Ondine (27 page)

“Then I shall leave—”

“Nor are you.”

She ceased struggling for a moment, stunned, her breath held, her eyes round pools as she realized the insinuation of his tone and touch.

“Nay, fool! You’re so eager to be rid of a common bride, yet you think I’ll fall into your arms! And what would you want? A lowborn thief? How have you managed thus far? Oh, shame! Great Lord of Chatham! Don’t dishonor the purity of your breed so!”

His fingers moved into her nape, tearing at her hair so that her neck arched, and her face was forced to behold the laughing countenance of his own. “Milady! Even the king seeks carnal pleasure among the common folk. In fact, I think, for such base enjoyment, none gives more pleasure. There is something … primal there, you see. ‘Tis your status only as my wife that offends me; I find your talents between the sheets most uncommonly wanton, and that beauty betwixt your thighs doth exceed that of your fair face.”

“Vile bastard! You’ll not—”

“Alas, I am still your husband. But then, cry as you will. I will touch you, and you will respond. Base instinct, my love.”

She went wild; she kicked him and twisted and clawed, amazed and enraged, and wondering from some daze of horror how she had so misjudged this man, this cruel and brutal stranger, hell’s own devil, ever more powerful than she.

She screamed and shrieked and pounded against him, and his only response was torturous laughter. He lifted her like baggage and tossed her upon the bed, impassive to all her blows, amused only by her desperate, frantic fight.

She landed hard and gasped for breath, thinking that she still had to escape, for he would leave her to shed his clothing, and she would race like the wind for the door, and, wife or no, surely the king would not leave her with this lunatic beast!

A breath, a pause; she thought to roll, but he was beside her, heedless of his garments. Stunned, she realized there was little he must remove, and she cried again to escape his strength. But she might as well pit herself against a sheer stone mountain, for she was quickly exhausted and gasping, half sobbing as she was finally subdued.

“By God in heaven, do I hate you!” she swore.

He grew still then, and if they had not fought so viciously. If his words had not carried such scorn and debasement, she might have believed that it was with a breath of anguish that he whispered, “I know.”

He held her for a moment, tightly to him, cradling her head. Then he began to make love to her.

And for the life of her, she hated him more. He had not lied. She wanted to respond, to a heated kiss she knew so well, and had come to crave, to the warmth of his Mesh, the pressure of his form.

She bit into her own lip and willed herself to rigid stillness. For her life, for heaven’s salvation, she would not fall to his seduction that night. She would prove him wrong.

She stared at the ceiling with sightless eyes until he shuddered and groaned over her, then lay spent at her side.

There were no more words between them.

Hours passed, night threatened to turn to dawn. Warwick tensed as he felt her rise. He heard a shaky sob escape her as she gathered the remnants of her nightgown and faltered in her steps to reach the low burning fire, sinking there to huddle before it on her knees. She was silent; he could see her back quivering with the force of tears she still managed to keep from sound.

He knotted his fists into the sheets; ground his teeth into his lip until blood filled his mouth. God! How he wanted to go to her, take her into his arms and tell her she was the greatest woman he had ever met; that her beauty was a part of her person, the shining glory of her face, the compassion and pride and honor that gleamed in the miraculous wonder of her exquisite eyes. He wanted to tell her that he loved her above all else in life. But that could cost her her life!

She never returned to the bed; he never slept.

It was a miserable party that set forth for Chatham when dawn came, Justin at odds with Warwick, Ondine completely withdrawn, and Jake morose with the pathetic tragedy of it all.

Perhaps it was only natural that the fine weather failed as they neared North Lambria. As they came upon Chatham Manor the sky grew dark, though it was early afternoon. The wind picked up, cool with a feel of rain. Trees and brush swayed by the roadside. A slash of lightning lit the sky, and thunder cracked as if to render the very heavens in two. Ondine thought it fitting.

All that had sustained her throughout the miserable journey had been the self-sworn promise that she would escape Warwick in Liverpool and follow her own quest. She would return to her lands in Rochester, find and steal that evidence against her, and—dear God!—somehow discover a way to clear her father’s name.

“We’re home,” Warwick, sitting across from her, murmured suddenly. He leaned forward, lifting her-chin with his thumb, eyes shielded in shadow, brooding, dark. “What plots pass through that swiftly moving mind of yours, my love?” he queried her.

She twisted from his touch and sighed. “None that concern you, Chatham. May we alight?” she asked coolly.

He opened the door and stepped out. They were upon the drive before the house. Jake and Justin were down already; Mathilda was rushing from the house, and Clinton followed behind her.

“Welcome! Welcome! Has been strangely lonely here, with all the household gone!” Clinton greeted Warwick. Mathilda had little interest in either Warwick or Justin; as ever she was differential and polite, but Ondine was her main concern.

“Ah, lady, you do look well and fine!” Mathilda said, beaming. “And now that you’re here, I’ll give you the greatest care. ‘Twill be a boy, I’m ever so sure. Male children do dominate this family line. Whatever, though, ‘twill be a child, a babe, to bring youth and laughter back to this house!”

It seemed that the wind died suddenly, leaving everything still and silent with the portent of explosion.

Warwick stepped between them.

“There will be no child born here, Mathilda. I’m gravely sorry for the injury you will feel, but I will not claim the child as mine.”

“What—?” Justin began incredulously, but Warwick’s voice rose in harsh tones above his.

“For reasons known to my wife, I am dissolving the marriage. Her child is no Chatham; as of now, I no longer call her wife. As of tomorrow morning, she will be gone. Any and all who dispute my decision are welcome to leave this place and never return.”

Shocked silence followed this announcement. Warwick stared at them all, ending with Ondine. Then, in great mockery, he tilted his hat in her direction, then strode from them all in the direction of the stables.

“Why, you unholy bastard!” Justin spat out in fury. “Warwick!”

Warwick turned, but Ondine raced to Justin even as the color fled from her face, leaving it pinched and white.

“Leave it!” she implored him.

Warwick stared at Justin, waiting, then shrugged and started on his way once again.

Mathilda burst into tears. Jake shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

Only Clinton stared after Warwick curiously. ” ‘Tis not like him. ‘Tis not like him at all,” he murmured thoughtfully. Ondine gazed at him, swallowing, remembering that logically she had presumed the haunt of Chatham to be this very man.

Yet now he offered her a reassuring smile and came to where she stood with Justin, taking her hands. “Take heart, lady, this is not the man, the cousin, that I know. We are of an age. As babes we played upon mats together, as toddlers we waddled and tousled and spat, as youths we learned our lessons well. I know him as I know myself, my blood, my soul—this cruelty is not of his nature, and it will pass.”

He bowed to her most courteously and started after Warwick.

Justin, holding Ondine, was as tense and rigid as bone. “Clinton has not seen Warwick’s strange behavior; he does not know the dangers of his mind. I’m near to believing madness rages here, and near to thinking my brother—he that I once knew and loved!— dwells no more within that shell!”

“None of it matters, Justin,” Ondine said softly. She escaped his hold and raced up the steps, eager to reach the sanctity of her chamber.

Once inside, she started up to the second floor, fleeing past the portrait gallery, hurrying to her own chamber.

Once there she pitched onto the bed and indulged in desperate weeping. On and on she wept, the brewing storm outside a tempest that raged and swept through her soul.

Somewhere through her fog and misery and desperation she realized that someone was pounding fiercely upon the outer door. It was not Warwick, she knew, for he would never ask entry, but always take it as his right.

She forced herself to stiffen—to remember that she must pursue her own honor!—and answer that knock. It was Mathilda who sought entry. Mathilda with a silver tray and her wretched goat’s milk, but a Mathilda who quickly melted that newly acquired hardness in Ondine’s heart, for she shook with sobs and tears that streamed wet and heavy down her cheeks.

Ondine stepped aside, letting her in, and smiled despite it all. She took the tray from Mathilda, set it on Warwick’s desk, and gently urged the housekeeper into a chair.

“Please, please don’t be so upset—”

“Clinton’s right! This isn’t like Warwick at all. Some madness has seized him!”

She shook her head painfully, then knotted her fingers in her lap and looked at Ondine. “He’ll come to his senses tomorrow! I refuse to believe this! And who does he think he is! Not even our splendid sovereign Charles seeks a divorce from his wife, and that poor lady is barren! He’ll not get it! This is—lunacy!”

“Mathilda, please, do not be so distressed. I’ll find some brandy, that should help.”

Ondine brought the bottle from Warwick’s desk, mistress becoming server as she pressed a small glass in Mathilda’s hand. “Drink it, Mathilda, please. You’ll feel better.”

She wished that there were something she could say, some assurance that she might give, but there was none. She’d never seen anyone quite like Warwick when he was set on something, nor did that matter. She was through with Chatham Manor, through with its lord. By tomorrow, one way or the other, she would be gone.

Mathilda absently drank the brandy offered her; Ondine then pried the tiny glass from her fingers.

“It will not happen!” Mathilda said suddenly. “It simply will not happen! I will not let it!”

Perhaps Ondine should have argued with her; she didn’t have the strength. She smiled at Mathilda, and was then amazed to find herself stifling back a yawn.

“Oh, poor dear!” Mathilda exclaimed. “The milk, you must drink the milk! He’s run you so ragged! You must drink the milk.”

Ondine went to the tray and consumed all of the goat’s milk. It was a small price to pay for the happiness it gave Mathilda.

Ondine set the glass back upon the tray. Mathilda came to her like one in a daze and took the tray without looking at her again. She went, like a sleepwalker, to the door and only there paused. “It will not happen. It will not happen.”

She left. Ondine closed the door behind her, then walked back to her own chamber.

With determination she went to the window first. Her heart sank, for there was surely no escape that way. A fall would kill her.

She stared out at the weather. The sky was almost black. The wind continued its haunting cry.

Would the storm hinder her escape? Or would it shelter and hide her? That didn’t matter either. The rain had still not started, but everything seemed alive and vibrant with its threat.

Ondine pulled back into the chamber, frowning, remembering the first whisper she had heard. There had been nothing here, but it had come from here.

An excitement began to grow within her. Step by step she tread the floor, staring down at it. She saw nothing but ordinary floorboards, scrubbed clean and fresh, covered here and there with elegant rugs.

She refused to give up her quest She was not mad, and she had heard a whisper that night. Someone had been here and had escaped.

Ondine next began to comb the walls, looking for fissures in the stone, for any little thing out of the ordinary. Nothing appeared, and she began to grow despondent and weary.

Then it occurred to her that she had not pushed aside the curtain to the latrine, that private place where the chamber pot was kept.

With vast excitement she swept it aside, bypassing the seat with the pot. Her fingers worked hurriedly over the wall, and anxiety rose in her along with the excitement.

Then she found it, a stone, an ordinary stone. But when she pressed against it, it moved in, and an entire section of the wall gave way just as if it were a door.

She stared at it in amazement, then in high elation. This was it; her escape. It worked upon a lever and hinges, set into motion by pressure on that one stone. It was ingenious, it was wonderful. But where did it lead?

She stepped back quickly into the room and grabbed a candle, then came back to the dark opening. Holding the candle high, she began to follow the corridor.

Oddly, she heard no squeak of rats, nor did spiderwebs tangle about her. Someone used this passageway and had used it recently.

She moved quickly ahead, more desperate than frightened, more determined than careful. After a walk of about forty paces, the corridor suddenly turned and gave way to a narrow spiral stairway.

She followed that stairway.

And, to her delight and amazement, it brought her to a small wooden door, one that gave easily to her touch. The door opened outside the manor house, several feet from its western edge. She wondered that she had never seen the door before, but then realized that it was below the earth, that she had to climb uphill several paces to reach the ground, and that it was blocked by a high set of spreading hickory trees.

Shivering with relief, she leaned back against the stone of the manor. She closed her eyes, fighting a sudden attack of dizziness, brought on by the thrill of discovery, she assumed.

Ondine gazed calculatingly at the manor, then narrowed her eyes against the darkness to see to the stables, far beyond.

Oh, if she could flee right now! But she dared not; she needed a heavy coat for her journey, the simplest that she had, for she must pretend to be a pilgrim. And she would need whatever coin she could receive, for she would have to purchase something new in London and return to her estates in a hired carriage.

But the stables … she should go there now and plan which mount to steal, see from where she might quickly snatch a saddle and bridle. Night was upon them already, and the storm was almost there; no one should be about; the horses would already be stabled for the night.

She set her candle upon the ground, near the door lest the wind should take it; then she started off, sprinting across the lawn. She shook her head, a little dazed, for the distance seemed suddenly much greater than it should have been, and the ground wavered beneath her feet. Her stomach lurched as she ran, and she swore silently against the awful goat’s milk that never had agreed with her.

When she reached the stable, she discovered that she had to cling to the wall for several moments, barely able to stand. The stalls were not straight, but curved before her eyes.

God! she prayed suddenly, fervently. What new cruelty of fate was this? She stood ready, thrilled by her recent discovery— escape was a wondrous open doorway for her! And here she was, discovering herself the victim of some strange illness.

Nay, nay! Like Mathilda, she denied the truth strenuously. This could not be! She simply would not be ill; not until she was far from Chatham Manor! She forced herself to stare at the stalls. The bay she had ridden once before whinnied, and Ondine decided that this mare would be the best mount. The tack room was at her side, and all the bridles, saddles, and trappings were within easy reach, neatly arranged. It would be easy to slip out the secret corridor after midnight, run to the stables, and leave with the mare. Blessed hope! This was not some daydream, but reality!

“Ondine! What are you doing here? It’s going to storm!”

She screamed out, startled and then terrified as the voice came to her and a hand set down upon her shoulder.

Clinton.

And he carried a hoof pick in his hand, small, but, oh, so lethal looking as he stood in a shaft of moonlight, tall and muscular, staring at her curiously.

Clinton … no matter how kind in manner to her, perhaps he was capable of murder …

“Ondine!” He seemed to whisper her name, and she thought of another whisper she’d heard in the night, haunting, frightening, meant to drive one mad.

“Damn him!” Clinton said suddenly, fiercely. “Has he so upset you that you’ve no reason left? Does Warwick know you’re out?”

“Does anyone?”

She couldn’t speak; some cruel lethargy was hard upon her; her limbs were as heavy as lead, her mouth as dry as dust. And here he stood, Clinton, discovering that no one knew where she was …

“Come on!” he said suddenly, harshly.

“No—”

And then his hand raised, the hand with the pick. She saw the muscle of his arm, hard and bulging and strong. He slammed it toward her, suddenly, lethally …

She opened her mouth, longing to scream, it was all so quick; it seemed like an absurd motion.

His hand, the pick, slammed harmlessly against the wall beside her head. He shuddered, controlling anger, then looked at her more closely. “You’re ill. I’ll see you back to the house.”

She placed a hand on his sleeve. “Nay, I…”

“Don’t fear; I know that he does not allow you out, and would not be pleased to see you with me. I’ll lead you as far as the door, and then I’ll call for Mother.”

She couldn’t protest; she couldn’t even answer him. She was terribly afraid that she wouldn’t even be able to walk.

But she could stumble, held by his arm. But though he talked to her, she could barely hear him. She could see Chatham before them, but the manor wavered before her eyes just as the stalls had done. Dear God, what was this? This awful, awful sickness.

“We’re at the steps; hold, and I’ll call Mother.”

Her mind … where was her mind? Where was thought, and knowledge and strength and logic? She gripped her temples between her hands and tried to press the dizzying numbness from her head, but her hands were as numb to touch as her mind was to thought.