Page 25 of Ondine

She fell asleep in misery, and restless, she began to dream.

The scene! She saw it—the hall where they walked . . .

Her father, the Duke of Rochester, out of favor with Charles for many years, since he had been against the old king’s autocratic policies, though he had fought the execution vigorously.

But they’d been called to court at last. The jousters had been upon the field, the audience assembled. Charles greeted them alone; even his guards stayed far behind, laughing, for it was a lazy day!

There had been only Ondine and her father—and her stepuncle and Raoul. Walking down the hall, they were relaxed, laughing easily, as were the guards, for gaiety lay on the air. It was a great occasion.

Then a sword had flashed. Raoul pretended a fierce grapple with her father, pretending that her father had drawn the sword to slay the king!

Oh, well done, well done, for it did appear that the Duke of Rochester had drawn the sword, and that Raoul had slain a heinous assassin!

Blood, oh, the blood! Her father had died upon her, his last words a whisper that she must run, for—wounded, bleeding, dying—he realized too late the plot against them both.

He who had trusted her uncle! And, oh, God! Her uncle would be her guardian.

The guards, screaming, ran after her.

Raoul caught her, swearing that they would take the estate and prove her complicity! They’d forged letters painstakingly in her handwriting, and they would give them to the king and court to blackmail her if she did not wed him. Raoul! Oh, God!

From somewhere, interspersed with her screams, came the shuddering sound of wood splintering.

Ondine fought desperately to rise above the fog of the dream.

Hands grabbed at her, and she fought them, too.

Then suddenly the room was filled with light; firm arms were about her, and she heard her name whispered soothingly.

“Ondine, Ondine . . .”

Fingers smoothed her hair, wild from her thrashings, from her face.

Her eyes opened fully and began to focus, and she gasped, trembling in newfound horror as she discovered her husband holding her, anxiety alive in the golden sparks of his eyes.

His chest was bare, all sleek rippling muscle and crisp tawny fur against her, teasing and intimate through the fabric of her gown.

His arms were so strong, both secure and frightening.

What had she said? She stared at him in wretched dismay, her heart pelting, her limbs quivering.

He shook her slightly. “What was it? Why did you scream? Tell me, I must know!”

She shook her head numbly, noting the rigid set of his jaw, the taut constriction of his body. “No—nothing!”

“Did you hear something, see something—”

She pulled from him, burying her face in her hands, suddenly filled with acute embarrassment. He knew nothing, she realized. She had taken him from sleep by the terror of her dream, and he was gallant enough to search out whatever distress might have plagued her.

“I’m—I’m sorry, milord,” she murmured. Her covering was gone; her gown was tangled high above her knees, and the warmth of his thighs seemed to sear her despite the material of his breeches.

Nervously she attempted to right her clothing, and more uneasily still, she met his gaze.

It remained troubled and suspicious as his muscled frame stayed tense.

Ondine brought her knees to her chest, ruefully hugging them there.

“There was nothing,” she whispered, trying to smile as the terror receded from her.

“Nothing?” She could not tell if he was relieved or dismayed.

“I believe I was dreaming again.”

“Of Newgate?” His brow arched. Candlelight played upon his lean features, sending shadows upon them, and she was not sure if he believed her or not.

“And the hangman’s knot,” she added on a breath.

He looked about the room and at long last sighed. He stretched, flexing his shoulders, then allowing them to relax as he chuckled. He gave her a crooked smile, devilish and filled with ironic humor. “They will end eventually,” he told her.

“They?”

“The dreams,” he said softly, and he spoke as one who knew.

And watching him, she trembled again and could not help the quiver of her lip, for she had not expected such kindness or understanding from him.

He reached out, his fingers touching her lip to still its quiver, and she stared at him, fascinated by the masculine appeal of his eyes.

Again he smiled ruefully. “Come here; you’re still shaking,” he told her.

She must have betrayed some form of alarm, for he laughed.

“In the forests, my lady-thief, I do not lay claim to wounded does.” With his words he rose and lifted her, taking her place upon the bed, leaning against the pillow to cradle her length comfortingly against his.

She dared not move. Her hand rested against his naked chest; her cheek was brushed by its tawny hair.

She inhaled his scent and it was subtle and fine, as male as the steel-hewn muscle that forged his frame.

Gently he smoothed her hair, trailing his fingers along her back.

“Sleep, my beauty,” he teased her gently. “For your ‘beast’ is standing guard.”

She would never sleep, not with him touching her! Not with his heart pounding beneath her ear, the naked feel of his chest like a shield about her.

She did sleep. To the soft caress of his fingers against her nape, to his soothing whisper promising that dreams were fantasy, to his assurance that he would guard her.

* * *

In the morning he was gone. Ondine was in a reckless mood, annoyed with her own weakness, anxious to find some freedom from the manor, from her own haunting dreams, from the ghosts of Chatham.

After she had bathed and eaten, she determined to venture out to the stables.

She’d not asked Warwick if she might, nor was she concerned any longer that he might question her riding ability—he’d already caught her at the spinet and the harp, and whether he truly believed her explanations, he hadn’t challenged her.

That morning when she left the music room, she was startled to see Jake, seated right outside her door, complacently honing one of his master’s dirks.

He stood, apparently as startled by her abrupt appearance as she was at finding him there.

“Good morning, Countess!” He greeted her with a bow.

“Good morning, Jake.” She smiled because his warmth was so very real, and yet there was a curious curl to her lips because she was suddenly certain that when her husband was not watching her, Jake was. He came and went swiftly and discreetly, always at a distance so that she didn’t notice.

“Do you fare well, milady?” he asked her pleasantly.

“Fine,” she answered him, and added with a soft honesty that was pleasant to voice aloud, “far better than in the woods, or in my cell—or with a rope about my neck!”

Jake’s eyes glimmered his pleasant humor; he brought a finger to his lip. “Shh, milady!”

She nodded, matching his humor with the sparkle of her own eyes. “By the way, Jake, I’ve met no ghosts. Am I supposed to do so?”

“Ghosts, milady? Why, I do not believe in them. Do you?”

“No, I don’t. But I’ve an ache for fresh air at the moment. Is the lord Chatham about?”

Jake blinked, as if he quickly weighed her question. “I’m not sure of the earl’s whereabouts, milady. Would you have me seek him out?”

“No,” Ondine said sweetly. “Excuse me, Jake.” She rustled past him, giving him no clue as to her own destination, yet eager to see if he would follow her.

She left the manor by the west entrance and ambled slowly through the maze of rosebushes before heading toward the stables. She did not see Jake behind her, but she sensed that she was being followed. She pretended not to be aware.

A young lad with a pleasant freckled face cleaned a harness on a stoop before the barn. At Ondine’s appearance he leapt to his feet and gave her an awkward bow. “Milady!”

She smiled. “Good day, Tad. I’ve a mind to ride; perhaps you might suggest a mount for me?”

“I—uh—” He appeared quite uncomfortable and red-faced. “Clinton is yonder; I’ll fetch him fer ye, milady—”

Ondine waved aside the offer. “I shall find him myself, thank you, Tad.”

She swept into the barn, wondering at the boy’s discomfort.

But as he had told her, Clinton was inside, currying a huge fine bay.

He paused, the brush still upon the animal’s rump, as Ondine approached.

He inclined his head respectfully, yet she sensed there was a wariness about him as she drew near, and something more, a strange tension.

She remembered how he had greeted Warwick upon that first night; the familiarity between them.

Clinton was not an ordinary servant, and she sensed that he was a very proud man.

“Good morning, Clinton,” Ondine said.

“Good morning, Countess,” he said in return, the emotion in his deep forest-green eyes well shielded.

She approached the massive horse, patting the sleek satiny neck. The animal was riddled with strength and sinew, yet as graceful in appearance as any aristocrat.

“He’s truly fine,” Ondine said admiringly.

Clinton began to brush the horse anew. “Aye, Dragon is as fine a lad as draws breath, milady. Fine and fierce.” He cast a glance her way. “He’s your husband’s favorite, milady. In skirmish, in play, Dragon’s his choice. It’s well you make his acquaintance.”

“Hmmm,” Ondine murmured. She rubbed the stallion’s soft velvet muzzle and felt warm snorts of breath tease her fingers. “He must be magnificent to ride.”

Clinton hesitated. “Magnificent, aye, milady. But spirited. No one rides him but Warwick.”

She gazed swiftly at Clinton, wondering if the words were a careful rebuke or a warning. She was the lady of the manor; she could give orders and command, but not where those commands might cross her husband’s desires.