Ondine (15 page)

Ondine dropped all pretense, glaring at him furiously, pitting her arms against his chest rather uselessly. No struggle would free her. “You—bastard!” she grated out.

“Nell Gwyn never put on such a performance, my love, and she was the rage of the theater before becoming the rage of the king.”

“I can walk!”

“I know you can!”

He continued down the staircase and outside to the carriage, where both Justin and Clinton waited to see them off, too startled to hide their surprise.

“A fit of the vapors,” Warwick explained briefly.

She did not get to say good-bye to either of them and found herself rather gracelessly deposited into the plush carriage, with the door immediately slammed upon her. She heard the men vaguely. Farewells were shouted out, yet it was all done in a matter of seconds, and before she had a chance to reach for the door handle, the carriage was moving quickly down the drive.

Once again, Warwick opted to ride up top with Jake. Ondine gasped out one sob of frustration, then cast her head against the velvet seat and closed her eyes, so very weary that none of it seemed to matter.

She rode that way for hours, jolting, jostling, numb. But then somewhere along the road and within herself, she began to struggle for reason. There was still hope. As long as one breathed, there was still hope to be found.

She tried to remember her previous rationalization. She really hadn’t seen anyone that long-ago day, except the king and a few of his guards. They had just arrived, invited to the joust and banquet.

A page had brought the king to them. The king had been accompanied by two guards.

Charles! She had to see him … alone. If she bowed before him bravely as Warwick’s wife—and begged him with all the desperation in her eyes—he might gainsay his tongue. Oh, aye! The king was an intuitive man, sensitive to his subjects. It was one of the reasons that he was so loved, as a king and as a man. And he loved women. He had proclaimed himself enchanted with her again and again that day. He was a cavalier—the greatest of cavaliers! Surely if she could but just get to be alone with him, plead her case, he would at the very least give her a chance.

Her heart pounded swiftly. No! It would never work.

But it had to work!

The carriage did not stop until darkness had fallen. When the door opened and Warwick reached for her, she saw that it was night and that they had come to a tavern.

She stared at him loathfully, wrenching her hand from his when he would help her alight. He shrugged and let her be, yet her legs were so cramped from the ride that she stumbled, and his arms embraced her anyway. She did not fight him further, but stiffened against his hold.

Jake followed them into the tavern, arranging for rooms while Warwick found a table where they might order food. Jake returned to them, assuring Warwick that their accommodations would be the best in the house.

They were served roasted fowl and steamed vegetables and ale. Warwick and Jake comfortably fell into a discussion about the road ahead. Ondine picked at her food and swallowed a large quantity of ale. It warmed her, and also exhausted her. She did not realize that she was falling asleep at the table until Warwick touched her, his fingers curling around hers. She gazed up at him, eyes wide, and found that his were warm and curious. But he did not question her.

“Come. I’ll see you to bed.”

“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.

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!”