Ondine Read online

  He turned and walked through the door. He did not close it, and she trembled, painfully aware that nothing but the night breezes lay between them, hating him …

  Hating herself … for loving him.

  PART II

  The Countess of North

  Lambria The Game Is Played

  Chapter 10

  Three days time …

  Ondine spent those three days in a torment of anxiety and fear. She did not even think of the whisperer—of her name called to her in the night. She was too preoccupied with the desperate search to find a way to avoid King Charles’s court.

  Warwick was determined; when he was determined, he wasn’t to be crossed. There was no help.

  She could not escape. Warwick did not leave the manor at nights; he remained in the music chamber while she tossed and turned in her own. It seemed he carefully avoided her during the day, as if he would avoid a headache. During the evening meal, in Justin’s presence, he was absolutely charming. Justin liked to tease about the child, and, thought Ondine, surely a lord was supposed to be caring and tender to the lady who carried his child.

  On these occasions Ondine gritted her teeth and did not refute the lie.

  Mathilda was so solicitous of her that Ondine wished she might crawl into a dark hole each time she saw the housekeeper. How could Warwick be so cruel! Mathilda’s hopes were destined to be dashed.

  Even Clinton applauded her on the apparent speed with which she set about to provide Chatham an heir. But at least Clinton tended to be a quiet, straightforward man, and though Ondine knew he would not let her on a horse, she spent a great deal of her time in the stables, stroking the animals, fervently wishing and dreaming that she might find a way to steal one and disappear. As the first day passed she would tell herself that she had time to plan an escape. But as the second day came and went she began to realize that she would never, never have an opportunity to get away. Jake, though quite unobtrusively, followed her constantly. She practically tripped over Mathilda or Lottie anytime she attempted to move. It was hopeless.

  Mathilda helped her pack her trunks, with only the best apparel. Charles maintained an elegant court, one filled with artists and poets, women dressed beautifully in designs inspired by the latest fashion dolls from France. She simply must pack her very best— not that Mathilda thought it mattered a whit. With a sniff she informed Ondine, “You’ve natural youth and the most exquisite beauty! You’ll outshine them all! Ah, but it’s fascinating. I do love it!”

  “You’ve been?” Ondine wondered.

  “Ah, yes! I accompanied …”

  “Genevieve,” Ondine finished for her, and she found herself giving Mathilda a quick hug.

  Mathilda wiped a tear from her cheek, then flashed a bright smile. “Ah, but I would love to see you there! To take haughty -tottie Lady Anne down a peg!”

  Ondine smiled in return—stiffly. Always she endured the most horrible mixture of emotions! The logical: she couldn’t go to court! And the dreadfully illogical: the searing pain of jealousy. It seemed most likely that Lady Anne wouldn’t be taken down a peg at all, for she would have her lover in her arms once more.

  When Mathilda left her, Ondine threw her pillow viciously across the room. One more night … they were due to leave at dawn, and she simply could not go. For her life, she could not

  g°-

  And Warwick! Oh, the atrocious nerve of the man, that he should think to drag her—unwilling!—with him to the place of his old immoral haunts. He was welcome to his whore, but not when he shackled her along!

  But, no … he was not welcome to her! No matter how she hated the feelings, they were there. Ondine cared. She was falling in love with him—loving him almost as passionately as she hated him.

  At dinner she was charming, laughing with Justin, quite pleased to flirt with him. Warwick was exceptionally quiet, yet his eyes were always on her, and she knew that he was as wary and tense as she. She tried to disarm him, chatting ridiculously about the gowns she would bring and how dearly she would love to get her hands on the newest fashion dolls. She had barely consumed half the food on her plate before Warwick was standing behind her chair, pulling it from the table.

  “Warwick—” Her voice was tinged with annoyance, since she had been quite taken by surprise.

  “My love!” he returned smoothly, bending near so that his breath touched her cheek, the underlying danger of his words piercingly clear to her. “We’re to leave with the sun, and in such case, I’d have you not lose sleep this night.”

  Oh, how she longed—just once!—to turn about and soundly box his ears! To destroy his charade. To wound him … as he wounded her!

  She lowered her head quickly. This was not the time to argue, not if she wished to carry out her plans, her last desperate chance for escape, before it was too late.

  She stood quite meekly. Justin was up, kissing her hand, giving her a courtly and courteous bow.

  “Sweet sister, this rogue of a brother of mine constantly sweeps you away. Alas, that I could not have seen you first!”

  “Umm, alas,” Warwick murmured dryly. “Good night, Brother.”

  Justin laughed. “Good night!”

  Beyond a doubt, I am a prisoner! Ondine thought woefully as Warwick led her along the hall. His prisoner … and one of my own making. For even as she moved, she shrank from what she had devised. To leave him …

  Leave the touch like fire upon her. The warmth of his body, close to hers. A mockery, yes. Yet these small crumbs were hers. His hand upon her wrist. His breath, his voice, his eyes. His occasional tenderness, and his passion when he swore to protect her. She closed her eyes tightly as they walked. Fool! He cared nothing for her—she was here to be used.

  He opened the door. She started to walk through the music chamber, straight for her own.

  “Ondine!”

  Her heart faltered, and she paused, turning back. She felt his stare, wary, just as it had been at dinner. He smiled, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning nonchalantly against the spinet.

  “Milord?”

  “We do leave in the morning.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  “My love,” he said softly, coming toward her, smiling a warning as he gently stroked her cheek, “I remember your protests were most vehement—so much so that I cannot help but doubt this sudden meekness of yours.”

  She lowered her eyes and stepped back, keeping her head bowed as she lifted her hands helplessly.

  “You have said that I shall go, walking or dragged. I prefer to walk. If you’ll pardon me, I am quite tired, and we do leave early.”

  She turned quickly and fled, not daring to see if he had believed her performance.

  In her own chamber she discarded nothing but her shoes and quickly scrambled beneath the covers on her bed. How long would she have to wait? she wondered bleakly. Until she was absolutely certain that he slept?

  It was her only hope—to escape their chamber while he slept, to reach the stables when Clinton was absent and steal a horse. And even then she could only pray that Jake did not sleep at the door, since he needn’t stand guard when his master was doing so.

  Oh, how interminably time passed! She seemed to lie forever, barely breathing, holding the covers closely to her. She could hear Warwick pacing in the music chamber. What was he thinking of? Did he yearn to reach court and the passionate arms of his mistress?

  Oh, but it would be best to be away from that arrogant beast! He thrilled her, he infuriated her! He excited her, he frightened her. She wanted all of him and none of him! Be damned with him! She did not want him! She wanted only her freedom, to clear her father and herself.

  Finally he went to bed. The candles were doused; only the fires burned. And she had to wait …

  At least an hour had passed since the last candle had been doused. Oh, surely, God help her, he slept by now …

  She was about to rise, but instead she went rigid, stunned to realize that he did not sleep at all, that he
stood in the doorway, his grim, ever-mocking smile in place against the hard and handsome features of his face.

  She swallowed, closed her eyes quickly, and prayed that the shadowed darkness of night had hid her startled glimpse of him.

  With her eyes so tightly closed she felt ever more at a disadvantage. She could only wait in the absolute and tense darkness.

  More time passed. She tried to breathe easily. He must have decided that she slept, returning to his own chamber to sleep. He must have done so.

  She opened her eyes—and let out a startled scream.

  He hadn’t gone to bed at all; he was standing right above her, hands on his hips, his golden eyes devilish in the glow of the firelight.

  He moved like a whip at the sound of her scream, wrenching the covers from her, baring her completely clad figure.

  “Dear wife! What is this, then? The latest in bedroom fashion?” He sat beside her, fingering the ruff at her throat. “How remiss of me! I would have sworn I had seen fit to clothe you properly for bed!”

  Ondine closed her eyes again, weary, desolate.

  “Go to hell!” she said with the little emotion remaining in her.

  “Sorry, my love, but it is to court that I go, with my cherished bride on my arm.” He stood, caught her arm, and wrenched her to her feet, despite her startled—and guttural—oath of protest. Then she was facing him in defensive fury, aware that her plans were dashed, wondering what new torture this meant,

  “What now!” she cried out. “You’ve found me. I cannot leave—”

  “Conniving witch!” he interrupted harshly. “You intended to speed past me? I told you, love, I wake at the slightest sound.”

  “I made no sound!”

  “Ah, but the devious wheels of your mind churned all evening!”

  “So! I am caught! Leave me be!”.

  “Nay, how could I, Countess? Leave you—to sleep in such discomfort?” he cried in a facsimile of gravest concern. “Turn about!”

  She didn’t have a chance to obey the command; his fingers closed around her shoulders, performing the act for her. Then those same fingers began to unhook her gown.

  “Stop! I’m caught! I only wish to salvage what sleep I—”

  “You’re not sleeping so well prepared to leave, my love. Hold still—or I’ll rip it from you.”

  There was no venom in his words, just truth. Trembling, she stood still as he finished with the hooks; then she wrenched away from him, choking out her words.

  “You needn’t bother. I’ll disrobe myself.”

  He lifted a hand with casual agreement, but gave no ground. “Then do so, my love.”

  She stared at him.

  “Now,” he said.

  Labeling him every vile thing that she could, she turned once more, still shaking, and stepped from her gown. He remained behind her, and she could not turn to him.

  “Do go on, Countess,” he drawled.

  She repeated the names she had already called him, having run out of fresh derogatory titles. She still shook so badly that her fingers could not find the ties to her corset.

  He stepped forward. Her flesh burned where his fingers touched. Her form had never been more rigid.

  Seconds later her corset fell, along with the lace frills of her underskirt. Swearing ever more vehemently, she bent to cast away her hose, then plunge back into her bed, burying herself in the covers.

  “Now, will you please go away!” she cried out miserably.

  He did not. He sat upon the bed once again, and she stiffened at the touch of his hand upon her back.

  “Ondine, why are you so set against a trip to court?”

  His voice was strangely gentle and puzzled. She held her breath, listening to the thunder of her heart. She did not open her eyes; she had no wish to see his when they were amber, warmed by concern, curious … caring. They could too quickly grow cold and severe.

  “I do not like courts,” she said stiffly.

  “If you told me—”

  “I’ve told you all I intend to!”

  She heard his soft sigh, as if he wished he might penetrate her wall of reserve. But then he stood up from the bed, and when he spoke again, his voice was once more sharp with command.

  “I’m sorry, then, that the journey distresses you. But it will take place.”

  She knew that he left her, not by sound, but by the sudden chill that invaded her. She dug her fingers into the sheets to keep from crying out in her desperation, tears of self-pity and fear.

  But she didn’t cry. She would never let him hear her cry. And then, once again, she began to plot and plan. Once it became morning …

  It was such a wonderful plan that she slept at last, smiling.

  In the morning Lottie came to her. Ondine washed and dressed and instructed Lottie on her hair. She couldn’t have been better prepared for a journey.

  But as servants ran about with the trunks to be brought to the carriage, with both Mathilda and Warwick in the music chamber, she suddenly gasped out a terrible cry of pain and doubled over.

  She was quite good! Ondine decided elatedly. Her act was so convincing that Warwick ran straight to her, clutching her shoulders, supporting her. She could easily have been on the stage!

  “My lady—?”

  “Oh, my lady!” Mathilda gasped worriedly, rushing to her, too. “Is it the child?”

  “Oohh!” Ondine groaned out. “Surely not! Ohh, if I could just lie down again, the pain …”

  She barely noticed that Warwick released her. Mathilda—dear Mathilda!—set her arms about her mistress and started walking her through to her own chamber.

  “We’ll get these constricting things off of you at once! You’ll lie down and stay down. We won’t take a single chance with that precious wee babe!”

  “But Warwick—”

  “The earl shall have to go on by himself. Now you lie down and I’ll find a loose and flowing nightdress—Oh, dear, I fear the best of them are packed!”.

  Barely able to contain a smile of triumph, Ondine sank back to her bed weakly, casting an elbow over her eyes to await Mathilda’s tender administrations.

  But the next touch she felt was anything but tender. Hard arms swept around her, lifting her. She opened her eyes wide in alarm, only to meet her husband’s fierce ones, narrow and glittering.

  “There’s nothing my lady needs so much as fresh air,” Warwick announced, “and the sooner the better.”

  “But, Warwick—” Mathilda began.

  “My lady is as healthy as a brood mare, Mathilda—just nervous, nothing more! I promise you, the air will do her wonders.”

  With Ondine in his arms he strode from their chambers at such a furious pace that Mathilda could not keep up to make her protests heard.

  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.”