes away!”

It was true, he saw quickly. Sailors moved about the vessel, breaking her from the dock.

“Hard forward!” Buckingham called, and horses that had galloped hard were urged to greater speed. They tore into the dockside town, clattering against cobblestones, causing all who ambled in their way to shriek and scamper for cover. Carts of fruit and vegetables broke and fell, dogs barked madly, and men about their daily business paused under cover, gaping at this break of a work-weary day.

Warwick’s heart thundered along with that of his poorly used steed; he cried no orders, gave no heed to the others, and thought only to reach the
Marianne
before all the ropes could be broken, the walk hauled in.

He jerked in upon the reins, dismounting from the horse even as it came to a halt. He dimly realized that Hardgrave was at his side, eager to confront battle.

It was Justin, though, with the sense to attempt a cry.

“Hold, sailors of the
Marianne!
Hold, by order of the king! Captain of this ship, I charge you, hold!” . “Hold! Never!”

The captain, a lean fellow with a patch over his left eye, a filthy beard and evil leer, held tight to the rigging and bared his sword. “Hey, mates? there’s not a dozen of them noble dandies; we’re two score! The king’s order! Bah! Take us if you can, gents! Mates, cast her away, these fellows might want a swim!”

The command brought great activity. Men rushed swiftly to clear the remaining moorings, but too late, for Warwick leapt across the plank, his party a swarm behind him. They were met with pistols and cutlasses, yet from the first onslaught, fewer in number but greater in skill, they attacked like righteous angels of God. Warwick had barely laid down his first swarthy contestant before he noted that the captain of the vessel had already been engaged in battle by Hardgrave. It appeared that he would speak even as he fought, yet if he’d decided to surrender, that thought came far too late. Hardgrave smiled, expertly nicked the man’s sword aside, and skewered him with a deft blow.

A snarling fellow, short and muscular, toothless and minus his lower left earlobe, came at Warwick in a rush. Warwick stepped aside, spun, and pinned him to the deck, quickly looking about for the next assault. Bodies were down about the ship, sailors, or pirates, rather, it so seemed. Blood spurted from Buckingham’s shoulder; he was fighting on with his pistol as a club. Justin was engaged in combat with two blackguards and Warwick rushed to his side.

“Brother!” Justin laughed, avid with the challenge of it all. “You insult me! They’re but a pair of swine!”

“Rather insult you than bury you!” Warwick parried back, clipping the wrist of one of the fellows and sending him reeling to the deck, begging for mercy. Warwick stepped past him. He had no heart for slaughter—he sought only his wife.

“Go on!” Justin urged him. Buckingham, holding his injured arm, but smiling, came to them, and gazing at his friend, Justin continued with a broad grin, “This is but a sop-up now of a pig sty!”

“Find your lady,” Buckingham said, “and we’ll see whom we might discover to give light to this adventure!”

Warwick needed no further urging.

He found a ladder to a hallway leading aft. A foul odor warned him he neared the galley; instinct caused him to pause, an instinct well heeded, for two burly mates, apparently unaware that the battle was lost topside, came to block his way from the galley hole.

Warwick arched a brow at the pair, his sense of humor somewhat restored at their appearance. Their bulk was caused by roundness at the middle, and he thought that they looked like a pair of eggs.

“Give way, me gents; your mates are dying, and I’ve blood enough on my hands today.”

The one laughed and nudged the other. “Is he blind—or has he but one eye? There’s two of us, milord!”

“And if I kill one, what is another?” Warwick queried pleasantly in turn.

The one who had challenged him with laughter lost his surly smile; with a shriek of rage he came at Warwick. Warwick barely stirred, but narrowed an eye at the man’s angle of speed, and when he was almost atop him, he at last lifted his blade.

The sailor fell upon it himself, sinking slowly to the floor and staring upward, amazed to discover himself dying.

The second man stared at Warwick, then fled down the hall, entering the last cabin, slamming the door in his wake.

Warwick stepped over the fallen man and hurried toward the cabin, certain that it was the deceased captain’s, and equally certain that it would be where Ondine was being held. Horrible images came to him, racking his heart and mind, as he quickened his speed. Ondine … a captive of this loathsome crew! With all her beauty, her fairness, her fire, her golden hair… If they had touched her—

If they had touched her, he thought grimly, he’d slit their throats to the very last man, mercy be damned!

There’d been so little time, he tried to assure himself.

But rape took little time, and murder even less.

That thought so enraged him, bringing his blood to such a chill of fear that he gave no thought to trying the door. Instead he slammed against it with his shoulder in cold, deadly determination. The door shuddered; he pitted his weight against it again, and the sea-rotten wood gave to his touch. He held still, wary before entering, not wanting to discover a knife in his back from behind.

She was there; that he knew instantly. Her hands were strapped to the posts of the portside bunk—even her ankles were tied. Fury rose in him at the sight of her chafed and reddened flesh where those tight knots bound her, yet that fury was tempered by fear and confusion.

She slept, her hair a halo about her, her face ethereally beautiful and peaceful in that mist of flame and sunlight. For a moment he feared that she was dead, then her brows tensed in a frown; she shook her head as if fighting some inner fog, and her eyes opened.

He exhaled in a vast surge of relief. She lived!

“Get him!”

The whisper sounded from the far corner of the room. Warwick stiffened and, with narrowed eyes, observed that corner.

There were three men: the fat brute he’d come upon in the hallway; a skinny fellow, with teeth so yellow they might have been a jackal’s; and a third, no cleaner, yet not so much like a treacherous varmint in appearance.

“Gents,” he said quietly, “give way. And I tell you, if she is in any way touched—”

“Damn you, Josh, for a coward!” the one with the yellow teeth cried out. “Slay him, man, he’s alone!”

Yellow teeth drew his knife with a growl; Warwick gazed with narrowed eyes from him to Ondine. She stared at him, as if confused, barely recognizing him, but she seemed aware. He thought that he must free her first, lest they think to unman him with a threat to her person. He could not afford to have the threat of harm to her held against him as a lethal weapon. He stepped into the room, his sword held high, and quickly slashed the bonds that held her.

“Go!” he charged her. “Topside, to Justin!”

She tried to move; she was so dazed and sore that it was a difficult measure at best. The weasel was coming at Warwick then, crouched low, his knife in his hands. A heavy fellow she hadn’t seen before was taking courage from that action, advancing from the side, near her. Josh was taking the other side.

“Get out of here, Ondine!”

She couldn’t; she was dazed, but she couldn’t leave him to such odds. Glancing around, she saw the filthy water pitcher on the table, and as the men paid her no heed, she reached for it, swerving terribly in her attempt.

The weasel lunged first—apparently he had no notion of Warwick’s talents with his weapon. The sword whistled through the air; the weasel gasped and sank into a pool of his own blood.

The other two were stunned, then panicked. Together they rushed for Warwick, as if innately aware that neither could be hero or coward; survival meant combined strength and action.

Ondine raised her pitcher in a heavy lunge, then gasped in horror, for she struck neither the weasel nor the burly man, but caught her husband square against his temple.

“Oh, God!” she gasped.

He caught his reeling head and barely twisted in time to slice the burly fellow’s arm from wrist to shoulder, reducing him to a heap of groaning helplessness.

Josh backed away to the corner of the room, dropping his weapon.

Warwick, stunned, turned to stare at Ondine.

“Madam, just whose side are you on?”

“I’m sorry! So sorry!”

“I told you to get out of here!”

“I—I couldn’t leave you!”

“Go—now!”

She tried to step; she swayed. He caught her, keeping a wary eye upon the last man as he did so.

“What have you done to her?”

He fell to the floor, hands clenched in prayer. “Spare me, Your Grace, spare me! ‘Tis a drug, nothing more! Will wear away in minutes now, I swear it upon my soul!”

Ondine stared into Warwick’s eyes. He returned her glare, but with no tenderness. He touched her face, and the feel of his hand was not cruel, yet he seemed so—harsh.

“I’ll know what happened here!” he told the man.

Josh shook his head in desperation. “We were paid! Paid with coin and well! She was to be taken to a gentleman downriver.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, by God, I don’t know! I’d tell you if I did! Only the captain knew the man—he didn’t want himself known to any.”

And the captain was dead, Warwick thought bitterly.

There was movement behind him. Warwick, with Ondine cradled against him, quickly spun, raising his sword.

“Warwick—‘tis me!” Justin warned him quickly. “Just me and Buckingham.”

Warwick thrust Ondine into his arms. “Take her,” he said hoarsely. “Take her-—and start back.”

Justin didn’t understand his brother’s raw emotion and stiffness. He sighed with relief and caught Ondine, baffled, for she seemed unharmed, yet she could not stand on her own.

“Wait!” she called. “Warwick, I—”

“Get her out of here! Bring her back to our rooms and order Jake to guard her, to sit on her if need be!”

Ondine gave in. Her head still swam; she had no strength. Justin lifted her into his arms, and she merely closed her eyes with weary relief, clinging to him.

Buckingham stepped into the cabin as Justin left it with his burden. “Some rubbish remains alive,” he told Warwick, staring at their captive.

“Aye,” Warwick murmured, “but I learn nothing.”

“Only the captain knew—” came the plaintive cry of their prisoner, but Buckingham cut him off with a cold and cruel laugh.