Page 2 of Ondine

“But brought before a court of law, quite damning! You’ve two choices. One is my . . . protection. The other is a headsman’s ax.”

“You go to hell! I despise you!”

There was a silence then. Warwick, stunned, shook himself and stood, striding out into the water to cross the brook. He would demand to know what was going on. But before he could cross the stream, the woman screamed out a furious oath.

A second later there was a thunderous crash of brush and trees. Something·flew out of the trees like a cannon shot.

It was the woman.

He could not see her face, only her form, a silhouette against the twilight.

She saw him and started, standing as still as he.

She was young, he thought quickly. The twilight touched her hair as it spilled about her in wild and beautiful disarray.

It was shadowed with the night, yet it shimmered a rich burnished chestnut, or perhaps gold.

There was little else that he could see, except that she was slim and tall and that her breasts were high and firm and heaving with her fury and exertion.

He reached out a hand to her as she stood there on the bank, but she gasped out a startled sound and ran, diving into the water.

“Wait, dammit, wench—I’ll help you!” he roared out, racing toward the point where she had disappeared.

But she had vanished beneath the surface of the cool brook.

Warwick dove after her, again and again.

Frustrated and incredulous, he kept trying until he was panting and exhausted.

The poor fool girl! It appeared that she had cast her life into the water.

Warwick came to the opposite shore and searched, but could find no one. At last, puzzled, he swam back to the opposite shore, collected his armor, and whistled for Dragon.

As he rode back he could not forget the girl. Or had it been a dream? When he neared the tents once again, Jake came running out to him. Warwick was about to tell Jake what he had seen, but Jake was brimming with news himself.

“Ah, my lord! You missed it. There was an attempt on the king’s life! What excitement!”

“Excitement?” Warwick queried darkly, frowning.

“His Majesty was not harmed! It was all settled quite quickly. I barely saw a bit of it myself. Seems an old lord who sat in the Parliament against His Majesty’s father was determined to end the life of the son.

But he was suspect ere it could happen and slain himself.

His Majesty seemed only sad at the death; he insisted that the feasting for the people go on. ”

Warwick could not dismiss the thought of an attack upon Charles’s life so easily. Charles Stuart was a decent man, wise and keenly intelligent despite his humor and his open marital indiscretions. He was a good friend.

“What were you about to say, my lord?” Jake asked.

“What? Oh, nothing, nothing really.” The incident in the forest now seemed hazy, definitely an illusion. “Nothing but a dream. I saw a mermaid, perhaps.”

Jake stared at him with a worried frown. “Were ye hit in the head, milord?”

“No, no, Jake—never mind.” He was anxious to assure himself that Charles was all right. And, of course, Genevieve would be worried if he didn’t hurry to meet her.

“Come on, Jake. I’ve a few wounds to tend to before I see my sovereign—and my lady wife.”

* * *

Warwick limped slightly as he later entered the solar that adjoined the bedchamber assigned to him by Reemes, King Charles’s master steward at Westchester Palace.

As he at last reached the carved chair before the fire, he grimaced, then sighed with ease as he sat, taking the weight off his twisted ankle.

If Hardgrave only knew how he sat now! Sore buttocks, wrenched shoulders—and the ankle. He had barely managed to limp unescorted to the solar!

But the day was at last at an end. Genevieve had tired quickly at the banquet and had returned before him. He had gladly stayed behind at Charles’s command, for he had seen that Charles was truly well. But he was sad, for Charles had no love of bloodshed.

Warwick tensed suddenly. Beyond the crackle of the fire, he had heard a rustle of sound.

He made no move, but muscles that had sought relaxation tensed.

When the furtive rustling sounded again, he spun about.

His arms moving out with the speed of a shot, his long fingers became a shackle around the wrist of his secretive visitor.

“Warwick!” a feminine voice protested indignantly, and he was staring into the very beautiful but very petulant face of Lady Anne Fenton. He released her wrist instantly with a frown of annoyance, settling back into his chair.

“Anne,” he muttered dryly, “whatever are you doing here? Have you given up your quest for the king?”

Anne pouted prettily, batting jet-black lashes at him as she knelt by his booted feet.

She leaned against the chair—not without a practiced and alluring expertise—so that her rounded cream bosom met the pressure of the wood.

She looked very appealing indeed. “Warwick!” she reproached him, and then her voice became soft, sensually husky.

“You know you have always been my first love!”

“Really?” he queried her with a broad grin. “What about your husband, milady?”

Anne laughed; her sense of humor and honesty were traits as compelling as the simplicity of her beauty.

“What about him? He has no desire to come to court.”

“Nor would I, were my wife the latest whim of the king.”

“Warwick!” Lady Anne snapped, this time with a tsk of irritation. She stood, aware that he was no longer appreciating the fine view she had afforded him of her assets. “I don’t remember you worrying so about Geoffrey the last time we met!”

Warwick opened one eye and scanned her angry features. He sighed. “Anne, I am married now. To Genevieve.”

“Genevieve!” Anne exclaimed heatedly, stalking behind his chair like a caged tiger.

“Gentle Genevieve! Sweet Genevieve! Innocent, wonderful Genevieve. Warwick, I warned you not to marry her.” Anne laughed, and a bitter twist made her words sound like the shrills of a harpy.

“Do you know they say that she trembled, knowing that she was to marry you! The man who was the rage of the court—so handsome, but so rough and battle hard. A demon on women! The great magnificent beast, so exciting—and so distant! Many would have died for your touch, but not Genevieve! You fool! Your wife fears you, just as she fears your specters—the ghost of your grandmother and more ancient haunts! If a beast of a husband is not enough, he adds a family curse—”

“Anne!” Both eyes snapped open. His voice was quiet, but it carried the dangerous edge of a razor.

He was suddenly on his feet, stalking her in a way that both thrilled her and made her wish uncertainly that she might take back her taunts.

He began to speak again in that soft tone that was also threatening.

She backed toward the solar door. “On many things I agree with you, Lady Anne. My wife is a gentle creature, and, yes, she has been called upon to face a legend-riddled past! But she meets no beast in her bed at night, I assure you. Where gentle is, gentle comes. When you have craved a beast, my lecherous lady, you have received one. But that is in the past, Lady Anne. Genevieve is two months with child, and beast that you call me, I would not hurt that gentle lady I call wife upon the forfeit of my own life.”

“You don’t love her!” Anne cried out. “You married her only to fulfill a promise! You—”

“Anne, I pray you! Ply your charms upon Charles this evening, for I am sorely vexed. No matter what your feeling for Genevieve, she is my wife, and she carries my heir. Anne, leave me be.”

She paused at the doorway, then tossed her beautiful mane of black hair over her shoulder. “Carries your heir, does she, Warwick? I doubt she expects to survive its birth!”

A step brought him to her. His fingers bit into her shoulders, and he shook her so that her head lolled; but though her teeth rattled, she did not care. She was in his arms, if only for a moment.

“Anne, by God! I dislike the thought of force against your . . . fair sex, but twist your knife no further.”

“Warwick!” she cried out, leaning against his chest, a sob catching in her throat. “I love you, I need you! And I can make you happy, where she cannot!”

“Anne!” he exclaimed, more softly now, for though he knew she could easily sway to one lover from another, he felt that she did care for him. “Anne . . . I have taken a wife. A gentle wife. And I will not bring pain to her soul, for I do love her gentle heart.”

Anne jerked from him with a scowl darkening her features. “You will come back to me, Warwick Chatham! I swear it! By Christmastide next, you will seek the passion of my arms!”

She spun about and left him. Warwick sighed, feeling again all the little strains and bruises in his body. He started to limp back to his chair, then paused, staring at the door to the bedchamber.

Genevieve stood there.

She appeared almost ethereal in the fire’s gentle glow, her hair so pale a gold it neared white, her lovely flesh so light as to be translucent. Her eyes, fine powder blue, were wide and stared at him. Her delicate fingers held tight to the door.

“You heard?” he asked her, regretful that she had witnessed such a scene.

Genevieve nodded, but then she smiled. “I . . . had a nightmare, Warwick, and I hoped . . .” Her sentence faded as she walked to him. She slipped her slender arms around his neck, and her eyes held gratitude as they sought his. “Thank you so much, my dear lord!”

Her lashes lowered and she rested her cheek against his chest, feeling the hard, sure pounding of his heart. She knew his virility; she knew his strength. Yet no man could have dealt more gently with his wife.

“I . . . I fear that I have disappointed you greatly,” she whispered, “and yet in this court, you cling faithfully to me. What . . . pride it gives me, Warwick.”