“No…”
“Ye’re about to fall into yer trencher, lady,” Jake said, rising. Warwick had her arm. She allowed him to lead her up the rickety stairs, away from the noise of the tavern.
She realized with some alarm that they were sharing a room. But the ale and lack of sleep had taken their toll—she couldn’t really care. Nor could she protest when he turned her about, helping her with her hooks. In her shift she walked away from him and crawled into the one bed. Moments later she knew that he was beside her. Miraculously, though, she slept, slept with his arm around her, and when another dream disturbed her, she was aware of a whispered tenderness.
“Easy, love, sleep, easy. Dear God, what is it that you fear? I am here …”
But in the morning he was gone.
And he left Jake to tend to her the next night, when they came to Meg’s tavern, so very near to London.
Chapter 11
Warwick was not so far away.
He sat in a dark corner of the tavern, watching Jake—watching his wife—and brooding deeply. He watched her laughter, and he watched her grace, and he swore against himself a thousand times over.
Ah, she was driving him mad!
What manner of fool was he? The inner query brought a pulse ticking hard against the sinewed line of his throat. She was his wife, dammit. If he had any sense, he’d stalk into her room, ignore that wary fear and anger in her eyes, and remind her that she had promised to love, honor, and obey his every command.
His teeth clenched, taut with rising tension. She was just that, his wife—married from the gallows as a pawn, a pawn he had sworn to protect—to whom he had promised freedom. He couldn’t think of her as his wife. He had to remember Genevieve—young, innocent, slain. Nay, he could not allow himself to love his wife! He could only guard her—carefully now!—for Hardgrave was at court, as was the lady Anne. He meant to trap the killer there, for he would not believe the murderer could be his own brother—or Clinton. Surely it was Hardgrave.
His attention was drawn to her again. The melody of her laughter filled his senses, and he sighed.
He would not go up until she was asleep. He dared not hold her again, for he wanted her, and deep inside he knew that a storm brewed between them, threatening to sweep them into its tempest and passion.
Ondine was nervous when morning came. Warwick was not with her as she dressed meticulously, praying she would find the king merciful!
She came downstairs to find Warwick in the common room, and she faltered when she saw him, for she was certain he would still have avoided her company. Odd that she should find him so manly in the work clothes he wore so oft about Chatham; stranger still that no matter what his mode and dress, the unexpected sight of him could send her heart reeling, her temper soaring, her pulses racing. Today he was splendid in a lace shirt and velvet coat and breeches in deep blue. His hair was free, dark and thick and wavy. She realized that not even for a royal appearance would he wear a wig. But it didn’t matter; he could cater to fashion, he could spurn it. Tall and dark with his ever-changing hazel eyes, he was the height of masculine beauty and rugged appeal. And surely no man had ever worn a rich plumed hat with such flair.
He doffed that hat as she came before him, bowing deeply. He seemed as highly strung as she this morning, fire dancing in his gaze, his manner most strange.
“Milady! How kind that you remain with us!”
“Kind? I’d no choice.”
“Yet most common lasses would be most enthralled at the thought of a stay at court.”
“Most, perhaps.”
“Ah, but then I’ve never thought that you might be grouped with anything common, my love.”
Ondine glared at him uneasily, yet he pushed the point no further. He remained most pleasant as they ate, edging her nerves still further. His arm was about her as he paid Meg. He placed her graciously into the carriage, then bowed to take his leave, apparently preferring Jake’s company once again. He smiled when Ondine scowled.
“Milady wife! Where is your complaint this morning?”
“I’ve none, my lord. Yet I think there’s no need to practice your charm, since it is something you doff on and off as a cloak.”
He cast her a dry grin. “Practice? And what would this practice be for, Countess?”
“That is your concern, Warwick, isn’t it?”
The rising sun seemed to falter in the sky a bit. His smile remained, yet it became cold.
“Aye, Countess, that it is. Excuse me, then. Our next stop will be Hampton Court.”
And so it was. It seemed that no time passed before they were upon the Thames, brilliantly Blue today beneath a rare cloudless sky. The massive gates of Hampton greeted them. There were guards in livery, scores of people everywhere, lords and ladies in high plummage, pages, clerks, the clergy, scullery maids, stable boys, gardeners, and merchants. The workers seemed to hurry; the nobility to amble. Ondine pulled the curtains back to stare about her, fascinated. The carriage brought them through the main gates, bringing them ever closer to the palace itself in warm red earth-colored tones. Ondine gazed at the giant clock in the courtyard, and only then did she think again that she might be weighing her life not in days, but in hours and minutes.
The carriage came to a halt. Seconds later the door swung open, and her husband’s eyes were glittering upon her as he decorously reached for her hand, assisting her from the carriage. She barely glanced his way, wondering in all this milling of people just where the king might be.
Moments later they were entering a grand hall with an even grander stairway, and a man, apparently the head steward of the place, was greeting Warwick, promising that his accommodations were of the finest, seen to by the king himself.
Their apartments were up the grand stairway, down a long hall. The steward proudly opened double doors, displaying a grand den with books and closets, a multitude of richly upholstered chairs and settees, and gleaming round tables set before the windows, where they caught the magic light of the sun.
“The bedchamber,” the steward told them, leading them forward, “is beyond.”
Another set of double doors was pushed open. It was a beautifully appointed bedchamber, with a huge four-poster bed, heavy and intricately carved. The inner drapes were of gauze and brocade.
A window looked over the gardens and the Thames far beyond. Here, too, were chairs and dressers, and there was another small round table, set as if it might offer an intimate breakfast place for sleepy lovers just come from a tousled bed.
Servants were following with their luggage. The steward showed Ondine where the bellpull was and assured her she could summon a lady’s maid within seconds, should she require anything. He was ever so polite and correct, yet he studied her in such a way that she knew she would quickly be the subject of gossip raging throughout the entire compound. And she didn’t really care. It seemed that a buzzing had started in her ears, and she knew that that buzzing was fear. Any moment now she would see the king.
Curiously Warwick moved about the rooms, tapping on the walls. He exchanged glances with the steward, who assured him the rooms had been “thoroughly explored.”
Ondine tried to question him, but he interrupted her. “His Majesty plays tennis. We’ll take the barge to meet him at the courts.”
Fine, she thought! For she must get this confrontation over with! Inwardly she trembled, went numb, and trembled all over again. She hurried as they left the palace, traversed the gardens, and made their way for the barge.
“You are eager to do hommage to your king,” Warwick observed at last. “Why might that be, I wonder?”
She practiced a sweet smile on him. “Why, because I’ve heard he’s wondrously fair, milords A gentleman to the core and, by nature, fond of my gentle sex.”
She felt his fingers tighten convulsively around her arm; they loosened, and he returned her smile.
“He is as dark as a Spaniard, milady.”
“Aye, so I’ve heard. Fair in beauty
, then.”
He did not respond, but pointed before them. “A barge, milady. You’ll see for yourself in a matter of minutes.”
Seconds later they were aboard the small craft that sailed for the sheer convenience of transporting guests to the tennis courts. Warwick brought Ondine to sit, but she could not. She preferred to stand portside and feel the wind. He stood by her, and she knew that again he watched her.
And then the structure—large and covered—loomed ahead of them. The barge docked; the plank was set. Warwick led her along it. Even as they entered the courts, liveried servants presented them with chalices of wine. It was not crowded, but still there were many onlookers. Ladies sat about on chaise longues, watching the play. Regally clad gentlemen urged on the players. The sound of the ball sailing over the net, whacking against the court, was constant.
Ondine did not mean to stop and stare, certainly not in her present state of agitation, and yet she did. She had never seen a tennis court, though she had heard that the king was a great aficionado of the sport.
Her husband’s arm came about her shoulder, and for the briefest of moments she allowed herself a sense of security and ease.
She should have told him! Oh, surely, he might well have protected her, held her …
No man could protect an accused traitor.
“Queen Catherine,” Warwick whispered, pointing to a lounge.
The woman Ondine saw was far from her first youth, yet lovely in the sweetness of her face. She smiled and clapped and chatted with the ladies who surrounded her. “And there, the cutups, Buckingham, Lord Burkhurst; there, that’s Sedley.”
“The cutups?” Ondine murmured.
“Idle rogues, my love. Tales of debauchery that come from this court come from them, not His Grace, whom they do but amuse. He is not so much a lecher,” Warwick mused, “but a true lover. His wife, his mistresses, they are his friends as well. The king also keeps grave council, the likes of Pepys, Wren, and others. Those, my love, are rogues of whom you must beware.”
“More so than you, milord?” she asked innocently.
“Infinitely.”.
“Over there—who is that?” Ondine asked curiously. Far from the queen’s lounge across the court was another lounge. The woman within it had lovely features, deep dark hair, and a tiny but glorious physique. The man Warwick had pointed out as being the Duke of Buckingham was saying something to her. She laughed, stretching as luxuriously as a cat.
“Louise, Duchess of Portsmouth.”
Ondine gasped. “The king’s mistress! With his wife here present, too!”
Warwick chuckled softly. “The lovely creature down there facing the net is Nelly Gwyn.”
But it wasn’t Nelly Gwyn who caught Ondine’s eye; it was a very different voluptuous brunette.
She chatted with Louise, laughed, watched the play. She was stunning to look at, tall, graceful, with full red pouting lips, emitting a lazy ooze of sensuality that was unmistakable. She sipped wine, she dangled grapes from her fingers, and she seemed to brood and laugh again, as if too easily bored.
“Who is that?”
“Lady Anne,” Warwick said. “Come; the queen has seen us.”
Ondine stiffened. So that was the lady Anne! Wrath rose high within her, then she nearly laughed. What did it matter?—she was about to see the king.
Warwick led Ondine along quickly to the queen’s lounge, sweeping a deep bow. “Your Highness.”
Ondine curtsied at his side, instantly aware that his affection for the smiling creature before them with the still sad eyes was most sincere.
“Warwick!” The queen still carried the slightest accent of her native Portugal. “What a pleasure, milord!” He stepped forward to kiss her hand, and the ladies with her backed politely away. Catherine disdained protocol and leaned forward to kiss his cheek, but then her bright eyes were looking beyond him to Ondine. “Ah, Countess! Do step forward!” She took Ondine’s hand and studied her with open pleasure.
“Oh, but, Warwick, where did you find her? She’s lovely! Heads will turn, but they already have! All watch what a lovely couple you make—ah!” Catherine cried suddenly, clapping her hands together. “Game point—to my most noble husband!”
Ondine spun in startled surprise. She had not realized a player to be the king, yet now, too suddenly, she saw that the victor was indeed none other than Charles. He was shaking hands with his opponent, accepting a great sheet or towel from a servant with a friendly thanks, and turning toward them.
He did not see her right away; his great dark eyes were on Warwick. He smiled with pleasure, his trim mustache spreading across his face with the widening of his smile. Ondine felt numb again, staring at him, seeing him anew. He was a tall man, as tall as Warwick, very dark and intriguing. He was a Stuart king, yet as with royalty, he carried the blood of many houses; that of Scottish and French royalty, and the Italian lineage of the Medicis dukes of Tuscany. Perhaps it was from this that he derived his looks, for he was dark and fascinating.
“Warwick!”
The king clapped her husband on the shoulder; Warwick greeted the king with the same enthusiasm.
“And rumor tells me you’ve brought a bride!”
“Aye, Your Grace. The lady Ondine, my wife.”
And then the moment was there. He stared straight at her. Numb, dazed, praying with all her heart, she sank into a curtsy, all the while keeping her eyes mutely locked with the king’s deep-set stare. Ah, did he stare! So very long, yet it all seemed too slow, out of a mist. Silently she pleaded; nightmare visions spun like mercury through her head. He would speak, he would summon a guard, he would point a finger and rage out a single damning word: “Traitor!”
He did not say it; the word echoed only in her mind. He recognized her-—oh, she could swear, though he moved not and gave nothing away, that he recognized her.
“Lady Ondine,” he said smoothly. He reached for her hand, bringing her to her feet. “We offer you our most heartfelt welcome to Hampton Court.”
She couldn’t speak; she smiled, and her eyes remained tied to his. She feared that the nervous relief welling within her would bring darkness cascading down, sending her to the floor in a dead swoon.
“Married without his king’s permission!” Charles laughed.
“But now that I’ve seen the bride, I can offer only my blessing and my envy. Catherine! Is she not incredible!”
“And chaste, perhaps,” Catherine murmured, drawing no offense from the king, merely laughter.
Warwick slipped an arm around Ondine’s shoulder, pulling her to him and extricating her hands from the king’s. “Chaste, I do swear, my most gracious queen.”
“Possessive, Chatham!” Charles admonished. “But, friend, I think you’ve trouble ahead. Buckingham is near to drooling on my floor over here as he covets your bride. Ah, but he dare not pursue her, while in my presence, and he fears your prowess, Warwick, so perhaps we are all safe. But what—are we? I fear a cat prowls near, ready to shred the bride! Quick—a royal escape!”
Whimsically Charles had her hand once again. In an aside he laughingly informed Catherine he must show Ondine the fields and gardens outside the court, “And save her from the swains we have in abundance here!”
“We’ll gladly see the gardens,” Warwick said, yet this time, he could not retrieve Ondine from the king.
Charles placed a hand upon his chest and murmured mischievously, “You’ve matters to settle here, before they can get out of hand, friend. The cat I speak of prowls ever closer!”
Warwick’s mistake was in turning, for the king did not lie. Anne, a smile on her face, venom lacing her eyes, was almost upon them. “Lord Chatham!” she cried.
Without cutting her and creating a scene, Warwick had no recourse but to pause, as etiquette dictated. Charles chose that moment to wink and escape with another wink to his wife and Ondine in tow. They were quickly followed by two of the king’s guards, but as they broke from the structure of the tennis courts and st
arted upon a tiled garden path, Charles abruptly turned.
“Oh, good fellows! Do leave me in peace for this once. Do you really believe the beautiful lady Chatham to be a threat?”
“Your Grace!” In unison the guards bowed; in unison, they disappeared. Charles led her along the path, deeper and deeper into seclusion, to a place where strange plants grew in profusion. He knelt by one and plucked the fruit from it. He drew a knife from his pouch and slit the fruit, offering a piece to Ondine. “Pineapple. First grown here in England by my own gardener. It’s an intriguing fruit. Taste it.”
She accepted the fruit, but could not eat it. She stared into his eyes, still numb. “Your Majesty, did you mean that?”
“Of course! I would not lie about such a matter as a pineapple.”
“No, no.” Ondine shook her head vehemently. “I meant—” She paused, wincing. “Oh, Your Grace! Never would I harm your person! Yet I remain still implicated in treason—”
He waved a hand in the air, smiling, and in that smile she saw all the beautiful things that had made him a beloved man to those closest to him.
“I never did believe your father meant to slay me, my dear Duchess of Rochester.”
She let out a long breath. She felt terribly shaky, as if any moment she would fall to the ground. Yes, he had recognized her. She had known it the moment their eyes had met.
“Oh, God!” she whispered, and he touched her cheek with a gentle fascination, then moved quickly away, tossing the remains of the pineapple to the ground.
“Where have you been, Ondine? Where did that deadly rogue of a friend of mine find you?”
“On the gallows.”
“Gallows?” Charles turned to her curiously.
“I was caught poaching deer.”
“And you were to hang?”
“It’s not uncommon, I understand.”
Suddenly Charles started to laugh. “And Warwick happened by, to claim you in marriage and rescue the fair damsel in distress. It’s wonderful! Ah, what a story! Yet a secret one, I do presume.”
“Aye, milord, though I do not know the workings of my husband’s mind.”
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