Ondine

by Heather Graham

  Ondine had his care; that much she believed. Yet something about her felt hollow, and she reflected in misery that he might think of her somewhat as it seemed he did of Anne—healthy sport and amusement, to be enjoyed, perhaps even gallantly so, yet never truly cherished.

  And did it matter? she queried herself bleakly. She had no more than this time she had sworn him—payment for her life. The king had given her leave and grace to prove her own quest, and it was something that must be achieved. The freedom Warwick had sworn to her was a gift she must take.

  She gazed up, startled, when he moved across the room to her, sitting at her side, taking her chin.

  “Ondine, I have seen before such a costume as you described.”

  “Where?” she demanded breathlessly.

  He smiled bitterly and released her, walking to the window from where the day streamed in. “At Westchester. After Genevieve was killed, I tore apart her chamber and found a passage, and at the foot of the passage I found a discarded cloak and mask.”

  “Then you knew, for fact, that it was murder! Why didn’t you go to the king?”

  He shrugged. She saw only the movement of his shoulders. “I did go to the king. He thought that the death had unbalanced my mind, because, you see, he hosted many masques and balls at that time, and thought surely that some clandestine lover, innocent and removed from the deed, had lost the cloak.”

  “But it is all real,” Ondine murmured, then said, eyes widening, “at Hampton! That was why you tested the structure of the chamber, why the steward spoke so strangely.”

  He nodded.

  “Well, then,” she murmured a little tartly, “we have failed at any attempt to find this creature! Last night, milord, was the time to act. To question all, to discover its whereabouts—”

  “Do you think me a fool?” he charged her, turning about. “Whilst I saw to you, Jake sought out the others. No one was seen. Clinton claimed to have been at the stables, Justin swore to have been in his chambers. Mathilda said all the servants appeared to have their tasks, and a rider sent to Hardgrave’s castle was told that he and lady Anne were dining together at the time. Who lies? Who speaks the truth? We are back full circle.”

  “There must be a motive.”

  “What motive would you wish, milady? Hatred, revenge, jealousy, greed—they all might be applied.”

  “Your brother loves you!” She instantly rose to Justin’s defense, though he had not been pointed out.

  “Hmm, and I think, perhaps, Countess, you love my brother far too well.”

  “Perhaps I should,” she retorted. “He, milord, is never brooding or aloof, nor prone to rages, but rather ceaselessly pleasant.”

  “Ah, and there lies your truth!” he exclaimed, smiling now, but with a sharpness to his eyes that warned his humor veiled a darker emotion. Returning to her in a stride, he swiftly wrenched her sheet from her grasp and brought her naked breasts hard to his chest in a passion so sudden she could only gasp.

  “Ondine! Wouldst you see blood among brothers?”

  “Nay! I speak merely of his temperament—and of yours! And you, milord, stray from the conversation at hand!”

  “My temper became, from your lips, the conversation at hand. And, aye, sorely has it been vexed as of late. Such is the nature of a beast, madam. Tease it, taunt it—it growls and paces. Offer kindness, and it comes sweetly to heel.”

  She stared into his eyes, aware that she melted to his touch, the fever of his arms, the passion growing even now in his eyes, in the hands that stroked the length of her back, her naked flesh, silk to his touch. She tilted her head back, prone to whimsy, careless of anything but the moment when he held her so. He was then hers, completely hers, if only for the fleeting glimpse of time.

  “Oh?” she murmured sweetly, fingertips light and seductive as the whisper of her voice. She smoothed them into his nape. “Do you say that you—autocrat and beast!—might purr and be gentle at my whim?”

  “Aye, milady, be that whim the sweetest promise!”

  Then she shuddered, for the whim was his. His lips touched upon her throat, found her pulse there, and wandered lower to close with fiery moisture over her breast.

  ” ‘Tis day!” she gasped, tugging upon his hair, for little will and strength did his purpose leave her to stand. “The light streams in, servants are about—”

  “And I, milady, am, above all, master of that which I would call my own castle!”

  “The light!” she choked, too late, for she was down upon the bed, he between her thighs.

  “The sun casts even greater beauty over you than does the moon,” he told her hoarsely. “It brings velvet beauty to the fire of your hair; a satin finish to your flesh; the red of the rose to your lips; a sheen of emeralds to your eyes …”

  She lost the meaning of his words. He had barely disrobed before he was in her, fierce and storming, casting her to netherworlds of sensation where she could but ride the waves and reap the splendor, stunned and shaken and trembling with awe and the volatile, primal ardor of the man.

  She held to him, glad again of the time, gasping to the stroke of the staff that filled her again and again, and left her drenched with quivering elation … and then …

  She twisted from him, worried. He thought her a petty thief, a common wench; he claimed her flesh as his, as if by right, and loving him, she gave it. Oh, that she had some restraint that dignity might remain with her!

  Warwick was quickly on his feet, adjusted in apparel. Her back was to him, and to her further outrage he whacked her smartly against her derriere.

  “Rise, milady, the day wastes. Rise!”

  “The day wastes! You knave! Scoundrel—”

  “Up!”

  “Up! Y6u, milord, may get out—”

  “I give the orders, milady.”

  “Orders! I am not your servant! Don’t you dare think to touch me again! You play the games, you torment me, and then you dare to come with this sudden command! Milord—leave my chamber!”

  Dear God, but she was a fool! He was nothing but a lusting autocrat, and, by God, she’d had it with him!

  He laughed deep within his throat, sharp now, impatient. “We return to court.”

  Gritting her teeth, she dragged her pillow to her breast and fought him shrilly.

  “You are mad, Lord of Chatham! We’ve just returned from court! Your quest is to trap a killer, yet you run—”

  He came too quickly, strides long, body rigid, knuckles lifting her chin so that her sparkling eyes caught the hardness in his own.

  “I never run, Lady. Do as I say.”

  He strode from the chamber, heedless of the epithets that followed him.

  He closed the door that separated the music room from the sleeping chambers and leaned against it.

  No, he did not run. But now he did. For he was blinded; he knew not what he sought. And the fear that rose in him was cold and horrible, for he dared not take the smallest chance in the future. An agony of indecision struck him, for each time he touched her, she drove more deeply into his heart, and he could not use her as he had thought that day upon the gallows. He had not been wrong; some lunacy was sworn against him. Perhaps his enemy feared that he, himself, could not be touched, beaten, or slain.

  And, therefore, any woman he called wife was in serious peril of her life, a peril that he now feared beyond imagination.

  Jealousy had driven him from court. How and when she had become such a part of him, he knew no other desire, he did not know. God! He had tried with all his strength to stay away from her! Better ask man thirsting unto death to forgo water! He was no saint, no monk, and could not watch her without the wanting of her. Nor was he made of steel, but of flesh and blood, and such a man with both health and vitality that natural appetites must be appeased.

  He ground his teeth tightly together, remembering his vow. Aye; he had to release her! But first he had to protect her life, and for that time, by God, she would be his! He could pray that in time he w
ould be filled with her, know the magic that so bound him! Find release from it! His promises he would keep …

  But for now he would go to court, lay his case once more before Charles, and bring the king due on debts of loyalty so that the finest of the king’s guards would be set for her protection. None would dare touch her then!

  For a moment he reflected on her, Ondine. His brow slowly lifted and he stormed back into her chamber, catching her half clothed. He twisted his lips in a dry smile and taunted her with both gentle humor and warning.

  “Lady, remember, wives promise obedience. I am not mad that I say we return to court, but that matters not—the whim is mine. Then, I think, there is much to you we have not touched upon as yet. The reason you so dreaded to meet our king; the reason, too, you caught his fancy—platonic fancy?—is an intrigue that does fascinate me! So, you see, my love, it seems to me that you should scrape and bow, and bend with ease to my slightest wish—lest I find time to dig and discover that which you are so eager to hide!”

  She threw her brush at him in one of her sudden piques. Warwick chuckled and ducked.

  “And you accuse me of foul temper, love! If I am a beast, I have surely met my match in a water witch! We leave, my love, in an hour. Hurry.”

  He laughed still as he closed the door on her. Then he sobered as anguish swept through him. He could not bear the danger into which he had cast her. His lips hardened in a line, and he decided that he could count the days that remained to their marriage. He would ask the king for a divorce immediately and make arrangements for her to be brought to the Colonies. If she were rid of him, she would be safe.

  Chapter 17

  Warwick most assuredly meant to put his absurd plan into action; he’d barely left her before Mathilda and Lottie arrived breathlessly at her chamber door, prepared to start packing. Mathilda was upset that Warwick should drag Ondine back and forth when a child was expected, but Warwick himself assured Mathilda she would be fine. Mathilda brought her mistress more goat’s milk. Ondine hated the stuff, but for Mathilda’s sake she drank it with a weak smile.

  There was one aspect to the trip that seemed quite nice: Justin was accompanying them. He whispered to Ondine that though he had been in definite disfavor with Charles for dueling, Warwick had spoken to the king, and Justin now had permission to return to court.

  Clinton remained behind in charge, and his good-bye embrace to Ondine seemed warm and comforting. She prayed again that neither he nor Justin would be guilty of murder, as she was growing to love them both dearly.

  She thought that Warwick might choose to ride above with Jake as was so often his custom; he did not. He seated himself next to her, facing his brother.

  The journey went marvelously well, or so Ondine thought, until they had but one night of travel left. They stopped to picnic, and though the lunch was casual and easy, she and Warwick managed to quarrel at its end when Justin mentioned they should stop and rest early—for Ondine’s health and the coming Chatham heir. Justin rode with Jake. Ondine and Warwick were alone in the carriage as the afternoon waned.

  Yet in the darkness of the carriage she felt his eyes upon her, and a deep tension struck her.

  “Warwick—” She said his name, then hesitated, for their relationship was ever strange to her. She knew him intimately; she knew him not at all.

  “My love?” It was always there—that bitter twist to his tone when he addressed her so.

  She stiffened, staring out into the darkness. “I know what it is now that we set about; I comprehend the reason for your deception. But still I think it cruel. Wouldn’t it perhaps be best to tell Mathilda and the others that we were mistaken, there is no child?”

  He was silent, and she could not read his mind or expression in the growing darkness.

  “Perhaps even now, Countess,” he said coolly, “it is not a lie that I perpetuate.”

  “Trust me, my lord,” she replied regally, “it is a lie.”

  “Is it?” Amusement crept into his voice. “Ondine, you are aware of nature’s functions, are you not?” He pulled closer to her, whispering with warm, evocative breath about the things that happened when men came together with women. The sound of his voice—even the words!—sent hot shivers racing through her; she clamped her teeth together in anger, for he seemed unconcerned. ■

  “Leave me be!” she cried, twisting from his touch. “I know what—I know all about—I—”

  He laughed, releasing her at her insistence for once. But the sound of his laughter faded into the night, and she felt a touch of cold gravel in his tone when he spoke next.

  “You sound quite upset, my love. Does the idea sound so repugnant to you, then? A child of mine?”

  A child of his …

  Nay, it was not repugnant; it was a dream, a fantasy, unreal— a family life, wanted and cherished and … normal. She saw years that stretched ahead with laughter and warmth and love. She saw a future together, where he would speak as tenderly of her as he did of his lost Genevieve, where he would laugh and tease and want her forever.

  Men! How dare he think to quiz her so, when he thought of nothing but convenience and his own pursuits?

  “Of course, Lord Chatham, the thought is repulsive to me! We go our own ways, remember? I’d not be saddled with a child.”

  He caught her chin quite suddenly, fingers harsh upon her, but still the darkness hid from her all but his anger.

  “Lady, this I promise you: No heir of mine will ever leave my presence! It might take you longer to be free, but free you would be—unsaddled. Any child is mine—and Mathilda’s, since you show such little concern! And trust me, lady, should she be given the task of raising the heir, she would not note your disappearance!”

  “Bastard!” Ondine exploded, continuing heedlessly. “Then— things must cease, ere the lie is truth!”

  He released her, leaning back, completely in shadow.

  “Nothing ceases.”

  “You—”

  “You are my wife. And there, my lady, the matter ends.”

  She swore at him with some of the wonderfully apt and colorful phrases she had learned within Newgate, yet to no avail, for soon the carriage jolted to a stop.

  Jake opened the carriage door, addressing Warwick by name. “Shall we stop? We’ve reached the Boar’s Head.”

  “Aye, we’ll stop.”

  Jake called to Justin, who leapt down to the ground. Warwick showed no sign of his temper to Jake or Justin, and Ondine chose to do the same. She did, in fact, think to be utterly charming to her brother-in-law. They teased and laughed all through the meal. Warwick joined in, yet Ondine was certain it was not with his whole heart.

  Yet even as she laughed and dined, she found herself praying once again: Dearest Lord, don’t let it be Justin! For though he was gallant to her and ever full of flattery and laughter, there was, despite his mischief, a certain care; he knew that she was his brother’s—property. In that he took care never to quip too far, never to touch her overly long. Above all there was a certain respect between them, and Ondine believed Warwick might well be ready to die in truth himself, rather than learn that his blood had betrayed him in murder.

  It was late when they finished in the dining room, late when they trod the steps to separate rooms.

  Ondine feared their conversation that night; she feared his very nearness. But she needn’t have. He told her harshly to sleep, and he lay down far from her, partially clothed, and his eyes closed very quickly.

  She did not find solace so easily, but stayed awake, torn by misery and emptiness. She wished fervently that she had never spoken in the carriage.

  They left the tavern at dawn, Justin riding with Jake, but Ondine still so weary from lack of sleep that she had no thought to carry any further argument with Warwick. Indeed, she tried to rest against the carriage, but it jolted so that he drew her to his lap, and with no protest she sighed and rested.

  They had not gone far, though, when the carriage stopped quite suddenly.
Warwick, frowning, adjusted to open the door, startled to find Justin in the act of wrenching it from the outside.

  “What—”

  “We’re being followed,” Justin said quickly. “I thought you should know.”

  ‘TFollowed?” Warwick queried tensely.

  “Lyle Hardgrave and the lady Anne. I saw the stag’s head on the coat of arms. They’re right behind us.”

  Ondine, dazed with sleep, still saw the brothers exchange glances, as if they were allies upon the field, recognizing a foe, eager to accept a challenge.

  “We’ll stay far ahead of that pair, shall we?”

  “My thought exactly,” Justin replied. He smiled at Ondine, youthful exuberance alive in his gaze, a chuckle in his throat. “Go back to sleep, my beauty—beasts do guard your slumber!”

  She returned his smile, casting a questioning gaze at Warwick as the door closed again. He did not return her gaze, but stared pensively out to the great oaks as the carriage jolted forward again.

  “Milord?” she murmured. “Do you think—”

  “I dare think nothing.”

  “Can you not clear your own brother from the suspicions in your mind when those two plague your every step?”

  “Are you so anxious, then, for Justin’s innocence?”

  “Aye,” she answered honestly.

  “You care for him so?”

  “Of course!” she cried, reproach lacing her eyes and her tone. “He is your blood, and you love him dearly! And he is young and dashing and seems so loyal to your cause.”

  Warwick sighed and placed his hand upon her head, urging her back down to rest.

  ” ‘Tis a pity, then, milady, ‘twas not Justin to discover you in the hold of the hangman’s noose.”

  She would have answered him; she caught her tongue because he did not speak with anger or mockery, just weariness. His knuckles moved over her cheek lightly. “Sleep, Ondine. The day wears on long and tedious.”