Ondine (32 page)

She dared to look at William again, only to discover him smiling with the greatest amusement and cynical pleasure. “Very, very pretty, my dear! But alas! I’ve nothing to bargain with! I did not cast Nat out of the property on your account; he died last week, of the most natural causes, a happy old man.”

Chagrined, Ondine hesitated, then faltered. She stared across the table to Raoul. His dark eyes were curiously intent upon her, and she realized with a little rush of fear that her passionate defense of Nat had only served to excite his interest.

Raoul might prefer her soft and acquiescent, but he was not adverse to the excitement of a challenge. He would, indeed, enjoy breaking her to his will.

But she dared not think of such things, else she would find herself running now, no closer to justice than she had ever been. She raised her chin once again and asked quietly, “Is this true?”

“Aye, Ondine. His goodwife said that he came to his cottage one night, hale and hearty as ever despite his age, yet fell asleep and simply did not waken.”

She swallowed once again, lowered her eyes, then sat. But though the lamb was delicious, herb laden and minted, she could not eat. One swallow made her queasy, and she thought it a result of her wretched discomfort with her return home.

She kept her head lowered and meekly requested their leave to return to her room.

And again she knew that William watched her bowed head, trying to fathom her pretense. “You’ll have to learn, and quickly, Duchess, to appreciate the company of your family.”

“I am weary only, Uncle,” she said in a soft tone. “The travel today, the excitement of coming home …”

Her voice trailed away. He watched her a moment longer. “You may go to your room,” he said at last.

She rose and swiftly moved to leave the room.

“Ondine!”

She paused in the hallway, drawing a deep breath, for Raoul was following her. His hands fell on her shoulders, and he turned her to face him.

For long moments he stared at her, and she thought again that he might well be handsome to another woman, so defined of feature, so dark and suave. Yet all that she could see in his face was cruelty and the weakness that came of treachery. He was but his father’s puppet; yet he was not adverse to spilling blood slyly to attain his goals.

She forced herself not to wrench from his hold, but lowered her Head in feigned subjugation.

“What is it, Raoul?”

He hesitated; she felt his nearness, and the bile that lay in her stomach seemed to churn fearsomely.

He touched her cheek, and she clenched hard on her teeth. He raised her chin and she looked into his dark eyes.

“You are incredibly beautiful. I have longed for you all my life. I’ve no real desire to hurt you. Go gently here, and you will fare far better, my cousin.”

She shrugged. “I am here, Raoul. Your father has well established his rule of the house. What can I do but succumb to all that you desire?”

“Grow to love me!” he told her heatedly. “By God, I never wished to harm you!”

“That is why you slew my father, Raoul?” she could not help but query disdainfully.

“By God, Ondine, it is you who slew him!” Raoul replied in a hushed fury. “Had you but shown a preference for me—”

“The saints be thanked!” Ondine interrupted him sarcastically. “You do admit your guilt!”

“I admit nothing! I came to talk some sense into you; to save you from yourself! But you go on, wretched, arrogant bitch! You will, my lady, receive your just dues! Once those vows are taken, madam, you will pay!”

She was not prepared for him and was stunned when he lowered his mouth to hers, grinding his lips there cruelly, seeking entry for a deeper kiss. Caught against him, she could only twist from his assault with her heart painfully beating, choking in her throat and struggling desperately for freedom.

“No!”

She pulled from him with a sudden burst of strength, bringing her hand to her bruised lips and staring at him with horror. The taste about her mouth, the scent; oh, she felt ill …

“You promised! You swore you would give me time!”

He seemed about to strike her at first, but when she shrank back, he stiffened, held his temper in check, then said in a curious tone, “Is that it, Ondine, time?”

She thought quickly, desperate to stave him off with no further contact.

“I need that time!” she whispered in a plea. “Time to forget my father’s blood on your hands! Time to become accustomed to you! Please, I will tread gently! I will be with you, walk with you, talk with you—but give me time!”

He hesitated, then pulled her against him. She was ready to fight once more, but held herself back in time.

He merely kissed the top of her head and set her from him.

“Good night, then. Tomorrow we will ride together and talk.”

She nodded, yearning to escape to her chambers.

“You will let Berta tend to you to my pleasure?” he asked.

She nodded. Oh, hurry, say what you will! she thought frantically, for to her amazement she realized that his kiss had actually made her nauseated; she was truly about to be sick.

“Go on, then; I’ll send her to you now,” he said almost gently.

“No!” she gasped out, then pleaded of necessity, “Raoul, I wish to be alone now, please!”

He caught her to him, kissed her on the forehead again. “Ondine, Ondine … I only wish to cherish you, to worship the font of your body! It will be wretched only if you make it so! Go, then, sleep, and dream of me and our future.”

Dream! Oh, most unholy nightmare!

But she curved her lips with effort into a shy smile. He released her, and she fled hastily up the stairs to her own suite.

She knew he followed her departure with his eyes, but she could give no thought to him. Within her room she quickly bolted the door, glad of Berta because her room was warm and the fire blazed and offered her light.

As the bolt clicked she knew she had no more time. She brought her hand to her mouth and raced from the sitting room to the bedroom, and to her dresser. She barely managed to free the pitcher from the bowl before she was violently ill.

Spasms shook her again and again. She thought that she would die with the vileness of it, yet eternity though it seemed, the sickness at last came to an end, leaving her weak and gasping. Fumbling, she found the water pitcher and splashed water over her face and throat and hands, using it all before she could feel clean. She staggered then, out to the balcony, out to the bitter cold of night, for only there would she feel refreshed and breathe easily.

Bleakly she railed in silence against herself. How would she ever manage this, if she were to be so pathetically weak?

You have endured so much! she shrieked inwardly. Near starvation in the forest; rotting in Newgate! The feel of the hangman’s noose about her throat! The drugs and evil designs of foul-smelling slavers, and the more pathetic danger of Mathilda’s twisted designs. All this she had endured. She could not fail now!

Ah, but through the last travail, she had been Warwick’s countess; ever he had been there for her! There had been those magic moments when he had held her, when the sweeping force of his possession had taken her mind from all fear, from all thought, from all else but the ecstasy …

Ah, milady, he is gone now! she reminded herself. He cannot be a part of this!

But such reminders could not ease the tumult of her thoughts. She stiffened her shoulders and realized she grew frigidly cold, yet that cold felt good. She forced herself to think with sense and logic.

Her only chance lay in meekness, in convincing Raoul that she meant all that she said, in learning to speak gently to him. And William, too, needed to feel a confidence; if he did not, she would never have the opportunity to put him off guard.

“I will do it!” she whispered aloud to the moon, cast high over the snow. First she must harden her heart—and her stomach. She dared not let Raoul know yet that his touch made her violently ill.

And as to Warwick …

“Oh, damn him, too!” she muttered fiercely. But with that, she felt strong again. She returned inside and held her breath and cleaned up all the messes she had made, using snow from the balcony to freshen her bowl. Then she drew a chair to the fire and waited.

Hours slipped by. She donned her heaviest nightdress, one of thick material, and quietly let herself out her bedroom door.

All was silent.

She tread softly down the stairs, and silently into her uncle’s office. A moon gleamed richly beyond the walls of Deauveau Place, but she could have wept, for it did not give her enough light.

She hesitated, then brought a long tinder match to the small lamp on the desk. The glow filled the room, and she hurriedly began her quest through the drawers. She had to find his forgeries and destroy them. That wouldn’t clear her father, but it would end his threats to have her sent to the Tower!

Time swept by as she desperately and methodically stuck to her task, drawer after drawer. But she could find nothing amiss. There were quills and ink and blotters, accounts and ledgers, wages paid and monies earned from the tenants.

She thought most acidly that William Deauveau was a splendid foreman—he collected every last shilling due!

As she opened the last drawer she felt depression overwhelm her. There was nothing here! Ah, she had known it, hadn’t she? That this was far too obvious a place—

She froze then, aware that a footstep had landed on the stair. There was a pause and then another fell, and she realized that someone was trying to stalk her.

Thinking quickly, she grabbed a book from the shelves, collected the lamp, and hurried to the window seat, curling into it with the book in her hand, the lamp at her side.

The doors swung suddenly and violently open. She uttered a little scream, grabbing the book to her chest.

William Deaveau stood there in nightdress and cap, staring at her with the greatest suspicion.

“Oh, Uncle!” she gasped. “You frightened me sorely!”

He stepped into the room, grimly silent, looking about. She was eternally grateful that she had replaced things as neatly as she had found them.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded harshly.

She tried to gaze into his eyes with a look of pure innocence. “I could not sleep; I thought that I might read.”

He strode over to her, staring at her more closely. He snatched the book from her hold, sneering at her.

“Do you often read with your story upside down, Ondine?”

“What? Oh, I dropped the book when you slammed the door so!” she accused him in hurt return.

He kept smiling, slipping the book behind his back. “And what were you reading, my dear?”

She might have screamed inside; she could not. She dredged from her subconscious mind all that her conscious thoughts had hidden. It had been a dusty green bound book, one with beautifully gilded pages.

“Shakespeare!” she gasped out.

She had guessed right; his eyes registered his surprise.

“And what collection?”

She searched her memory, yet already breathed more easily.
“King Lear
is the first play in that particular work, Uncle,” she told him serenely.

He opened the book, gazed at the first page, then snapped it shut and handed it back to her. “It’s very late; you might tire of a sudden and sleep with the lamp askew, thus starting a blaze that might well kill us all. Go to bed.”

Ondine had no thought whatsoever to argue. She clutched the book to her breast and ran quickly up the stairs. Safe in her room with the door bolted once again, she sank to the floor, trembling.

She must learn to be cautious—so, so cautious!

In time her heart slowed its frantic pace. She rose and went on into her bedroom, then into her bed, praying that she could find some release in sleep. But sleep, when it came, gave her nothing. The images that plagued her were not nightmares of Raoul, but haunting memories of Warwick.

Ah, memories that made her wake wretchedly exhausted!

“Autocratic bastard! Must you linger with me, command even my sleep now! Ah, that I could only flaunt the true fact of birth to your noble face!”.

She whispered out the words, then turned into her pillow, groaning. She clutched her temples, made painfully aware that last night’s illness had followed her to morning.

She felt horrible, even lying down. Queasy, dizzy …

“Oh, God!”

All color fled from her face; she was eternally grateful that she was alone, that Berta had not come to serve her yet.

Her mind went horribly blank, then filled with dates and times and figures; detail upon detail of intimate times together went flashing through her thoughts.

“Oh, God!” she repeated.

And she knew that Raoul—totally loathsome creature that he was!—had not caused her illness, nor had exhaustion, excitement, nervousness, nor any other easily dismissed disorder.

She was carrying Warwick Chatham’s child—not in pretense, but in devastating fact.

Clinton and Jake had reached London by then, and it was Jake who discovered where they might glean the most information on the lands held beneath the thumb of William Deauveau.

Not far from the outskirts of London, yet a scant forty-five minutes from Deauveau Place, was a tavern called the White Feather. It was a bawdy place, most frequently filled with the rougher working class, some honest, some not. A man, it was said, could buy most anything there, for the right amount of coin— women and ale, chemists’ potions and poisons, and information.

Clinton was the one to recommend caution in their apparel, and so he and Jake, along with Warwick and Justin, first purchased simple woolen garments, unadorned and cheap. They rode to that tavern as northern laborers, not at odds with those they had served, but desiring to come nearer the great city of London, farther from the foulness of the weather.

They ordered ale by the keg, beef and mutton, and spent much of their first night observing everyone about them. A buxom blond barmaid had a dither of a time deciding if she best liked Warwick or Justin, so they teased her together, set coins into her bodice, and when, for a few more coins, the innkeeper was persuaded to let her join their table, they plied her with great tankards of ale.

Her name was Molly, and she was a coarse, yet good-natured sort, affording just the type of assistance Warwick felt they needed.

She stayed, quite complacently, between the two brothers, giggling into her foamy ale. Justin talked foolishly to her; Warwick asked the more important questions.

“Tell me, lass, where could a man, good with his hands, find labor about these parts?”

“Ah, matey, but I’ll bet ye’re good with yer hands!” she replied, bursting into gales of laughter. Over her fluffy blond head Justin grimaced at his brother. Clinton cleared his throat.

Jake thought they might have ordered too much ale.

“Most seriously, lass. What of the grand manor I heard talk about? This Deauveau Place?”

“Deauveau Place! Ah, now, ‘tis a hard taskmaster rules her now!”

“Tell me of him.”

The girl chuckled. “Ah, now, that’s a story, man, so ‘tis!” she said, slurring. “Once he were a kind man, quiet and reserved. But the waters ran deep, so they say, for it seemed he attempted to kill our good king Charles, along with his whelp. None would have thought it surely, for she were a most beautiful thing, ye ■kin”—she jabbed Warwick in the ribs and winked—“the like of which our good king, fer all his experience now, might seldom ever see! The rumor is high that the lass was in with her da, yet she disappeared. And now the brother—not even a true Deauveau, but some stepson!—owns it all.” Molly lifted her ale to her lips with a full-lipped grimace. “Seems a sad story to me, for I hear tell she’s returned and that she’s to wed her cousin.” Molly shivered. ” ‘E’s a handsome devil, that one, but makes the blood run cold. The lass, those who served her there say, was always patient and kind, and I pity her, that I do. Not that it’s too uncommon, mind you, gents, but he looks the type to beat a bride, even a noble one at that!”

Looks passed quickly around the table; Molly was too far into her ale to note them.

She stared up at Warwick, smiling.

“If you’ve the stomach for such a man as Deauveau, though, they do say that the wages are good.”

“Are they, then? What say you the chances that the man might hire me on?”

Molly stared at him blearily for a moment, then gasped with sudden pleasure. “Why, the old smithy just died, he did! They be needing a man, since the apprentice were just a boy! If ye’ve a mind for solid labor, you might want to try your luck tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? When? Where?”

“Why, in the town center, of course.”

“Thank you kindly, Molly,” Warwick said, rising.

“Well, where ye be off ta now, so quickly?” Molly demanded indignantly.

“A night’s sleep, if I’m to be a working man on the morrow, dear mistress!” he informed her, then lifted a brow in mock apology to his brother.

“But fear not, lass; me brother here be a lazy lout, yet one for fun, if you know what I mean. He’ll take care of you, girl!”

Take care of her! Justin looked stunned, but Molly had already transferred her attentions to him, and he couldn’t do or say a thing to Warwick, since he was well occupied guarding his privates.

Clinton laughed and rose, Jake followed suit, and Justin grew desperate.

“Molly! I’m promised for the priesthood, I am.”

“A finely built gent like you? Noo!”

“Ah, but I am, alas! I’d thought I’d have me a few last flings, but already I feel my soul flying to torment. Oh! The pain!” With great drama Justin managed to rise, flash Molly one last smile and one last coin, and race after the others, leaving the tavern, though they’d a room there, since taverns were well known for carrying tales.

“The priesthood, eh?” Clinton doubled over with laughter at the sight of Justin, running quickly behind them.

“The pain! The pain!” teased Jake.

Justin grimaced, casting Warwick a baleful glare. “She wasn’t exactly my type!” he accused his brother. “If you must pick up women, you must dispose of them, too, Brother. I damn well was in pain! She’s fingers like a spider!”

None could take him too seriously, and Warwick burst into hearty laughter. But by then they were far along the road from the tavern, and no one was about to hear them. Gasping for breath after laughing in the harsh cold, Clinton leaned against a fence and stared more somberly at Warwick.

“I should go for the blacksmith’s position. I’ve spent half my life around horses.”

“And I haven’t, Cousin?” Warwick arched a warning brow.

Clinton waved a hand impatiently. “You’ve spent your life managing the estate, and on the king’s business. I am the one who knows horses.”

Warwick shook his head. “I know enough. And I have to be there.”

“Perhaps, Lord Chatham,” Jake remarked, “ye’re precisely the one o’ us who should not be about her.”

“I’ll do nothing rash, damn you all!” Warwick swore. “I’ve common sense aplenty, but I must see her. She is my wife.”

Justin ribbed Clinton with his elbow. “Actually, I’d rather enjoy seeing the lord of the manor as a blacksmith. He’s pathetically low on humility, if facts must be faced.”

“Oh, aye, pathetically,” Clinton agreed. Jake sniggered.

“Justin—”

“Just a comment, Brother, nothing more!” Justin said cheerfully. “But now”—he rubbed his chin—“he’s a bit too clean for a man of his means, wouldn’t you say, Clinton?”

“Oh, aye, pathetically clean.”

“He needs a good romp in the mud.”

“Well, there is no mud about, good fellows, so you’d best forget that!” Warwick stated.

Clinton grew sober. “Warwick, ‘twould be best if you did not appear so refined. You might easily make this William Deauveau wary. There’s mud near the tavern entry. Ye need some dirt under your fingernails, at least.”

“Callused and filthy! I will enjoy this,” Justin announced.

Warwick stared at his hands. “There are calluses aplenty on them as it is,” he said.

“Aye,” Clinton agreed, “be grateful for them; were they not there, you’d never pass as a smith.”

Warwick shrugged. “All right; lead me to the mud. Justin, you’ll not be around to see anything. You and Clinton are heading back to court.”

“We are?” Justin asked.

Clinton nodded, watching Warwick, aware already of the workings of his mind. He gazed at Justin then. “We’re to see what there is to discover. Surely someone, somewhere, saw something amiss that day.”

“Don’t go to court, but take rooms in London,” Warwick advised. “I think we need to look among the common folk. Perhaps listen to the gossip in the taverns. Someone might be afraid to step forward.”

“And what of Jake?” Justin asked.

“Jake will stay here, should I need him. He can glean the most from the people.”

“And besides,” Jake added, his wizened gnome’s face crinkling into a smile, “I rather like Molly, meself!”

Laughing, they all linked arms and headed for the mud. Justin seemed most talented at applying it to his brother. No man should go slovenly for such an appointment; he simply should not appear as if he enjoyed bathing and indulged in that habit regularly.

After a time, though, the laughter died again, and Justin tensely queried his brother. “How do you know you’ll earn this fine position? Maybe a number of hearty and better known townsfolk will also be applying.”

“I don’t intend to wait for the interviews; I’ll present myself at Deauveau Place in the morning.” He hesitated. “I can’t wait; I can’t hold my distance any longer. I must be able at least to see her, and see that she moves healthy and well!”

At dinner the following night, Ondine was in a much stronger frame of mind. She had spent the afternoon riding over the snow-covered estate with Raoul. She had been pleasant, and he had not come too near. When they spoke, they talked about things distant: the theater in London, opera, and art. Raoul was an avid admirer of the great painters; he was well read and had a keen eye for talented men and masterpieces.

She had been painstakingly charming and sweet that day, well aware that charming Raoul might be her only hope of salvation if things went too far beyond her control.

Such as being with child!

She lured herself from the thought continually, for there were no answers to the dilemma, but simply more problems. She could not think that she would adore the child, that she would be pathetically eager to lavish upon it all the love she had never been able to give the father. She could not wonder if it would be a husky boy, born with rare golden eyes like his sire, or a wee girl, perhaps, golden blond, lovely, and sweet …

She dared not wonder, even in the depths of her heart, what Warwick would feel. Would he wish her back—should she live to discredit this pair here!—for the sake of a legally born heir? He was ever so possessive a man; lord of his domain! And worse still, perhaps more frightening than even her uncle’s treachery, was a haunting fear that he would be furious that she should have left him so, carrying what was rightfully his. Having stolen gold coins would mean nothing to him; those she had earned. But leaving with flesh and blood, his flesh and blood, an heir …

“Are you ill, Ondine?”

“What? No!” she gasped out, looking from her cousin to her uncle.

“You give no attention to your food,” William commented.

“My sleeplessness last night, I suppose,” she murmured, biting into her fowl. She smiled. “It is delicious, Uncle.”

William wrapped a hand over hers briefly, curiously. “How charming you can be when you so choose, my dear.”

“And I have so chosen, Uncle,” she said softly.

“Umm.” His syllable carried a tone of doubt, but she gazed at Raoul with a smile, and Raoul, it seemed, wanted no doubts.

“What do you think of the new smith?” William asked Raoul.

Raoul thought a moment, his fork delicately poised in midair. “He suffices. Big brute, though, isn’t he?”

“One couldn’t have a weakling for a smith,” William commented, turning to his food. He shrugged. “He’s a surly fellow, it seems. The north country breeds arrogance. He’s powerful, though, with shoulders that do well in a forge. We shall see how he works out.” He gazed at Ondine then, but she did not notice, for this night the fowl was truly tender and delicious, and she was famished. Her sickness had miraculously left her; it was almost like a trick of fate, coming to point out to her what recent circumstances had caused her to ignore.

“Will you play the spinet tonight, as you used to?” Raoul asked her.

“I—” She had thought to escape him early, but she needed to woo Raoul to her confidence, and playing the spinet did not call for much hardship. “If that is what you wish, Raoul,” she finished.

Dinner completed, they entered the ballroom at the left wing of the house, a wonderful vast room with good acoustics. It was chilly here, though, even with a fire raging, for the ceilings were high and the place difficult to heat Ondine played tune after tune, humming at times, singing at others, finding a certain peace in the activity. William sat in a great chair, sipping brandy, quite at home with this pastime that marked him a true gentleman.

Raoul held a glass of port, but did not drink. He stood, leaning slightly against the spinet, and watched her.

This is my home! My heritage! she longed to rage.

But it could only be hers if she eould oust them from it, and that would take time and patience.

At last her uncle stopped her, saying that it had grown too cold for them to remain in the ballroom. He took her arm to lead her from the place. At the foot of the stairs he relinquished her to Raoul.

Raoul made a great display of kissing her hand.

She could not wait to wash it, but smiled and told him sweetly that she would see him on the morrow.

Ah, what glory it was to shut her door upon them! She leaned against it in relief, then started, for she could hear them speaking in low tones just outside in the hallway. She pressed her ear to the door, barely breathing so that she might hear them.

“I tell you, it must be done now!”

“Father! She just comes to trust me, to see my company! If you do such a thing now—”

“Do you want a whore for a wife?”

Raoul laughed bitterly. “If she’s a whore, Father, she might well please me at that. Lady or whore, she is the duchess! Sexual appetite does not change that fact.”

“Well, I would like to know!” William said stubbornly. “If she’s been off with other men—of what caliber we’ve no idea!— I’ll be damned if she’ll stride about this place with her cloak of virtue! I tell you, I intend to send for a physician now, to solve this thing one way or the other.”

“Father! I am the one to wed her!”

“Then discover something of her, or I shall see to it myself. I give you a few days time and that is all.”

Raoul replied, but Ondine could not hear him, for the two men walked away. Worried, she walked into her room, tapping her finger against her chin in vexation. What was she to do now?

Raoul … he was her only hope. Should she throw herself at his feet in some wild scheme, praying that he could stave off his father?