Page 26 of Ondine

But she didn’t find herself resenting Clinton, merely finding that again the sense of recognition was strong, as if she knew his eyes from elsewhere, even the fine structure of his face.

It was a very strange sense of familiarity, for it seemed as if she knew his eyes from one source, and the handsome structure of features from another.

“Clinton,” she murmured hesitantly, frowning; then she said boldly, “why is it that I feel I know you? I look into your eyes and could swear we’ve met elsewhere.” Her voice caught with a little reel of panic. “We have not before, have we?”

He shook his head, laughing a bit abruptly. “Countess, I’ve heard my eyes are my mother’s, and since you see hers quite frequently, ’tis perhaps natural you feel we’ve met.”

“Your mother’s?”

He gazed her way, smiling ruefully. “Mathilda, my lady, is my mother.”

“Oh.” She smiled, unable to suppress a little sigh of relief. He was watching her quite curiously, so she spoke quickly, voicing the rest of her thoughts. “I assume, then, that you were born and brought up on the manor?”

He inclined his head, lashes lowering. “You assume correctly, my lady.”

“And you and the earl . . . are, then, very good friends. Raised together?”

He chuckled again. “Aye, milady, you might say that.” He watched her, hesitating, then shrugged and fell silent, though she had thought he would speak again.

“You remind me of my . . .” Somehow she suddenly found she could not say the word husband . “You remind me of Warwick,” she said flatly.

He rounded the brush over the horse’s rump silently, then once again he shrugged, paused, and stared at her a bit curiously. “There, again, milady, you are correct. Your husband and I are cousins.”

“Cousins!” She could not help her gasp of surprise.

Clinton returned to his task. “I’m surprised that Warwick did not mention the relationship; there has never been a secret to it.”

“But—”

“I am the groom, the keeper of the horses, the foreman. I’m also illegitimate.

Well, not so myself, since my father did marry my mother before disappearing.

” He spoke flatly, with more of a sense of humor than resentment.

He halted his work again, watching her with a rueful smile.

“Surely you’ve heard the tales of our ghosts, milady? ”

“Something of them,” Ondine murmured, intrigued.

“Well, milady, there was a mistress accused of helping Lord Chatham’s grandmother to crash through the steps to her death. Of course, the accused mistress came to her own death. That lady was my grandmother; Mathilda’s mother. We are all, in our way, Chathams.”

“Oh!” Ondine whispered, her mind whirling. So Mathilda was Warwick’s own aunt—half aunt, out of wedlock! “It’s—uh—most unusual,” she stuttered, then rattled along with surprise ruling her tongue, “and you find no resentment? Nor your mother? Do you ever—”

Clinton interrupted her with pleasant laughter.

“Feel that certain privileges should be mine?” He lifted his arms to embrace the air.

“I’ve all that I need, milady. My mother was abandoned by my father; her half brother—your husband’s father—took her in, and in time she was running the house.

My uncle was a fine man; we were well treated.

And as you suggested earlier, I did grow up with my cousins.

I was lectured by their tutors, offered any chance in life I might desire.

I’ve a fondness for Chatham and North Lambria.

I’ve a fondness for my cousin, the earl, who is as fair and just a man as one might wish to claim as kin.

I serve him through choice. Does that answer all your questions, milady? ”

Ondine kept her eyes upon the horse’s large and beautiful head, holding his halter and stroking his cheek as she replied, “I did not mean to quiz you so, Clinton.” She smiled at him. “You use your cousins’ names when you address them, and you know mine. Would you grant me a like favor?”

He gazed at her, much like Warwick, then smiled slowly. “Ondine.”

She returned his grin, then asked, “Clinton, since none may touch this gorgeous beast except his master, could you suggest a mount I might ride?”

His smile faded, and he appeared acutely uncomfortable. He strode to the wall to pluck a small pick from a nail, then clutched Dragon’s forefoot and began to clean his hoof, lowering his head as he spoke.

“Have you discussed riding with Warwick?”

“Have I a need to?” Ondine responded sharply.

“Aye, lady, I’m afraid you do.” He dropped the horse’s hoof and straightened. “I was told that you were not to go out,” he said softly. “Perhaps you would care to find Warwick and discuss the matter with him. Then I should be delighted to direct you to the best mount.”

She shook her head incredulously, her voice low yet shaking with intensity. “Do you mean, Clinton, that Warwick gave an order that I might not even saddle a horse to ride about the estate? Why?”

Clinton smiled ruefully, and she realized that he was looking past her. “You must ask him yourself, milady,” he said quietly.

Ondine turned quickly. Warwick stood in the open doorway, wearing plain fawn breeches and a simple white shirt with wide flowing sleeves, laced low on his chest. His boots were high, hemmed and folded midthigh; he was dressed for work, quite a bit like his cousin.

He looked like a buccaneer—wary and careful of stolen gems—as he strode toward them.

“Good morning, milady; Clinton.”

“’Morning, Warwick.” Clinton tipped his hat to Warwick. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe the lady wishes a word with you in private.”

Clinton walked out, whistling. Ondine was instantly reminded that she had been certain Jake had followed her. Now she was positive. Jake had seen her at the stables and had summoned his master.

Warwick smiled and cocked his head politely, lacing his fingers behind his back. “My lady?”

Ondine returned his smile acidly. “I am not permitted to ride, milord?”

Warwick didn’t reply. He came to the horse’s head and whispered to Dragon affectionately, tweaking his ears, rubbing the velvet nose. The horse nuzzled him in turn.

“Warwick!” Sorely aggravated, she stamped a foot against the dirt.

His quick gaze cautioned her that he did not intend to tolerate her temper; she stood her ground.

“So you ride, too, milady?”

“Don’t all horse thieves?” she snapped back.

“No,” he replied flatly. “You are not permitted to ride.”

She had expected the curt dismissal and a sudden rise of self-pity soared high with her temper. What, in truth, was the nature of the man? Last night he had been seductively gentle; today he was again as cold as winter’s ice, cracking whips of rude command by simple inflection.

Her fingers clenched into fists, which she held rigidly at her side. “Why?”

“Because I deem it dangerous.”

“Because you deem it dangerous? My lord Chatham. I beg to differ! I doubt that your own abilities can be any greater—”

“Than yours?” he flared harshly, turning from the horse. “Lady, my answer is no. And rest assured, I do doubt none of your abilities.”

Tears started to sting her eyes; she wanted so desperately to deal with him rationally, but she was never able to do so.

“And am I a prisoner here, then?” she cried in growing fury.

He took a step toward her. “You are whatever you wish to consider yourself, Countess,” he said quietly. The smile he gave her was a lopsided jeer, as if he, too, fought for restraint, yet could not resist the temptation to goad her.

“Well, I’ll not endure it!” she spat back in her most arrogant tone.

She thought of him riding away so many nights, doing exactly what he wished, when he wished, and then having her every movement spied upon.

A madness burned inside her, with fury and confusion at all that he had cast into her lap.

“I will not endure it!” she repeated. “I am not a possession, not property, not a child to be locked away! I will do as I choose and the devil may take you and your evasions!” She was so fraught that she approached him, ablaze with reckless disregard for the slow narrowing of his eyes.

“I will not play your game, milord, and be your prisoner!”

“You will not command me, gutter-bitch—” he began in a low growl, but the thought was not completed.

Her fists, still clenched at her side, rose in a flurry to slam down hard against his while she cursed him. “Vile scoundrel, blackguard—”

The thud of her fists had sent him back a step; now he moved fleetly forward, his mouth grimly compressed.

Ondine broke off abruptly, suddenly aware of the silent fury tightening his features.

She gasped and turned to flee. There was no chance; he caught her arm, and the impetus was so great that she spun around and fell to her knees.

Instantly he was down beside her, his hands upon her shoulders, forcing her to the hay-strewn ground before she could gather breath or wit to escape.

“Milady, it seems we must always tussle in barns!” he growled, leaning over her, the warm pressure of his chest keeping her as still as the power of his hands. “But then, perhaps that is natural. Where else do thieves and poachers and whores frolic but in the hay!”

“Bastard!” she hissed, trembling beneath him, longing to flay him with her nails.

And then she suddenly started to tremble, realizing his power and her own misery. He was so taut about her that she feared she had truly pushed him to his limits of control.

He drew away from her quickly, rolling to his back upon the floor. She remained dead still, terrified that her smallest movement would bring a return of his iron hold.

He cast his arm over his forehead and stared up at the ceiling, speaking with a startling irony.

“I begin to see why men beat their wives!” He came to his side on an elbow, watching her. “Perhaps that is my answer. We’ve buggy whips aplenty here—”