Ondine

by Heather Graham

  “You’re mistaken, sir. Nothing offends my sensitivity; I come from Newgate, lest you forget.”

  He caught the bar of soap and returned her regal stare, tempted to rise and embrace her and force her bluff to a test. He reminded himself furiously that he wanted his distance from her; it was merely difficult with her standing there, so damned assured with the promise of abstinence he had spoken to her last night! Women … nothing would give him greater pleasure at the moment than to leap from the tub, give her a full view of her effect upon him, and sweep her to the welcome softness of the bed.

  He contented himself with snatching her wrist and allowing a warning to gleam from his eyes.

  “Ondine, did no one ever warn you not to play with beasts?”

  She did not tug at her wrist; her eyes remained locked with his. At last her lashes swept down, but they rose again, and a flush touched her cheeks as that chance gaze enveloped more of his muscled form than she had expected.

  “I—am hungry,” she murmured uneasily.

  He released her. “Go eat.”

  She hurried to the tray across the room. He closed his eyes, wondering at the sudden misery he had cast upon himself. He hadn’t felt like this … ever. He was fascinated, almost compelled, and so at war within his mind and heart. With a sudden fury he began to scrub a foot, and then an arm.

  “Ex-excuse me, my lord Chatham,” she murmured suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Is this … is this how we are to live at your home?” Her words were faint and a little shaky.

  A long sigh of relief escaped him. “No. You’ve your own chamber, beyond mine.” For several seconds he was silent. “One which you will keep bolted at all times. Do you understand?”

  The last was husky, yet underlined with absolute command. A command so tense that it was repeated when she didn’t instantly reply.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Aye!”

  “There will not be many rules by which you must abide, yet those I do give you must be followed explicitly. And I’ll not listen to any more of your knife thrusts regarding Newgate. I did not put you there, though you proved your own folly last night by attempting to steal my horse.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “Nor do I care to. From this day forward, you have no such past. Your father was a poet, you say. We’ll change that subtly. He was an impoverished French nobleman—dear God,” he interrupted himself, sighing, then muttered, “nay, they’ll expect you to speak French.”

  She hesitated briefly. “I do speak French.”

  He did not face her; she sensed the probing cock of his brow.

  “My—mother was French. And she was an impoverished noble.” She winced a little. Lying was coming to her with such astounding ease! She could only pray she didn’t forget her own inventions.

  “That better explains your speech,” he murmured, then suddenly he spun about, apparently irritated again by something. She looked at the breakfast tray and realized that she had consumed all of the food. Dismay touched her; she couldn’t help her temper flaring to his words, but she had no wish to be blatantly rude.

  Color filled her face, and she said miserably, “I am sorry, truly I am—”

  “What?”

  “The food—”

  “The food was there to eat,” he said impatiently.

  “But I’ve left none—”

  “Lady, if I wished it, I would order more.”

  “Then—”

  “I merely wish to go down and see what that rascal Jake is about in the public room. I wish to be out of here. Now.”

  The word sounded quite like a growl. Ondine was only too glad to leap to her feet. “I’ll tell him!” she promised, and the door closed distinctly behind her.

  Warwick let out a long, shuddering gasp of relief. Then he rose very irritably, swore at himself, and donned his clothes.

  Meg was at the doorway to see them off. Ondine decided wryly that while both the bride and groom were tense and moody, Meg and Jake continued to be both highly amused and delighted.

  Right before Ondine was handed into the carriage by her husband, Meg swept warm and tender arms around Ondine. “Don’t forget, child, he’s made you a countess!”

  Ondine tried to smile; her effort fell flat. She wanted to cry out that she was a duchess in her own right, that she should have been able to spit at her arrogant earl of a husband’s sharply voiced orders.

  She didn’t speak. As a duchess she was wanted for complicity in murder—and treason. Better to play the countess until she could prove the duchess innocent.

  Once again Ondine rode in the carriage alone. Warwick slammed the door shut and rode up top with Jake.

  She had long hours for introspection as they rode that day. It proved painful; she could come up with no brilliant plan, and in time her mind wandered to the past—and the pain. Perhaps her wretched fight for survival in the forest—even her days in Newgate—had been better in a fashion. There had always been others more wretched than she to comfort. Now all she had was her own sorry company.

  Near nightfall the carriage stopped. Warwick came back to tell her that she would have a few moments to stretch her legs, and that Meg had packed them some cold fowl, wine, and cheese.

  Jostled, rumpled, and weary, Ondine merely nodded to him. She didn’t protest his hold when he lifted her from the carriage, but hurried off into the trees by herself. She found a stream where she could wash her face with fresh water, and she felt a little better.

  Returning to the carriage, Ondine paused. Both Jake and Warwick were on a spit of roadside grass, a cloth with a hamper on it between them. Jake sat cross-legged and merry-eyed as he bit into meat; Warwick was half reclined on his side^ long legs stretched before him, an elbow supporting his weight. He wore a broad-beamed hat in fine Royalist tradition; its plume was red and dashing. In all he cut a striking and rakish figure, but that was not what gave her pause—it was the sound of his laughter, pleasant and easy. His face was ever the more attractive for it. The full sensuality of his lips was visible, the glitter in his eyes an endearing fascination. Like a bold cavalier he lay there, paring an apple with his customary ease of movement.

  “Ye never heard that?” Jake was chortling to him. “And, now, how did ye miss it, ye being so close with His Grace?”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  ” Tis God’s own truth! There was Nelly Gwyn, caught by the mob and yelling back to them, ‘I’m not the Catholic whore! I’m the Protestant whore!’ “

  “Like as not, if I know Charles, he enjoyed the story as well as anyone might.” Warwick chewed a piece of his apple, then waved the paring knife toward Jake. “I’ve another for you. Nelly once told Charles she could help clean up his kingdom. All he had to do was send all the French back to France, send her back to the stage, and then lock up his codpiece!”

  Jake chortled, then sobered suddenly. “What’s’ Is Majesty going to say about this sudden marriage of yours?”

  Warwick shrugged. “I didn’t steal anyone’s heiress.”

  “But perhaps he had something in mind for you.”

  Warwick shook his head. “Charles would never think to twist my hand so. I’ve stood by him too many years, as my father did before me. He knows where loyalty lies. I think that Charles will be quite pleased. He has not stopped me since Genevieve …”

  “Since Genevieve!” Jake muttered as Warwick’s voice died away. “And that’s the crux of it, right there, milord! I’ve an affection for that girl, and I don’t wish to see her come to harm. Ye should have seen her on the gallows, coming at them like a righteous angel. And, sweet Jesus, if she isn’t a greater beauty than even you imagined. She has courage, Warwick, real courage, and determination. She’s not … meek, and she’ll not be easily frightened—”

  “She has nothing to be frightened of, Jake. I’ll see to that.”

  “I pray ‘tis so. But, sir, apart from any danger to her, I think your marriage whim of
yesterday the finest move yet! She’s refined, sweet as—”

  “Sweet, my … rump!” Warwick retorted. “Don’t let pretty faces deceive you, Jake.” But he paused then. “Nay,” he mused.

  “Mayhap I haven’t seen as many as Your Lordship!” Jake parried. “Now, the lady Anne, I’ll warrant she has an angel’s face, but a heart like a stone. Pleasure in the flesh perhaps, but she’s longed for some time to get her talons into you. For my money, I’m waiting to see her reception to the news.”

  Warwick shrugged again, his knife slipping over the apple. “I never intended to marry Anne; she has always known it.”

  “Nay—you’ve known it. Not—”

  “Shh.”

  Warwick looked up suddenly, staring straight at the trees, his eyes narrowing. He stood with a single fluid movement and strode through the brush, reaching Ondine before she could back away, barely holding his anger in restraint as he pulled her forward.

  “How long have you been there?”

  “I just came—”

  “Liar. Lady, I tell you this once. I will not be spied upon, by you or anyone else.”

  “You’ve nothing worth spying upon!” Ondine raged out indignantly, and she flushed, for she did like Jake, very much, and she was heartily embarrassed for him to be witnessing the episode.

  Jake jumped to his feet and uneasily balanced his weight from one foot to the other.

  He cleared his throat, knowing from his master’s eyes that an explosion was in the brewing. “Milord! We shouldn’t tarry if you have a mind to reach the crossroads tonight!”

  Warwick cast his gaze upon Jake, then upon Ondine once more. He seemed to relax a bit, but then he caught her chin between his thumb and his forefinger. “I don’t care to warn you again. I’ll not be harped upon by a lying, thieving chit of a girl!”

  “Don’t harp at me, milord!” she retorted, mindless of his touch upon her. “And I’ll not harp at you.”

  He threw up his hands in disgust and swung on Jake. “She’ll need your championship, old fool, if she remains determined to have the last word. And if she can’t learn to mind her manners, she will have something of which to be afraid—me!”

  He stalked off through the brush for the stream. Jake looked at Ondine and shrugged his shoulders.

  ” ‘E’s really not such a bad sort, really, milady.”

  Ondine laughed dryly, but hadn’t the heart to fight Jake. She came to him and sat in the grass where Warwick had been and looked into the food basket

  “You’re the one who warned me he was a beast, Jake, I’ll not let you change your tune now!”

  “Nay—”

  “Never mind, Jake. I am here because I ‘suit his purpose.’ I have now decided that he suits mine.” Smiling, she bit into an apple. Jake returned that smile uneasily.

  The carriage stopped so late that night that she had long been sleeping; indeed, she did not even wake when it stopped. She was vaguely aware that the door opened, that there was an annoying light all about her.

  “We’re here,” Warwick said.

  “Where?” she murmured.

  “Another inn. Come on—nay, don’t bother, I’ll get you,” he muttered.

  She did wake when his arms came around her. “I—can walk,” she told him, her thoughts dazed, stolen from the mists of sleep to confront the alarming strength of him, the golden glitter of his eyes, shadowed and shielded by the brim of his hat.

  He shrugged. “This is not like Meg’s, but a meaner place. Tis probably best this way.” He led her in and procured a room.

  The bed was clean—at least the room and the linen smelled fresh. Warwick, still holding Ondine, surveyed it sternly beneath the meager glow of the lantern. Then he placed her on the bed.

  He snuffed out the lantern and the room became as dark as pitch. She heard him shed his own things in the darkness, and she felt his weight when he climbed into the bed. She heard then the oppressive silence of the night.

  Nervously she disrobed to her shift. She thought that sleep would elude her, but it was morning when she opened her eyes again. Warwick was not beside her, nor was his clothing anywhere to be seen. There was a large tray of food awaiting her, filled with fresh meat pies and a large pewter tankard of fresh milk. She dressed quickly and then ate, amazed once again when she consumed everything in sight. She mused that she was perhaps still afraid that there might not be another meal for days.

  There was a sharp rap on the door just as she had washed her face and rinsed her teeth in the room’s chipped washbasin.

  She dried her face quickly and rushed to the door. It was Warwick, resplendent and regal once again in a black cloak and plumed hat. “Are you quite ready?”

  “Aye.”

  He caught her hand and led her down a flight of stairs. The tavern was quiet this early; only one drunk snoozed away the night’s entertainment at a corner table.

  They walked out into the sunshine. The carriage was before the door, but Warwick led her past it to a charming walkway that fronted a number of shops.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Shopping,” he said briefly.

  And though she objected to his charity, she had little choice; he stated that his wife would be well clad.

  She spent the day in a new fury, for as the dressmaker worked over her, tailoring chemises, petticoats, gowns, silks, and satins, Warwick stayed near her, observing the situation with a keen eye.

  But soon it was over. Some gowns were completed, others would be shipped on to North Lambria.

  That night, they slept together, silently. The next day was spent on the road, and again it seemed long. But when the carriage next stopped, Warwick joined her. He sat beside her, too close beside her, his presence filling the small space.

  “We’re coming upon the manor,” he told her. “You’ll remember that we met and were wed in London, that your father was a Frenchman. You bring no dowry, so please try to be charming before the servants. They’ll need to believe I married you in such fascination that I did not care that you brought nothing to the union. If they bear the brunt of your charming tongue, despite your beauty, they’re liable to doubt my sanity.”

  “I doubt your sanity!” Ondine retorted, stung.

  She was rewarded with one of his steel-hard stares of warning.

  “Countess, there is one more order I would give you now. I’ve a neighbor, Lord Hardgrave. Ours has never been the best of relationships; I’ll thank you to take care if you meet him. Nay, avoid meeting him, lest I am with you. I do not trust the man.”

  Ondine glanced his way; his arms were crossed over his chest, his eyes were ahead, intent upon his own reflections.

  “I’m hardly likely to meet him.”

  “Don’t ever, ever be alone with him. Do you understand?”

  Ondine sighed softly. “Aye.”

  Warwick pulled the drape from the window. “This is it. The drive to Chatham.” Ondine, curious, could not help but lean past him.

  Chatham Manor loomed immense and grand down a huge double drive, cut through by a row of manicured gardens. The structure itself seemed to touch the sky. It was stone, beautifully adorned with arched and chiseled windows, towers and buttresses. Sloping fields surrounded it—grass as green as emeralds—with forest to the east, pasture to the west. Mountains rose in purple splendor to the north. It was stunning, as rich and elegant as any a royal palace.

  Yet, staring upon it, she suddenly shivered. The setting sun reflected off the windows. Beyond the glow was darkness, and she felt an inexplicable terror of what the shadows might hide.

  Ridiculous, she told herself. It was beautiful; it was the home of an earl, an important peer, a palace in truth. It was a perfect place to be, far to the north—a place where she could spend her days in peace, wrestling with her own dilemma, seeking out the answers and the vengeance she so craved.

  Her husband’s hand was suddenly laced tight with hers, drawing her gaze up sharply. He smiled, a flash of white teeth, a devast
ating, wicked gleam of burning gold eyes.

  “Countess, we’re home. And, my love, you will behave the charming bride.”

  Chapter 5

  The “beasts” that heralded Warwick’s carriage were cast in massive stone, one on each side of the marble staircase leading up to the doors. Ondine stared at them while Warwick gave Jake instructions regarding the baggage. Jake replied cheerfully, tipped his cap to Ondine, and disappeared around the carriage.

  At the top of the dignified staircase double oak doors opened silently. A woman stood there, tall and slim and very erect. She was dressed in shimmering gray, a simple gown with no adornment that was high-necked and as stiff as her posture. Ondine tremored slightly, aware that a “masquerade” was about to begin. And it was to begin with this severe and dour-looking woman.

  “My lord Chatham!” The woman stepped upon the marble landing and smiled warmly, somewhat easing Ondine’s apprehension. She was severe, yes, in dress and appearance, but when she smiled, she came to life. She must have been near sixty. Her hair was dark as pitch except for one attractive streak of silver that might have been painted in from her temple to her neck. Her features were nearly gaunt, yet her eyes were a bright and luminous green, and when she offered that welcoming smile, she gave an illusion of youth and a hint of the beauty that must have once been hers.

  “Mathilda.” Warwick returned the greeting. His footsteps were quick, causing Ondine to pant as he hurried her up the steps. Ondine felt the squeeze of his fingers, a reminder that he had warned her of the importance of those she would meet.

  The housekeeper’s eyes fell to Ondine with an expectant curiosity. She seemed familiar with Warwick, but not beyond the bounds of propriety, for she made a small curtsy as he reached her. “I did not expect you, milord. Nor did I know of guests—”

  “Not a guest, Mathilda, my wife, the lady Ondine.”

  Surely Mathilda could not have been more surprised had the stone beasts before the steps come to life and rushed the manor. Her jaw fell, her lips pursed, and she stared at Ondine speechlessly before managing to gasp, “Your wife?”