Ondine Read online

  He moved aside, inclining his head toward her and saying softly, “Sleep well, milady.”

  Ondine fled past him, reaching her chamber and closing the door quickly to lean against it with a trembling gasp. By habit she slipped the bolt, then wondered why.

  She closed her eyes, willing her heart to slow its frantic thunder.

  And then she began to wonder if her husband was not a mythical beast, or a manner of demon, he was so able to touch her with the golden flames of his eyes, casting a fire to blaze throughout her.

  She raced for her bed, pulled the covers about her, and slowly, slowly, tormented herself to exhaustion and thence to sleep.

  Chapter 8

  She fell asleep in misery, and restless, she began to dream.

  The scene! She saw it—the hall where they walked …

  Her father, the Duke of Rochester, out of favor with Charles for many years, since he had been against the old king’s autocratic policies, though he had fought the execution vigorously.

  But they’d been called to court at last. The jousters had been upon the field, the audience assembled. Charles greeted them alone; even his guards stayed far behind, laughing, for it was a lazy day!

  There had been only Ondine and her father—and her stepuncle and Raoul. Walking down the hall, they were relaxed, laughing easily, as were the guards, for gaiety lay on the air. It was a great occasion.

  Then a sword had flashed. Raoul pretended a fierce grapple with her father, pretending that her father had drawn the sword to slay the king! Oh, well done, well done, for it did appear that the Duke of Rochester had drawn the sword, and that Raoul had slain a heinous assassin! Blood, oh, the blood! Her father had died upon her, his last words a whisper that she must run, for— wounded, bleeding, dying—he realized too late the plot against them both. He who had trusted her uncle! And, oh, God! Her uncle would be her guardian.

  The guards, screaming, ran after her.

  Raoul caught her, swearing that they would take the estate and prove her complicity! They’d forged letters painstakingly in her handwriting, and they would give them to the king and court to blackmail her if she did not wed him. Raoul! Oh, God!

  From somewhere, interspersed with her screams, came the shuddering sound of wood splintering. Ondine fought desperately to rise above the fog of the dream. Hands grabbed at her, and she fought them, too. Then suddenly the room was filled with light; firm arms were about her, and she heard her name whispered soothingly.

  “Ondine, Ondine …”

  Fingers smoothed her hair, wild from her thrashings, from her face. Her eyes opened fully and began to focus, and she gasped, trembling in newfound horror as she discovered her husband holding her, anxiety alive in the golden sparks of his eyes. His chest was bare, all sleek rippling muscle and crisp tawny fur against her, teasing and intimate through the fabric of her gown. His arms were so strong, both secure and frightening. What had she said? She stared at him in wretched dismay, her heart pelting, her limbs quivering.

  He shook her slightly. “What was it? Why did you scream? Tell me, I must know!”

  She shook her head numbly, noting the rigid set of his jaw, the taut constriction of his body. “No—nothing!”

  “Did you hear something, see something—”

  She pulled from him, burying her face in her hands, suddenly filled with acute embarrassment. He knew nothing, she realized. She had taken him from sleep by the terror of her dream, and he was gallant enough to search out whatever distress might have plagued her.

  “I’m—I’m sorry, milord,” she murmured. Her covering was gone; her gown was tangled high above her knees, and the warmth of his thighs seemed to sear her despite the material of his breeches. Nervously she attempted to right her clothing, and more uneasily still, she met his gaze. It remained troubled and suspicious as his muscled frame stayed tense. Ondine brought her knees to her chest, ruefully hugging them there.

  “There was nothing,” she whispered, trying to smile as the terror receded from her.

  “Nothing?” She could not tell if he was relieved or dismayed.

  “I believe I was dreaming again.”

  “Of Newgate?” His brow arched. Candlelight played upon his lean features, sending shadows upon them, and she was not sure if he believed her or not.

  “And the hangman’s knot,” she added on a breath.

  He looked about the room and at long last sighed. He stretched, flexing his shoulders, then allowing them to relax as he chuckled. He gave her a crooked smile, devilish and filled with ironic humor. “They will end eventually,” he told her.

  “They?”

  “The dreams,” he said softly, and he spoke as one who knew. And watching him, she trembled again and could not help the quiver of her lip, for she had not expected such kindness or understanding from him. He reached out, his fingers touching her lip to still its quiver, and she stared at him, fascinated by the masculine appeal of his eyes. Again he smiled ruefully. “Come here; you’re still shaking,” he told her.

  She must have betrayed some form of alarm, for he laughed. “In the forests, my lady-thief, I do not lay claim to wounded does.” With his words he rose and lifted her, taking her place upon the bed, leaning against the pillow to cradle her length comfortingly against his. She dared not move. Her hand rested against his naked chest; her cheek was brushed by its tawny hair. She inhaled his scent and it was subtle and fine, as male as the steel-hewn muscle that forged his frame. Gently he smoothed her hair, trailing his fingers along her back.

  “Sleep, my beauty,” he teased her gently. “For your ‘beast’ is standing guard.”

  She would never sleep, not with him touching her! Not with his heart pounding beneath her ear, the naked feel of his chest like a shield about her.

  She did sleep. To the soft caress of his fingers against her nape, to his soothing whisper promising that dreams were fantasy, to his assurance that he would guard her.

  In the morning he was gone. Ondine was in a reckless mood, annoyed with her own weakness, anxious to find some freedom from the manor, from her own haunting dreams, from the ghosts of Chatham.

  After she had bathed and eaten, she determined to venture out to the stables. She’d not asked Warwick if she might, nor was she concerned any longer that he might question her riding ability— he’d already caught her at the spinet and the harp, and whether he truly believed her explanations, he hadn’t challenged her.

  That morning when she left the music room, she was startled to see Jake, seated right outside her door, complacently honing one of his master’s dirks.

  He stood, apparently as startled by her abrupt appearance as she was at finding him there.

  “Good morning, Countess!” He greeted her with a bow.

  “Good morning, Jake.” She smiled because his warmth was so very real, and yet there was a curious curl to her lips because she was suddenly certain that when her husband was not watching her, Jake was. He came and went swiftly and discreetly, always at a distance so that she didn’t notice.

  “Do you fare well, milady?” he asked her pleasantly.

  “Fine,” she answered him, and added with a soft honesty that was pleasant to voice aloud, “far better than in the woods, or in my cell—or with a rope about my neck!”

  Jake’s eyes glimmered his pleasant humor; he brought a finger to his lip. “Shh, milady!”

  She nodded, matching his humor with the sparkle of her own eyes. “By the way, Jake, I’ve met no ghosts. Am I supposed to do so?”

  “Ghosts, milady? Why, I do not believe in them. Do you?”

  “No, I don’t. But I’ve an ache for fresh air at the moment. Is the lord Chatham about?”

  Jake blinked, as if he quickly weighed her question. “I’m not sure of the earl’s whereabouts, milady. Would you have me seek him out?”

  “No,” Ondine said sweetly. “Excuse me, Jake.” She rustled past him, giving him no clue as to her own destination, yet eager to see if he would follow her.
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br />   She left the manor by the west entrance and ambled slowly through the maze of rosebushes before heading toward the stables. She did not see Jake behind her, but she sensed that she was being followed. She pretended not to be aware.

  A young lad with a pleasant freckled face cleaned a harness on a stoop before the barn. At Ondine’s appearance he leapt to his feet and gave her an awkward bow. “Milady!”

  She smiled. “Good day, Tad. I’ve a mind to ride; perhaps you might suggest a mount for me?”

  “I—uh—” He appeared quite uncomfortable and red-faced. “Clinton is yonder; I’ll fetch him fer ye, milady—”

  Ondine waved aside the offer. “I shall find him myself, thank you, Tad.”

  She swept into the barn, wondering at the boy’s discomfort. But as he had told her, Clinton was inside, currying a huge fine bay. He paused, the brush still upon the animal’s rump, as Ondine approached. He inclined his head respectfully, yet she sensed there was a wariness about him as she drew near, and something more, a strange tension. She remembered how he had greeted Warwick upon that first night; the familiarity between them. Clinton was not an ordinary servant, and she sensed that he was a very proud man.

  “Good morning, Clinton,” Ondine said.

  “Good morning, Countess,” he said in return, the emotion in his deep forest-green eyes well shielded.

  She approached the massive horse, patting the sleek satiny neck. The animal was riddled with strength and sinew, yet as graceful in appearance as any aristocrat.

  “He’s truly fine,” Ondine said admiringly.

  Clinton began to brush the horse anew. “Aye, Dragon is as fine a lad as draws breath, milady. Fine and fierce.” He cast a glance her way. “He’s your husband’s favorite, milady. In skirmish, in play, Dragon’s his choice. It’s well you make his acquaintance.”

  “Hmmm,” Ondine murmured. She rubbed the stallion’s soft velvet muzzle and felt warm snorts of breath tease her fingers. “He must be magnificent to ride.”.

  Clinton hesitated. “Magnificent, aye, milady. But spirited. No one rides him but Warwick.”

  She gazed swiftly at Clinton, wondering if the words were a careful rebuke or a warning. She was the lady of the manor; she could give orders and command, but not where those commands might cross her husband’s desires.

  But she didn’t find herself resenting Clinton, merely finding that again the sense of recognition was strong, as if she knew his eyes from elsewhere, even the fine structure of his face. It was a very strange sense of familiarity, for it seemed as if she knew his eyes from one source, and the handsome structure of features from another.

  “Clinton,” she murmured hesitantly, frowning; then she said boldly, “why i& it that I feel I know you? I look into your eyes and could swear we’ve met elsewhere.” Her voice caught with a little reel of panic. “We have not before, have we?”

  He shook his head, laughing a bit abruptly. “Countess, I’ve heard my eyes are my mother’s, and since you see hers quite frequently, ‘tis perhaps natural you feel we’ve met.”

  “Your mother’s?”

  He gazed her way, smiling ruefully. “Mathilda, my lady, is my mother.”

  “Oh.” She smiled, unable to suppress a little sigh of relief. He was watching her quite curiously, so she spoke quickly, voicing the rest of her thoughts. “I assume, then, that you were born and brought up on the manor?”

  He inclined his head, lashes lowering. “You assume correctly, my lady.”

  “And you and the earl… are, then, very good friends. Raised together?”

  He chuckled again. “Aye, milady, you might say that.” He watched her, hesitating, then shrugged and fell silent, though she had thought he would speak again.

  “You remind me of my …” Somehow she suddenly found she could not say the word husband. ‘ ‘You remind me of Warwick,” she said flatly.

  He rounded the brush over the horse’s rump silently, then once again he shrugged, paused, and stared at her a bit curiously. “There, again, milady, you are correct. Your husband and I are cousins.”

  “Cousins!” She could not help her gasp of surprise.

  Clinton returned to his task. “I’m surprised that Warwick did not mention the relationship; there has never been a secret to it.”

  “But—”

  “I am the groom, the keeper of the horses, the foreman. I’m also illegitimate. Well, not so myself, since my father did marry my mother before disappearing.” He spoke flatly, with more of a sense of humor than resentment. He halted his work again, watching her with a rueful smile. “Surely you’ve heard the tales of our ghosts, milady?”

  “Something of them,” Ondine murmured, intrigued.

  “Well, milady, there was a mistress accused of helping Lord Chatham’s grandmother to crash through the steps to her death. Of course, the accused mistress came to her own death. That lady was my grandmother; Mathilda’s mother. We are all, in our way, Chathams.”

  “Oh!” Ondine whispered, her mind whirling. So Mathilda was Warwick’s own aunt—half aunt, out of wedlock! “It’s—uh— most unusual,” she stuttered, then rattled along with surprise ruling her tongue, “and you find no resentment? Nor your mother? Do you ever—”

  Clinton interrupted her with pleasant laughter. “Feel that certain privileges should be mine?” He lifted his arms to embrace the air. “I’ve all that I need, milady. My mother was abandoned by my father; her half brother—your husband’s father-—took her in, and in time she was running the house. My uncle was a fine man; we were well treated. And as you suggested earlier, I did grow up with my cousins. I was lectured by their tutors, offered any chance in life I might desire. I’ve a fondness for Chatham and North Lambria. I’ve a fondness for my cousin, the earl, who is as fair and just a man as one might wish to claim as kin. I serve him through choice. Does that answer all your questions, milady?”

  Ondine kept her eyes upon the horse’s large and beautiful head, holding his halter and stroking his cheek as she replied. “I did not mean to quiz you so, Clinton.” She smiled at him. “You use your cousins’ names when you address them, and you know mine. Would you grant me a like favor?”

  He gazed at her, much like Warwick, then smiled slowly. “Ondine.”.

  She returned his grin, then asked, “Clinton, since none may touch this gorgeous beast except his master, could you suggest a mount I might ride?”

  His smile faded, and he appeared acutely uncomfortable. He strode to the wall to pluck a small pick from a nail, then clutched Dragon’s forefoot and began to clean his hoof, lowering his head as he spoke.

  “Have you discussed riding with Warwick?”

  “Have I a need to?” Ondine responded sharply.

  “Aye, lady, I’m afraid you do.” He dropped the horse’s hoof and straightened. “I was told that you were not to go out,” he said softly. “Perhaps you would care to find Warwick and discuss the matter with him. Then I should be delighted to direct you to the best mount.”

  She shook her head incredulously, her voice low yet shaking with intensity. “Do you mean, Clinton, that Warwick gave an order that I might not even saddle a horse to ride about the estate? Why?”

  Clinton smiled ruefully, and she realized that he was looking past her. “You must ask him yourself, milady,” he said quietly.

  Ondine turned quickly. Warwick stood in the open doorway, wearing plain fawn breeches and a simple white shirt with wide flowing sleeves, laced low on his chest. His boots were high, hemmed and folded midthigh; he was dressed for work, quite a bit like his cousin. He looked like a buccaneer—wary and careful of stolen gems—as he strode toward them.

  “Good morning, milady; Clinton.”

  ” ‘Morning, Warwick,” Clinton tipped his hat to Warwick. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe the lady wishes a word with you in private.”

  Clinton walked out, whistling. Ondine was instantly reminded that she had been certain Jake had followed her. Now she was positive. Jake had seen her at the
stables and had summoned his master.

  Warwick smiled and cocked his head politely, lacing his fingers behind his back. “My lady?”

  Ondine returned his smile acidly. “I am not permitted to ride, milord?”

  Warwick didn’t reply. He came to the horse’s head and whis- pered to Dragon affectionately, tweaking his ears, rubbing the velvet nose. The horse nuzzled him in turn.

  “Warwick!” Sorely aggravated, she stamped a foot against the dirt.

  His quick gaze cautioned her that he did not intend to tolerate her temper; she stood her ground.

  “So you ride, too, milady?”

  “Don’t all horse thieves?” she snapped back.

  “No,” he replied flatly. “You are not permitted to ride.”

  She had expected the curt dismissal and a sudden rise of self-pity soared high with her temper. What, in truth, was the nature of the man? Last night he had been seductively gentle; today he was again as cold as winter’s ice, cracking whips of rude command by simple inflection.

  Her fingers clenched into fists, which she held rigidly at her side. “Why?”

  “Because I deem it dangerous.”

  “Because you deem it dangerous? My lord Chatham. I beg to differ! I doubt that your own abilities can be any greater—”

  “Than yours?” he flared harshly, turning from the horse. “Lady, my answer is no. And rest assured, I do doubt none of your abilities.”

  Tears started to sting her eyes; she wanted so desperately to deal with him rationally, but she was never able to do so.

  “And am I a prisoner here, then?” she cried in growing fury.

  He took a step toward her. “You are whatever you wish to consider yourself, Countess,” he said quietly. The smile he gave her was a lopsided jeer, as if he, too, fought for restraint, yet could not resist the temptation to goad her.

  “Well, I’ll not endure it!” she spat back in her most arrogant tone. She thought of him riding away so many nights, doing exactly what he wished, when he wished, and then having her every movement spied upon. A madness burned inside her, with fury and confusion at all that he had cast into her lap. “I will not endure it!” she repeated. “I am not a possession, not property, not a child to be locked away! I will do as I choose and the devil may take you and your evasions!” She was so fraught that she approached him, ablaze with reckless disregard for the slow nar- rowing of his eyes. “I will not play your game, milord, and be your prisoner!”