“Ondine!”
She paused in the hallway, drawing a deep breath, for Raoul was following her. His hands fell on her shoulders, and he turned her to face him.
For long moments he stared at her, and she thought again that he might well be handsome to another woman, so defined of feature, so dark and suave. Yet all that she could see in his face was cruelty and the weakness that came of treachery. He was but his father’s puppet; yet he was not adverse to spilling blood slyly to attain his goals.
She forced herself not to wrench from his hold, but lowered her Head in feigned subjugation.
“What is it, Raoul?”
He hesitated; she felt his nearness, and the bile that lay in her stomach seemed to churn fearsomely.
He touched her cheek, and she clenched hard on her teeth. He raised her chin and she looked into his dark eyes.
“You are incredibly beautiful. I have longed for you all my life. I’ve no real desire to hurt you. Go gently here, and you will fare far better, my cousin.”
She shrugged. “I am here, Raoul. Your father has well established his rule of the house. What can I do but succumb to all that you desire?”
“Grow to love me!” he told her heatedly. “By God, I never wished to harm you!”
“That is why you slew my father, Raoul?” she could not help but query disdainfully.
“By God, Ondine, it is you who slew him!” Raoul replied in a hushed fury. “Had you but shown a preference for me—”
“The saints be thanked!” Ondine interrupted him sarcastically. “You do admit your guilt!”
“I admit nothing! I came to talk some sense into you; to save you from yourself! But you go on, wretched, arrogant bitch! You will, my lady, receive your just dues! Once those vows are taken, madam, you will pay!”
She was not prepared for him and was stunned when he lowered his mouth to hers, grinding his lips there cruelly, seeking entry for a deeper kiss. Caught against him, she could only twist from his assault with her heart painfully beating, choking in her throat and struggling desperately for freedom.
“No!”
She pulled from him with a sudden burst of strength, bringing her hand to her bruised lips and staring at him with horror. The taste about her mouth, the scent; oh, she felt ill …
“You promised! You swore you would give me time!”
He seemed about to strike her at first, but when she shrank back, he stiffened, held his temper in check, then said in a curious tone, “Is that it, Ondine, time?”
She thought quickly, desperate to stave him off with no further contact.
“I need that time!” she whispered in a plea. “Time to forget my father’s blood on your hands! Time to become accustomed to you! Please, I will tread gently! I will be with you, walk with you, talk with you—but give me time!”
He hesitated, then pulled her against him. She was ready to fight once more, but held herself back in time.
He merely kissed the top of her head and set her from him.
“Good night, then. Tomorrow we will ride together and talk.”
She nodded, yearning to escape to her chambers.
“You will let Berta tend to you to my pleasure?” he asked.
She nodded. Oh, hurry, say what you will! she thought frantically, for to her amazement she realized that his kiss had actually made her nauseated; she was truly about to be sick.
“Go on, then; I’ll send her to you now,” he said almost gently.
“No!” she gasped out, then pleaded of necessity, “Raoul, I wish to be alone now, please!”
He caught her to him, kissed her on the forehead again. “Ondine, Ondine … I only wish to cherish you, to worship the font of your body! It will be wretched only if you make it so! Go, then, sleep, and dream of me and our future.”
Dream! Oh, most unholy nightmare!
But she curved her lips with effort into a shy smile. He released her, and she fled hastily up the stairs to her own suite.
She knew he followed her departure with his eyes, but she could give no thought to him. Within her room she quickly bolted the door, glad of Berta because her room was warm and the fire blazed and offered her light.
As the bolt clicked she knew she had no more time. She brought her hand to her mouth and raced from the sitting room to the bedroom, and to her dresser. She barely managed to free the pitcher from the bowl before she was violently ill.
Spasms shook her again and again. She thought that she would die with the vileness of it, yet eternity though it seemed, the sickness at last came to an end, leaving her weak and gasping. Fumbling, she found the water pitcher and splashed water over her face and throat and hands, using it all before she could feel clean. She staggered then, out to the balcony, out to the bitter cold of night, for only there would she feel refreshed and breathe easily.
Bleakly she railed in silence against herself. How would she ever manage this, if she were to be so pathetically weak?
You have endured so much! she shrieked inwardly. Near starvation in the forest; rotting in Newgate! The feel of the hangman’s noose about her throat! The drugs and evil designs of foul-smelling slavers, and the more pathetic danger of Mathilda’s twisted designs. All this she had endured. She could not fail now!
Ah, but through the last travail, she had been Warwick’s countess; ever he had been there for her! There had been those magic moments when he had held her, when the sweeping force of his possession had taken her mind from all fear, from all thought, from all else but the ecstasy …
Ah, milady, he is gone now! she reminded herself. He cannot be a part of this!
But such reminders could not ease the tumult of her thoughts. She stiffened her shoulders and realized she grew frigidly cold, yet that cold felt good. She forced herself to think with sense and logic.
Her only chance lay in meekness, in convincing Raoul that she meant all that she said, in learning to speak gently to him. And William, too, needed to feel a confidence; if he did not, she would never have the opportunity to put him off guard.
“I will do it!” she whispered aloud to the moon, cast high over the snow. First she must harden her heart—and her stomach. She dared not let Raoul know yet that his touch made her violently ill.
And as to Warwick …
“Oh, damn him, too!” she muttered fiercely. But with that, she felt strong again. She returned inside and held her breath and cleaned up all the messes she had made, using snow from the balcony to freshen her bowl. Then she drew a chair to the fire and waited.
Hours slipped by. She donned her heaviest nightdress, one of thick material, and quietly let herself out her bedroom door.
All was silent.
She tread softly down the stairs, and silently into her uncle’s office. A moon gleamed richly beyond the walls of Deauveau Place, but she could have wept, for it did not give her enough light.
She hesitated, then brought a long tinder match to the small lamp on the desk. The glow filled the room, and she hurriedly began her quest through the drawers. She had to find his forgeries and destroy them. That wouldn’t clear her father, but it would end his threats to have her sent to the Tower!
Time swept by as she desperately and methodically stuck to her task, drawer after drawer. But she could find nothing amiss. There were quills and ink and blotters, accounts and ledgers, wages paid and monies earned from the tenants.
She thought most acidly that William Deauveau was a splendid foreman—he collected every last shilling due!
As she opened the last drawer she felt depression overwhelm her. There was nothing here! Ah, she had known it, hadn’t she? That this was far too obvious a place—
She froze then, aware that a footstep had landed on the stair. There was a pause and then another fell, and she realized that someone was trying to stalk her.
Thinking quickly, she grabbed a book from the shelves, collected the lamp, and hurried to the window seat, curling into it with the book in her hand, the lamp at her side.
The doors swung suddenly and violently open. She uttered a little scream, grabbing the book to her chest.
William Deaveau stood there in nightdress and cap, staring at her with the greatest suspicion.
“Oh, Uncle!” she gasped. “You frightened me sorely!”
He stepped into the room, grimly silent, looking about. She was eternally grateful that she had replaced things as neatly as she had found them.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded harshly.
She tried to gaze into his eyes with a look of pure innocence. “I could not sleep; I thought that I might read.”
He strode over to her, staring at her more closely. He snatched the book from her hold, sneering at her.
“Do you often read with your story upside down, Ondine?”
“What? Oh, I dropped the book when you slammed the door so!” she accused him in hurt return.
He kept smiling, slipping the book behind his back. “And what were you reading, my dear?”
She might have screamed inside; she could not. She dredged from her subconscious mind all that her conscious thoughts had hidden. It had been a dusty green bound book, one with beautifully gilded pages.
“Shakespeare!” she gasped out.
She had guessed right; his eyes registered his surprise.
“And what collection?”
She searched her memory, yet already breathed more easily. “King Lear is the first play in that particular work, Uncle,” she told him serenely.
He opened the book, gazed at the first page, then snapped it shut and handed it back to her. “It’s very late; you might tire of a sudden and sleep with the lamp askew, thus starting a blaze that might well kill us all. Go to bed.”
Ondine had no thought whatsoever to argue. She clutched the book to her breast and ran quickly up the stairs. Safe in her room with the door bolted once again, she sank to the floor, trembling.
She must learn to be cautious—so, so cautious!
In time her heart slowed its frantic pace. She rose and went on into her bedroom, then into her bed, praying that she could find some release in sleep. But sleep, when it came, gave her nothing. The images that plagued her were not nightmares of Raoul, but haunting memories of Warwick.
Ah, memories that made her wake wretchedly exhausted!
“Autocratic bastard! Must you linger with me, command even my sleep now! Ah, that I could only flaunt the true fact of birth to your noble face!”.
She whispered out the words, then turned into her pillow, groaning. She clutched her temples, made painfully aware that last night’s illness had followed her to morning.
She felt horrible, even lying down. Queasy, dizzy …
“Oh, God!”
All color fled from her face; she was eternally grateful that she was alone, that Berta had not come to serve her yet.
Her mind went horribly blank, then filled with dates and times and figures; detail upon detail of intimate times together went flashing through her thoughts.
“Oh, God!” she repeated.
And she knew that Raoul—totally loathsome creature that he was!—had not caused her illness, nor had exhaustion, excitement, nervousness, nor any other easily dismissed disorder.
She was carrying Warwick Chatham’s child—not in pretense, but in devastating fact.
Chapter 25
Clinton and Jake had reached London by then, and it was Jake who discovered where they might glean the most information on the lands held beneath the thumb of William Deauveau.
Not far from the outskirts of London, yet a scant forty-five minutes from Deauveau Place, was a tavern called the White Feather. It was a bawdy place, most frequently filled with the rougher working class, some honest, some not. A man, it was said, could buy most anything there, for the right amount of coin— women and ale, chemists’ potions and poisons, and information.
Clinton was the one to recommend caution in their apparel, and so he and Jake, along with Warwick and Justin, first purchased simple woolen garments, unadorned and cheap. They rode to that tavern as northern laborers, not at odds with those they had served, but desiring to come nearer the great city of London, farther from the foulness of the weather.
They ordered ale by the keg, beef and mutton, and spent much of their first night observing everyone about them. A buxom blond barmaid had a dither of a time deciding if she best liked Warwick or Justin, so they teased her together, set coins into her bodice, and when, for a few more coins, the innkeeper was persuaded to let her join their table, they plied her with great tankards of ale.
Her name was Molly, and she was a coarse, yet good-natured sort, affording just the type of assistance Warwick felt they needed.
She stayed, quite complacently, between the two brothers, giggling into her foamy ale. Justin talked foolishly to her; Warwick asked the more important questions.
“Tell me, lass, where could a man, good with his hands, find labor about these parts?”
“Ah, matey, but I’ll bet ye’re good with yer hands!” she replied, bursting into gales of laughter. Over her fluffy blond head Justin grimaced at his brother. Clinton cleared his throat.
Jake thought they might have ordered too much ale.
“Most seriously, lass. What of the grand manor I heard talk about? This Deauveau Place?”
“Deauveau Place! Ah, now, ‘tis a hard taskmaster rules her now!”
“Tell me of him.”
The girl chuckled. “Ah, now, that’s a story, man, so ‘tis!” she said, slurring. “Once he were a kind man, quiet and reserved. But the waters ran deep, so they say, for it seemed he attempted to kill our good king Charles, along with his whelp. None would have thought it surely, for she were a most beautiful thing, ye ■kin”—she jabbed Warwick in the ribs and winked—“the like of which our good king, fer all his experience now, might seldom ever see! The rumor is high that the lass was in with her da, yet she disappeared. And now the brother—not even a true Deauveau, but some stepson!—owns it all.” Molly lifted her ale to her lips with a full-lipped grimace. “Seems a sad story to me, for I hear tell she’s returned and that she’s to wed her cousin.” Molly shivered. ” ‘E’s a handsome devil, that one, but makes the blood run cold. The lass, those who served her there say, was always patient and kind, and I pity her, that I do. Not that it’s too uncommon, mind you, gents, but he looks the type to beat a bride, even a noble one at that!”
Looks passed quickly around the table; Molly was too far into her ale to note them.
She stared up at Warwick, smiling.
“If you’ve the stomach for such a man as Deauveau, though, they do say that the wages are good.”
“Are they, then? What say you the chances that the man might hire me on?”
Molly stared at him blearily for a moment, then gasped with sudden pleasure. “Why, the old smithy just died, he did! They be needing a man, since the apprentice were just a boy! If ye’ve a mind for solid labor, you might want to try your luck tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? When? Where?”
“Why, in the town center, of course.”
“Thank you kindly, Molly,” Warwick said, rising.
“Well, where ye be off ta now, so quickly?” Molly demanded indignantly.
“A night’s sleep, if I’m to be a working man on the morrow, dear mistress!” he informed her, then lifted a brow in mock apology to his brother.
“But fear not, lass; me brother here be a lazy lout, yet one for fun, if you know what I mean. He’ll take care of you, girl!”
Take care of her! Justin looked stunned, but Molly had already transferred her attentions to him, and he couldn’t do or say a thing to Warwick, since he was well occupied guarding his privates.
Clinton laughed and rose, Jake followed suit, and Justin grew desperate.
“Molly! I’m promised for the priesthood, I am.”
“A finely built gent like you? Noo!”
“Ah, but I am, alas! I’d thought I’d have me a few last flings, but alr
eady I feel my soul flying to torment. Oh! The pain!” With great drama Justin managed to rise, flash Molly one last smile and one last coin, and race after the others, leaving the tavern, though they’d a room there, since taverns were well known for carrying tales.
“The priesthood, eh?” Clinton doubled over with laughter at the sight of Justin, running quickly behind them.
“The pain! The pain!” teased Jake.
Justin grimaced, casting Warwick a baleful glare. “She wasn’t exactly my type!” he accused his brother. “If you must pick up women, you must dispose of them, too, Brother. I damn well was in pain! She’s fingers like a spider!”
None could take him too seriously, and Warwick burst into hearty laughter. But by then they were far along the road from the tavern, and no one was about to hear them. Gasping for breath after laughing in the harsh cold, Clinton leaned against a fence and stared more somberly at Warwick.
“I should go for the blacksmith’s position. I’ve spent half my life around horses.”
“And I haven’t, Cousin?” Warwick arched a warning brow.
Clinton waved a hand impatiently. “You’ve spent your life managing the estate, and on the king’s business. I am the one who knows horses.”
Warwick shook his head. “I know enough. And I have to be there.”
“Perhaps, Lord Chatham,” Jake remarked, “ye’re precisely the one o’ us who should not be about her.”
“I’ll do nothing rash, damn you all!” Warwick swore. “I’ve common sense aplenty, but I must see her. She is my wife.”
Justin ribbed Clinton with his elbow. “Actually, I’d rather enjoy seeing the lord of the manor as a blacksmith. He’s pathetically low on humility, if facts must be faced.”
“Oh, aye, pathetically,” Clinton agreed. Jake sniggered.
“Justin—”
“Just a comment, Brother, nothing more!” Justin said cheerfully. “But now”—he rubbed his chin—“he’s a bit too clean for a man of his means, wouldn’t you say, Clinton?”
“Oh, aye, pathetically clean.”
“He needs a good romp in the mud.”
“Well, there is no mud about, good fellows, so you’d best forget that!” Warwick stated.
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