Ondine (43 page)

A man who had shed his great cloak was standing over her, covering her with its warmth, supporting her with strong sure arms, helping her to her feet; a man with anxious green eyes, and a dearly loved countenance she had thought never to see again.

“Justin!” She touched his cheek with affection. He nodded grimly, holding her to him, since the drama above them was still unfolding.

“Get off your knees, you sniveling coward!” a voice commanded Raoul, yet it was not Warwick who gave the order.

“He’ll kill me!” Raoul wept.

Suddenly—without Warwick having moved from his stance before him—Raoul pitched face first into the snow with only a little whimper escaping him. Ondine saw that a knife hilt stuck out from his back and that a blood stain was rapidly seeping around it.

Incredulous, she looked beyond him.

William Deauveau was walking toward his fallen son. Warwick, also incredulous, took a step backward.

William fell to his knees in the snow. He pulled his blade from his son’s back, then turned the body face forward and smiled strangely as he closed his son’s eyes in death.

He looked up at Warwick then, offering his odd explanation.

“He would not have stood up well in the Tower, you see. He would have suffered agonizingly, awaiting death by the executioner. Alas, he’d have had no honor, no dignity. This was best; quick, merciful.”

Silence followed his words, a silence touched only by the winter’s breeze.

Then Warwick spun about, dripping still from the stream, yet not shivering, looking only to his wife.

She could not smile; her face seemed frozen. Yet she lifted her arms, lifted them out to him in amazement, for they both lived.

“Warwick!”

The startled cry came from another man, behind them on the bank. Clinton! Aye, they were all here, her Chatham men. Yet she could not muse upon his appearance, for the cry had been a warning, and already Warwick was spinning back, ready to parry the danger.

For William Deauveau had risen and flown after Warwick’s back like a crazy, rabid dog. Warwick just barely had time to spin and raise his sword before the man shot on top of him.

But just like Hardgrave, William Deauveau hurtled himself onto his death blade, catapulting at Warwick just as Warwick moved his sword. He felt it searing through him.

Warwick bent slowly with that weight, easing Deauveau back to the ground.

Strangely the man still smiled. He moved his lips, whispering to Warwick. “Thank you,” he mouthed painfully. “I could not bear the wait for the headsman either … all for a girl … On-dine …”

Then his lips moved no more. Warwick stared at him a moment later. He left his sword where it was, stood, and turned.

She was waiting for him still, arms outstretched, trembling, her eyes as wide and brilliant as sapphires against the winter’s snow.

He came down the embankment, sliding, catching himself, deter- mined only to reach her. From Justin’s arms she came to his, those sapphire eyes still upon him with awe.

“You live!” she breathed. “We live.”

It must have been too much for her, for her stunning eyes fell shut, and she collapsed against his chest.

When she opened her eyes again, she truly wondered if she hadn’t somehow left the earth, for there was a sea of faces before her, the nearest being that of another man most dear, yet startling to find here. Here …

She blinked and realized that she lay in her chamber, in her own bed. She was cold no more, for a fire burned and crackled cheerfully in the hearth and her wet clothing was gone. She was dressed in a muslin nightdress—one with pretty buttons up to the throat—and covered with a sheet and the brocade spread.

The king was on her right, smiling mischievously as he held her hand, but her other hand was warm, too, and turning, she saw her husband at her side, fresh shaven, clean—beautiful. But she frowned at the sight of him, for there was a bandage at his temple, reminding her how close to death he had come; indeed, she had imagined him lost to her, and in that, had cared nothing for herself. She might have most carelessly tossed her own life aside … and lost all that was now theirs—a lifetime together.

“Ah, Duchess!” the king declared. “You’re with us again!”

Ondine tore her eyes from her husband’s anxious amber stare to give her attention to the king. She smiled then, for it was true— they were all there. Dear Justin, Clinton, a pretty woman she dimly remembered meeting at the queen’s side, and even a strange man, thin, gaunt, and somehow sad m appearance.

“Your Grace!” she murmured to the king, confused, but then he laughed. “What a crowd to arise to, eh, my dear?”

“Nay, I’m grateful! But how are you here?”

He shrugged, his mustache curling along with the amused quirk of his lip. “I’d thought to return, you see, once I had left. To see all as normal might be easy and well, yet if I returned after having been here already, I thought I might catch someone off guard! As it happened, of course, I arrived when the commotion was actually over, just in time to welcome you back to the free and living!”

She turned her eyes to Warwick again, tightening her fingers that lay in his. Then she released them and, heedless of all others in the room, touched his cheek, amazed still that he lived and that life had come full circle for them both.

He smiled, as heedless of the others as she, caught her fingers, and brought them to his lips.

Justin cleared his throat, grinning as he chose to seat himself upon the foot of the bed.

“Dear Sister, I know you’re greatly enamored of this beastly brother of mine, but aren’t you even curious as to the situation?”

She grinned in turn at Justin. “Brother, dear, I know the situation! Jake was surely sent to tell you there might be trouble, and you rushed here at that behest! And, Justin—Clinton—doubt not that I am grateful! I thank you for your care, with all my heart!”

“Aye, well”—Justin cleared his throat again, uncomfortably this time—“I’m afraid that you became more endangered due to us! You see, Clinton and I were sent out in search of information. We were accosted by Lady Anne, and though I knew it not at the time, I know now that she must have overheard our words before she presented herself to us and then tied your kin into this deal with Hardgrave and yourself.”

Ondine shivered suddenly and looked at Warwick once again.

“Hardgrave?” she murmured.

“Dead,” he told her briefly.

“And Raoul and William, dead, too.” she whispered softly, then raised her eyes to Warwick once again. “How strange that William should have slain his own son, then attacked you so! He must have known he could not win!”.

“Aye, he knew,” Warwick said grimly.

“My dear,” the king told her, “his game was simply over.”

“Ah,” she sighed softly. “All is well, and I’m so grateful. Yet now, I fear, I shall never prove my father innocent”

“Oh, but he has been proved innocent!” Justin exclaimed.

“While Justin and I were busy endangering your life,” Clinton said apologetically, “we were also busy working on your behalf, and that’s God’s own truth! Yet it is thanks to Sarah here, and John Robbins, this young gent, that we came to the truth.”

Ondine frowned in confusion. Warwick shrugged at her, his love warm in his eyes, but he was determined that his brother be able to explain his own part.

“We met Sarah in London—by asking anyone who might remember a single blessed thing! And she did know something. She had known John on that date; and John was there, one of the king’s guards then.”

The man, the sad stranger, stepped forward earnestly. “My Lady, my greatest and most humble apologies, but I was a coward! That day, I thought myself mad. In truth, I knew not what I saw. I was confused myself. Then, when I might have voiced that confusion, I was threatened with my sisters’ lives. I knew it the truth then: Raoul had drawn the sword, slain your father, and got away with it!”

“Bless you, John Robbins! Bless you, Sarah! Oh, dear God!” she breathed, delirious, heady with the absolute happiness of it all. “I have gone to heaven!” she murmured gratefully.

“No, no!” Justin admonished her. “That’s what you’re supposed to feel after a tempestuous bout of lovemaking!”

“Justin—” Warwick admonished.

But Ondine giggled and interrupted him. “Oh, Justin, that is true! I do feel that way, most frequently!”

The king laughed, enjoying the joke, then stood with a little “Um-hmm!” sobering them all curiously. “We’re still missing one villain to this most unusual puzzle,” he reminded them. “Vil-lainess, actually.”

“Anne!” Warwick grated out irritably.

“When did you say that she was due here?” the king asked.

“Not until this evening, Charles,” Warwick told him. “After eight. Jake is there, keeping an eye upon the—lady.”

“Then she should still be at this tavern, this White Feather?”

Warwick murmured, “I think we all deserve the dubious pleasure of going to meet Anne.”

Justin chuckled deep in his throat. “One by one, Brother?”

“Exactly.”

“A black widow in a spider’s web!” the king mused.

Warwick and Justin rose simultaneously. “Sarah!” Warwick addressed the newcomer. “Will you stay with my wife?”

Ondine emitted a strangled gasp. “Nay! That’s not fair! Sarah and I surely deserve to come, too!”

“You, my love, will stay in bed!” he admonished her firmly. “You have been through brutal hands and an icy dunking—”

“And you were the one shot! After which you also endured a brutally cold dunking!”

“She is a lively woman,” the king said idly to Warwick, as if she weren’t even there! “Quite spirited; one can see where a problem might lie with her.”

“Alas! Not a humble mouth for a wife!” Justin chuckled.

Ondine threw her pillow at him; Justin caught it easily, so she cast him a nasty glare.

“I can handle my wife,” Warwick said confidently, “if you’d all just leave the room for a minute …”

“Warwick … ?” Ondine moaned warily.

But Charles was leaving; naturally, the others followed suit, and Ondine was left to stare at her husband with a curious mixture of resentment and love.

He sat beside her, taking both her hands, bowing his head, and yet she could see the strange little smile that curled his lip.

“Ondine,” he said softly, looking at her at last.

“Warwick!”

“Ondine …” He stared at her, his grin tender and open. “Tell me, do you believe that I love you with my whole heart, with all of my life, with all of me?”

“Aye!” she whispered softly.

“Then will you stay here—”

“Because you command me so?”

“Nay, because I ask you so.”

“But you were the greater hurt!”

“Ondine … !” He swept her into his arms, cradling her head with his hand, holding her against the strength and thunder of his heart. “Never has there been a cat such as you, landing on your feet again and again!”

“Anne, alone, cannot be dangerous!”

“It is not Anne I fear. I wish, my love, that you would stay here, warm and unbuffeted, for the sake of our child!”

“Oh!” she whispered. “Well, I—”

He kissed her tenderly, then was gone.

Jake noted Justin and Clinton the moment they walked into the White Feather, but Justin winked at him quickly, so Jake made no move toward them.

Anne was seated at the bench again, sipping wine, for she’d thought to bring her own. She was quite agitated, for Hardgrave had left hours earlier on some ridiculous errand and now it seemed that he was going to be late for their most urgent appointment.

“Why, Lady Anne!”

Smiling with the greatest pleasure, Justin reached for her delicate fingers and gave them an elegant kiss, then lifted a booted foot over the bench and sat to her right. She had barely registered his appearance with dismay before she felt a presence to her left and discovered that Clinton, smiling also, had taken a seat there.

“Whatever are you doing here?” Justin queried.

“I told you once!” she snapped quickly, wondering what would happen when Hardgrave walked in. Oh, what ill timing! Why hadn’t the man been punctual! “I find these places amusing!” She hesitated with the growing sense of unease, for if these two were about, had they come to meet Warwick?”

They had—he walked in right after them, not appearing the smith, but decked in his silken shirt, velvet breeches, plumed hat, and an ink-black cloak.

“Anne!”

He greeted her as pleasantly as his kin had done, sitting opposite her, and smiling, as if they had all met surprisingly upon a Sunday Mass in some obscure chapel.

“Warwick …” she murmured. She tried to smile; she tried to appear as pleased, but her effort was lacking. She realized with rising panic that she was trapped; Justin on one side, Clinton on the other—and Warwick Chatham, the arresting, stunning beast, before her.

He indicated the two glasses before her. “Ah, I see you’ve brought wine for two! May I?—or were you expecting someone?”

She felt a bit strangled, so she waved a hand, indicating that he should help himself.

“Nay, I don’t think I will. The tavern ale here wets my whistle well! Molly …” He lifted an arm, and Molly sailed over cheerfully, bringing foaming tankards of ale for the three Chatham men. “Molly, me lass,” Warwick told her, “I’ve been thinking that this place may be a bit rough for your tender age. Would you think of entering into private service? I’ll be returning north soon. And you might just like that northern clime.”

“Well, I just might at that, sk!” She winked across the room, and Anne turned quickly.

Jake tipped his hat to her, grinning affably.

Anne tried to stand; both Warwick and Clinton grasped an arm, holding her to the table.

She tossed her jet hair.

“What’s going on here?” she demanded.

“Annie, you don’t admit defeat, I’ll grant you that!” Warwick sighed to her.

“Defeat—?”

“Lord Lyle Hardgrave is dead, Anne,” Justin told her.

She sucked in her breath, staring at them in wide-eyed horror. She recovered, though, quickly.

“You’ve murdered him! A viscount! A peer! Warwick Chatham, you think that you are the law! You are not! When the king hears of this—”

A tall figure suddenly stood from the center of the tavern and approached their table, raising the brim of Ms hat

Charles Stuart bowed most elegantly to Anne and cast her his ever charming smile.

“Lady Anne, do go on. When the king hears of this … ?”

“Oh …” She was breathless, struck mute. She stared at the king. Charles slid in beside Warwick and looked casually about the place. ” Tis a bit of a dive, isn’t it, me lads?”

Anne found her voice again at last. “Chariest Your Majesty! I had nothing to do with treason, I swear it! ‘Twas a joke, a lark, a bit of fun, no more! Hardgrave, dead! I know nothing of it, I—”

“Anne, Anne!” He patted her hand assuringly and spoke in a soothing tone. “Anne, I suspect you of no treason. And thank God! For I would be loathe to think of your beautiful head falling from the block! A lark, a bit of fun, amusement, eh? I’m glad you think it was all so, for the fate you had in mind for Lady Chatham is quite similar to the one I have planned for you.”

She went dead white. Her voice was barely a croak. “Sire! You couldn’t—you wouldn’t—”

He chuckled softly. “Sell you to Moroccan slavers? Tis a thought, since it seems I am perpetually lacking funds! Alas, nay, lady, ‘tis not quite the same. In fact, I give you a choice. A Tower room, or marriage. There is a certain governor of a certain remote island in the Caribbean who has been a dear and loyal servant, yet he pines for want of a beautiful wife. He’s fat as a cat and bald as a buzzard—but sharp as a sword. I think you’ll suit one another aptly well!”

“I’ll not—” Anne began angrily.

“Ah, but you will!” Charles warned her. He lifted his hand; the groups of rowdies from the table where he had been suddenly rose and cast back their cloaks, displaying themselves as members of the king’s personal guard.

Two approached the table.

“Anne? They’re waiting for you.”

Clinton rose to let her by. He bowed, laughter upon his lips. She stared at the guards; she stared at the king.

Charles’s face was set. Anyone who knew him knew that look.

“Oh!” Anne cried in fury and desperation. “Charles!” she tried next with a pitiful plea.

“They are waiting!” he told her softly.

For once, Anne knew that she had been beaten. She swept by Clinton furiously and set herself between the guards. “Get your hands off me!” she snapped when they moved to escort her.

The tavern door closed in her wake. The Chathams looked from one another to the king; then they all burst into laughter.

Ondine and Sarah were taking tea, both seated cross-legged upon the foot of Ondine’s bed, when Warwick strode in, grinning smugly.

Ondine jumped up to greet him, nearly knocking over the China, all but making a disaster of the bed. ‘Twas only Sarah’s fleeting movement that saved the fragile porcelain cups.

“Warwick … ?”

He cast his arms around her, lifting her high, swinging her about. ” ‘Tis done! All villains apprehended!”

Breathless with laughter, Ondine clung to his arms. “And?” she inquired a bit anxiously.

He kissed the tip of her nose. “She is to have a most fitting end. Charles is having her married off to some fat governor of a most remote Caribbean isle. She’ll trouble us no more, my love.”