Ondine (33 page)

She started, certain that she had heard some sound from the balcony. She moved there, brows knit, and saw that the doors were not fully shut. She stared outside, then shivered, certain that she saw a tall and muscular man below, leaning against an oak. She came nearer, but the figure turned and disappeared.

Wary, she closed the balcony doors against the cold of the night. Aye, would that be fate, ironic fate, if some petty thief should come and slay her in her sleep!

She turned about, ready to prepare for bed, aware that she badly needed rest. Tomorrow morning she planned to sneak into her uncle’s chambers while he attended to plaintiffs in his office. It would be dangerous, and she would need to take grave care. She must not be skittish and tired.

Yet even as she lay down in her bed with a heavy covering about her, she shivered.

She thought that she would rather some brute strangle her for her jewels, or William discover her searching his chambers, than that Warwick should find she had left him carrying his child!

Nay, he would not even want the baby.

He had announced that he would send her to the Colonies.

“Oh, dear Lord!” she whispered in a weak little prayer, then grew impatient with herself and tossed about. She must worry about this dilemma later; she could not think on it now. She had to get into her uncle’s chambers, she had to think of some story to tell Raoul, and, oh, dearest God, what on earth was that going to be? Think, think, don’t worry. Warwick was miles and miles away, not here to chastise her, not here to hold her …

He was part of another life.

* * *

As several more days went by, Ondine decided that Berta was the least of her difficulties. She would come in with tea in the morning, having learned that Ondine loved to read while she sipped it. She would help her dress* Berta choosing the gown. She would arrange her hair, which was not so terrible a displeasure, but rather an easy thing, then depart. Ondine would wander down the stairs, breakfast with her uncle and Raoul, then wander off so that they might discuss business.

She had to pretend a great disinterest in the estate, lest they worry she should expect to manage her own domain!

But she was glad of that, for one morning when they retreated to the office, she pretended to return to her rooms after agreeing to bundle warmly and meet Raoul at the stables in an hour.

There was no one to disturb her when she sauntered past her own door and through her uncle’s. Once there, she had to pause; these had been her father’s rooms, and once, long ago, her mother’s. The desk was her father’s, the Van Dycks were her father’s, the great claw-footed Italian bed was her father’s. Everything was her father’s, taken over by this horrid—pretender!

She couldn’t let the misery dwell in her. With a single deep breath she moved into the room, reminding herself that she must listen carefully.

She did, pausing every few minutes as she searched the desk, the shelving, the fireplace, the drawers, the trunks, the wardrobes. Nothing, nothing came to light, and once again she felt like weeping.

A clock chimed from below, and she realized that her time was up. Wearily she decided that she must go through everything again; she had been too hasty with the desk.

She opened the door a crack, checked the hallway for servants, and slipped out. She was one step away from the door when Berta, puffing, made an appearance at the top of the stairs.

“Where have you been, Duchess? I pounded upon your door for the last hour!”

Ondine made a great pretense of yawning. “Did you? Perhaps I slept. I’m surprised you didn’t just enter.”

Berta lowered her eyes. “I respect your privacy, madam!”.

Ah, like hell you do! Ondine thought, yet she was filled with a certain elation, for she was certain Raoul had ordered that she was not to be disturbed at rest.

She smiled radiantly. “Berta, would you run for my cloak, please? The silver fox. I’m to meet Raoul, and that is so very warm against the cold.”

Sullenly, perhaps suspiciously, Berta went to obey her. Ondine waited, continued to smile as the woman slipped the cloak about her, then waved a hand in dismissal. “Thank you, Berta! Oh, do please keep my fire burning warmly. I’d not like a chill room for a bath!”

The stables were not far from the house, but still she felt the chill of the cold as she approached them. Snow crunched beneath her feet, and she pulled the silver fur tightly to her throat.

Raoul was outside, awaiting her impatiently. As she reached him he clutched both her hands and kissed them fervently, then frowned.

“You are not dressed to ride.”

“I thought it a little cold,” she told him. “Raoul, I need to speak with you.”

“We’ll go back to the house.”

“Alone.”

” ‘Tis chilly here,” he said, then mused aloud, “ah, there is a shelter behind the smith’s, a buffet from the wind. And the heat from the forge will warm us.”

“Lovely,” Ondine said.

Together they scampered past the stables to the next long building. Behind it they came to an overhang, and there was even a bench beneath it where the smiths could come—away from the heat—to rest a moment from vigorous toil. A door was open behind them, sending out blessed waves of heat.

Still, Ondine was at a loss. Once she started this speech, she knew she must complete it, and complete it well. She did not dare be squeamish!

“Raoul…” she whispered painfully, taking his hand into hers and delicately drawing lines over the slim blue veins on the back of it. “Oh, Raoul …”

“What is it?” he cried to her, turning to see the very real distress in her eyes. He took both her hands in his, holding them tightly as he spoke earnestly. “Ondine … I’ve threatened you only because I must! But I have coveted you forever, my beauty, and will be your husband. If you’ve trouble, you must tell me!”

“Oh!” she cried, and managed to squeeze a tear onto her cheeks. “It’s your father, Raoul, if he knows—”

“Forget Father!” Raoul said heatedly. “You will be my wife; the duchess; I will be the duke—not Father! Tell me, tell me anything, and I will protect you!”

“Would that you could!” she whispered. It was not so difficult to speak; she was merely acting again, and a good performance created its own satisfaction and reward.

“Do you doubt me?” he swore hoarsely. “Ondine, if only you cared …”

She took it a step further, elegantly sliding to her knees at his feet, allowing the silver hood to fall back as she faced him.

“I do, Raoul, oh, I do! I don’t know why I ever ran! I still need to know you … but I am so certain that we can be happy together … could have been happy together.”

“Could have! Come, Ondine, off your knees, into my arms!” He put his arm about her, drawing her to him. He attempted nothing like his brutal, disgusting kiss, and so Ondine rested there, smiling a bit secretively, since he could no longer see her eyes or lips.

“What is this ‘could have’! There is nothing, nothing that will keep me from you!”

“But there might well be, Raoul!” she wailed. “I lied to you, Raoul. You see, my fear is not for my life, but for my immortal soul!”

“What is this nonsense?”

“I do not really know, yet I’m afraid! Raoul, when I ran from here, I hid in the forest. There was a man there who helped me, and I married him. At least, I think it was legal. But then, I left him. I ran, for I realized that he was crude, nothing but a lout of a peasant. But if he still lives, Raoul, then I cannot marry again. Not unless he can be found; not unless—he dies, or the marriage is annulled. We must find him to do that, Raoul.”

Raoul jumped to his feet in a sudden fury, turning to stare at her. “Then you are no innocent! Yet you refuse me—”

“Nay!” she cried in her most pathetic voice. “It is not you I refuse. Oh, Raoul, you know that isn’t so, please, know it! But my soul, Raoul, he must be found!” She bit her lip, amazed that she could make her eyes glitter with tears. “Raoul!” she whispered brokenly, and he was back beside her. “Your father intends to bring a physician. He’ll part us then! I’ll never be able to love you!”

“Love me now!”

“Oh, that I could! But my soul, Raoul!”

“Damn your soul!”

“Ah, my life I could damn! But not my chances for eternity!”

“Oh, God!” Raoul swore, clenching his fists.

Neither of them noticed that a tense and haggard face, kept barely in restraint, gazed upon them from the open doorway of the smith. Fists were clenched more tightly than Raoul’s, eyes blazed a fury that well cautioned of eternal damnation.

Barely, barely did Warwick hold his temper. Barely, barely was he able to keep himself from reaching out and wrenching her to his side, slaying Raoul with a single blow from his hammer.

Wait, dear God, patience! he warned himself.

But patience came hard as he gazed upon her, a thing of molten beauty, fire and ice, in her silver fox.

He forced himself to breathe deeply, to loosen his hold upon the hammer.

Lean back, my friend, he cautioned, enjoy the show. Act Two would be his, and it would come very soon.

Raoul next fell to his knees at Ondine’s feet. “I swear, I’ll find this man! And my father will not touch you, that I swear, too. Just keep silent for now, and trust in me.”

“As you say, Raoul.” Smiling, she smoothed back his hair. Then she shivered, and he suggested they return to the house. Hand in hand, they walked back through the snow.

Ondine was so elated and confident that the rest of the day went very well indeed. She called Berta in early so that she could wash her hair and dry it by the fire. Berta chose the most daring of her gowns, one with a ludicrously low bodice, yet Ondine demurely slipped into it without a word.

For the moment it was wise to keep Raoul panting. She could, in fact, almost feel pity for him. He was so weak against her will.

Yet he was weak in the hands of others, too; that above all had to be remembered.

Still …

Ah, it was so much easier to go down to dinner that night. It was easy to smile to welcoming comments, easy to consume her meal with relish, easy, even, to meet RaouFs gaze across the table, to blush and allow her own gaze to fall, then meet his once again.

Even William seemed disarmed that night, glad of the camaraderie between the two. She played the spinet again, shared brandy in the study, and most blushingly accepted Raoul’s kiss on her cheek when she mounted the stairway.

It was her uncle who stopped her that night, catching her hand right before she would enter her room.

“Duchess—even I could swear that you have truly had a change of heart.”

She widened her eyes in surprise at the doubt in his statement. “Ah, Uncle! I believe that life can only be what we make it! What would I do, here alone? Who would I have, without you to protect and guide me?”

“You are truly resigned?”

“Why, sir, I am even content!”

He nodded, perhaps not really believing her, but content with her behavior for the moment.

Ondine smiled, then withdrew her hand in a leisurely manner and continued on into her room.

She closed and bolted the doors behind her, leaned against them, and even chuckled softly.

Then she swept through the sitting room, her hands already busy on the laces of her gown. All was going well; she would not have to fight her uncle, Raoul would. Tomorrow morning she would return to William’s desk and search it thoroughly.

She started to hum a little tune as she breezed into her bedchamber and slipped out of her gown, allowing it to lie at her feet. In her chemise only, she stretched luxuriously, believing for once that there was hope, that will alone could make her the victor.

“Good evening.”

The words snapped her instantly from her reverie. She opened her eyes wide, stunned to see a sooted and blackened figure seated easily upon her dresser, idly swinging long, long legs.

She opened her mouth, gasping for breath to scream, yet the sound never came. He was instantly up, clutching her from behind, sliding a hand across her mouth even as he pulled her against the muscled strength of his chest.

“Don’t scream, milady; gallows’ bride; Countess. But then it is Duchess now, I believe!
Tsk, tsk!
How confusing. But no matter, don’t bother to scream. ‘Tis only me—that crude lout of a peasant you so woefully married!”

“Warwick!”

She gasped out his name as his hand eased from her mouth, so stunned that the night seemed to swim all around her.

“The same, lady.”

She didn’t like the hard tone of his voice, or the tension she felt from his arms, his hold. So many emotions raced through her heart that she could barely fathom them all: elation, that he should be here, holding her again; amazement… it was indeed Warwick; terror and trembling, for if he was discovered here, he would be slain in a matter of seconds, and no one would condemn a guardian for killing a man in a “maiden’s” bedchamber!

Oh, and love! And then terror all over again, for he was most certainly livid with anger at her, and though he had somehow appeared in this ridiculous attire, she didn’t—couldn’t—understand the situation at all.

“The new smithy!” she murmured suddenly.

“Ah, yes, once again the same, madam!”

Oh, still the room swam! This … this seemed more than she could handle. She thought that she would swoon, and then she thought that she should swoon, as her experience with Raoul was teaching her that men were malleable creatures, tending to be gentler when they feared they caused a lady distress.

She fluttered her eyes closed, emitted a last sighing gasp, and cast her weight against him.

He lowered her carefully to the floor, but she felt no tenderness from him. She didn’t even feel his touch.

She raised her lashes just a slit to see him leaning upon one knee, casually resting his elbow upon it.

“All the way, Ondine. Tis not Raoul you’re with, lady, but me, remember, that peasant lout of a husband.”

“Oh, do go to hell!” she snapped, opening her eyes fully. He chuckled softly, yet his expression remained grave, or what she could see of it, for his cheeks were ill kempt, shadowed with beard, and he was dusky colored from constant exposure to the fire and soot of the forge.

“You’re filthy,” she murmured.

“Alas, yes, we’ve come full circle, so it seems.”

He simply stared down at her, and she realized the disadvantage of her position, prone while he glared upon her from a certain height. She tried to sit, but he pressed her back, and the best she could do was to raise up on her elbows to contest him.

“What are you doing here!”

“Simple, I should think. I’ve come for you.”

“But—” She swallowed, frightened she would cry and terrified that such an action would turn to hysteria.

“Deceitful baggage, my darling duchess, but nevertheless, still my wife.”

“This is no concern of yours.”

“On the contrary; what concerns you must well concern me. Think, my love, of your immortal soul!” he mocked.

“Oh, do get out of here! How in God’s name did you get in?”

“The balcony—and I will not be going for some time yet.”

“Don’t you understand? They’ll kill you!”

He shrugged. “Would that distress you?”

“Certainly! I owe you
my
life; I don’t wish yours taken!”

“Ah, the emotion that gushes forth from you, love! Would that I were Raoul, so that you might cast yourself at my knee!”

She gritted her teeth. “Raoul is easy—”

“So are all your men, it seems.”

“All my men?”

“Ah, yes, Raoul, Justin—Clinton, for that matter. Jake! Hard-grave—the king! What is it that you do, my darling?”

“Will you please leave! You make a ridiculous blacksmith!”

“And I am not easy, is that it?”

“Warwick!” She lowered her voice and whispered more urgently, “Honestly, you do not realize—they would kill you!”

“Lady, I should like to see your uncle or that sniveling Raoul make such an attempt. I’d most gladly skewer either, or break their bloody necks!” He placed his hands idly before him. “And I do take offense; these are, most conveniently, wonderful hands for a blacksmith. They’ve well the strength to tackle the tools— or a neck, for that matter. Or even an errant wife.”

“I’m finished with you, Warwick Chatham!” she hissed to him, praying he’d not truly lost his senses, for it seemed he didn’t even bother to keep his voice low. “You married me to discover what had become of—of Genevieve. Now you know. You promised me my freedom—”

“But you did not remain long enough for me to have that chance, did you, milady?”

“I—could not!” she murmured, lowering her eyes from his. “As you seem to know, I could not be sent from the country!”

He blinked, holding tight his expression, wishing most fervently that he had forced her to listen that night she had come so very close to losing her life … forced her to stay, to love him in return.

“This is a fool’s quest!” he told her harshly.

“A fool’s!” she cried softly, indignantly. “Chatham, are you blind! This house, these lands, are rightfully mine! Yet that is not what matters! Damn you, how—”

“I went to the king.”

“Then you know,” she whispered, “that I am still suspect of treason and could easily lose my head!”

“Nay, I know that when you ran, you ran in terror, too young and innocent to realize that running but made you more a victim of their game. Charles would never blindly kill—”

She interrupted him with a soft groan. “Warwick, there were witnesses; hoodwinked, but nevertheless honestly believing what they saw.”

“Charles can pardon you.”.

She shook her head. “Perhaps he could, but how would that look if the law condemned me? I would never be free of the taint; nor would history ever forgive my father for a deed that was not his!”

He exhaled long and low, and she could not tell what he was thinking. “Ondine,” he said at last, “when we met, you were about to lose your life on the gallows. Pride is not so great a thing to die for! You could have claimed your rank—”

“And died by the headsman’s ax instead!”

“That time is past; you have seen Charles. You know that he believes you innocent.”

She closed her eyes tightly, inwardly pleading that he understand. ‘ ‘Charles cannot prove me innocent either. Only I can find the answer to that dilemma.”

He rose and slowly paced the floor. Gripping the bodice of her chemise tightly to her chest, she sat, watching him. At last he returned to her, hunching down before her, eyes a golden fire of intensity as he spoke.

“You know, too, don’t you, that I could leave here and return with the law—half the king’s army—and demand your return. You are my wife, duchess or no. I can claim my rights and settle it all myself from there.”

Tears stung her eyes, and she lowered her head. “I’ve time!” she pleaded softly, not knowing if he cared, or if his temperament was simply such that he did not let possessions go except by his own decree, in his own manner.

“Please, Warwick! I’ve less than a month now before being forced to a—a—”

“Bigamy is the term, my love.”

She moistened her lips nervously and shook her head. “I never intended to go through any ceremony—”

“Ah, dear Duchess! But what a convincing and fetching pretense you gave today! You were lucky, madam, that I did not end it then and there.”

“Warwick! I must find this forgery! In my possession, it could perhaps be evidence
against
them!”

“I cannot bear nearly a month, Lady.”

Her heart seemed to skip a beat. She swallowed. “Then you will leave? You’ll not interfere.”

“Oh, I’ll interfere, all right, if you press me too far. And I do not like this one bit; it’s foolhardy and dangerous. Nor will I leave this place; I’ll be here, love, day and night. You do not have a month; you’ve two weeks, if I can manage it.”

“Two weeks!”

“The closer you come to this ‘wedding,’ the more dangerous things will become. And when I warn you, lady, to cease some action that distresses me, you will do so. Immediately.”

She tossed her head back in a sudden fury, making her hair cascade down her back in a sun and fire trail, her eyes ablaze like precious sapphires.

“Sir, I thought perhaps you’d noted that I was no simple common lass. By blood, Warwick, not by marriage, I am the Duchess of Rochester. You’ll not treat me like—”

“My lady, I do not give a damn if you carry the blood of a thousand kings! You will listen to me because you are my wife, because I wish to keep you from danger, and because—I do promise you most assuredly!—I will not have what is mine mauled and petted and coveted by another. Now, have we come to an understanding, do you think?”

She lowered her head, clenching hard and miserably upon her jaw, but nodded. “Oh, Warwick, don’t you see! You are the one in danger here!”

“Hush!” he said suddenly.

He stared past her, through the bedroom to the outer door. She, too, heard footsteps in the hall. They held silent for a moment, then Warwick relaxed once again. The footsteps had passed by.

“Please!” she whispered. “You must leave here.”

He shook his head, and she noted the gleam about his eyes that sent her heart racing in shivers of excitement—dread, and yet the sweet anticipation of her dreams.

“Warwick—”

“I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

Oh, dear God, the danger! He was near mad!

She started shaking her head, so terribly nervous of his intent.

“Nay, Warwick—”

“You’re still my wife.”

“Not here, I can’t—”

“Anywhere, my love.”.

“You’re, er, filthy!”

“Do excuse me!”

“Warwick …”

Her protest trailed to nothing, for it seemed the time for talk had left them. He reached for her, cupping his hand at her neck, drawing her face to his, her lips touching his own. It was a sweet and burning sensation, and she did indeed feel that she would faint then, pitch headfirst into a drowning pool of joy in his very being, joy in the warmth and splendor that riddled her body.

It was a gentle kiss, moist and longing, vastly tender, lingering, inquisitive. He moved from her and watched her eyes, smiling wistfully. His voice was husky.

“You are not, then, so terribly displeased to see me?”

She shook her head, lowering her lashes in sudden confusion.

“Then come to me.”

She raised her eyes, and they were wide. “Warwick,” she whispered most sincerely, “I cannot! You’re so very grimed—”

“Ignore the dirt; come love the heart.”

She shook her head again in vast embarrassment. “You don’t understand! They’ve a giant to watch me! Berta cares for my things, and she would—ah—”

“What?”

“Notice such filth upon the bedclothing!”

He sat back, grinning, then chuckled aloud. “No problem, my love.” Standing, he retrieved from a chair his cloak, a vast garment in dull wool, but set with a lining of soft linen. And it was clean, since he did not wear it in the smithy. He cast it over her bed, and its great size amply covered the finer fabric there.

“Come to me,” he whispered, reaching for her hands.

She took his, watching his eyes, disbelief and wonder still expressed in her own. But when he would pull her against himself, she protested softly with a little cry.

“Wait!”

“What now!” he demanded sharply, dragging in a ragged breath, his patience near at an end.

“My chemise … your clothing will soil it!”

He swore out some soft oath, then instantly set about tugging upon his boots and shedding his worker’s heavy trousers and shirt and thick wool hose. Ondine found herself standing very still to watch him, entranced, and somehow very sedate, smug, and pleased. He cast his clothing aside with such ease, such natural grace, such disregard, as if he need bear no consciousness in the act, for she was so much a part of him. It was either that, or, she reminded herself, he had such confidence and pride in his simple, basic being that hesitancy could have no place in him. Ah, and why should he falter, for was that not part of her own pride? Blackened or fastidious, he entranced her, the hard line of his body beguiled her, fascinated her, making her hands yearn to touch him without command from her mind. She loved the breadth of his shoulders, gleaming beneath dust and grime in the firelight. She adored the oaken sturdiness of thigh and calf, the leanness of hip, flatness of belly, rounded wonder of muscle and sinew, the beat of the pulse at his throat…

She smiled, secretively, thinking that, aye, she loved all of him, and most certainly, that wonderful evidence of “endowments,” hers now, potent and rigid, alive and impatient with desire. And ever more her smile increased, for there was the sweetest pleasure of all in knowing that she was what he yearned for—she the creator of all this male beauty, she the total heartthrob of his being. He made her feel a bliss, a liquid trembling, warm and shaky. And now she was ablaze, savoring just that ecstasy of anticipation, knowing that soon they would touch …

“What? You smile, or laugh, milady?” he accused her, coming toward her.

She shrieked softly, eluding his hold.

“My chemise …”

“Best remove it, then. Quickly,” he warned her in a tone so much like a growl that she chuckled softly. Yet quickly, indeed, she made haste to obey, most aware then by his expression that his ardor left no more room for care or reason.

She shed the chemise, letting it fall to the ground, and found herself most instantly crushed against his chest, a prisoner of his arms. So delicious the sensation! Her flesh was so bare against his naked own; she felt him with all of her, softness of breasts against hardness of muscle. She was so vulnerable, so trusting, so smiling in wonder, her head cast back, the sea-magic and liquid beauty of her eyes gazing into the amber glow of his.

“Duchess, lady, wench—wife! You dare to laugh at me still!” he chastised her with ferocious challenge.

She shook her head, smiling still, near to feeling that the liquid of her must soon seep through him, embrace and blanket him.

“I smile, milord, with delight only,” she answered honestly, so dazed with this night, she could not pretend.

He gave some distant glad cry of triumph, and that hoarse, guttural sound made her smile curve deeper, for with him she had learned that triumph was an equal thing, given, taken, shared. As was surrender, for even as she succumbed to him, a part of him became indubitably hers, captured for all time, an eternity.