But she began to worry—what if he was a little mad and considered it all a joke? What if he laughed and told her that he didn’t care what she told anyone?
That worry caused her to pause at a window and stare out at the night, fear streaking through her in icy shafts. Should she tell him that she could not go to court because she would be wrested from him, dragged into prison, and tried as a traitor?
No! She could not let it happen. There would be no more such scandal and lie cast upon the family name! They would never prove her a traitor, for she would never let them!
And how was she going to stop them?
She realized bleakly that she could not go with Warwick. He was the king’s most loyal servant and friend. She was nothing but a horse thief he had taken from the gallows for whatever absurd reason.
“Oh, damn you, you rogue bastard, a thousand times over!” she hissed, slamming a fist against the wall. Where was he? The hour grew later …
In a flurry she gritted her teeth and rushed to the hallway door, wrenching it open.
Jake sat there, apparently having been asleep until her appearance. He was leaning against the wall and quickly lifted the brim of his hat from over his eyes, almost knocking over the chair in his speed to rise and confront her.
“Milady?” he mumbled sheepishly, startled at the sight of her in her nightgown, with bare feet, her hair a web of gleaming, fire-lit disarray, her eyes teal with a passionate wrath. “Can I get you something? May I—”
“Where is he, Jake?”
“My lord Chatham?”
“Aye—your lord Chatham!” Ondine retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. “Jake, don’t play games with me! Where is he?”
“He’s … er, out.”
“Out where?”
“I don’t know, milady.”
“You’re a liar, Jake!”
He looked guilty, but also determined. Ondine sighed with frustration, aware that if she held a knife to his throat, he wouldn’t betray Warwick.
“All right, Jake. When is he coming back?”
Jake shrugged, scratching his head uncomfortably, then cramming his hat back atop it. He lowered his head.
“You might wish to speak with him in the morning, milady.”
“In the morning!”
“He could be … late.”
She couldn’t contain a strangled oath of fury and took a menacing step toward Jake. “What is going on here, Jake? Why is he doing all this to me? You know, don’t you?”
“Doing—what?” Jake appeared extremely uncomfortable, but as she had noted before, he was still determined to keep his master’s secrets, probably unto death. “Girl!” he said softly. “You have your life! You’ve clothing, food, and a good home!” He said the words as if he pleaded with her. “Trust him!”
“Trust him!” she wailed, and then she realized that she was venting her temper upon a man who had done her no wrong— who had been as gentle to her when she stood filthy, a rope about her neck, as he was now that she had become “milady.”
“Oh, Jake! lam so sorry!” she murmured in atonement. “Truly. I know that you cannot betray him; I did not mean to rail at you. I—” She paused, drawing a deep breath. “I am quite grateful to be alive. I just hope I don’t go mad!”
“Oh, lady!” Jake said miserably. “There is naught that I can tell you.” He lifted his hand. “Except, trust him. Trust in me, my lady!”
She tried to smile at Jake and failed. On impulse, she clutched his wizened face and kissed his cheek, then hurried back inside. “Bolt the doors!” he called to her.
She hesitated, then did so.
She turned around and started at the music chamber, then her shoulders slumped with desolation and exhaustion. Her vigil had been a lost labor from the start. A fool’s quest. No doubt the proud male was off testing his prowess elsewhere!
Ondine returned to her own chamber, wondering again why it so infuriated her that he should disappear so many nights. And she dared not wonder too closely, for the answers came to her, and they were answers she detested.
Each day she had known him, each time he had touched her, he had fascinated her further. She was haunted by his face, the fine structure of bone, the sensuous curl of his lip, the taunting, brilliant flecks of gold that ruled his amber eyes. She knew the look and feel of his hands—the long fingers, not soft, but carelessly callused, for they were a man’s hands. And it was not so much her mind, but her body, haunted by memory of the feel of him, hard as stone, but rippling with heat and life. She didn’t know quite what she wanted—because, in truth, his mockery and his wit did rub her sorely!—but there was his gentle side… a kindness in him. She had known that side when he had shielded her from a view of the gallows, the painful death of friends.
Ah, yes! she thought miserably. She wanted him, but not as the rogue who callously played the stakes of those cast into the heat of the court. Not that he was interested in being even that passionate rogue with her! She wanted the man who had loved Genevieve. She wanted to see him laughing easily, telling her that she was cherished and beloved, kissing her hand, kissing her lips with longing—and love.
But she was a gallows’ bride, a horse thief. A possession.
Angry, frustrated, and hurt in that new and aching way that left the heart and flesh alive with longing, Ondine swore out a last oath and determined to go to sleep. Tomorrow she would blackmail him, since he forced the issue.
Despite her determination, she lay awake a long while. When she did at last sleep, that sleep was fraught with dreams of her cousin, Raoul. She saw his eyes, dark and handsome; his face too gaunt, his lips too narrow and dissatisfied. He had been sullen as a child when she bested him, triumphant when he rose the leader. She had never thought to hate Raoul; he had been a companion, like any other, with virtues and faults. She had never sensed his envy of her, nor his father’s simmering jealousy. Surely it was not Raoul who had devised such a plan to strike upon his stepuncle; it had been his father, longing all those years for title and property never to be his.
But it was her cousin she saw in her dreams: holding her hand too long as they journeyed to Charles’s court; leaning with amused disdain when she wearily repulsed him. How many times must he be told that they were friends? She could never love him. He had not been angry then … merely triumphant. But he had known, as she had not, that he would be the victor; her father the traitor— she totally at his mercy.
Except that she had fled …
His face continued to spin before her. Then it slowly took on another look. Dark eyes became Justin Chatham’s laughing green. Dark hair took on a hue of gold, and in her sleep Ondine shivered, and she wondered why she should see gallant Justin where she had seen Raoul. Then it was no longer Justin who laughed at her, but Clinton, child of the woman who had been the product of illicit Chatham love.
Chatham. It was her husband then who laughed at her—Warwick, who never doubted his power. Yet his eyes warmed to amber. Suddenly the men were around her, coming toward her, brandishing swords. She knew, as one knew in dreams, that some wanted to save her, that one meant to slay her. Yet she did know which way to run.
She awoke, not screaming, but trembling uneasily. She knew it had been a dream, and she was annoyed that she could not prevent herself from entering these nightmare realms.
“Oh, may they all rot!” she whispered aloud impatiently. She hesitated. “Especially my lord Warwick Chatham!”
She lay silent then, watching the moonbeams playing about her chamber and wondering if she was forced to meet Charles, whether she might find a way to see him alone first and lay her case at his feet, pleading that he give her a chance to prove her innocence. The king was known to be just, to despise violence, especially that violence of death to a woman.
It would be her last recourse. She would do battle against her husband first! Fierce battle, for though she was dearly grateful for her life, he did not now own her!
While her thoughts traveled thus in the darkened ro
om, with only the moonbeams to cast a veiled light, she first heard the whisper.
It was soft, so soft she thought she might have imagined it at first. It carried on the breeze, sexless and plaintive. So very sad.
“Ondine …”
She tensed in bed and waited, and it came again.
“Ondine … Ondine … Ondine. Come to me, for I am cold and lonely. Ondine …”
It was not her imagination!
She sprang from the bed, but could see nothing in the darkness. “Who are you? Where are you?” she called out softly.
“Ondine …” Only her name came to her faintly, fading wistfully away.
She could see nothing but shapes and shadows in the soft glow of the moon. With shaking fingers she quickly lit a lamp, raising it high. “Please—who are you? Where are you?”
There was no response, except for a rustle of the breeze.
Perplexed, she searched the room studiously, pulling back drapes, searching the latrine, and even opening chests and drawers. She hurried to the window and looked out. There was no one below, nor was there sign of anyone on the slender ledge that ran along the second floor eave.
Frustrated, she sat upon her bed again, then in fury she rose and slammed through to the music room. She rummaged until she found whiskey in Warwick’s drawers. Pouring herself a dram, she sat back in his chair, determined that she would confront him— even if she waited all night.
Coming in near dawn, Warwick was quite startled to find her there, a glass in her hand, hair a crest of silken flame about the white lace of her gown, toes resting atop his desk as she stretched in casual rebellion from his chair to his desk.
Her eyes, he noted, were blue fire, and her righteous gaze fell upon him.
Warily he kept his features rigid, bracing himself against the door as he watched her, removing his gauntlets.
“Well,” he said quietly, “to what, madam, do I owe the honor of your wakeful presence at this hour of the night?”
She didn’t answer right away, but continued to study him with her sea-fire eyes. Irritated to feel himself on the defensive, he strode into the room, casting his gloves upon the desk before her.
She lifted her glass to him. “Milord, I think it is time we had a discussion.”
“Oh?” He arched a cautionary brow to her, his eyes narrowing in warning.
“Aye, milord,” she replied coolly, contempt pointedly marking her use of the title. Warwick sat upon the edge of his desk, pretending little interest in her words as he drew off a high boot.
“Talk, then, milady.”
She took a sip of the whiskey, and he was glad to see it, for in that action he noted her nervousness and sighed inwardly, certain that no matter what her bravado, he would disarm her.
But then her eyes came to his again, blue flames richly edged in darkest lashes that added to their searing intensity and beauty. “I was congratulated this evening upon a child that does not exist. Perhaps it would not trouble you too greatly to explain the lie?”
Warwick reached for the whiskey bottle, returning her stare and swallowing a long draft. He set the bottle down carefully. “What was your response?”
She laughed dryly. “Oh, I did not refute your story, milord.” Her lovely lashes tightened about her eyes. “Not yet!”
“Oh—is that a threat, my love?” he queried with a pleasant yet deadly tone.
“Aye, it is,” she replied with a contemptuous smile. “You see, milord, you’ve never explained the game. Therefore, I play at a disadvantage. She straightened, pulling her bare toes from the desk to hide them beneath her on the chair. “It is a cold game, milord. One in which I remain in the dark. I challenge you, I receive but further orders. I am left, then, to create a few of my own rules. And this, then, is one of them. I’ll smile sweetly to each lie I hear. I’ll cheerfully stand behind your ever absurdity. And in return … I stay here. I do not go to court.”
He leaned against the desk suddenly, stroking the line of her upturned chin, bitterly returning a twisted smile. “Poaching, thievery, blackmail! My, what talents you have amassed at such a tender age, my love!”
“I begin to think you married me for such talents, Warwick Chatham,” she returned, unnerved by his touch. He released her and slid smoothly from the desk. He walked behind her to rest his hands upon the top of her head, and cast her into further tumult as he stroked his fingers softly, like a night breeze, through her hair.
“I don’t think, milady”—he murmured the last mockingly, bending close to whisper by her ear and tease her throat with the warmth of his breath—“that you will deny anything. The lie is one I so thoroughly wished stressed that I would even be willing to force it into truth.”
Ondine closed her eyes, gritting her teeth so as not to shiver or cry out at the ruthless nature of his words. Oh, that there were caring in them! But there was not; only the whipcrack of the master giving orders.
He dropped his hand from her and walked to the mantel.
“Don’t ever threaten me, Ondine,” he said flatly.
“Don’t threaten you!” Her voice rose in fury and she leapt from the chair, despairing and wild from her failure. “Don’t threaten you! Milord, there need be no threats! You, sir, should be most grateful that shock alone did not keep me from calling you a liar! By God, you will tell me what goes on here! Not only am I constantly taken off guard by your evasions and deceptions, but I am annoyed at sleep by pranksters!”
“What?” The question was a sharp explosion. He spun to her, his body rigid, his eyes like piercing fires, so intense that she stepped back, her rampantly pounding heart rendering her speechless.
He was instantly across the room to her, his stride so furious that she cried out as his fingers bit into her shoulders. “What?” he insisted, eyes ablaze. “Tell me what you speak of!”
“You’re hurting me—” she gasped, her teeth chattering, her head falling back.
His hold eased; he did not release her. “Tell me!”
“Tonight… an hour ago, as I lay in bed, someone whispered to me.”
“You imagined it?” He asked the question carefully, so intently that she didn’t think he doubted her at all.
“Nay! I do not imagine things!”
“What was said?”
“My name.”
“And what else?”
“I don’t remember—”
“You must!”
“I—I think it was something like, ‘I am cold and lonely. Come to me.’”
He released her, turned and strode quickly through his own chamber and the bath to hers. Ondine followed him. As she had done, he searched it thoroughly and looked beyond the window.
And as she had done, he at last sat on the foot of the bed and shook his head, pressing his temples between his palms. Then he looked up suddenly, as if remembering that she was there. An elusive shield seemed to form over his eyes.
“You must have imagined it.”
“I did not!”
He shrugged and lifted his hands to her. “As you can see, there is nothing.”
She laughed dryly. “My lord Chatham, I am all that you say— horse thief, poacher, blackmailer; I survived forests and prisons— but I do not imagine things.”
“Be that as it may …” He rose and approached her slowly, pausing before her. “Then you must listen again, mustn’t you, lady? And if you hear the whisperer again, call me then. Immediately. Do you understand?”
“Oh, aye, sir!” she responded tartly. “Another order, and, yes, orders must be obeyed!”
His fingers closed about her arms, and his face lowered to hers. “Ondine! You must cease to fight me! Trust in me … and in the end I will see that you are free and cared for for the duration of your natural life!”
She lowered her head, trembling. Oh, it was true! He was using her for something, and intended only to discard her! She didn’t want him touching her, she didn’t want him near her, she didn’t want to ache and long for what he would never
give …
She wrenched from his hold, from the vibrant fever of his body against hers, and stood apart from him, trembling.
” ‘Twill be hard to warn you, sir, when you are seldom about.”
“I will be here,” he told her. “And you will leave your chamber door open, as will I. You need only say my name, and I will hear you.”
She stood mutely, staring down at the floor. He came to her again, capturing her arm, pulling her to him. When she would have scathingly upbraided him, she fell silent instead, startled by the small slant of a smile, by the gentle amber lights in his eyes. “Ondine …” he murmured, pulling her against him. “The name comes from myth and magic. She was, as surely you know, a mermaid. A beautiful seductress of fantasy who enwebbed the heart of a man and, through marriage to him, gained mortal life.
And you have, my beauty, gained life … trust me. I will preserve it for you, by my own, if need be, I swear it!”
Stunned and shaken by the heated depth of his emotion, she could do no more than meet his eyes, and cherish the tender smile he gave her. She nodded slowly.
And to her further surprise and fascination, he lifted her into his arms, carrying her fleetly to her bed, where he placed her upon it, pausing still to fan her hair about the pillow with a fascination of his own.
Then he straightened and said hoarsely, “You are a magical beauty, Ondine.”
His eyes closed; he clenched his teeth and a small groan escaped him. His body stiffened, and when he gazed at her again, he was once more the cold and rugged man who had so coolly ordered her release from the gallows.
“Good night,” he said brusquely. “And do not forget that in three days time we head for London.”
“I—I can’t go!” she pleaded in a whisper, a plea that he ignored with an oath of impatience.
“We’ll not go through this again! Try to escape and I shall drag you back. Defy me when I seek to leave, and I will haul you, bound and screaming if I must, to the carriage. Have no doubts, madam, that it will be exactly as I say!”
He continued to stare at her. She could find no voice to protest; no magic thought came to her mind. She wanted to lash out at him, but she was still cast beneath his spell.
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