The coffin had been opened. Within its silken lining lay a body, and even in the darkness Ondine knew it to be a woman, clad in rich velvet, the hands locked in prayer, hair spilling long about the pillow… face rotting, as time and death would have its way with even the greatest beauty.
Genevieve …
She knew no sense or reason, no courage whatsoever. In that moment Ondine knew nothing but panic, blind and raw. She edged by the coffin, dimly saw row upon row of those that stretched beyond it.
Then she ran for that thin streak of light, that one ray of hope. She was in some tunnel, some tunnel damp and rank with moss and the eternal odor of death. A place where shrieks that were not her own, but those of rats and mice, disturbed the silence in a mortal terror not unlike her own.
She ignored them when they tread over her feet, when they scampered along her path, and coughing, gagging, choking, she likewise ignored the spiderwebs that clung to her face and gown. Spitting, half sobbing, she clawed at them, even as she ran, learning to place her hands before her.
At long last she reached the source of the light—another wall, where but a crack lay open. Still sobbing, she raised her hands against that stone, pulling and prodding, scratching her flesh and breaking her nails. It refused to give, and she lay against it, panting raggedly, then set forth once again, feverishly clawing at the stone. Then she forced herself to stop, stop with her heart pounding like a hammer against an anvil. Logic, sense, patience, oh, God, how desperately did she need those virtues! She breathed deeply, paused, then once again set to her task, pitting all her weight against the stone.
It groaned, as if long untouched; as if it balked and fought her. She rested and panted again and returned once more to the labor, using all the reserves of her strength. And then …
Quite obediently and unexpectedly, the stone slid back, as if on some ancient hinge. Amazed and panting still, Ondine stepped past it.
A certain darkness lingered here, too, but from the wall, light glowed from two candles set in service sconces.
She was in the wine cellar, she realized with disbelief. Some secret path had taken her from the chapel, past the armory, and below the kitchens. There was a stairway at the end of the room that would take her to the larder, she was quite certain.
She stared at her hands; they were bloody and raw. Her clothing was covered in a thick mist of webbing, and she knew she was adorned head to toe likewise. Dear God! Loathesome creatures might well crawl in the tangle of her hair even now.
“Uggh!” she spat aloud, still trembling, still terrified-—but also furious and determined.
Oh, but Warwick would explain this time! Feet stamping against the stone, she headed for the stairway. Then she paused. She had no wish to scare the servants. She took another breath, pursed her lips in grim demand, and started more quietly for the stairs. She would evade the servants—and accost her dear lord of Chatham totally unannounced and unprepared.
As it was, Warwick was not unprepared for trouble. He was, at that very second, staring at Jake with horror and disbelief.
“What do you mean—she disappeared! Women do not disappear. You say you are positive she entered the chapel?”
“Warwick, I swear it! I thought I heard her call, but the door was bolted. In time, I broke it—but she was not there! Her roses were upon the altar—but she was gone!”
“Damnation!” Warwick swore, tense as he hurried for his office door, his heart thundering, his soul in terror. Dear God, but how—
He did not reach the door; it flew open and an apparition in a mist of gray flew into him, slender hands rocketing against his chest in a whirlwind of fury.
“My dear lord of Chatham, I have had it! Beasts and whispers, mistresses, friends, enemies, whores, and ghosts! No more! You! You vile wretch! You and your talk of rescue and salvation! You’re mad! You and your entire household! What in the name of all the blessed saints goes on here!”
Warwick was so stunned by her absolute disarray of appearance—and then so taken aback by her fury—that he actually backed away, receiving each of her blows in shocked silence. His head blurred even with his vision; he could think of nothing at first except that she was found; she stood before him. She lived, oh, yes, lived, in a spinning fury, dirtied and grimed and almost comical, but, oh, so alive and vibrant with her special passion for life!
As if awakened by his very thoughts, he stood his ground, catching her flailing fists. “Give pause, madam, I pray you! What is this? What has happened?”
“What has happened?” She shrieked out the words. “From what moment, my lord? Shall I begin with your charitable— diabolical!—plot to steal a woman—any woman—from the gallows? Oh, you bastard! No more! And I was supposed to grovel on the ground where you walked for eternity because you saved my life, only to offer it up for some more heinous death!”
“Nay, that was not the plan!” he retorted harshly, at which point she took a full fisted and furious swing at him. He ducked, grabbed her once again, and brought the two of them crashing down to the floor together, Ondine panting heavily, Warwick amazed at the strength it took to hold her, and Jake quite confused—anxious over her appearance as well as totally amused by the entire matter.
“I’d like to hang you by your toes, Lord Chatham!” Ondine said, pinned at last between his thighs, his fingers twined over hers. “I’d like to see you on the rack! Gibbeted, disemboweled—”
“Shut up!” Warwick hissed, and she did, for they all three heard the footsteps nearing the door, then a tentative tapping.
“Milord!” Mathilda called. “Is something amiss?”
Warwick gazed briefly at Jake; Jake slipped on through the door and murmured some assurance to Mathilda. Ondine did not know why she remained silent, but she did, watching her husband’s tense features, seeing the gravity in his eyes.
At last they heard footsteps moving away. Warwick did not change positions; Ondine pressed against his hands, suddenly aware that she was very close to tears and not about to betray them to this man.
“Dear God!” she whispered. “Will you tell me what goes on here!”
He released her hands and sat back upon his haunches, then stood and reached a hand to her. She took it hesitantly. When she was upon her feet, he did not speak, but touched her hair, removing from it a skein of the spiderwebs.
“Aye,” he said then softly. “I will tell you. But first …”
He absently clutched his hands behind his back and paced the area before his desk. Then with sudden decision he strode to the door and opened it carefully.
“Jake!”
“Aye, milord!”
The little monkey of a man scampered back to them from the ballroom.
“I can’t have her running about looking so.”
“No worry; I’ll call the lads for hot water at your order, thus avoiding my lady’s maid.”
“Aye,” Warwick murmured. “And we’ll give leave with a great deal of laughter, climb the stairs as one—young lovers not to be interrupted, even to dine.”
Jake disappeared. Warwick hovered by the door, then motioned to Ondine. She could but stare at him as if he had indeed gone mad.
“What—?”
“Get over here!” he rasped in command.
“You’ve not answered a question yet, Warwick Chatham! I’ll not jump at your orders like a frightened hare—”
She halted in sudden wariness as he swore with great exasperation, left the door, and came for her, sweeping her from her feet— cobwebs and all—before she could do more than utter a gasp of protest.
“Laugh!” he prompted her.
“Laugh!”
“Aye, laugh! Slip your arms around my neck, gaze into my eyes as if they held you captive in a sea of adoration. Hold close—”
“I will not!”
“You will! And you will do so now!”
He strode back to the door, Ondine a carefree burden in his arms, tossing back his dark head and filling the evening with the
rich and husky tones of a baritone laughter. She tightened her grip around his neck lest she fall, and she stared into his eyes as he had commanded her. She knew that they were to appear as if naught were amiss should someone see them; she knew that Warwick intended to move fleeting and eager. She knew, too, that she was a consummate actress and more—a woman deeply in love with her husband, though he used her, willing with her heart to play this moment to the hilt.
“Warwick!”
He strode so swiftly! She was able to sound breathless, to giggle, to laugh as his quick tread brought them up the stairway.
They passed Jake, who warned Mathilda to leave the young earl and his countess alone. They passed Justin, coming along the stairway, who laughed in turn at their good humor, calling something to his brother about marital quarrels being worth those moments of bliss when they were resolved.
And then they were within their own quarters, where Warwick quickly set her down and hurried into the bath. With a sigh of relief he saw that it had been filled and steamed invitingly with water.
“Come!” he called to Ondine. “I’ll help you, since we dare not call your maid.”
Ondine followed him through, anxious—so anxious!—to rid herself of the cobwebbed clothing, yet wary as he stood there, for bending to his whim surely brought new misery to her soul. She had little enough pride left; little of dignity.
“Milord, I can help myself,” she told him pointedly.
“Milady, plague me not with such nonsense!” he snapped back impatiently, coming to her in one broad step and swirling her about so that he could set to the hooks and tiny buttons of her gown, and the laces of the corset bodice beneath it. She stood rigid, somewhat desperate, for he conjured things she thought best buried and forgotten, sensations of the flesh that were made in Eden, but brought upon the heart and soul the scalding of an earthly hell.
Her thoughts had no import, nor did she have time to expand upon them, for it was surely with a quick and no nonsense approach that she found herself losing her garments. “Nay!” she cried when he would touch her hose, clenching her teeth, lowering her eyes, and removing them herself—then plunging into what little shelter she could find in the steaming water. When she looked up at last, she was surprised to find him still there, hands crossed over his chest, his expression somewhat bemused.
“Haven’t you something to do!” she demanded.
“I thought you demanded an explanation?”.
“I do! But—”
Her voice trailed as he knelt down beside her, taking up the sponge and soap. She eyed him most warily; his expression was all innocence.
“Woman,” he murmured, casually sudsing the sponge, “be it diabolical or no, I married you. I know you, just as I know the movement of my hand, yet again and again you behave as if you’ve some secret which must not be divulged. The secrets you hide, milady, are known, and so in such circumstances modesty is false.”
“Give me the soap and leave me!” Ondine said, but, oh, it was not to be a sharp command, and even as she spoke, her words faltered. This was not an easy man to order about, and ever did it become harder, when it was her own sense she fought more than he!
He shook his head. “I think not. You need help with your hair.”
“I’ve done it many a time my—”
The last was caught in a gulp, for he had pushed her down beneath the surface, thoroughly wetting her head, and when she emerged, sputtering, his fingers had already worked through her temple, her nape, massaging her scalp with the most hypnotic touch. She curled her fingers into her hands, desperately willing herself to be still, for he would complete his task, and she knew in her heart that if she moved, that if he touched her further, she would not gasp or revile him, but twist with the craving of his touch.
She did not look at him, but stared silently at the water, lashes downcast, form rigid, as he manipulated the long waves of her hair. She thought she heard him sigh. With disappointment? With weariness? She did not know. At last he spoke, and it was stiffly.
“That will suffice, I believe.”
She nodded and ducked her head, realizing that to vigorously rinse it would require her arms, and then she would need to release their hug about her breasts. Yet there was no need, for he rinsed her hair with his fingers with the same fine expertise with which he had washed it, leaving her to wonder how many times he had performed just such a task, and for how many women.
He was done. He stood and moved to the closet for a towel, and as he sought it she quickly sought to scrub her flesh. Of course he caught her in the act, but he stood silently and waited. Blindly she stretched her arm far from her to reach for the towel. He gave it to her, but when she stood, he was there, mesmerizing her as he wrapped it about her with the greatest care and tenderness, and if she did not know him, she might have sworn that there was a look of wistfulness about him as he touched her eyes.
But those amber eyes of his were at best enigmatic, and his gaze did not tarry upon her long. He swept her into his arms again, completely wrapping her in the towel. He carried her out to his own great chair in the music room and sat her there, finding the brandy and glasses in his desk drawer and pouring them each a portion. She sipped it eagerly, realizing that she trembled from his nearness, and did so, too, from that chill of the graves beneath the earth.
He did not stay near her, but walked to the fire, sipping his brandy, staring into the blaze.
“Madam,” he said at last, “it was not with diabolical designs that I took you from the gallows, though it is true that I thought a woman condemned and facing death to be a finer bait than an innocent with nothing to fear but sheer acts of God.”
Ondine felt cold, very, very cold. “So. I am bait. For the creature who forced me to the tombs?”
He swung about, staring at her hard. “What exactly happened?”
She drained her brandy. Recall was difficult. She did not want to remember the graves, she wanted to taste more of life.
“I entered the chapel. Jake was with me, but I closed the doors. I wandered toward the altar. Once there, I heard a moan—”
“And you panicked?”
“Milord, I do not panic,” she said coolly. “I ignored the sound and set to my task; again it came. And when I turned, I faced a creature—”
“A creature?” he demanded skeptically.
“Aye!” she snapped indignantly. “A figure, capped and cowled and masked! And taloned!”
“Taloned?”
She heard the doubt in his voice, and gritted her teeth, yet the vision had come so clear to her that she trembled, and he saw that shiver in her ill-clad form.
Quickly he was before her, lifting her in his arms again, bringing her to the fire, before which he knelt.
“You are cold; your hair is wet.”
“It will dry quickly.”
“Go on. Talons?”
“Gloves, then, with talons attached!” Dear God, but it was difficult to think and speak! Fear left her as the warmth and vigor of his body leapt to hers, yet a new fear began, for she could not forget how she had woken once, the spill of virginity between them, only to hear his apology, since he had assumed her a whore!
She stiffened in his arms, wanting only the truth between them now, loathe that she should love him while he scorned her, a gallows’ bride.
“Gloves, aye, with nail protrusions—lethal protrusions, milord.” She lifted her head, narrowing her eyes, not knowing that the fire gleamed within them, and all along the dancing length of hair that matched its golden glow. “Someone intended me serious harm; I ran, and found then that I must back away. At Genevieve’s tomb I found that the flooring was no more; I fell through.”
“To the tombs?” he demanded hoarsely.
“To the tombs. And, my lord, you should be aware that your lady’s casket has been opened!”
“Opened?”
“Opened, my lord! O-p-e-n-e-d!”
“I know the spelling!” Warwick flared. He set her down upo
n the floor; she groped to pull the towel about her, stunned as he left her, long strides taking him back toward the bath.
But he had not gone to the bath; he had traveled through to her chamber and returned quickly with her brush. Her shoulders squared as she felt him come behind her on his knees, take up her hair even as he spoke of the matter at hand, fingers gentle, voice as hard as the grate of the stone.
“I shall see to it immediately. And you will go nowhere unattended.”
“She was murdered, then. Genevieve.”
“Aye,” he agreed simply. The brush paused against her hair. “None believed it; not even the king. But I knew, for she did not fear me, nor despise me, and though frail, she was sound in mind.”
Ondine was glad her back was to him, for she tightened with a strange pain, a knife that twisted at the sound of anguish in his tone, at the gentle, tender love he had borne another. Oh, she did not envy that poor lady! She only sought the love.
“And so,” she said stiffly, “you married me, hoping that the murderer should strike again?”
“Nay!” he charged her impatiently, and the brush tore once again into her hair, not with cruelty but with impatience. He spun her about, eyes burning, searing deeply into hers with intensity and honor.
“I’d have no maid’s blood on my hands! Lady, if I did not think that I could preserve the life I bartered for, I’d not have taken it into my hands! I’d thought to watch, to trap, aye to bait, but never leave to danger!”
“I was near killed this night!”
“Never, never will it come about again, for never again will you be alone!” he told her fiercely and with warning.
“Why didn’t you tell me!”
“How could I know that you would fiil the roie if you feared all whom you met?”
“Then whom do you suspect of the deed?”
“No one—and many.” He rose again, running his fingers distractedly through his hair and pacing before her with the great cat’s energy she so often saw in him. “I know, I know not,” he murmured, “only that murder was the truth. Hardgrave despises me; he well would see my house fallen forever. Anne is a jealous witch, yet murder seems not her style.”
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