He led Ondine after the king. Ondine heard Justin comment cheerfully to Anne as he followed behind them.
‘ ‘Tsk, tsk, Anne. My dear sister might be from the streets, but that’s far better than the gutter, from where some females do come!”
Anne snapped out an oath that had definitely been born in the gutter. Justin laughed. Warwick turned to him, and they chuckled together, and each took one of her arms in a most gallant fashion.
She lowered her eyes, deeply in love with both the brothers Chatham.
Dinner came and passed, a feast with many courses. Jugglers performed, a bear danced, and the minstrels played. Ondine danced with the king, with Justin, with the rogue Buckingham …
And with her husband.
But Charles never seemed to tire, and even as the hour grew late, he told Warwick that he had a kingdom to rule and needed some counsel, if Warwick thought he might be able to set his personal problems aside for an evening.
Jake materialized to take Ondine to her chamber; she knew that he would remain outside the door.
For a long time she walked the floor, deep in thought. Pride burst in her, for the evening, for the man she loved. Anguish touched her, for already he planned to be rid of her. But—oh, God!—she owed him so …
She gnawed upon her nails and walked again with agitation. The hour grew later and later, but she suddenly cast open the door and asked Jake if she might summon a maid and a bath.
Jake seemed surprised and even a little disgruntled, but he called to one of the guards, and minutes later, a sleepy little maid appeared, and then a trail of pages brought a gigantic tub, filling it with steaming water.
Ondine bathed long and luxuriously in wonderfully scented oils. And while she soaked she sipped upon a glass of port for the courage she felt she needed.
When the water cooled, she emerged. She dressed in her sheerest gown, and the little maid brushed her hair to a high gloss, one that rivaled the fire of splendor.
Then the boys returned for the tub, the maid bobbed a curtsy and left, and she was alone. She found a high-backed chair, dragged it to the fire, curled her toes beneath her, sipped more port, and waited.
It was long past midnight when she heard the door twist. A flush rose within her, and an unbearable tingling sensation of warmth and nerves danced inside her.
Warwick strode into the room. She felt his eyes upon her. He walked to a small table and cast his small sword upon it. He saw the port bottle and poured himself a glass, then moved around before her, taking a chair opposite her, and, sitting, watched her over the rim of his glass.
“What are you doing still up?” he asked her.
Courage seemed to fly; he sounded so distant and so cold.
She lowered her eyes and shook her head.
He leaned forward suddenly, fingers tight around his glass, voice harsh.
“What?”
“I—I wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
She paused, hesitant. Surely he knew of what she spoke! But he would not make it easy for her; he awaited her answer.
“Anne wished to make a mockery of me. You did not allow her. There were whispers throughout the night, but no one was appalled, everyone seemed enchanted with your story,” Ondine whispered at last.
He leaned back again. She felt his gold gaze so keenly over the rim of his glass.
“You are a Chatham. It is that simple, madam, you owe me no thanks.”
She couldn’t speak then; she felt foolish and rejected.
“Is there more?” he inquired suddenly.
She uncurled her feet, wanting only to escape. But she didn’t have time to rise. He suddenly cast his glass into the flames, creating a hiss and sizzle. He strode to her, hands on the sides of her chair, blocking her in.
“You smell like a garden, madam, as elusive as a dream, as seductive as night jasmine. Your gown leaves nothing to be imagined. Were I not so thoroughly aware of the most ardent hostility of your regard for me, I just might be so intended to imagine an attempt at seduction on your part, a most dumbfounding experience, and certainly shattering to self-control. What was on your mind, Ondine?”
She shook her head suddenly, vehemently. Her hair gleamed and cascaded with that small motion like rivers of molten silk.
“Let me be!” she gasped. Oh! This had taken all her courage, and he mocked her!
“Madam, seduction was your intent. Why?”
“Just let me pass—”
“No. Why?”
She would never break through the barrier of his arms, or that of his harsh determination. She raised her head to his last stern question.
“I told you! I wanted to thank you—”
“Holy Mother of God!” he thundered. “Thank me?” “j__”
“Lady, come to me for one reason and one reason only. Ever. Come to me because you want me.”
“Oh, God!” she breathed, mortified. She couldn’t even seduce him properly! What a fool … “Please!” she rasped out.
He moved. She rose like a bird in flight, but spun back against his chest with another gasp. He caught the fabric of her gown.
“Could you possibly want me, Ondine?” he whispered to her.
And sensation fell all about her—the feel of her own skin, smooth and sensual with oil, the engulfing warmth of the fire, of his body, the feel of his arms around her.
She didn’t think. She stared into his eyes. She did not speak, or even nod, but felt compelled by the night, by magic. She stepped back and touched the shoulders of her gown. It fell to the floor, a mystical cloud at her feet.
He did not touch her, but held her eyes as he shed his clothing, hastily, smoothly, letting it lie where it had dropped. When he was naked, when the flames played splendidly in a vast golden glow over his shoulders and chest, he spoke to her at last.
“Come to me.”
She did, a step at a time. She fit into his arms and felt the great consuming passion of his kiss, the exciting arrogance of his hands upon her.
Their mouths came apart and met again, came apart and met. She pressed against him and longed to feel him with all her body. She pressed her lips to his shoulder, his chest, his throat, his fingers. She fell to her knees before him and gloried to the hoarse fever of his cry.
They never went into the bed, but made love upon the floor, with no covering but one another, no heat but that of the fire and of their fusing bodies. There was no future for her that night, nor was there a past… just the flaming passion of the night.
Chapter 18
Ondine knew that she lay curled on the floor before the fire, a carpet their bed, her husband’s chest her pillow, her discarded gown of the night before a covering for her feet.
She was barely awake, drifting in some netherland of soft clouds and ease, when she was jolted to awareness by the heavy sounds of footsteps in the hall outside their door. Then horrendous pounding at that same door penetrated cruelly into her world of pleasant dreams.
Beside her, Warwick stirred abruptly, swearing out a ragged groan. “Damnation!” He rose, reaching quickly for his breeches.
Still dazed, Ondine stared up at him in confusion as he pulled on his pants. ” ‘Tis the king,” he told her, “and yonder door is not bolted; Jake stayed beyond it, and I did not think to come upon you, er, here, and remain here so!” Dear Lord, but she was beautiful! Soft with sleep, touched by daylight, her hair a gold and tawny cloak about shoulders as sleek as satin and pure as ivory. Her eyes were so like the sea from which an enchanting siren might well spring. Ondine, a mythical creature, granted eternal life through marriage to a mortal.
Aye, he’d granted her life. He could not take it, nor could he linger on thoughts of her now, for the door would surely spring forth, since it was unlocked.
He touched her chin, knowing he must repudiate her soon, unable for that moment to be anything but gentle and tender. “My love! The king is here. I was to have met him early, alas! I knew such comfort, I did not awake
n. Ondine, the king comes; he’ll enter.”
“Oh!” she gasped, startled, realizing too late the import of his words. The door flew open as with an impatience of its own. Charles strode within, his retinue pausing behind him at the doorway.
Barefoot, barechested, but decently decked in pants, Warwick by instinct hunched to the floor, holding his wife to him in the gauze folds of her white gown.
Charles paused instantly at the sight. Not in apology, for Chatham had been late, and the purpose for such an outer chamber in a suite was so that a friend or advisor might have a place to greet company. Nay, he paused, touched, lowering his head with a smile, for it was such a lovely scene, the handsome knight shielding his lady-—a great beast protecting his delicate wife.
He bowed low. “Lady Chatham, my apologies. Warwick!”
“Sire!”
“You’re late! The lords of Sudbury and Wane await, and they mean to plague me regarding James. I’ve a need for your tolerance and your tongue; more of this bickering I cannot and will not endure.”
He turned, startled to find his small retinue of guards all staring into the room much as he had done. At his questioning gaze the fellows cleared their throats and stepped back. Charles paused then, a wicked grin curling his lip, for he knew the palace. Within a short time all would hear that the Lord and Lady of Chatham so craved one another that they had no patience to achieve a bed once their passions had flared.
Charles paused, unable to restrain his natural humor. He turned about quickly, catching the Duke of Rochester’s daughter in a deep flush, pulling the white sheath of gown closer to her breasts.
“Lady Chatham, is there something not quite right with the bedding? I’d not be lax in hospitality!”
“Nay, sire!” she gasped out, coloring in a most bewitching way all over again. She realized herself caught in his humor then, and quickly lowered her eyes. Warwick’s arms tightened around her.
Charles did not continue out; he did not, at first, know why he lingered. Then he realized that he was quite taken with the pair of them, and that the future boded nothing but ill for both. He wanted to see them laugh and smile, to enjoy what time they might allow themselves.
“Have you been to the races, Ondine?” he asked.
“Newmarket? Never.”
Charles nodded, satisfied. “I believe I shall make a move for the court. When the tedium of my mewling nobles ends today, we shall set our sights for Newmarket! That is, Warwick Chatham”— Charles’ s voice took on that tenor that warned the wise his England was his first concern, no matter what frivolity was displayed— “if you think you can manage to hurry along your appearance.”
With that subtle warning, he closed the door at last.
When he was gone, Warwick, still crouched behind Ondine, sighed and rose, reaching for his hose and boots, stumbling into them.
“This again!” he muttered, casting her a dry gaze. “And it never will end, for Catherine bears no child, and James remains warned away from court by the king, but he’s still the Catholic heir! Half the nobles still clamor to have Charles legitimize his bastard son, the Duke of Monmouth, and, by God, Jemmy would make a fine king. Many swear they’ll never accept a Catholic king; others swear that civil war will rage if James is swept from the secession.”
He swept his shirt from the floor, buttoning it as he continued to speak. “Then, across the sea, we have William and Mary— the Orangeman panting for his uncle Charles’s death, then that of his father-in-law; he sees the crown of England in his future, and he might well one day achieve that goal.”
Ondine frowned and shivered, bereft of his warmth, yet fascinated that he spoke to her so.
Like a wife.
“Charles is in prime health—” she began.
Buttoning his coat, he leaned and kissed her lips lightly. ‘ “That he is; as long as I live, I will be among those who guard that health and life! But I tell you, he is right—these rumors and pressures regarding the secession grow tedious, and James does little to help, offending even those who fought for him well and once thought him a noble commander.”
Ondine stood, carefully wrapping her gown about her, as Warwick at last reached for his weapons and hat. He paused, sliding his sword to its hilt, watching her.
“Would that I could stay!” he murmured suddenly, fiercely. He gripped her bare arms, dragged her to him. Passionately he kissed her lips. When that was done, he pressed his lips to the hollow of her shoulder, the rise of her breast, holding her tightly. Then with a sigh he released her, moving to the door, lest he forget he owed a king allegiance.
Ondine still trembled from his touch, glorying in the glow that surrounded them. Though it was magic, make-believe, it was still sweet glory.
“Will you enjoy the races?” he asked her lightly, his eyes upon her tender, whimsical.
“Aye, that I will.”
“We move again. Will you pack for me?”
She nodded, still clinging to the sheath of her gown.
He smiled, dipped low in stately courtesy, but paused before he left her, his smile fading.
“Don’t leave. Jake will remain here.”
“Along with the king’s guard,” she reminded him softly.
“Wait for me; don’t leave.”
“I won’t,” she whispered, and he kissed her hurriedly and left.
It was late when they came to Newmarket, for the king’s retinue was large, and he was a man of such vast energy that not all who chose to serve him could keep his pace. There was often little warning that he would appear, and on such occasions the innkeepers, merchants, and servants ran in circles, for supplying those involved with the king demanded great resources.
Ondine was fascinated by all the activity. She rode with Warwick and Justin, and it seemed their moods were all the best, laughter flowing well and easily. Justin demanded to know the whole story of how Warwick had come upon her, and between them, Warwick and Ondine managed to make light comedy of the story.
“Damn!” Justin exclaimed suddenly, pulling the drapes from the carriage window. “Hardgrave follows us still. And that vixen
Anne! She waves most gaily!”
Warwick shrugged. “Let her wave. Tis not against the law.” Justin waved back, green eyes narrowing. “She strikes unease
in me each time she doth appear cheerful!”
Again Warwick merely shrugged. Feeling his movement,
Ondine turned to stare at him. She discovered that his eyes, amber
and musing, were on her. She flushed and spoke to Justin.
And that night, that night! Later, when she was alone and frightened and tempest tossed, she would remember that night. A glowing candle to stave off the dark reminder of time, a streak of beautiful, blinding peace against a sea of storms. Remember, ah, yes, ever would that night live in crystal memory, a fragment of eternal beauty.
They were given a small cottage all their own, with simple things. They had a single room, with unadorned table and chairs, a massive hearth, and a massive bed.
Upon their arrival, Ondine found gifts from the king on the bed. There were belted robes in white, with their initials embroidered in gold upon the great lapels. Warwick commented that he was gratified to be held in such esteem, for it was obvious that a dozen seamstresses had sewn all morning to create the robes.
And that seemed to be most of their conversation that night. He ordered simple wine and cheese and bread; he left her that she might don the robe and returned to wear his own.
They ate upon the bed with the tray between them. They finished as if of one mind, and their eyes locked upon one another’s. Warwick removed the tray, and they still sat, cross-legged, not an arm’s length away. He moved to slip her sash, to part her robe, and for the longest time he simply stroked her flesh, drawing tender lines between the valley of her breasts. In time she uttered a sound and rose to her knees, still fascinated by the depths of his eyes, longing to touch him. She slipped the robe from his shoulders and cast her
fingers upon him in leisurely discovery. She felt the line of muscle and sinew, played within the vast mass of hair upon his chest. For long moments the silence between them continued, broken only by the eloquence of their eyes. The warmth of the fire crackled. She threaded her fingers into his hair, rested her chin atop his head, and felt his face cradled against her breast. Then he, too, was on his knees, and slow simmering ardor blazed to vast and seeking hunger. He sank to his haunches, wrapping the slender length of her legs around him. Whisper followed whisper, tenderness tempered urgency. All the things he said, the things he did, movement and measure, she would remember.
Ecstasy upon ecstasy …
So would he recall, with vivid imagery, the sweet magic beauty of that night. So would he recall …
They came, at last, the next afternoon to the races. Warwick showed great enthusiasm for the horses, finding Justin and swearing that it was a shame they’d none of their own breed that day. Justin said that his colt could beat any mount upon the field; Warwick retorted that whether the colt could would matter little—Dragon could take any horse he’d seen to date.
There was gaming and gambling, betting and good cheer. The king was attended by his queen, the skies were clear, and the day was astoundingly sunny and clear. Staring at all the elegantly dressed lords and ladies, at the hawkers and merchants, Ondine smiled easily, in love with life itself. There was but one flaw this morning; one sour note that could make her smile falter.
Anne and Hardgrave stood not far behind them, Anne as glorious as ever, Hardgrave stocky but attractive in lace sleeves and velvet maroon breeches and coat.
He saw Ondine’s eyes upon him and smiled in a manner that made her heart leap with curious fear. It was not that he gazed at her with such an evident leer—men, she knew with a sigh of resignation, often wore such ridiculous expressions. Nay, it was something more. She frowned, then realized her concern.
He did not look like one merely lecherous, but one who thought—no, expected!—to fulfill his every fantasy.
Ondine held Warwick’s arm tightly. He patted her hand absently and pointed out a dappled gray steed to Justin, swearing it would win by a full length.
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