Page 16 of Ondine
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.”