Page 10 of Ondine

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 it seems it’s been long since you’ve known regular substance, and I’ve no mind for a sickly hindrance. ”

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.

She opened her eyes with wide and malicious innocence. “Dear Lord Chatham! I shall certainly do my best to refrain from flying into a ‘common’ fit and thrashing your servants. Is that what you wish me to comprehend?”

He leaned back again, annoyed. “Madam, you’ll learn to watch your tongue.”

Long seconds passed as their glares locked, and Ondine’s eyes were the first to fall.

She folded her hands in her lap, discovering that in one thing he was right.

She hadn’t eaten much, but it seemed all that she could manage.

It was imperative now that she be humble and gracious, lest she arouse his suspicions.

“I beg your pardon,” she told him demurely.

“Why don’t I believe that?” he muttered so softly that she might have imagined the words.

She looked at him, careful to keep the discussion focused upon her future life with him. “When Jake first came to me upon the cart, he said that some might say that I had wed a ‘beast.’ Are you a beast, milord Chatham?”

He made a ticking sound of annoyance and downed more ale. “The beast sits upon my armor, lady, nothing more.”

“Pray tell, what is this beast?”

He gazed at her dryly. “A dragon creature. Half lion, half myth. They say that once such ‘beasts’ roamed our forests, protecting Saxons from Normans—and Royalists from Cromwell’s wrath. I’ve yet to see one, myself, except in art and whimsy.”

Ondine smiled a little wistfully then, noting the charm of his grin. She was clean, her stomach was comfortably fed, and the promise of a new freedom loomed before her. She could afford to exchange a few words with the man, moments in which to lull him further to trust.

“When you wear the armor, sir, are you then the beast?”

He cocked his head slightly, arching a brow. “What we are is in how we are beheld, is it not?”

“So it would seem. Are there those who might behold you, then, a beast?”

“How can I judge for others?”

She picked up her goblet, twirling it idly in her hand, and scrutinized him quite openly, narrowing her eyes as if she gave the matter great thought.

“Aye, my lord Chatham, I can see where you might upon occasion appear the beast.”

“Do you? But then beasts can be quite tame, can’t they? And, my lady, my given name is Warwick. You must use it, at least upon occasion.”

He reached across the table suddenly, catching a lock of her hair between his fingers.

Her flesh seemed to burn as his fingers brushed over her breast, and her breath caught in her throat with both indignation and a startling sensation.

He didn’t notice. His interest in her was very keen; yet again, she felt much like a purchase, to be appraised for the value of appearance’ sake.

“You really are very beautiful,” he mused, as if such a thought should give him great surprise. “For a commoner.”

She could not help herself. She wrenched her hair from his grasp and moved as far to the wall as she could.

“Are commoners usually ugly, then, Lord Chatham?”

He sighed, as if weary of her troublesome behavior. “Nay, and I meant no offense. You’ve merely features very fine—far more so than many of the great and ‘noble’ beauties of the land.” She might have been a diversion, one with whom he had allowed himself to tarry, yet now found tedious.

“Have you quite finished?”

“What—”

“We’ve made our appearance. Word will spread quickly that you appeared at this table as my bride, a lady of bearing surely fit for mistress of the manor.

Your past shall rest between Jake, yourself, and me.

We need no longer stay here, and I, for one, am weary.

I would think that you, too, would long for the comfort and cleanliness of a bed such as Meg offers here. ”

A bed! With him in it beside her . . .