Ondine (34 page)

In his arms she came upon their bed of rough linen; in his arms she tasted rhapsody, heard its joyful ringing. That rough touch of his stubbled beard was coarse against the tenderness of her flesh, yet she cared not; sensation came all the greater. She could give no heed to the dangers that lurked beyond the door, for heaven help her, once his touch stirred her blood, her mind knew no other reality. She wrapped him in the silken ribbons of her limbs; he buried himself in the erotic entanglement of her hair. Thrusting rhythms lifted them on the wings of heartbeats where that very pulse became a song of union, of glistening flesh, naked bodies, straining limbs… yet with all the ethereal purity of endless clouds, silver magic. And only when their song, their beat, reached its crescendo did she feel the earth again, for his hand covered her mouth, muffling that ardent, mindless cry which would have escaped her.

Staring into his, eyes she flushed, and he chuckled softly, a sound breathless and deep, for still he remained with her, loathe to leave the sheath of her body. She buried her head well against his chest, sighing, and then as the heat of passion cooled in drifting satiation, she tensed, for fear had returned.

“You’ve got to go!” she urged him.

Reluctantly he rolled from her at last, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. “I tell you, I do not like this.”

“Please, Warwick, we—”

He rolled back to her, clutching her hands beneath his fingers, fervently pressing his lips against her breast. He stared deeply into her eyes and said, “If at any point I feel no hope remains, you will come—leave this quest—when I say.”

She lowered her lashes humbly, grateful that as yet he knew nothing of their child, for surely then he would drag her away, kicking and screaming if need be.

“Aye, Warwick.”

Still she felt his eyes upon her, and slowly she opened her own, meeting his curious gaze.

“I love you, milady.”

“Oh, Warwick!” She freed her hands from his grasp, threw her arms about his neck, and pressed herself to him in a new ecstasy of joy. Dark clouds seemed to shatter and break; all seemed sunshine and the sweetest whisper of a clean breeze.

“Wench or lady, horse thief, Duchess, I love you,” he added tenderly, arms tightening in return. And she whispered that she loved him, too, had loved him for an eternity …

On it went—muffled, inaudible words, clearly understood. Yet Warwick, so determined that his avowel must come now, and so desperate to hear hers in return, pulled away with explanations still unsaid, for the hour grew late no more, but early. Outside dawn came too near.

“My love—”

“Love …” she repeated, near delirious in her happiness.

He cleared his throat, catching her hands and eyeing her once again with a satanic gleam of wanting.

“My lady wife, my love! Though I find this the greatest ecstasy ever offered by life, I beg that you not bring your hips so hard against me, nor torture so my flesh with the stirring beauty of rosebuds and cream mounds, else I shall not leave, but drown again my lover’s sword in the velvet cloak of your body. Alas, ‘twould be the most beguiling action of the moment, but perhaps not the most wise.”

“Oh!” she murmured, suddenly wide-eyed and sober and well warned, for only then did she know that his ardor was once again growing strong against her thighs.

“Go!” she pleaded, pushing him from her.

He chuckled softly, kissed her one last fleeting time, and, with the greatest reluctance, rolled from her and rose.

She closed her eyes, twisting away, not daring to watch him dress, heartsick to see him go.

Warwick, clad once again, pulled on his boots and stared at her, a smile of great tenderness curving his lip. How glorious she appeared there, so wondrously sleek and rounded, pure and fair upon the poor material of the cloak. What a golden sunburst the rich strands of her hair seemed against the dull brown covering.

“Ondine!” he whispered softly.

She turned to him, and he smiled. “I need my cloak, lest you would keep it. Ah, if you wish, gladly will I freeze—”

She was instantly up, naked and beautiful, snatching the garment from the bed to toss upon him. Yet even as he wrapped it about himself, she cast herself into his arms, and once again they held tight, lovers blissful in the discovery of love, ecstatic—yet torn and anguished.

At last he set her away from him, glad that she could be so easily natural in her state of nudity with him, wishing that she were clad so that his leave-taking might be less difficult!

But then worry for the future seized him, and at the last it was with a hint of roughness that he touched her.

“Watch your step with Raoul, milady! Take the gravest care; all will most certainly be lost should you come too close to each other in my presence, and my temper should shatter.”

“I never—”

“You did! Today, my lady, it almost ended—your would-be husband might well have died a quick death from a hammer wound!”

She flushed. “I will take care.”

“And I, my love, will return to you here.”

Smiling at last, he kissed her forehead. She backed into the room, shivering as he opened the balcony doors.

Then he was gone.

For a moment she stared after him, touching her lips with her fingers, still amazed at his kiss … amazed at his love, at the very fact that he had been there, that he had come to her …

That he loved her, oh, really loved her! There was a future beyond this horror that loomed over her, a future together, a life of love and laughter, good and rich. All things lay ahead with promise and splendor.

But there was still this matter of danger first, treachery to be revealed.

She went to her closet for a gown, nervously scrutinized the room, became content that nothing was amiss, and returned to her bed.

There she could not dwell on the present. She could only sigh with contentment, run her hand over the place where he had been, and dream of the day when she could tell him that their love had bore fruit, that they would soon be parents; dream of the life that grew within her, of that day when she and Warwick would welcome that beloved being into their world …

All things seemed possible now. She would know no weakness. Warwick was with her again. And he loved her.

Loved her …

She was radiant when she awoke, humming when Berta appeared with her tea, oblivious of the’ woman who had been such a horrid thorn in her side. She drank her tea in a leisurely manner, smiled at Berta’s choice of a gown, and inquired with cordial concern as to the woman’s state of health.

Berta, naturally, eyed her with suspicion, yet Ondine could continue to smile with great smugness, for there was nothing suspect, nothing that Berta might find.

Downstairs, Ondine greeted her uncle and Raoul with unfeigned enthusiasm; it was easy to do so now. With Warwick about, she was certain that she could soon bring about the downfall of these two, and that belief brought her confidence.

“You slept well, did you, my dear?” William asked, and she knew that he was baffled, ever suspicious, but as with Berta, what could he discover? Ondine’s smile was radiant, her eyes were bright. She was able to look upon Raoul as if she were indeed anxious to claim him as a lover.

“I slept wonderfully, Uncle. I have never found such comfort in my bed!” she said demurely, eagerly helping herself to fresh baked bread.

Raoul laughed, excited by her appearance, believing that the brightness in her eyes shone for him, that all she offered would soon be his.

“There will be greater comfort when you come to mine,” he said.

She might have laughed in his face; she carefully lowered her eyes instead, glad that a flush suffused her cheeks, for it seemed to please her uncle mightily.

And so breakfast passed. Ondine idled about, sipping more tea, when her uncle reported that he had work to do in the study and asked Raoul to accompany him. When they were gone, Ondine once again took care that no one noticed her and slipped upstairs to her uncle’s chambers.

She tore into his desk, determined, excited, and then slowly disappointed, for even with her most tedious perusal of all papers and documents, she could find nothing.

She sat back then, despondent, yet even as defeat settled over her, excitement began to grow again.

She leaned forward, for she noticed something ingrained on her uncle’s blotter. She moved forward, staring more closely, and shivers filled her as she realized that though the documents he had threatened her with were not here, they had been written here. She could see that someone had practiced her handwriting here! Practiced it, until her signature was almost perfect. What perfect proof against them!

Oh, how she longed to snatch the blotter from the desk! She bit her lip and removed her hands from it. She could not go running from the house with it! And yet it might well be exactly what she needed. Any man of decent eye could see what had been practiced against her. However, she needed to have strength behind her, strength to invade the place, to seize the evidence. If she gave herself away now, the blotter would be destroyed before she could use it.

Ondine departed the chamber carefully, slipping back into her own room, where she might have privacy to control her excitement. But she’d barely closed her door before Berta knocked and entered without leave to do so.

“I’ve come back to clean,” she told Ondine sourly. “Seems there’s mud all about your bed!”

“Oh?” Ondine murmured. “Perhaps my boots carried it in.”

Berta just stared at her, then said, “Raoul waits for you downstairs.”

“Does he? Thank you.”

She quickly escaped Berta’s glare, rushing down the stairs to meet Raoul. He caught her hands and snapped his fingers at Berta, who had followed her to the landing.

“Bring the duchess her cloak, Berta. We’re going for a walk.”

Berta complied, and Ondine swept the silver fox about herself, waiting patiently with downcast eyes while Raoul adjusted the hood about her head.

She took his hand meekly, yet when she saw that they were returning to the bench at the lean-to by the forge, she was ready to pull back.

“Raoul, ‘tis so cold today—-”

“My dear, ‘tis the only place we can talk without being overheard!”

Oh, if you only knew who was listening! Warwick’s temper was such a slender thread, and knowing now that he listened made her performance ridiculously difficult.

Once seated, Raoul ardently took her hands. “You must tell me everything about this man—his looks, his name, exactly where you came across him. I must find him quickly!”

“Uh—he’s blond!” she replied quickly. “Very blond. His hair is almost as pale as moondust. And his eyes are very blue. Nordic descent, I would think,” she mused.

“And his name?”

“Tom.”

“Tom—what?”

“Miller. Aye, that’s it. Tom, the miller’s son. ‘Cept he turned to thievery rather than grain. And if he has not been hanged yet, he hides out in the forest near Westminster.”

“I’ll find him!” Raoul swore. “I’ll find him! And then, my love, nothing will stand between us. Ondine, kiss me! Give me just one kiss. Feel the ardor in my lips, the passion in my heart! Let me touch you—”

The door to the smithy suddenly swung full wide. Warwick came upon them, a red glowing shoe held out before him in a set of prongs. He stared at the two with a feint of surprise, but without apology.

Raoul stared at him heatedly, swore something beneath his breath about uncouth peasants, and then yelled, “What are you doing here!”

“I am the blacksmith,” Warwick said, watching the shoe cool.

Ondine drew her hands hastily from Raoul’s, aware by the glitter of Warwick’s eyes that his temper was as hot as the shoe he had formed.

“Raoul, I’m freezing!” she muttered. But it seemed that Raoul was distracted then, too. From the steps of the house his father waved to him in impatience.

“My love, I’ll be right back.”

Frowning, he ignored Warwick, touched her cheek, and went off at his father’s beckoning.

Warwick did not come near her, but his whisper sent a chill sweeping down her spine.

“I warned you, my love, to watch your step!”

“It’s near over!” Ondine said excitedly, careful to keep her eyes forward. “I’ve found something—”

Raoul was turning back to them.

“Tell me in your room tonight.”

“Nay! You cannot come there!” She discovered herself blushing furiously. “Berta found all your dirt!”

“Then, my love, see that you track in mud of your own, for I shall be there!”

“Warwick!” she gasped, yet to little avail. He had already turned back to the forge. Ondine jumped to her feet, eager to elude Raoul before he could persist. She thought that she could handle her cousin; she did not think that she could manage Warwick.

She passed Raoul by on the snow. “I am so cold! My dear cousin, we’ll meet again at dinner!”

She sped back to the house, highly agitated, yet still elated. She found solace in her room, alone with the beating of her heart, with her excitement—and with her dread.

Too soon, though, Berta made an appearance with a meal tray, and it seemed as soon as that tray was gone, her bath came. It didn’t matter. She was still in such a high state of nervousness that she barely noticed Berta.

But Berta noticed her. She eyed the girl’s young body when she stepped from the bath, moving slowly with her towel.

And though Ondine gave Berta no thought whatsoever, Berta was thinking only of her.

She judged, and came to a satisfied conclusion.

She finished with Ondine’s hair, then quickly took her leave.

Ondine was very, very glad to be left alone. She sighed as Berta left.

“Thank God that witch is no more upon me!” she railed in a whisper of disdain.

Yet she would not have been so elated if she had known that Berta had gone straight to William.

But at that moment she’ had no premonition of doom. She was dreaming of Warwick again, daydreaming of the night they had shared together, dazed with the beauty of love so sweetly requited.

She went to dinner, still in that dreamy state. Raoul was unerringly polite, and with Warwick’s iron-hand presence nearby, she was even better able to play the sweet betrothed to the hilt. And she was so glad of her discovery that morning, so confident, that she noted nothing strange in her uncle’s behavior. William was most decidedly in a rare courteous mood!