Ondine (38 page)

“Why?” Deauveau narrowed his eyes warily. “What do you know of him?”

She laughed—nervously, Jake thought, and rightly so!

“I know nothing of him, except that he is a big brute and could be dangerous.”

Deauveau did not seem happy with that; Anne offered him no more information. Deauveau reached for the ale he had previously rejected and drained it quickly, grimacing as the liquid went down.

“Come, sir!” Anne urged with annoyance. “Do you want her gone or not? If you do what I say, none can point to you!”

“Aye, I want her gone!” Deauveau said with vehemence.

Anne smiled and raised her hand, looking about for their tavern maid. Jake frowned then, for he couldn’t see Molly about anywhere. What had happened to the girl?

“Ale here!” she commanded.

“Nay—I need no more.” Deauveau stood, staring down at Anne very carefully once again. “Madam, know this: Beauty moves me not at all. If this plan fails and leaves me beholden, I will find you—and kill you in her stead.”

Anne was not frightened. “Deauveau, I cannot tell you how devoted I am to this bargain of ours! It will not fail; I seek that death certificate with greater vengeance than you can imagine!”

Her passion must have convinced him, for he nodded and strode from the tavern.

Jake barely kept from moving, yet he didn’t dare. The lady Anne would certainly recognize him if she saw him. He would have to wait for Hardgrave to return, for the two of them to leave this place, before he could seek the means to get a message to Warwick.

Once again time dragged. What was Hardgrave, truly the devil’s own, doing to endure the cold so long?

Once again the minutes dragged endlessly. Even Lady Anne grew impatient, frowning, drumming her fingers against the table, staring at the door again and again.

At least ten minutes passed before Hardgrave arrived, coming ridiculously close to Jake when he went first to the fire to warm his hands and backside.

“What in God’s name took you so long?” she snapped when he joined her.

He shrugged. “I wandered, I lost track of the time. Is the deal made?”

“It is!” Arme exclaimed, too wickedly ecstatic to care any longer that he had taken such time.

Hardgrave nodded. “Good. Then let us quit this place!”

He tossed a coin on the table, and Anne rose. Hardgrave set an arm about her shoulders, and together they left.

Jake had just started to rise, to move limbs cramped from frozen inertia, when Molly burst back into the tavern from the front, shivering with cold, rubbing her red and chafed hands together. But she was so full of excitement that she rushed straight to Jake, heedless of her chills.

“Molly,” he began, “I need help—”

“More than ye know!” she exclaimed in a terse whisper. “The gent—that nasty,, arrogant fellow—I saw him from the kitchen, I did. Waitin’ outside, yet waitin’ as if he had something on his mind! I knew ye wanted to know everything, Jake, so I snuck out after him—”

“Without a coat? Bless ye, girl!”

“Hush, hush, listen! When Deauveau—”

“How’d ye know it was Deauveau?”

“I told ye about the Deauveaus, remember!” Molly said indignantly. “Now, listen! When Deauveau came out, calling fer his horse, the other man hailed him before he could leave. Deauveau was impatient; the lord was insistent. He started talking about that friend of yers—”

“Warwick?” Jake demanded.

Molly rolled her eyes at him with reproach. ” ‘E’s no blacksmith, that one, he ain’t!”

“Ah, Molly, I know, it’s just—”

“Ye couldn’t trust a tavern wench, I know!” she chastised him. “Well, it seems ye must now, Jake!”

“Molly, I trust ye! Fer God’s sake, tell me what happened next!”

“Lord What’s-his-face told Deauveau that he was the ‘gent’ in question—that all that the lady had said stood, but that there was more. He told Deauveau that the blacksmith was the duchess’s lover. Deauveau said that he’d kill the cur; the lord said no, that he wanted to kill the man himself, but that the lady inside was to know nothing of it! The lord was very insistent, even when Deauveau started raging. He said that Warwick was his, and his alone to slay, and that he’d been waiting for that vengeance for a long, long time. Deauveau finally calmed down, and the lord gave him some package, saying that it was more of a ‘powder’— all Deauveau had to do was put it in something that the blacksmith drank, and he’d be out like a downed bull in a matter of minutes. He said to make it all happen tomorrow night, at the dinner hour.”

Jake grabbed her cheeks between his hands and kissed her soundly.

“Ah, Molly, yer one in a million fer sure, girl!”

“I like ye, too, Jake. Ye know that!”

“I’ve got to reach Warwick immediately,” he murmured worriedly, but Molly chuckled and swung herself happily onto his lap.

“One in a million, that I be, Jake! My sister’s married to the son of one of the old servants at Deauveau Place; she can have her boy bring his grandpa a new knit shawl. And old Jem can get a message to the blacksmith, all right, you mark my words! Jem’s been staying on there just on the chance the girl might come back—he’ll be yer most willing friend!”

“Then get me a quill, Molly, girl! And know this, ye’ve just made a friend yerself, and that friend be one of the king’s favorites. Rewards, Molly, will be yers!”

” ‘Tis not fer reward, Jake!” Molly admonished him with a cuff upon the ear. ” ‘Tis for love!”.

At his cottage, far from the main house, as such workers’ lodgings were, Warwick lay upon his thin pallet staring at the ceiling, waiting for time to pass, for the night to grow deep and dark. Firelight danced upon the ceiling, and he watched its pattern, yet his mind raced as he did so, his body tensed and eased, tensed and eased.

Ah, these feelings! They tortured him, they ripped him in two. He saw again a blood-red fury as he thought of the Deauveaus, William and Raoul, and his fists would clench, his muscles constrict. How he longed to face them in a battle to the death! Come hell itself, he would do so! Cold-blooded murderers and worse! Traitors, debauchers, blackmailers; conniving, sniveling snakes!

Raoul—ready and eager to slay a babe! His babe!

Agh!

He rolled and twisted, bracing against the bed to still his rage. And yet it was something he could contain, in his fashion, for he determined with lethal intent that he would, in time, find a way to force the men into open battle. Cowards—they were no true foes! They had used trickery to perform their murder, slaying the duke before he ever understood their treachery!

But Ondine …

He rolled again, staring at the dancing patterns on the ceiling. He was almost afraid to see her this night, yet he was compelled to do so. He longed to drag her over his knee and redden some fair part of her anatomy! God! How could she have done this! Left Chatham, come here, left him, entered into this liars’ maze when she carried his child! Dear God, he couldn’t yell in her room—he was overflowing with oaths. Time had not eased his bitter anger against her; it had increased it. He shouldn’t go there; he had to. He had to tell her that she was to meet him tomorrow at this cottage, and that they would leave then—be damned to all else! He was her husband; he was her law. He was the father of the life within her that she so carelessly endangered; he was the man who loved her beyond all else!

He swung his legs over the cot, ready to don his cloak and scale the walls to her chamber. Tomorrow, he thought grimly, he would get her away from here, then come back for justice and vengeance himself. Charles could banish him from the kingdom for fighting if he chose, yet Warwick did not give a damn.

He started suddenly, holding still and listening. Something furtive moved by his door. He was about to yank it open so that the intruder might pitch in when he heard a soft rapping. Curious and wary, he opened it.

An old man stood there, shivering in the night. One of the servants from the house, Warwick realized, recognizing him. He was certainly no threat, being well, well on in years, small and gaunt—and trembling like a windblown leaf.

“Come in, old man,” Warwick said, reaching for the fellow’s arm and dragging him near to the fire. The man nodded gratefully, taking the one plain but sturdy chair there and rubbing his hands before the blaze as Warwick crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at him, waiting patiently.

Slowly the man’s teeth ceased their chatter, and before Warwick could speak again, he began an outpouring of words. “I’ve a note for you, smith. A message from the White Feather, from a man called Jake.”

“A message? Hand it over, man!”

Frowning with surprise and deep concern, Warwick took a sealed envelope from the man’s trembling fingers. “There’s tea in the pot over the fire; warm yourself,” he told the man absently as he ripped into the envelope.

Jake’s words were brief.

“A plot afoot,” the message read. “Come to the tavern now. Urgent. Do not go near Ondine this night!”

Scowling, Warwick looked back to the old servant, now attempting to pour himself a tin mug of tea, still shaking so badly that the pot banged against the tin.

Warwick took the pot from his hands, poured the tea, then haunched down by the old man’s feet, waiting impatiently for him to warm his blue lips with the steaming liquid.

“How did you come by this message?” he demanded.

Proud eyes gazed into his. ” ‘Tis no trickery, sir, not by me! I’ ve a son wed to a lass who’s sister of a wench at the White Feather. My grandson came to the back door tonight, with a package for me. He told me I must get this envelope to you, and then he said that I was to stress that you must not come to the house.”.

“Can you get a message to your lady?” he asked tensely.

Eyes burning brightly, the old man nodded.

“I don’t wish to place you in jeopardy—” Warwick began.

“Sir, you are no smith; that I can see, and so would those two who label themselves ‘lords’ if they had any interest outside themselves! If you’re here to help the duchess, then readily will I place myself in jeopardy, for I have loved her many years, and would die a thousand deaths not to see her wed to that treacherous scum!”

“Good man!” Warwick said softly, smiling. “Then tell her this, and it is urgent! Tell her she must slip away in the morning; tell her she must come here before noon! She must act their perfect lackey in the morning, yet not fail to arrive here! Can you do this forme?”

“Aye. They have tried to keep her from me, and me from her, but, sir, I will reach her! I swear it!”

“Thank you—”

“Jem, sir, my name is Jem.”

“Thank you, Jem. Bless you. If all goes well tomorrow, you’ll see your lady again, anytime that you wish! All that you must do is await my word.”

Jem handed Warwick the tin cup and stood, no longer shivering. His slender shoulders were straight.

“You’ll take her away from here—tomorrow?”

“Aye.”

“Then bless you, sir! God bless you, and God go with you! And God damn the two of them for all eternity!”

“Amen!” Warwick agreed.

He let Jem out, then reached for his cloak. He had a long ride ahead of him, a long ride out to his curious assignation at the White Feather.

Ondine never did discover what caused her uncle’s foul temper of the morning. After the king’s departure, William had come into the house only briefly, then departed again with only a few words mentioning that he would not return until late, and another of his condemning glares.

Raoul did not return to the house at all during the afternoon. Berault informed her that he was about business. Ondine thought that this “business” was most provident, for if she could but elude Berta’s ever prying eyes, she could search Raoul’s rooms.

She was thus involved—searching his wardrobe—when she was discovered by Raoul.

“What are you doing in here, Ondine? I cannot believe that a great concern for my hose brought you into my private quarters.”

She flushed quickly, then somehow managed to laugh. “Nay, Raoul! ‘Twas not your hose that brought me here. I came to—”

“To what?” he snapped.

She panicked, then spoke. “I—well, I wanted to see your rooms.”

“Duchess,” he said tensely, dark eyes as menacing as the nervous constriction that tightened his body, “tell me what it is you’ve come to see!”.

“Oh, Raoul! I was simply attempting to draw a comparison! We’re to be married in less than a month now and I was assuming, well, that we should choose a set of rooms, and I’ve always been exceptionally fond of mine. Yet I thought it not entirely fair to think that mine was best. I meant to judge on size, and position, and comfort—for two. And while I was here … well, I must admit to a woman’s curiosity. I peeked into your things and found this horrid squalor!”

It seemed an agonizing eternity before he slowly eased, before he accepted her sweetly spontaneous lie as truth.

He touched her hair at her forehead. “I’ve never had a wife to care for me before,” he told her.

He was too close! “Oh, ‘tis dark already! I must hurry to bathe for dinner,” she cried. “Raoul! With your father out this evening, we’ll be alone.” And so saying, she fled his chamber.

She didn’t know that she still shook until she reached her own door, opened it, and once inside leaned heavily against it. She gasped for air, sighed deeply, and closed her eyes, pleading that her blood should warm again, her limbs cease to quiver. She realized then that she hadn’t said a word to Raoul about his father’s behavior of the morning, or asked about his disappearance. Escape had seemed of the greatest importance then; at dinner she would need conversation so they could readily discuss William.

“Duchess, you do look pale!”

She opened her eyes, irrationally annoyed to find that Berta was already there, standing before her with her chubby hands on her squat hips and staring at Ondine in that smug way that was little more than a sneer.

“I thought you did not enter my room if I did not bid you to do so, Berta,” Ondine said dryly.

Berta lifted her hands innocently. “Milady! Tis late indeed. I brought your bath. You must hurry, for the water grows cold.”

Ondine smiled and contented herself with sweet vengeance toward Berta, stepping into her tub, but dropping the soap again and again and politely using the woman as a hunter might a golden retriever. She was doing it on purpose, of course, and Berta knew that, but what could she do?

Once dressed, she began to shiver again. Raoul had frightened her this afternoon when he had come upon her, and she wondered at the true workings of his mind—just as she wondered about his father’s.

She raised her chin for bravado and started down the stairs. Before entering the hall, she brought a soft smile to her lips, then swept in.

Raoul awaited her, standing before the fire, hands laced behind his back. She floated nearer to him, drawing his attention. Then she curtsied and swirled in a perfect pirouette so that he might admire the deepest mauve and lightest organdy gown that he had selected for her this evening, having certainly given Berta the order that brought the sour-faced battle-ax to produce it from Ondine’s wardrobe.

“Lovely,” Raoul approved, then Ondine decided not to be quite so charming, because she despised that look that came into his eyes.

It was not the same look that Warwick sometimes gave her, one that gleamed golden and insinuative but also appreciative, so heated that it brought fire to her blood and a sweet quivering inside her. This, this was different. Perhaps the intent of it was the same, but the manner was different. Raoul meant no harmony, no give-and-take, no sweet sharing. His was a leer that hinted of something evil, and she felt tainted each time he looked at her so.

She hurried to her chair at the table, not even noting that the despised Berault was behind her, ready to adjust her seat. Stiffening, she felt him there and allowed him his task. Raoul came after her, choosing his father’s position at the head of the table, since William was not there.

She leaned toward him whispering softly, as Berault moved toward the sideboard to fetch the serving platters.

“Might we dismiss him as soon as the food is before us? I’ve questions of grave importance and privacy for you.”

Raoul looked at her curiously with his dark eyes, then nodded his assent.

Berault was back, at her side. Ondine helped herself to veal and stewed vegetables and watched Raoul do the same.

“That will be all,” Raoul told the man.

Berault hesitated, as if, Ondine thought dryly, he had been ordered to spy upon the two of them during the meal.

“I said, that will be all!” Raoul snapped.

Berault really had no choice. He left the hall, closing the double doors behind himself, reluctantly.

Neither Raoul nor Ondine cared about his reluctance. Raoul sipped his wine and watched Ondine. “What is it?” he asked her.

She pushed food around on her plate, then looked up at him. “Why was your father in such form this morning? Quizzing me with such a vengeance, so determined! Then when the king came, he all but tore the hair from my head, threatening me! Raoul, the title still is mine—or mine to share! What is this thing with your father? Will you be the duke, the master here, or shall he?”

He answered her slowly, carefully, still watching her as a vulture might watch a thrashing prey.

“You have said you are the duchess; I shall be the duke.”

She sniffed irreverently and gave her attention to her plate once again. “I must wonder, Raoul,” she said softly, “for he did seek to tear me to ribbons today, and you came not to my defense, though you’ve sworn to protect me!”

“It’s difficult, my fair betrothed, to come to your defense when you give me lies and half-truths!”

She stared at him reproachfully. “What lie? I came to you with the truth! I told you I had married! Is this foolish mistake on my part the cause of your father’s fury?”

“Nay,” Raoul said, eyeing her still. He gave no attention to his meal, but leaned back crudely in the chair, planting his boots upon the table. “My father discovered nothing of any legal wedding, of a husband, living or dead.”

Raoul’s eyes seemed to burn very brightly; she knew before he spoke that he watched her for a reaction, and even before his words came, she tensed, taking care.

“It is the child you carry that has father so enraged.”

“Oh!”

No amount of preparedness had her ready for that blow. Her heart sank, that William might have guessed. How? She had gained no weight, given no sign as yet!

“Then it is true,” Raoul said with a heavy sigh. A sense of hopeless terror struck her; she thought if he desired he would think little of spilling her blood then and there—he had gotten away with murder once already.

“Aye,” she whispered numbly; denial would make no sense. She had, in stunned surprise, betrayed herself.

He moved his feet suddenly. His fingers curled around hers and he leaned close, his long sharp nose near touching hers.

“I believe that Father wishes to kill you,” he informed her tonelessly, drawing a chill to her very bones. “Yet, you see, I am loyal indeed. I can forgive the child. It shall be no matter to me to claim it. I have told him so, and so it shall be. I will be the duke, and your master, and as you see, you will have strong occasion to be grateful for it!”

She couldn’t help but look into his eyes, to feel the fury and coldness that came from him. His father wanted to slay her, but despite his words, she knew that he was no better. He had spoken of claiming her child, but it was the child that he would slay!

Berta! she thought suddenly. It was that great hulking cow who had betrayed her, sniveling about, marking tender changes in her body she had barely begun to discover herself. Berta, that damnable, wretched woman!

Ondine pulled her fingers from Raoul’s, knotting her fingers in her lap. She lowered her head in a humble fashion, yet it was not humility she felt; now she needed the sweeping mass of her hair, a shield to hide the true loathing in her eyes.

“So you would marry anyway,” she said softly. “And claim my child, seed of a peasant, as your own! Truly, Cousin, I am stunned and amazed. And most gratified, too, of course.”

Her manner seemed to both please and amuse him. He sat back once again, stretching out his legs, able this night truly to imagine himself the lord of the manor.

“You will have to bear Father’s insults.”

“Aye, I can see that.”

“He will be brutal.”

“Aye, I can imagine.”

“But I will be there. I would do anything to possess you.”

She raised her head at last, meeting his eyes, hers touched by the fire’s sizzle, a smile playing about her lips.

“Me … the title, and the lands.”

He shrugged. “They come as the same, do they not?”

“They do, I suppose, as long as I live.”

His feet fell to the floor again. He was annoyed when he addressed her next. “I will have what I want! Father must bend to me in this matter. As long as you come to me meek, bear his fury as well you deserve, step with care and obedience, all will be well.”

She pushed back her chair, her food barely tasted. He rose as if to stop her, yet she placed a pleading hand upon his arm.

“Raoul, I am, most naturally, distressed. I—”

“We’ve the night alone!” he said with dismay.

She shook her head. “I feel ill. Please, forgive me, Raoul. Forgive me in the knowledge that soon, ah, soon we will always be together. Please!” The last came a bit desperately, for it was true—before God!—she had to escape him.

“Raoul! I am grateful, I am amazed; I am in awe of the days that will come before us! But this night, this night I cannot help the fear, and I feel weak with it, exhausted!”

That was not so much a pretense; she felt dizzy, miserable, and very, very frightened.

Slowly he nodded.

She waited for no more from him, but turned, swirling her skirts behind herself. She hurried up the stairs and did not feel at all safe until she was within her chamber with the door bolted.

Not even that safe haven, though, gave ease to her agitation. So her uncle knew … Oh, God, what did that foretell? And Raoul, Raoul was a liar of extreme vileness, for bitterly she knew that he would never tolerate another man’s child, and certainly not that of a man he believed to be an illiterate peasant!

She had claimed exhaustion; she was far from it. Time and time again she walked the length of her chambers, from sitting room to bedroom, then back again. Raoul still believed that he was marrying her—she was certain that William had determined that he would not. William, then, must be planning some other fate for her, but what would that fate be?

She paused at last, lying on her bed, placing her cheek against the coolness of her pillow. Perhaps Warwick was absolutely right; perhaps this had been a fool’s quest from the very beginning. It might well be the time to flee, without waiting for another day …

Warwick! Ah, if Berta had seen her condition, it was only a matter of time before her husband, her lover, discovered it likewise.

She wondered with a soft groan if he would ever believe she had come here ignorant of the babe she carried and that she loved the babe, his babe.

Warwick …

He would come. He would come to her tonight, slipping into the room like a powerful shadow. He would be there to hold her, to cherish her against the fear and terror that seemed a new and devious noose, tightening for the impending kill.

When he came, when he held her, when he leant his strength to her, she would agree that they must run now, that they mustn’t wait another minute, that there was nothing to be gained in staying. Oh, but she was a fool! She was risking so much here! Her life, the babe’s—and even Warwick’s. For he would never leave her, and it was true, should he see her in difficulty, he would cast himself upon her assailant, heedless of weapons, heedless of number …

Her face burned, even against the coolness of the sheet. She closed her eyes tightly, then resolved to fight her fear and think productively on what was to come. She had only to wait, to embrace her lover when he came as surely as the night wind, to place in his hands her heart and her life.

Determined, she stood and rinsed her face. Still anxious, she sat before her dresser and began to comb out her hair. She felt the warmth of the fire, the darkness of the night beyond. Ah, it was a cold night, the earth blanketed in snow, the wind beginning to whisper and moan, swirl and threaten.

She cast the brush away and stood, and thought again with quivering awareness that he would soon be with her, strong and powerful. No words would be needed at first. He would come to her an inferno, eager for her arms, eager to appease the fires that burned so high when they lived like this, apart and thinking always of the other, apart and wary of danger. They would long to crush and hold and assure one another that they were alive still, together still …

Smiling wistfully, Ondine stood and slowly, carefully, began to shed her clothing—her shoe.s, stockings, garters, overskirt, and underskirt. Then, shivering, she crawled quickly into her bed, beneath the covers, hugging them to her.

He would come. He would come. He would warm her …

Firelight played across the room. She watched its movement across the ceiling. She thought of his touch, his love. She imagined his face in her mind, his eyes, cheeks, and chin, so stubborn, so gallant. She saw his hands, bronze against her flesh …