Ondine Read online

  She heard his voice, and it caused her to tremble to the depths of her soul, to feel a force like fire rippling along her spine.

  “Let me see what we’ve got…”

  His thumb and knuckle curved around her chin, firmly demanding that she raise her chin. She had no option but to do so. Her flesh was alive with the fire that touched her, and her temper fed upon her humiliation.

  “Shall I suffice?” she snapped crisply.

  A tawny brow arched against his forehead, a crooked grin tugged at his lip, but his eyes were gold blades as he raked over her features. She had both amused him and irritated him. Her flash of temper might be entertaining, but it was hardly proper when Meg stood by as audience.

  Warwick did not reply. He tilted her chin to the left and studied her face as he might the wheels of a carriage. Silently, loathfully, she returned his stare, her teeth clenched tightly together.

  He tilted her chin in the other direction. Perhaps she should have been gratified that he gave no notice to her locked and contorted body. But she could not be so pleased, for his cold scrutiny left her feeling ever more stripped and naked—to the soul.

  With all her heart she longed to reach out and slap him, to rake her nails across his high bronze cheekbones. She sat deathly still, allowing her eyes to denounce his calculated appraisal. She hated the touch of him, with his long callused fingers, the size of him, so near, and the heat that touched her against her will, like a violation.

  He released her chin and stepped back, addressing Meg. “I think I’ve thought of everything, but it’s seldom that I purchase women’s wear. What is lacking must remain so, I fear.”

  “Anything will be better than those rags, my lord!” Meg assured him. She hesitated a moment. “Will you dine in the public room? Or shall your meal be brought here?”

  “The public room, I think,” Warwick said after a moment’s thought. He turned back to Ondine, and she couldn’t begin to read the emotion in his features.

  He bowed to her with formal mockery. “At your leisure, my lady.”

  Then he strode from the room without a backward glance.

  “Oh! I hate him!” Ondine gasped out, unaware of her words, only knowing that she had been appraised like a calf at market and found to be not intriguing, but rather … suitable.

  “What?” The startled gasp escaped Meg, and Ondine realized what she had said. Oh, God, she didn’t hate him. How could she hate a man who had saved her from certain death? She just felt so …

  She stared at Meg, then shuddered miserably and drew her hands to her face. “I am sorry; I didn’t mean it…” she blurted out.

  Meg was instantly at Ondine’s side, bringing a huge white towel to wrap around the girl as she helped her from the bath, clucking softly, all her maternal instincts rising like a blanket of comfort.

  “There, there, dear! ‘Tis quite natural for a lass to suddenly hate and fear her man when … when the first night draws near! But you’ve nothing to fear, love. It’s true, the earl can be a distant man, hard as castle stone, at times.” Meg grinned at her. “But he’s a fine man, dear, the best of his kind, I think.”

  Ondine closed her eyes; her knees felt weak. She was glad of Meg’s plump arms about her, leading her to sit at the foot of the bed.

  “You … know him well?” Ondine asked curiously.

  “As well as I might. He travels this way frequently.” She chuckled. “He’s one of the king’s favorites, you know. His Grace is always sending for him to deal with one crisis or the next. And one would have thought that one of the heiresses at court would have wed him eventually—he’s been known to have his dalliances there—” Meg stopped speaking abruptly, as if she had said much more than she should have. “All men dally,” she muttered, then tsked and crossed herself. “And as I do honor and revere our good king, Charles, I still must say that women dally overmuch, also! But, ah, dear! Surely Warwick, Earl of Chatham, honors and cherishes you greatly! Else why marry you, honor you so, when he might have claimed the richest, most noble ladies of the land?”

  Cherish! Ondine thought, a chill enveloping her and causing her fingers to shake, her limbs to tremble. Had Meg seen nothing? Or was she blinded by the man? He had no real interest in her at all.

  She tried to give Meg a reassuring smile and stood, hugging the towel about herself. “Meg, you’ve never heard any … strange gossip about my lord, have you?”

  “Strange?”

  Ondine blushed to her toes. “I mean, that, perhaps, he has strange tendencies?”

  Meg stared at her for a long moment of perplexity, her iron-gray brows fixed in a deep furrow. Then she started to laugh quite pleasantly. “Nay, love, there’s nothing ‘strange’ about him. He’s a bit of a reputation as a rogue—nothing more. His sword arm is famous, he’s seen many battles, and he is known to speak his mind. And with our fair sex, I suppose, such a man becomes quite a rage with women.” She seemed to wander in her own thoughts for a moment, then shrugged. “And he is elusive. Perhaps that is the greater fascination. But for anything that you might hear, trust me in this. I see the gentry come and go; lords and ladies, kings and queens, must travel. I have seldom seen a man more fair or just, ready to battle his peers for negligence to a servant or cruelty to a beast. He keeps his own council. All who serve him do so willingly, aye, ever cheerfully, for though he can be a hard taskmaster, he rewards labor well.” She stood abruptly and briskly. “Let’s see what he’s purchased for you, shall we?”

  She began tearing into a wrapped parcel by the door, the thing that had made the thud Ondine had heard when Lord Chatham entered.

  “Oh! How lovely!” Meg cried out delightedly.

  Ondine tried to smile as Meg drew out a silken shift, then an underskirt of flowing blue linen. Meg continued to gasp delightedly as she next discovered a bodice and overshirt in rich teal velvet, then a stiff petticoat in ruffled lace.

  “There’s even a pair of the loveliest shoes,” Meg muttered. “Who would have thought his mind would bend to find such fashionable garb?”

  “He probably makes purchases for his paramours,” Ondine said acidly; then she wondered instantly why she should be so bitter, why she should care. Had she not had the various warnings? She would have known that he was not a man of celibacy. There was something about him, beyond the power of his physique, even beyond the draw of his rawly masculine features; even beyond the compelling fascination of his eyes. It was something in his movement, in his occasional humor, in the sensual way his lip could curl while his eyes blazed their golden challenge.

  “Come, dear,” Meg said a little worriedly. “I’d not keep him waiting overly long when he wishes to dine.”

  Let him wait! Ondine longed to cry out. She lowered her eyes quickly, at a loss with herself. She was famished. There was no reason to keep him waiting—not when he meant to offer her a meal!

  She hurried over to Meg, dropped her towel, and mumbled out her thank-yous as Meg helped her into the clothing. He had not only done well with style, he had done remarkably well with fit. And no matter how she resented him, she couldn’t help but feel glorious in the new clothes. Gloriously alive. She was clean—and alive—by way of his curious bounty.

  “Oh, love! You’re beautiful—really beautiful!” Meg gasped out happily. Her bright blue eyes were alight with pleasure. “So very lovely. I see now what it was that so beguiled Lord Chatham to snatch you to his heart! All we need is a brush now. We won’t pin your hair. You’re a bride tonight; we’ll just brush it to a gloss. Oh, I did do marvelous work, if I must say so myself!”

  Ondine couldn’t help but smile at Meg’s sheer delight, yet as she sat for Meg as the woman lovingly worked the tangles from her hair, she gnawed her lower lip. She would be no bride tonight. One day she would find a way to repay Lord Warwick Chatham for his generosity—a generosity that had meant her life. Though he touched her temper and pride like a raw, taunting blade, she knew she owed him everything, and she meant to be entirely grateful. Yes,
one day …

  But not tonight. Tonight she would escape him and run into the forest, a place where she had found refuge before. There was no reason she should have any difficulty. Who would think that a humble waif would wish to escape the company of a nobleman, one not only wealthy, but extremely fine in stature and appearance?

  Tonight, yes, she could easily be gone, ready to survey her situation once again, ready to battle the treachery that had brought her so low.

  But not until after dinner. Were the public room below peopled with all the demons of hell, she would have hurried to it anyway, such was the depth of her hunger.

  “Ahhh… copper, my dear!” Meg wasn’t calling her “my lady” at all anymore; they had somehow become very close, and the words would have been ridiculous between them. To Meg, she was another daughter; a girl to be cherished and reassured.

  The feeling was nice. If only she had been simply a starving waif that Jake had found wandering the streets of London. She could have stayed with Meg, worked so very hard that the woman could never have doubted her worth.

  But she hadn’t been a waif; she had been a criminal at Tyburn Tree. Her only recourse now was escape.

  “I wish I had a glass that you might see yourself, but, alas, I haven’t one! But surely you will see your own beauty in your husband’s eyes, when they fall upon you. Come—you’re ready to meet your husband.”

  But she wasn’t ready. Her fingers were shaking and she clasped them together, wondering desperately why she was so afraid of him. She didn’t want to meet his eyes again and feel that strange heat that raked the length of her spine when he touched her.

  “And there’s a fine rare roast today!” Meg said cheerfully. “Summer potatoes, and carrots, swimming in gravy—” Ondine could almost smell the dinner from Meg’s words alone.

  “Yes, I’m—I’m ready,” she murmured.

  Meg opened the door and hurried her down a long hallway. They passed a common men’s room, where there were at least twenty pallets, and there were private rooms for those who could afford them.

  And then there was another stairway. From the top of it Ondine could hear voices, mainly male. Men were laughing, drinking ale, relaxing from a hard day’s labor, unwinding from a long and jolting carriage ride. And every once in a while there was softer laughter, a woman’s voice.

  “You must go down, my dear, if you’re to eat!” Meg prodded her.

  As if awakened from sleep, Ondine nodded. She started down the stairs, then paused again.

  She could see Warwick pacing impatiently. He paused with his back to her, then slowly turned as if a sixth sense had warned him of her presence.

  She held still, her heart pounding. He was truly an indomitable figure standing there, so tall. He wore a plumed hat that added to his height and to his air of a buccaneer, as the brim fell low over one brow. She noted again that his appearance of leanness was deceptive. His shoulders were very broad, his back strong before tapering, his legs heavily muscled beneath the taut material of his breeches, so fashionably buckled beneath his knees. He’d shed his coat, and his shirt was very white against the deep bronze of his features. His eyes, in contrast to that white, seemed to blaze with startling color.

  He stared at her for the first time. Like a deep and blazing touch of the sun, his eyes raked over her, slowly, openly, offering no apology.

  A rakish grin tugged upon one corner of his lip; a gleam of laughter touched his eyes. They were gold and seared into her, and it seemed again that her blood heated and sped thoughtout her, causing her limbs to grow weak.

  He lifted a hand to her, the gesture a command. She started to walk down to him. His fingers caught and curled around hers, and still she couldn’t draw her eyes from his.

  Again he chuckled, a deep, husky sound, and his eyes moved from her face to regard her breasts where the mounds rose smooth above her bodice. He lowered his gaze to her hips, to her toes…

  “You’ll do quite well,” he whispered, a breath that touched her throat and the lobe of her ear and made her shiver all over again.

  She swallowed, bracing herself mentally against him. “I shall do quite well for what, my lord?” she inquired coolly.

  He laughed.

  “For my wife, of course. What else?”

  Chapter 3

  Their table was by the rear wall. He sat across from her, and that fact alone caused her heart to pound more quickly. There would be no escape from this table. Should she rise, he could quickly stand and block her way.

  There was food, and she was famished. She would not run now. She grabbed at the bread, and as his hand came down on hers, she raised her eyes, startled, to his.

  “No one is going to take it away,” he promised her in a voice that was gentle. “You mustn’t eat too quickly, or you’ll become ill.”

  His hand lifted from hers and he poured out two goblets of ale. He broke the bread himself, handing her a piece. She was still staring at him. He grinned and leaned against the wall, resting one foot idly upon the bench, his hand dangling nonchalantly over a knee. “I didn’t mean that you couldn’t eat,” he told her, a little amused.

  Ondine kept her eyes warily on him while she bit into the bread. He seemed well aware of her nervous perusal of him and quite entertained by it. His smile was almost genuine as white teeth flashed against his candle-shadowed features. He suddenly had the look of a very rakish demon, a man casually aware of his effect upon women—upon her in particular—and totally amused by it.

  “Where is Jake?” Ondine inquired between bites of bread.

  “He is my servant, not my property. His free time is his own.”

  Ondine tried to sip her ale with an element of delicacy, but she was too thirsty, and she drained half the goblet.

  Somewhat surprised, he filled it for her again.

  She sighed with the sudden flooding warmth of the ale. She determined to disconcert him as he did her.

  “You do not consider your servants property, sir?”

  “No man can be owned. To think so is folly.”

  “And what of a wife?”

  “Ah, well, that’s rather different, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  “I dare say,” he replied slowly, drawing a finger about the rim of his chalice. His head was bowed now, not quite close to hers. The candle flame seemed to grow larger, and the room became quite hot.

  “Yes, I dare say. A wife, you see, swears a vow of loyalty.”

  “Servants can be loyal.”

  “Aye, but a servant who fulfills his duty owes no more.”

  “And a wife?”

  “Ah, but a wife should not tire of her … duty, should she?”

  “Depending on what those duties be,” Ondine replied coolly.

  “None so difficult, I should think. For what one may call duty, one who has spirit would call pleasure, wouldn’t you say?”

  Where did this lead? she wondered, a dizziness sweeping through her. She had drained her ale far too quickly. She was his wife; they spoke as if he mused on someone else. Her fingers trembled as she made a display of nonchalance, pecking at the bread again. It had lost its delicious flavor; it seemed thick in her throat.

  “What is owed to one is owed to the other, is it not?” she said serenely. What did it matter what words they exchanged? She would not stay with him long enough to discover the meaning of his taunting wordplay.

  He seemed to tire of his game, sighed, and sat back, reflective as he drank his ale. “I think I should tell you something of the manor. We’ve another night on the road, yet if we travel hard, we will come to North Lambria by the second eve.” He broke off. The tavern lad was back with a platter filled high with beef and new spring potatoes. Warwick dismissed him, preferring to mound a pewter plate for Ondine himself, going lightly with the food. He laughed at her expression and reminded her, “I’ve no wish to be mean with food, girl. Yet k seems it’s been long since you’ve known regular substance, and I’ ve no mind for a sickly hindra
nce.”

  Sickly hindrance!

  He didn’t seem at all inclined to eat himself, and again he leaned against the wall, casually resting that elbow on his knee as he spoke. “Mathilda keeps the house, so you will have no difficulty with its management. If you’ve questions, come to me. The servants you will meet, and Jake you already know. Clinton is in charge of the grounds, the tenants, and the stables. And there is my brother, Justin. He resides at the manor, so you will see him frequently.”

  The roast beef was delicious. It was ecstasy to Ondine’s palate, so much so that she gave his words little attention. After all, they did, in truth, mean nothing to her.

  She was, in fact, so involved with her food that she did not realize that he was aware of her total lack of interest until he swept the plate suddenly from her, bringing her eyes to his once again.

  She gazed into his eyes. All amusement had fallen from them, as had any sensual taunt. She stiffened, sensing the sudden flare of a cold and ruthless anger within him. Her mouth went dry. She thought again that there was no escape, that he could catch her before she could rise from the table.

  “Listen!” he snapped at her. “You’ve a role to take on, my gallows’ bride, and I’d appreciate a modicum of effort on your part Rather, dear wife, I demand it.”

  A pulse ticked at his throat above the fine white linen of his shirt. Ondine blinked and nodded, wondering at the many faces of the man. The charming, seductive rake, the steel-edged autocrat, and the sensitive gentleman who had set his arms about her to buffer her view of the hanging. Which, then, of these faces, was the man?

  Irritably he repeated himself. “Justin is my brother. Clinton manages the estate. Mathilda is the housekeeper. She is quite proficient, and if you listen and follow her lead, you’ll have no difficulty acting out the titled dame. They have long been with Chatham; it is their home as it is mine. I rule my land, as it is mine, but we live pleasantly there. None is cruelly treated. Do you understand?”

  She was quite tempted to pull her plate back and see how he appeared with gravy framing his insolent eyes. Who did he think she was? Surely she had managed a household of far grander scale than his “manor” in the barely civilized north.