Ondine (28 page)

It was almost as if she were drugged, almost like the horrible stuff the pirates had used. It wasn’t the same at all in one way; it was exactly alike in another …

“Mother’s here.,She’ll bring you to bed.”

Ondine heard the words. She looked up at Clinton, who smiled and started off into the darkness. She lifted a hand, thinking that she could call him back, that something was wrong. Danger lurked.

Except that she couldn’t identify the danger.

Arms came around her. “Milady! Are you ill?”

“Yes …” she whispered. “I’ll …”

“I’ll take you to bed; come, let me help you.”

She managed to stand, leaning heavily against Mathilda. “Ah, lady, what are you doing wandering about? You shouldn’t be. You’ll not leave here; I said that you would not leave here. I’ve the answers that you need; I know what happened to poor Genevieve. I know it all; I found the secret in the chapel. Warwick will know all. You’ll never, never have to leave.”

The words filtered slowly into Ondine’s mind; they made no sense, they made every sense. She clung only to a few.

“The answer?”

“I have all the answers. In the chapel.”

“The chapel?” Ondine wet her mouth with her tongue and formed the words. The answer … Warwick’s answer! Tonight. She could have done with it all—pay that debt for her life this very night, before pursuing her own.

But it was wrong; all wrong … why couldn’t she see it, understand it?

“We’ll go there now,” Mathilda told her conspiratorially in a soft, hushed whisper.

Ondine never said aye or nay; Mathilda took her up the entry steps and through the foyer, but did not lead her up the stairs. Instead, they passed through the ballroom, empty now, echoing the wind and shadow and darkness.

They came to the chapel entrance. Mathilda pushed open the door and led Ondine in. She walked her straight to Genevieve’s beautiful altar, and only then did Ondine see that the stone was opened again, that the recess to the tombs below gaped like a black pit before her bleary eyes.

Two ropes with sturdy nooses dangled from the altar to the pit, like ropes of a hangman. They were hung so that the lovely marble angels with their heavenly faces could stare down upon the dead.

Ondine opened her mouth; she tried to scream. No sound came from her and—oh, God!—it was most chilling, for now she knew, she understood fully that Mathilda meant to kill her, yet her body was so numb that she could barely move, barely speak.

“Drugged …” she managed to whisper as Mathilda seated her calmly in a pew to continue her preparations. And then, “Why?”

“Oh, you pretty, pretty thing!” Mathilda crooned, and too late Ondine saw the total madness in her eyes. She had known there was madness seeping into Chatham, but never had she suspected Mathilda to be the well from which it sprang. Mathilda! Who had claimed to love Genevieve so dearly. Mathilda, who had cried such terrible tears when she and the supposed baby might be sent away.

“Why?” Mathilda murmured absently, checking the loops on the two ropes that held them to the marble altar.

“You—loved—her. I thought … you cared … for me.”

“I loved Genevieve dearly! And, sweet girl, you are lovely, too. See, I have here two nooses, so as not to send you off alone! Ah, yes, that was the mistake, you see, that I made with Genevieve.”

“No …”

“They cry out!” Mathilda said suddenly, fiercely. “Oh, lady, have you not heard them? They, the lady dead and my dear mother! That was the crime, you see? I was there that day; I saw it all! My mother, pushing Lady Chatham to her death! Then that horror, that absolute horror when she fell through herself! Ondine, ever since that day they have cried out to me! Genevieve … I thought that she would satisfy them. That a Chatham bride, dead in beautiful youth, would fulfill their needs and let them rest. There was the mistake—Genevieve was not enough! Don’t you see? It must be two. A Chatham countess for the countess; the mistress’s bastard daughter to take her eternally damned place in the hollowed halls of this place!”

“No … drugged.”

“Ah, poor lady! Of course the milk was drugged, to ease thee from this life! You mustn’t fear, I’ll take your hand. I’ll hold you as we depart this life for our role in the next!”

She tried to open her mouth and scream. She tried to fight Mathilda as the small woman slipped the noose around her throat and dragged her toward the pit. She tried. She had no strength, no will at all, it seemed. She could only stare at the horror—now too late—finding the logic of insanity a motive for murder.

Warwick barely nodded at Jake, leaving him free to go about his business, when he slammed into his own chambers. His temper by now was truly foul—Clinton hadn’t said a word to him when he’d made arrangement to have the carriage ready again by dawn. He’d felt his cousin’s reproach, and that was far worse than any argument.

From the stables he’d gone to his office and procured a large supply of gold coins. She would refuse them, but she’d take them, and she’d be on that ship to sail far away from England if he had to have her bound and gagged until the ship was too far out for the little fool to dream of returning.

Warwick paused in his study, frowing to find the brandy bottle on his desk. No matter, he took a long burning swig of the stuff, knowing he would need it. He would face his final confrontation with her tonight, and it would take everything that lurked within him to keep himself from touching her, from breaking, from telling her not that he despised her as a peasant, but that he adored her as a woman.

She had to leave. He was not a superstitious man, but he felt as if the very walls of Chatham were closing in around them, as if the storm and darkness and howling wind were a warning that death was closing in once again …

He straightened his shoulders, then strode through his chamber and the bath, ready to confront her. He swung open the door to her chamber, then stopped, frozen with amazement and fear.

She was not there.

“Ondine!” he called. The wind moaned the only reply. In seconds he tore about the place, searching every nook and cranny, beneath her bed, beneath his bed, in the bath, the closet, everywhere.

She was not there.

He stormed out to the hall, shrieking for Jake. The little man ran anxiously up the stairs.

“She’s gone!”

“She can’t be! I swear by my life, she passed me not!”

Justin emerged into the portrait hallway from the dining room, staring warily at his brother’s torn features, then at Jake.

“What—”

“She’s gone! By God, I have to find her. Justin—”

“F ve never touched one of your wives!” Justin railed furiously, and then he, too, seemed to sense some import in the night, and his face paled. “Why do we stand here? We must confront the danger.”

The front door opened and closed. Clinton entered, carrying the household ledgers. He stared up at those tense men in surprise.

“What is it?”

“Ondine! Have you see her?”

Clinton stiffened and hesitated. “If you intend to offer the lass more ill use, Warwick, I’ll not tell you a thing! And if you so desire, I’ll be glad to depart this place in the morning! You behave as no decent man, but as the beast the title claims you to be!”

Warwick came tearing down the stairs and clutched his cousin’s shoulders frantically. “Clinton, for God’s mercy! I intend no harm to her! I am frightened to the bone!”

Clinton tensed, aware now that something was wrong, and that Warwick was frantic. He hesitated just a second longer, then spoke gently.

“She is in her room. She seemed ill; Mother took her.”

“What? Nay, Clinton, nay—she is not in her room. I came from there—she is gone.”

“Then …”

“Where is Mathilda?” Justin asked suddenly.

Silence followed his inquiry. Then Jake spoke, his voice quavering uncertainly.

“The … the chapel? There ‘twas where she disappeared before …”

His sentence fell. Warwick, with the others at his heels, raced like the raging wind to the chapel door. It was barred. He slammed his shoulder against the wood, but it was sturdy stuff. He slammed against it again and found his brother and cousin at his side. With the next heave the latch broke, and the door went tumbling in.

For one moment they all paused, icy horror enwrapping them. Mathilda sat on the stone by Genevieve’s altar, her legs dangling over it, as she dragged Ondine ever closer to the orifice.

Ondine … She seemed to sleep, her sweet peaceful beautiful lips curving upward in innocence. Could she be dead? Nay! For a noose was about her throat; a noose well tied and tightened! It was strung to the altar so that once she fell, the short length of rope would hang her quick and well.

“Warwick! And Justin, too, I see. Dear, dear Clinton! ‘Tis almost done now. I take my lady with me—and future Chathams may now reside in peace!”

‘
‘No!”
Warwick shrieked the word; the sound rose like thunder and cascaded about them, anguish deeper than life or death.

Mathilda smiled sweetly, then edged herself into the gap.

“No!”
Even as he raged, Warwick moved, leaping across the chapel with a great cat’s power and rage.

He was too late; Mathilda was gone, and Ondine’s lovely form began to follow hers.

It was not too late, it couldn’t be, dear God, it couldn’t be!

He threw himself toward the cavity and, catching his wife’s skirt, tugged and pulled and lifted—and dragged her back to his side, panting. Justin was there, quickly easing the noose from about her throat. She was so white, so pale, so cold!

Warwick pressed his head to her chest, listened and prayed.

“She lives!” Justin shrieked. “She lives! I hear her breathe.”

And then her eyes opened. Lost, she saw Warwick above her, saw his haggard features, his golden eyes.

She smiled, and her eyes fell shut once again.

Warwick cast the rope far away. He rose to his knees, swept her into his arms, and stood, resting his cheek against her hair, tears stinging his eyes at the precious, precious beauty of her warmth.

He turned to take her away from this loathsome place of death, but paused then, for his eyes fell upon Clinton. Clinton, who had tenderly lifted the small weight of his mother’s body from the hole of darkness. Clinton, ravaged now and stunned by the events.

“She was mad,” he whispered raggedly, still trying to understand it all. Then his gaze rested on Warwick, fell upon Ondine with a flicker of happiness.

“By God, Warwick, I am so sorry.” He shook his head painfully. “I didn’t know; I had no idea …”

“I know that,” Warwick said softly. “And I, too, am sorry, Clinton. It was the generations past that so destroyed her.”

Clinton, dazed, cradling his mother’s cheek, nodded. “Before God, Warwick,” he said hoarsely, “I love your wife, as a cousin should. Never would I have seen harm come her way if I’d had any idea at all… Oh, God! Blessed saints, I know sorrow, yet I feel the keenest joy that Ondine lives and breathes! If it will ease you, Cousin, I’ll bury my mother, then leave-—”

“Nay, Clinton,” Warwick said gently, raw with Clinton’s pain. “Nay! We are Chathams, all. We three have paid this night for the sins of our fathers, but that horrible debt is paid. From it all we have one another. Chatham is yours, as well as mine. She was your mother—my father’s half sister. We will bury her; and we will go on, together, to see that the past remains truly buried.”

Then Justin spoke. “Take her, Warwick; take Ondine from here. I will see to Mathilda with Clinton.”

Warwick nodded. He stepped outside into the wind, for he felt he needed that cleansing touch.

Far out in the northern hills the wolves began to howl.

And he was glad, for he knew that it was a natural sound, and no specter to haunt the night, ever again.

The rain began, cleansing, refreshing.

He started for the house, anxious to bring Ondine back to consciousness, anxious to love her with all his heart.

A log snapped and crackled on the fire, bringing Ondine back from the depths of the fog that had claimed her.

She opened her eyes slowly and saw the golden blaze of the fire before her. It was the only light in the room; no candles burned. Only that soft glow came to her.

It wasn’t her room she lay in, but Warwick’s. She knew that, even as her eyes adjusted to the shimmering blaze. She was upon Warwick’s massive bed. The sheets felt clean and fresh, as she felt herself. She lifted her hands and saw a white ruff upon her sleeves and knew that someone had bathed and dressed her.

A chill swept through her, despite the warmth of the blaze, despite the serenity and security of the room. Memories of the recent past swept over her with a rush of terror—her feeling of utter helplessness, of watching her own doom, of having no part in it. She shuddered as she thought of the rope about her neck— a sensation with which she was growing dreadfully familiar!— and the sheer madness of Mathilda’s eyes.

But Warwick … Warwick had been there, to catch her when she would fall once again.

And yet, despite it all, she was glad. She had fulfilled her promise, and not so much for the debt of her life, but because she loved him. He would no longer live in pained frustration, wondering what brutal power had chosen to haunt his life and kill his beautiful bride. She would be free—and so would he.

Ah, still the things he’d said rankled deep in her heart; her pride decreed it so! Still someday she might dream to come before him, her lands and title restored, and smile sweetly while she chose any man but him! Such a thing was pride. Yet such a thing was love that she already felt the horrible aching void of leaving him while she lay here, in his bed.

A despair fell over her, threatening to overwhelm all good intentions. She had to leave. Tonight. She could not trust him; the danger was over, but so was her role. He might well want her in the Colonies anyway—-shoved away and out of sight while he pursued his fight for a divorce with Charles and the Church of England. She dared not linger, but she didn’t know his mind.

She sighed, then feared that the sigh would turn to a sob; she opened her eyes wide, stretching. She noticed then a movement beside her and turned quickly to discover Warwick, his features shadowed, haunted, his eyes pure gold and glittering like the sun upon her.

“Ondine …”

She smiled, tremulously, determined now to reassure him, for all that she might despise his temper and his arrogance, he was a man of his word. Never had he faltered in her defense, never had he forgotten his vow to preserve her life—always had he been there, somehow, when she needed him.

“Can you speak, can you move?”

His hand touched hers; she wound her fingers around it and smiled. “I’m well, I feel no effects.”

His eyes and touch moved to her throat, where he gently probed that flesh. “A chafe, I believe, no more. ‘Twas poppy seed that drugged you. I had Lottie comb the kitchen and cellar, for I feared the drug upon you as much as the deed that—near came to fruition.”

“Mathilda is …”

“Dead, aye, gone to peace, poor woman.”

“And Clinton?”

“He aches, as is natural.” He fell silent for a moment, then closed his eyes tightly and opened them again. “She was my aunt, you know. Here, as long as I remember. Always a part of my life. And none of us knew, we never imagined …”

“I’m sorry, Warwick.”

He sighed and said nothing, then looked at her once again. “It was easier, this, than had it been Justin, or Clinton. Easier to find madness the culprit than avarice. And, then again, ‘tis easier to have it known and ended.”

“Have you—made your peace with Justin?”

He nodded, idly taking her fingers, playing gently and absently with his own. “Aye, that I have. ‘Twas not so hard, for he understood that I lived with a madness of my own, that madness being fear. He did not know till we spoke tonight that you had once been attacked in the chapel before, cast into the crypt. And Clinton … Clinton knew nothing. You see, when I first claimed that Genevieve had been murdered, no one believed me. They thought I had gone into a deep pit of grief and was lashing out blindly. Clinton felt guilty that he had not recognized this madness in his mother; he felt he should have known. Justin and I have tried hard to reassure him that none of us knew what nightmares haunted her and twisted her mind.”

Ondine lowered her lashes, watching the long brown fingers move on hers. She felt like crying; she must not. He spoke with such weariness, he appeared so very exhausted and haggard, such a toll taken from him. When had he slept last? Certainly not long or well on their journey home. He had been stiff and distant, but always near her, always on guard. He certainly had not slept on their last night in the cottage. That night! That night she must remember now! His cold brutality; his words, daggers in themselves! His arrogance, his determination to dominate all with absolute and ruthless control. Warwick Chatham, master of his realm, of his life, of all that came beneath him.

This she must remember, for she had to leave.

“Warwick, what now? What of Mathilda and Clinton? Suicide, the Church claims, is the greatest sin, yet I cannot believe that God will not take pity on her wretched soul—”

“Nor can I,” Warwick assured her flatly. “My grandfather gave her life; she will lie in Chatham ground. And suicide … I say that it cannot be called so, for it was an illness as sure as the plague
that killed Mathilda, and
Masses will be said for her soul. Have no fear on that account.”

She plucked
at the sheet,
nodding, glad. Had Warwick discovered that murder had been cold-blooded for gain, she felt sure the killer would have received no mercy. Yet in this she was not surprised, for she thought
him
honorable in such things, and was both glad and proud that all the Chatham men knew when and how to bind together in support of one another, the legitimate heirs and bastard all the same.

“Clinton was most distressed. He felt he handed you over, straight into the arms of death. He did not know.”

“He mustn’t feel that. He had really meant to—to shield me from you.”

“Aye!” Warwick said, his tone lowering to that dangerous one she knew so well. “And what were you doing, wandering about? How did you get past Jake? He swears you did not go by the door.”

She hesitated, then decided there would be no harm in answering him. It was best that he know about the corridor, the spiral stairs and the door. She would need that escape route no longer; once he slept tonight—which he must, for he was so very weary—she would leave with all silence through the door.

“There is a panel in my chamber.”

He scowled. “I’ve searched that place—”

” ‘Tis behind the latrine,” she told him softly.

He swore beneath his breath, thoroughly self-disgusted. “Tomorrow it will be opened! Ah, this place! We hid so many Royalists and priests! But the time is over now for the refuge of fugitives; I’ll have no more secrets in it.”

She smiled absently, for that would be none of her concern. She started to rise, saying, “I must see Clinton. I want to tell him that I am sorry, that—”

“Nay, not now. You’ll have the morning.”

The morning … so he did, indeed, intend to see her gone by afternoon. What had she imagined? Ah, but he was tender tonight, and so very warm, when she had known such coldness from him! She wanted his touch so desperately; some fresh memory of all that had been beautiful between them to take with her into the horrible emptiness of the future! She wanted no more words between them; no more thoughts of the mourning that must engulf Chatham.

She wanted one last glimpse of magic, be it illusion, be it a dream. She hoped to forget the world for just a few hours …

He touched her forehead, smoothing back a lock of her hair. He pressed his lips against her forehead, and they were hot and fervent and tender. Then he backed away from her, smiling ruefully.

“There’s much to be said; much to be planned. But no more tonight. I shudder each time I think of how close it came …”

“You were there,” she whispered.

“Just barely,” he told her. “Jake thought of the chapel; some blessed sense of suspicion and recall came to him. Without Clinton and Justin, I’d never have broken the door. It was a close rescue, madam, frighteningly so. So now you will try your strength no more, but sleep, and I will pray that the nightmare leaves your mind and that you are truly well.”

“I am well!” she protested with a frown. He was standing, preparing to leave her to sleep—this last night.

She caught his hand, a fire of panic sparkling in her eyes, making them shimmer like a liquid sea in the soft glow of the blaze that made an intimate haven of the room. She came to her knees, holding his hand, halting his departure.

“Warwick, I—”

“No words tonight!” he commanded her. “You must lie back, sleep, recover!”

“There is naught to recover from!” she said swiftly, faltering, uncertain—frightened that he would reject even this overture from her. “Please,” she whispered, then hesitated, lashes sweeping over her cheeks once more. “I—” She paused, finding the courage to stare up at him. Then she thought of her own person, and an entry to the conversation she sought to find.

“How … did I come to be here—so?” She indicated her long white gown and the cleanliness of it all. And—God help her!— as intimate as they’d been, a blush suffused her cheeks and her voice was a bare, husky whisper. “Did you bathe and gown me so?”

“Aye, that I did, with Lottie’s help,” he told her.

He touched her cheek and spoke’ earnestly with a rueful smile, “Ah, lady! Brute that I have been, fear nothing from me this night! Even beasts have their limits! Ondine, this—”

She brought a finger quickly to his lips, casting him into a questing confusion. He grew silent, but hiked a brow to her, barely breathing.

“Milord, I want no words. Just as you say, morning comes, and matters might be settled then. But tonight…”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight I pray that you do not leave me.”

“I’ll not, lady, if that is what you require. I’ll sit by your side all night—”

“Oh!” she cried in frustration, staring at him with flaming eyes. “Surely, Lord of Chatham, you are the daftest among all beasts!”

A slow smile curled into his lips, and he watched her with vividly sparkling eyes.

“Lady, watch your words, that they say what you mean. It costs me harsh and rigid control when I must be near and keep from touch! My heart has been heavy and near shattered; such bliss as that of your arms is pure temptation. Yet, you have been sorely abused by relation to my name this night, and I would have you know only peace.”

She crawled from the bed and stood before him, desperate to make her wishes known, for never again would she place a palm against his most beloved cheek, or know the exquisite ecstasy of his love. Tender, savage, tempest, sweet; his passion was wondrous, and she yearned to know it, hungered deeply, this last night. Ah, she was aching, empty, quivering, touched by wildfire by having him this near, pondering what might come.

“Milord! The last that I seek at this moment is peace!”

Still he stared at her. She emitted a soft cry of aggravation and hated him briefly for forcing her to such a wanton perusal! But if needs must this night, she would pursue! For surely, surely, pray God, he could not refuse her!

She touched the gown where it lay on her shoulders, shook her body lightly, and it shimmied down from her. The gown wafted luxuriously along the length of her body and came to her feet like a mist of soft fog, leaving her naked before him, her body touched to richest flame by the fire’s glow, sleek and rich by that enhancing light; angelic and pure—and totally carnal.

Warwick inhaled sharply, stunned and rigid, instantly tense, and instantly aroused beyond all measure. He swallowed quickly, felt the speed of blood that raced and bubbled, of the pulse that beat from his groin and echoed throughout his body. And, oh, this! This most wondrous, most incredible love. For all that he had done to her, she could still come to him …

His magic sea-nymph, she was truly given life by her marriage to a mortal, standing before him like some Aphrodite, eternally glorious. Ah, she was the fire, she was the light, she was everything that guided him now! This love was pain, it was fear, it was all encompassing …

Who was she, this water nymph of his? Something ever so fine, commoner or countess, it was true, she was the greatest lady he had ever met; she was his beloved.

“Warwick!” she breathed at last, a cry, a desperate plea.

He reached for her hand. She gave it to him, and he rose, still then in the blue depths of her eyes, adrift—and completely aware of her and himself and the explosive power between them.

He came to her, touching her hair, then clutching her shoulders and pressing his lips ardently upon that bare flesh, where he held for the long heartbeat of an eternal moment. Then his lips grazed her ear, and his whisper came hoarse and ragged.

“Be sure, madam, that this is what you wish this hour, for if I stay longer here, I will not be able to leave.”

She slipped her arms around him and pressed close to his body. She stood on her toes and touched his lips with her own lightly, again and again, parting them, nipping at them, coming to them again, and finding a fiery mating with his tongue.

His arms embraced her in a crush. A glad and muffled cry tore from him, and he was indeed lost. Ah, all that she was! A cascade of sunlight and fire, wind and tide, sweeping through him, over him, within him. He started to speak; she stopped him with another kiss. “No words this night,” she whispered.

“No words …”

No truths would come between them; no harsh realities would dispel illusion. There would be moments when the wind beyond the walls rushed with the soaring flight of their longing, when the rain beat no harder than the pulse of their blood. The storm outside was a storm inside, beautiful and wild, impetuous and free. He held her breasts and gloried in their weight, kissing the fair peaks and savoring the taste. He carried her to the bed and laid her upon it, shedding his clothing; then he came to her again.