She opened her eyes with wide and malicious innocence. “Dear Lord Chatham! I shall certainly do my best to refrain from flying into a ‘common’ fit and thrashing your servants. Is that what you wish me to comprehend?”
He leaned back again, annoyed. “Madam, you’ll learn to watch your tongue.”
Long seconds passed as their glares locked, and Ondine’s eyes were the first to fall. She folded her hands in her lap, discovering that in one thing he was right. She hadn’t eaten much, but it seemed all that she could manage. It was imperative now that she be humble and gracious, lest she arouse his suspicions.
“I beg your pardon,” she told him demurely.
“Why don’t I believe that?” he muttered so softly that she might have imagined the words.
She looked at him, careful to keep the discussion focused upon her future life with him. “When Jake first came to me upon the cart, he said that some might say that I had wed a ‘beast.’ Are you a beast, milord Chatham?”
He made a ticking sound of annoyance and downed more ale. “The beast sits upon my armor, lady, nothing more.”
“Pray tell, what is this beast?”
He gazed at her dryly. “A dragon creature. Half lion, half myth. They say that once such ‘beasts’ roamed our forests, protecting Saxons from Normans—and Royalists from Cromwell’s wrath. I’ve yet to see one, myself, except in art and whimsy.”
Ondine smiled at little wistfully then, noting the charm of his grin. She was clean, her stomach was comfortably fed, and the promise of a new freedom loomed before her. She could afford to exchange a few words with the man, moments in which to lull him further to trust.
“When you wear the armor, sir, are you then the beast?”
He cocked his head slightly, arching a brow. “What we are is in how we are beheld, is it not?”
“So it would seem. Are there those who might behold you, then, a beast?”
“How can I judge for others?”
She picked up her goblet, twirling it idly in her hand, and scrutinized him quite openly, narrowing her eyes as if she gave the matter great thought.
“Aye, my lord Chatham, I can see where you might upon occasion appear the beast.”
“Do you? But then beasts can be quite tame, can’t they? And, my lady, my given name is Warwick. You must use it, at least upon occasion.”
He reached across the table suddenly, catching a lock of her hair between his fingers. Her flesh seemed to burn as his fingers brushed over her breast, and her breath caught in her throat with both indignation and a startling sensation. He didn’t notice. His interest in her was very keen; yet again, she felt much like a purchase, to be appraised for the value of appearance’ sake.
“You really are very beautiful,” he mused, as if such a thought should give him great surprise. “For a commoner.”
She could not help herself. She wrenched her hair from his grasp and moved as far to the wall as she could.
“Are commoners usually ugly, then, Lord Chatham?”
He sighed, as if weary of her troublesome behavior. “Nay, and I meant no offense. You’ve merely features very fine—far more so than many of the great and ‘noble’ beauties of the land.” She might have been a diversion, one with whom he had allowed himself to tarry, yet now found tedious.
“Have you quite finished?”
“What—”
“We’ve made our appearance. Word will spread quickly that you appeared at this table as my bride, a lady of bearing surely fit for mistress of the manor. Your past shall rest between Jake, yourself, and me. We need no longer stay here, and I, for one, am weary. I would think that you, too, would long for the comfort and cleanliness of a bed such as Meg offers here.”
A bed! With him in it beside her …
The dizziness swamped her in a burst of alarm and searing heat that brought a weak quiver to her limbs. Was he the beast, the rake, or the gentleman? She didn’t want to know. It was time to be the charming damsel now, herself; time to make good her elusive goal of freedom—and vengeance.
“Is appearance so important, then?” she murmured, stalling for time.
“Aye, especially so with us, milady.”
“Then why did you marry me, a common poacher? Please, don’t tell me you needed a wife! Surely you could have secured a dozen wives from better places, had you so chosen!”
“A dozen wives? A man may have but one, milady.” He hesitated. “I’ve grown tired of the pressure to marry, that is all. And I did not care to have a clinging countess about my neck, quizzing my movements. A gallows’ bride, madam, best suits my tastes. You are alive. I may be at peace and live my life as I choose. Does that satisfy you?” he inquired coolly.
“It must, if it’s what you wish to tell me.”
She lowered her eyes, fluttering her lashes carefully. A flash of guilt caused her heart to skip a beat. He had saved her life, had given her the pure ecstasy of cleanliness, and had caused her stomach to cease its habitual growl. Perhaps she could get an annulment for the marriage. She fervently hoped so, since there would be nothing she could do for quite some time. And she didn’t forget for a moment that she meant to pay him back.
“My lady, may we leave?”
She raised her eyes, allowing her lip to tremble. “Dear Lord Chatham, I implore you, may I have a minute for myself?”
“What?” He crossed his arms over his chest, scowling with a sudden impatience.
A flush that could not have been enacted rose to her cheeks, and she stuttered out her request again. “I’d have a moment. I— I wish to take care with my—”
“You needn’t—” he interrupted her abruptly, but she would not allow him to go on. She reached across the table, resting her fingers lightly on the top of his hand, staring at him with all the tender innocence she could muster.
“I implore you!”
He shook off her touch—almost with distaste—and lifted his hands into the air. “Do whatever pleases you. It makes no difference to me.”
Smiling graciously, she lowered her head and stood, willing her knees not to wobble. Hurriedly she swept from the bench, but she did not breathe until she had passed by him.
And then she gulped for air, blindly making her way through the tables for the stairway. There were still voices and laughter in that room; they all blended together as she raced up the stairway, aware only that Warwick’s eyes followed her intently all the way.
And, sitting still at that table, he frowned slightly as he watched her retreating back. She quite astounded him, for she was far more than he had imagined possible; slim, erect, shapely, dainty. As hollow as her cheeks were, their texture was as soft and pure as silk. She was truly a stunning beauty. None would doubt his attraction to such a woman; nor would anyone think to question her background.
Still scowling, he poured himself some ale. The only flaw seemed to be her temper. He had expected a great deal more humility and appreciation. She should have listened eagerly to his every word and not only been willing, but grateful to accept the life he was offering her.
Warwick leaned back and drank a long swallow of his ale. Then he grinned slightly. Her apprehension had been so evident, he’d been unable to resist the desire to taunt her.
To be fair, he should have told her bluntly that he had no intention of touching her—ever.
His smile faded. She assumed he would require the “duties” of a wife. He should have informed her that he would never desire such duties just because she was his wife and that, in time, he would see that she was freed from all obligation, yet supplied with an income to live out her natural days as she chose.
His fingers curled around his goblet, and he slammed it against the table with such vehemence that it almost cracked. He couldn’t tell her that, not yet. He pushed the goblet away, frowning with weariness. He might as well go up and let her know she need have no fear of him, “beast” that she claimed him to be.
And yet …
Strange how the memory
of her eyes, deep and hauntingly blue, remained with him. And her scent … now one of the richest, sweetest rose. And the velvet touch of her hair between his fingers—fire hair, dark in shadow, yet gleaming with strands that caught the color of the sun.
He smiled slightly. He even liked the pride she wore as a shield about her, though it could irk him sorely. The cast of her chin, the haughty retort in her eyes.
Yes, she might well have been born to rule a manor. And—by God!—he would see that she survived to have her freedom.
Warwick frowned suddenly, his muscles tensing as an inexplicable sensation of danger seized him. He thought of his new bride: the utter disdain in her delicate features when he had surveyed them, cleansed, for the first time; her quick temper; her immeasurable pride. She was not ungrateful for her life, yet it seemed that she had no intention of compromising her newfound freedom.
She hadn’t appeared really frightened of him, but she had been wary—and suspicious. She was prone to staring him straight in the eye, instead of batting her lashes with the charming ease of the born coquette.
“Damn!” he swore suddenly, furious with himself as his jaw locked grimly. She’d played him for an idiot and done so very well.
“Beauty” was attempting to escape the “beast.”
Still swearing softly beneath his breath, Lord Chatham traversed the stairway, two steps at a time.
Ondine had managed to walk sedately up the front stairs from the public room. Once upon the darkened landing, she ran. Her heart was thudding as she passed the common rooms and the more expensive private rooms … the door to the room where she had so recently bathed and exchanged her rags for riches.
At the back stairway she paused for a moment, clutching her hand to her heart as she gasped for a deep breath. The kitchen, she knew, led off the door where she had entered earlier. It was time to remember all that she had learned about evasion; not to bolt, but to wait and listen, carefully …
There was no one near the door. She forced herself to ascertain that fact as a surety, then glided silently down the back stairs. The tavern was busy now, for the tables were filled when she fled the public room. All the lads and maids and Meg herself should be busily occupied. And which of them would think that the common bride of a great lord would think to elude him?
The wood of the back door seemed to have swelled with the coolness of the night. Ondine gnawed at her lower lip, fighting a wave of panic as the door refused to give. She tugged upon it with greater effort and almost gasped when it sprang quite suddenly from the force of frantic desperation.
Collecting herself, she sped outside, bringing the door shut behind her, and leaned against it for one moment to collect her breath. She stared out across the dirt and pens of the yard, across the rolling fertile fields to the forest beyond. Her heart seemed to sink within her, for the distance to that forest was great, far greater than she had realized before. On foot, wearing the delicate pumps her strange “husband” had purchased for her, she would take forever reaching the ebony haven of nature’s succoring retreat.
Think! Quickly! she warned herself. By God, she hadn’t escaped the king’s guards and dozens of petty sheriffs to find herself frantic against a single man. It had taken a posse of fifty trained horsemen to capture her party of poor men and thieves in the forest outside London. And if Little Pat hadn’t fallen then, she would have eluded even them.
There was no way out of it, she decided quickly, drawing upon learned instinct. She was going to have to steal one of Lord Chatham’s carriage horses. Nor could she allow herself to feel guilty for the theft; she hadn’t the time. She could only vow to herself once again that she would find revenge against those who had so tricked and used her—and her poor woefully betrayed father! And she would pay the Earl of North Lambda back for his gift of life and substance at a later date.
So determined, Ondine raced across the dirt to the stable, praying that no one would be about. The massive doors were still open to the night, and a single lantern burned near them, high on the wall. Despite the flame, she blinked as she swept around the open doorway, pausing once again with her back to the wood structure as she attempted to see clearly. The stable was as neat as the inn: fresh hay was strewn richly over the ground; harnesses, bits, bridles, and saddles were polished and hung on pegs by the entrance.
Horses pawed the ground from two opposing rows of stalls, separated by low, thin barriers of wood.
The right horse …
She had been condemned to die one time too many and was determined now to steal only one of her “husband’s” horses, lest she be caught with the beast. She didn’t intend to be caught, but having borne the label of “traitor,” felt the promised horror of the headsman’s ax, and, in truth, the scratch of the rope, she was hesitant despite herself. Another man could claim her a thief, but not the man who had so curiously chosen to marry her.
She reflected briefly that she would almost rather face the law again than the man with the chill gold gaze once she had crossed him. That thought caused her to shiver, but shivering set her into action at last. She gazed to the doorway once again, assured herself that no tavern lad was about, then silently skimmed across the hay, looking for one of the chestnut mounts that had pulled their carriage. She paused at last behind a high rump, certain she had found the right horse. It was a tall creature, like its master. And like its master, it had broad, powerful shoulders, and a sleek and fluid body, well muscled and long in the legs.
“Shhh, my fine lad!” she murmured to the hrose, closing in on its hind quarters lest it should choose to kick. She moved along its flanks to its neck while stroking its glossy coat. The animal snorted; its great dark eyes rolled to survey her. Ondine rubbed its velvet-soft nose. “You’re really a love, aren’t you?” she murmured, finding no resistance to her touch. “We’re going to take a ride, you and I. Do you mind?”
The horse was tethered by a halter to the wall before it, and Ondine slipped the rope quickly and led the horse to the center of the stable. Swearing softly against the volume of her skirts, she slipped the guide rope over the animal’s head to secure it on the other side as a rein, then collected her skirts in one hand before leaping upon its back. The animal made no protest and stood still while she awkwardly mounted.
She nudged her heels against his ribs. “Now, my lad,” she whispered, “we’ve a need to leave here quietly and then race like the wind.”
The horse pranced obediently toward the door. But just as he did so, a shadow streaked into the opening. Cast against the glow of the single lantern, Ondine could see nothing but the figure of the man, looming tall and stalwart, legs apart, hands on his hips.
“And to where, madam, might you be ‘racing like wind’?”
It was a question most cordially voiced, but there was an edge of steel behind it, low and throaty and menacing in the very control with which it was spoken. He stepped forward, and the candlelight fell on his face, the jaw slightly twisted and clamped hard, the lean features taut. His eyes seemed to catch the energy and fire of the candle’s glow; they were alive in themselves with a blaze of taunting gold. He smiled as he stepped forward, surveying her, his movements curiously negligent, as if he had truly come to offer no more than his casual interest. His head tilted toward her, the tawny arch of a single brow raised pleasantly, a mockery of concern. Yet beneath the fine white cloth of his shirt she saw a ripple in the sinewed breadth of his shoulders … and in his arms, as if they twitched with the desire to lash out. And beneath his tight breeches she saw the powerful knots of muscle in his thighs, so restrained was his stance.
When it would have served her best, Ondine did not take the time to think. Seeing him caused her heart to catch, then race in a flurry of raw panic. She gasped, throwing her heels hard against the horse, praying madly that she could race away. But even as a cry escaped her and she thought to rule the horse, Warwick’s arm streaked out and caught the halter rope. The animal reared high, snorting. Ondine fought to stay mo
unted, but to no avail. She slid from the horse’s back to the hay and cried out again, closing her eyes and praying that the massive hooves would not fall upon her.
They did not. She opened her eyes. The horse was standing at his master’s side, shivering but still to Warwick’s soothing whisper. Ondine scrambled to her feet, trembling like the horse, yet taut and ready to run.
He still blocked the doorway—the beautiful entrance to the cool breeze of the night and freedom.
He stared at her for long moments without moving, long moments in which dread rose in her to a point where she thought she would scream and collapse with it. And then he spoke, quietly, pleasantly.
“Perhaps you would be so good as to return Wick to his stall.” He patted the animal’s gleaming neck, eyeing him with affection. “Good carriage horses are hard to come by, my lady. I’d just as soon not lose him to the night.”
Abruptly his gaze returned to her. Ondine did not think she was capable of moving forward to reach the horse’s halter. Yet caught by the blaze in Warwick’s eyes, she did so, stepping with stiff and jerking motions, touching the halter with care to avoid any contact with him. Shaking, trembling, her feet leaden, she walked the horse back to his stall, fumbling with the lead rope as she tethered him there. Her breath caught as she realized that Warwick had followed her and that she had not heard his movement. He stood behind the horse. Gazing beyond the animal’s tail, she could see only his legs, spread slightly with his feet planted firm upon the earth.
Her mind seemed to spin and then go numb. Then suddenly it took flight again. He was to the left of her now, no longer between her and the doorway. She pretended to take her time with the rope, and then she bolted, pitching all her speed and strength and youth into her sudden run. The door, the sweet scent of night, was before her.
She might have been afloat in the clouds, so desperately did she hurl herself along. And then it seemed that she was flying, for there was a moment when there was nothing beneath her, nothing but the air.
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