Ondine (8 page)

Returning to the carriage, Ondine paused. Both Jake and Warwick were on a spit of roadside grass, a cloth with a hamper on it between them. Jake sat cross-legged and merry-eyed as he bit into meat; Warwick was half reclined on his side^ long legs stretched before him, an elbow supporting his weight. He wore a broad-beamed hat in fine Royalist tradition; its plume was red and dashing. In all he cut a striking and rakish figure, but that was not what gave her pause—it was the sound of his laughter, pleasant and easy. His face was ever the more attractive for it. The full sensuality of his lips was visible, the glitter in his eyes an endearing fascination. Like a bold cavalier he lay there, paring an apple with his customary ease of movement.

“Ye never heard that?” Jake was chortling to him. “And, now, how did ye miss it, ye being so close with His Grace?”

“I don’t believe you!”

” Tis God’s own truth! There was Nelly Gwyn, caught by the mob and yelling back to them, ‘I’m not the Catholic whore! I’m the
Protestant
whore!’ “

“Like as not, if I know Charles, he enjoyed the story as well as anyone might.” Warwick chewed a piece of his apple, then waved the paring knife toward Jake. “I’ve another for you. Nelly once told Charles she could help clean up his kingdom. All he had to do was send all the French back to France, send her back to the stage, and then lock up his codpiece!”

Jake chortled, then sobered suddenly. “What’s’ Is Majesty going to say about this sudden marriage of yours?”

Warwick shrugged. “I didn’t steal anyone’s heiress.”

“But perhaps he had something in mind for you.”

Warwick shook his head. “Charles would never think to twist my hand so. I’ve stood by him too many years, as my father did before me. He knows where loyalty lies. I think that Charles will be quite pleased. He has not stopped me since Genevieve …”

“Since Genevieve!” Jake muttered as Warwick’s voice died away. “And that’s the crux of it, right there, milord! I’ve an affection for that girl, and I don’t wish to see her come to harm. Ye should have seen her on the gallows, coming at them like a righteous angel. And, sweet Jesus, if she isn’t a greater beauty than even you imagined. She has courage, Warwick, real courage, and determination. She’s not … meek, and she’ll not be easily frightened—”

“She has nothing to be frightened of, Jake. I’ll see to that.”

“I pray ‘tis so. But, sir, apart from any danger to her, I think your marriage whim of yesterday the finest move yet! She’s refined, sweet as—”

“Sweet, my … rump!” Warwick retorted. “Don’t let pretty faces deceive you, Jake.” But he paused then. “Nay,” he mused.

“Mayhap I haven’t seen as many as Your Lordship!” Jake parried. “Now, the lady Anne, I’ll warrant she has an angel’s face, but a heart like a stone. Pleasure in the flesh perhaps, but she’s longed for some time to get her talons into you. For my money, I’m waiting to see her reception to the news.”

Warwick shrugged again, his knife slipping over the apple. “I never intended to marry Anne; she has always known it.”

“Nay—you’ve known it. Not—”

“Shh.”

Warwick looked up suddenly, staring straight at the trees, his eyes narrowing. He stood with a single fluid movement and strode through the brush, reaching Ondine before she could back away, barely holding his anger in restraint as he pulled her forward.

“How long have you been there?”

“I just came—”

“Liar. Lady, I tell you this once. I will not be spied upon, by you or anyone else.”

“You’ve nothing worth spying upon!” Ondine raged out indignantly, and she flushed, for she did like Jake, very much, and she was heartily embarrassed for him to be witnessing the episode.

Jake jumped to his feet and uneasily balanced his weight from one foot to the other.

He cleared his throat, knowing from his master’s eyes that an explosion was in the brewing. “Milord! We shouldn’t tarry if you have a mind to reach the crossroads tonight!”

Warwick cast his gaze upon Jake, then upon Ondine once more. He seemed to relax a bit, but then he caught her chin between his thumb and his forefinger. “I don’t care to warn you again. I’ll not be harped upon by a lying, thieving chit of a girl!”

“Don’t harp at me, milord!” she retorted, mindless of his touch upon her. “And I’ll not harp at you.”

He threw up his hands in disgust and swung on Jake. “She’ll need your championship, old fool, if she remains determined to have the last word. And if she can’t learn to mind her manners, she will have something of which to be afraid—me!”

He stalked off through the brush for the stream. Jake looked at Ondine and shrugged his shoulders.

” ‘E’s really not such a bad sort, really, milady.”

Ondine laughed dryly, but hadn’t the heart to fight Jake. She came to him and sat in the grass where Warwick had been and looked into the food basket

“You’re the one who warned me he was a beast, Jake, I’ll not let you change your tune now!”

“Nay—”

“Never mind, Jake. I am here because I ‘suit his purpose.’ I have now decided that he suits mine.” Smiling, she bit into an apple. Jake returned that smile uneasily.

The carriage stopped so late that night that she had long been sleeping; indeed, she did not even wake when it stopped. She was vaguely aware that the door opened, that there was an annoying light all about her.

“We’re here,” Warwick said.

“Where?” she murmured.

“Another inn. Come on—nay, don’t bother, I’ll get you,” he muttered.

She did wake when his arms came around her. “I—can walk,” she told him, her thoughts dazed, stolen from the mists of sleep to confront the alarming strength of him, the golden glitter of his eyes, shadowed and shielded by the brim of his hat.

He shrugged. “This is not like Meg’s, but a meaner place. Tis probably best this way.” He led her in and procured a room.

The bed was clean—at least the room and the linen smelled fresh. Warwick, still holding Ondine, surveyed it sternly beneath the meager glow of the lantern. Then he placed her on the bed.

He snuffed out the lantern and the room became as dark as pitch. She heard him shed his own things in the darkness, and she felt his weight when he climbed into the bed. She heard then the oppressive silence of the night.

Nervously she disrobed to her shift. She thought that sleep would elude her, but it was morning when she opened her eyes again. Warwick was not beside her, nor was his clothing anywhere to be seen. There was a large tray of food awaiting her, filled with fresh meat pies and a large pewter tankard of fresh milk. She dressed quickly and then ate, amazed once again when she consumed everything in sight. She mused that she was perhaps still afraid that there might not be another meal for days.

There was a sharp rap on the door just as she had washed her face and rinsed her teeth in the room’s chipped washbasin.

She dried her face quickly and rushed to the door. It was Warwick, resplendent and regal once again in a black cloak and plumed hat. “Are you quite ready?”

“Aye.”

He caught her hand and led her down a flight of stairs. The tavern was quiet this early; only one drunk snoozed away the night’s entertainment at a corner table.

They walked out into the sunshine. The carriage was before the door, but Warwick led her past it to a charming walkway that fronted a number of shops.

“Where are we going?”

“Shopping,” he said briefly.

And though she objected to his charity, she had little choice; he stated that his wife would be well clad.

She spent the day in a new fury, for as the dressmaker worked over her, tailoring chemises, petticoats, gowns, silks, and satins, Warwick stayed near her, observing the situation with a keen eye.

But soon it was over. Some gowns were completed, others would be shipped on to North Lambria.

That night, they slept together, silently. The next day was spent on the road, and again it seemed long. But when the carriage next stopped, Warwick joined her. He sat beside her, too close beside her, his presence filling the small space.

“We’re coming upon the manor,” he told her. “You’ll remember that we met and were wed in London, that your father was a Frenchman. You bring no dowry, so please try to be charming before the servants. They’ll need to believe I married you in such fascination that I did not care that you brought nothing to the union. If they bear the brunt of your charming tongue, despite your beauty, they’re liable to doubt my sanity.”

“I doubt your sanity!” Ondine retorted, stung.

She was rewarded with one of his steel-hard stares of warning.

“Countess, there is one more order I would give you now. I’ve a neighbor, Lord Hardgrave. Ours has never been the best of relationships; I’ll thank you to take care if you meet him. Nay, avoid meeting him, lest I am with you. I do not trust the man.”

Ondine glanced his way; his arms were crossed over his chest, his eyes were ahead, intent upon his own reflections.

“I’m hardly likely to meet him.”

“Don’t ever, ever be alone with him. Do you understand?”

Ondine sighed softly. “Aye.”

Warwick pulled the drape from the window. “This is it. The drive to Chatham.” Ondine, curious, could not help but lean past him.

Chatham Manor loomed immense and grand down a huge double drive, cut through by a row of manicured gardens. The structure itself seemed to touch the sky. It was stone, beautifully adorned with arched and chiseled windows, towers and buttresses. Sloping fields surrounded it—grass as green as emeralds—with forest to the east, pasture to the west. Mountains rose in purple splendor to the north. It was stunning, as rich and elegant as any a royal palace.

Yet, staring upon it, she suddenly shivered. The setting sun reflected off the windows. Beyond the glow was darkness, and she felt an inexplicable terror of what the shadows might hide.

Ridiculous, she told herself. It was beautiful; it was the home of an earl, an important peer, a palace in truth. It was a perfect place to be, far to the north—a place where she could spend her days in peace, wrestling with her own dilemma, seeking out the answers and the vengeance she so craved.

Her husband’s hand was suddenly laced tight with hers, drawing her gaze up sharply. He smiled, a flash of white teeth, a devastating, wicked gleam of burning gold eyes.

“Countess, we’re home. And, my love, you will behave the charming bride.”

The “beasts” that heralded Warwick’s carriage were cast in massive stone, one on each side of the marble staircase leading up to the doors. Ondine stared at them while Warwick gave Jake instructions regarding the baggage. Jake replied cheerfully, tipped his cap to Ondine, and disappeared around the carriage.

At the top of the dignified staircase double oak doors opened silently. A woman stood there, tall and slim and very erect. She was dressed in shimmering gray, a simple gown with no adornment that was high-necked and as stiff as her posture. Ondine tremored slightly, aware that a “masquerade” was about to begin. And it was to begin with this severe and dour-looking woman.

“My lord Chatham!” The woman stepped upon the marble landing and smiled warmly, somewhat easing Ondine’s apprehension. She was severe, yes, in dress and appearance, but when she smiled, she came to life. She must have been near sixty. Her hair was dark as pitch except for one attractive streak of silver that might have been painted in from her temple to her neck. Her features were nearly gaunt, yet her eyes were a bright and luminous green, and when she offered that welcoming smile, she gave an illusion of youth and a hint of the beauty that must have once been hers.

“Mathilda.” Warwick returned the greeting. His footsteps were quick, causing Ondine to pant as he hurried her up the steps. Ondine felt the squeeze of his fingers, a reminder that he had warned her of the importance of those she would meet.

The housekeeper’s eyes fell to Ondine with an expectant curiosity. She seemed familiar with Warwick, but not beyond the bounds of propriety, for she made a small curtsy as he reached her. “I did not expect you, milord. Nor did I know of guests—”

“Not a guest, Mathilda, my wife, the lady Ondine.”

Surely Mathilda could not have been more surprised had the stone beasts before the steps come to life and rushed the manor. Her jaw fell, her lips pursed, and she stared at Ondine speechlessly before managing to gasp, “Your wife?”

“Wife, yes,” Warwick replied, bemused. “And we’ve been in the carriage for quite some time now.”

“Oh!” Mathilda recovered herself quickly and inclined her head in a low bow to Ondine. “Countess, please, this way …”

She led the way into a grand foyer in the French manor, one with marble flooring of a lighter shade than the steps. There appeared to be entrances to the foyer also from the east and the west, but Ondine was not to see them then, for Mathilda was leading the way up a wide and curving stairway to the apartments above. Warwick no longer held her arm; he followed behind her. Mathilda spoke over her shoulder to Ondine, a little too quickly, perhaps, as if she struggled to regain complete composure.

“There’s a dining hall beyond the staircase, my lady, and the old counting house. The living apartments are here, as you shall see, and the family takes its meals in the west wing. Justin’s apartments are also in this wing. The Earl’s are in the east, and the servants are quartered upon the third floor. Of course, any changes you might care to make—”

“Mathilda, it appears that the manor is most graciously run,” Ondine said pleasantly. A small and welcome thrill of excitement gripped her; it was all marvelous. After a year of running and filth, fate had cast her into a most comfortable situation. Her clothing was beautiful, her surroundings were more so, and Warwick Chatham was anxiously expecting her to play a role. She determined suddenly to do so with complete elan.

She paused on the landing, a long carpeted hallway that appeared to be the family portrait gallery. “It’s lovely!” she applauded sweetly, startling Warwick when she gripped his elbow and stretched upon her toes to plant a kiss upon his cheek. “My love, you did not tell me quite how grand …”

She lowered her lashes quickly to hide her amusement at his quickly suppressed amazement, then spun elegantly from him to approve the portrait of the handsome middle-aged man, amazingly like Warwick, yet more elegant in style, with a head of white hair to match the king’s in curls and abundance. “Your father, my love? Surely it is by Van Dyck?”

“Aye,” Warwick said smoothly, striding to her and managing to conceal his surprise at her knowledge of the painter. “As I told you, my lady,” he continued with equal ease, “my father stood by Charles the First until the end. Then he hastened into exile and fought by his son. Charles himself commissioned the portrait.”

Ondine moved down the hallway lightly. Ladies and lords of the centuries past stared upon her with different expressions, some merry, some melancholy, and many bearing Warwick’s golden gaze and arresting features. She paused before the most recent portrait, finding again a resemblance to her husband, yet certain that it was not he. Warwick totally eschewed the fashionable mode of rich curls for men; hair seemed to him a distraction, and he knotted it at his nape. The man in the portrait had a rich array of golden locks, and his eyes were a valley green. He appeared younger, as handsome as Warwick, but more … carefree. Lines of character were not yet etched into the face.

Warwick’s hands came to her shoulders. “Justin, my love,” he reminded her.

“Aye, of course!” She spun to him, laughing, and tapped her fingers gently against his chest. “When shall I meet this young rake of a brother-in-law?”

“I’m sure that Mathilda will see that he is summoned immediately,” Warwick replied, his eyes upon her quite wary at the very sweet and tender nature of her act, since he was painfully aware of its mockery.

Mathilda cleared her throat. Warwick gazed at her. “Justin is about, I presume?” he asked with an undertone of annoyance.

“Aye, milord, and he’s been the model of endeavor in your absence, I will say, if I may.”

“I doubt that!” Warwick responded, taking Ondine’s arm firmly to lead her back along the hall. “If there’s a fire going in the family hall, we’ll await him there. And, Mathilda, see if Irene can hurry dinner, please.”

Warwick pulled her past .Mathilda, throwing open a set of doors. Ondine found herself prodded through them; she stared down a long length of polished wood floor to a massive fireplace. Brocade chairs and settees surrounded the fireplace, and not far from it loomed a gleaming table, large enough to seat six, surrounded by straight-backed claw-footed chairs, all carved with the insignia of the beast. Rich panneling flanked the walls to the many windows, which spanned both sides of the wing, all with coves and shining wood seats before them. Plain dual candelabra in muted silver were set between each window. The great room was both elegant and comfortable, and Ondine found herself a bit amazed; she had not imagined wealth such as this.

Warwick drew the doors closed upon them. Ondine moved swiftly to the fire, feeling his eyes upon her.

“I had not imagined,” he murmured, “that I came across an actress of such caliber.”

Ondine sat daintily upon a fine brocade chair. “I told you, my lord. I’ve traveled to many a court, manor, and castle.”

He strode by her, leaning an elbow upon the mantel to survey her. “You amaze even me, my love,” he mocked slightly.

She opened her eyes wide, glad of his apparent unease, since he had so chosen to taunt her before the seamstress. “Have I misjudged something, Lord Chatham? I thought that I was to appear the lady sweet and gracious, well bred and … adoring?”

“Warn me next time you intend to be ‘adoring,’” he murmured acidly, and she chose to focus her attention upon the windows, as his gaze was searing at least, dry and probing at best.

She stood again, hurrying to one of the west windows. “What lies beyond?” she asked him lightly.

“The stables,” he replied curtly, and she was further unnerved that he followed her closely as he pointed over her shoulder to the outbuildings. “Far beyond, over the hill, lie the cottages of the tenants and fanners. On Sundays, after services, there’s quite a lively market. We’ve our own chapel—ground floor of the east wing—but the Chathams now attend public mass in the village.

Not to worry, my love, I’m sure you’ll play the femme royale quite as competently … anywhere.”

She longed to reply to the taunting lash of his words, but the doors opened again and a husky, pleasant laughter rilled the room.

“Married! Warwick, you scoundrel! Not to mention a word, but to stun us all. Where is this rare beauty who could so capture your heart?”

Ondine swung around to see the young man in the flesh whom she had surveyed earlier in the portrait.

He was perhaps five or six years younger than his brother, yet with Warwick, it was difficult to judge age. Justin was young, and charmingly so. His eyes danced with amusement; upon seeing her face, he pulled off his plumed hat and gave her a sweeping and elegant bow. Standing once again, he breathed out his introduction almost reverently. “My lady!”

“Ondine, I give you my brother, Justin Chatham,” Warwick said most dryly, yet he accepted his brother’s embrace of greeting with warmth before bringing her farther forward. “Justin, Ondine.”

“Ever so surely a name of magical connotation, a creature of magical beauty!” Justin proclaimed.

Ondine bobbed an elegant curtsy, enjoying Justin’s good humor and outrageous compliments. She had yet to be looked upon by his brother as anything other than a commodity.

“I thank you, Justin Chatham.” She offered him her hand, and he kissed it slowly, his eyes sparkling as he raised his head.

Warwick snatched her hand back suddenly, caught her shoulders, and drew her to rest against his chest. “Dear brother, ‘tis my wife you mawl! Seek your own, if you must dally so!”

The words were spoken lightly. Ondine was somewhat surprised at the camaraderie between them, for it did seem also that Justin sorely wore upon Warwick’s patience.

Justin laughed. “Tell me, Warwick, where you found this lady, for alas, I would hunt the same grounds.”

” Why, the streets of London!” Ondine replied quickly, escaping her husband’s grasp to whirl around the table and keep its solid breadth between them. For her life, she did not know what drove her to goad him so, yet it seemed that she had been given a chance to do mischief, and after his treatment of her, the sweet demon would not leave her soul. She smiled sweetly at Justin. ” Tis quite true! We met upon the streets and then and there chose to marry.”

“An elopement?” Justin queried, enjoying himself tremendously. “How romantic.”

“Uram,” Warwick murmured, striding toward the table. Ondine moved quickly around another side.

“Oh, tremendously so!” Ondine declared, sweet irony dripping from her tongue. “I shall never know quite what… hit me that night. Yet your brother was a determined suitor, and I quickly realized I’d not escape him.”

Justin stared from Ondine to his brother, then laughed. “Forgive me, sister-in-law, but I must say, well, I will be damned. My brother, you see, has lived his life the rage of beautiful women— though I can’t say why; he’s quite the cold and distant rake, or has been of late—-yet he’s eluded all the most determined heiresses of our good land. And the greatest beauties. Are you, then, incredibly rich?”

“Justin!” Warwick snapped.

“Not at all,” Ondine said sweetly.

“We must celebrate this event!” Justin proclaimed. He strode across the room and opened a panel beneath a window seat that proved to hold elegant crystal goblets and flasks. “Nothing so bleak as native ale,” he muttered. He pulled his choice forth, balancing the goblets. “The vintage of Aquitaine. I think! Rich and fruity wine, red like love’s sweet passion!”

“Is passion red, then?” Ondine inquired innocently. Too innocently, perhaps. She had given her attention to Justin and had not noticed Warwick slipping up behind her.

His arms swept around her, his fingers spanning her waist, their tips hovering below her breasts as he pulled her taut to his hot, tense form, dipped hjs head, and whispered to her throat. “Very red … think of it, milady …”

“Warwick, cease!” Justin pleaded. “You draw my attention from the wine!”

Warwick did not release Ondine, and she began to repent her flippancy. She could not speed from him again, for his hold was one of steel. And she could not fight the sensation that was pressed into her by his warmth, causing her to tremble, to loathe him … and to feel beguiled all the same. She seemed to become liquid at his touch.

Justin saved her, approaching them both with the goblets balanced precariously in his hands. Warwick reached for two, released her, then offered her one with a quick fire-gold gaze of warning that assured her he would follow her game, step by step.

She turned back to Justin. “Why is it, sir, that you—charming as you are, and more vulnerable as you pretend—have not fallen prey to one of these heiresses yourself?”

Justin chuckled, sipped his wine, then lifted his goblet to Warwick. “I am not the earl, and though charming—I do mind my manners!—it seems that women, alas, do fall prey to his very aloofness. Ah … that which cannot be obtained! As it is, little sister, here’s to you! The best… with the beast!”

Warwick responded with a dry smile. “It runs in all our blood, Brother.”

“I suppose,” Justin agreed amiably. His gaze grew speculative over Ondine suddenly. “I’ve a mind our new countess would not be afraid of a beast—or aught else, for that matter.”

Ondine felt a sudden chill in the room as the brothers exchanged gazes. It was not anger between them; it was a thought that was passed and shared, and one from which she was excluded totally.

She had little time to think on it. There was a tap upon the doors. Warwick bid “Enter,” and Mathilda came in, followed by two maids and a lad, all bearing cutlery and great trays that exuded wonderful scents.

“Dinner, milord, as you requested,” Mathilda said simply. With a wave of her hand, the others moved, quickly setting a linen cloth, china plates, and silver knives and forks upon the table.

Warwick inclined his head toward Ondine. “My lady?”

He pulled out a chair and she swept into it. As platters of eel and smoked sturgeon, boiled new potatoes, and garden greens were passed about, Warwick informed her that the girls were Nan and Lottie, the cook’s daughters; and the lad was Joseph, who doubled in the stable. The three had pleasant smiles and an eagerness to serve that reminded Ondine of Warwick’s previous warning to her about the gentle handling of his people. It amused her somewhat, for she did think of him as cold, indomitable, and forbidding—even at those times when he made her senses burn.