Page 29 of Ondine

And how was she going to stop them?

She realized bleakly that she could not go with Warwick. He was the king’s most loyal servant and friend. She was nothing but a horse thief he had taken from the gallows for whatever absurd reason.

“Oh, damn you, you rogue bastard, a thousand times over!” she hissed, slamming a fist against the wall. Where was he? The hour grew later . . .

In a flurry she gritted her teeth and rushed to the hallway door, wrenching it open.

Jake sat there, apparently having been asleep until her appearance. He was leaning against the wall and quickly lifted the brim of his hat from over his eyes, almost knocking over the chair in his speed to rise and confront her.

“Milady?” he mumbled sheepishly, startled at the sight of her in her nightgown, with bare feet, her hair a web of gleaming, fire-lit disarray, her eyes teal with a passionate wrath. “Can I get you something? May I—”

“Where is he, Jake?”

“My lord Chatham?”

“Aye—your lord Chatham!” Ondine retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. “Jake, don’t play games with me! Where is he?”

“He’s . . . er, out.”

“Out where?”

“I don’t know, milady.”

“You’re a liar, Jake!”

He looked guilty, but also determined. Ondine sighed with frustration, aware that if she held a knife to his throat, he wouldn’t betray Warwick.

“All right, Jake. When is he coming back?”

Jake shrugged, scratching his head uncomfortably, then cramming his hat back atop it. He lowered his head.

“You might wish to speak with him in the morning, milady.”

“In the morning!”

“He could be . . . late.”

She couldn’t contain a strangled oath of fury and took a menacing step toward Jake. “What is going on here, Jake? Why is he doing all this to me? You know, don’t you?”

“Doing—what?” Jake appeared extremely uncomfortable, but as she had noted before, he was still determined to keep his master’s secrets, probably unto death.

“Girl!” he said softly. “You have your life! You’ve clothing, food, and a good home!

” He said the words as if he pleaded with her. “Trust him!”

“Trust him!” she wailed, and then she realized that she was venting her temper upon a man who had done her no wrong—who had been as gentle to her when she stood filthy, a rope about her neck, as he was now that she had become “milady.”

“Oh, Jake! I am so sorry!” she murmured in atonement. “Truly. I know that you cannot betray him; I did not mean to rail at you. I—” She paused, drawing a deep breath. “I am quite grateful to be alive. I just hope I don’t go mad!”

“Oh, lady!” Jake said miserably. “There is naught that I can tell you.” He lifted his hand. “Except, trust him. Trust in me, my lady!”

She tried to smile at Jake and failed. On impulse, she clutched his wizened face and kissed his cheek, then hurried back inside. “Bolt the doors!” he called to her.

She hesitated, then did so.

She turned around and started at the music chamber, then her shoulders slumped with desolation and exhaustion. Her vigil had been a lost labor from the start. A fool’s quest. No doubt the proud male was off testing his prowess elsewhere!

Ondine returned to her own chamber, wondering again why it so infuriated her that he should disappear so many nights. And she dared not wonder too closely, for the answers came to her, and they were answers she detested.

Each day she had known him, each time he had touched her, he had fascinated her further.

She was haunted by his face, the fine structure of bone, the sensuous curl of his lip, the taunting, brilliant flecks of gold that ruled his amber eyes.

She knew the look and feel of his hands—the long fingers, not soft, but carelessly callused, for they were a man’s hands.

And it was not so much her mind, but her body, haunted by memory of the feel of him, hard as stone, but rippling with heat and life.

She didn’t know quite what she wanted—because, in truth, his mockery and his wit did rub her sorely!

—but there was his gentle side . . . a kindness in him.

She had known that side when he had shielded her from a view of the gallows, the painful death of friends.

Ah, yes! she thought miserably. She wanted him, but not as the rogue who callously played the stakes of those cast into the heat of the court.

Not that he was interested in being even that passionate rogue with her!

She wanted the man who had loved Genevieve.

She wanted to see him laughing easily, telling her that she was cherished and beloved, kissing her hand, kissing her lips with longing—and love.

But she was a gallows’ bride, a horse thief. A possession.

Angry, frustrated, and hurt in that new and aching way that left the heart and flesh alive with longing, Ondine swore out a last oath and determined to go to sleep. Tomorrow she would blackmail him, since he forced the issue.

Despite her determination, she lay awake a long while.

When she did at last sleep, that sleep was fraught with dreams of her cousin, Raoul.

She saw his eyes, dark and handsome; his face too gaunt, his lips too narrow and dissatisfied.

He had been sullen as a child when she bested him, triumphant when he rose the leader.

She had never thought to hate Raoul; he had been a companion, like any other, with virtues and faults.

She had never sensed his envy of her, nor his father’s simmering jealousy.

Surely it was not Raoul who had devised such a plan to strike upon his stepuncle; it had been his father, longing all those years for title and property never to be his.

But it was her cousin she saw in her dreams: holding her hand too long as they journeyed to Charles’s court; leaning with amused disdain when she wearily repulsed him.

How many times must he be told that they were friends?

She could never love him. He had not been angry then .

. . merely triumphant. But he had known, as she had not, that he would be the victor; her father the traitor—she totally at his mercy.

Except that she had fled . . .

His face continued to spin before her. Then it slowly took on another look.

Dark eyes became Justin Chatham’s laughing green.

Dark hair took on a hue of gold, and in her sleep Ondine shivered, and she wondered why she should see gallant Justin where she had seen Raoul.

Then it was no longer Justin who laughed at her, but Clinton, child of the woman who had been the product of illicit Chatham love.

Chatham. It was her husband then who laughed at her—Warwick, who never doubted his power.

Yet his eyes warmed to amber. Suddenly the men were around her, coming toward her, brandishing swords.

She knew, as one knew in dreams, that some wanted to save her, that one meant to slay her. Yet she did know which way to run.

She awoke, not screaming, but trembling uneasily. She knew it had been a dream, and she was annoyed that she could not prevent herself from entering these nightmare realms.

“Oh, may they all rot!” she whispered aloud impatiently. She hesitated. “Especially my lord Warwick Chatham!”

She lay silent then, watching the moonbeams playing about her chamber and wondering if she was forced to meet Charles, whether she might find a way to see him alone first and lay her case at his feet, pleading that he give her a chance to prove her innocence.

The king was known to be just, to despise violence, especially that violence of death to a woman.

It would be her last recourse. She would do battle against her husband first! Fierce battle, for though she was dearly grateful for her life, he did not now own her!

While her thoughts traveled thus in the darkened room, with only the moonbeams to cast a veiled light, she first heard the whisper.

It was soft, so soft she thought she might have imagined it at first. It carried on the breeze, sexless and plaintive. So very sad.

“Ondine . . .”

She tensed in bed and waited, and it came again.

“Ondine . . . Ondine . . . Ondine. Come to me, for I am cold and lonely. Ondine . . .”

It was not her imagination!

She sprang from the bed, but could see nothing in the darkness. “Who are you? Where are you?” she called out softly.

“Ondine . . .” Only her name came to her faintly, fading wistfully away.

She could see nothing but shapes and shadows in the soft glow of the moon. With shaking fingers she quickly lit a lamp, raising it high. “Please—who are you? Where are you?”

There was no response, except for a rustle of the breeze.

Perplexed, she searched the room studiously, pulling back drapes, searching the latrine, and even opening chests and drawers. She hurried to the window and looked out. There was no one below, nor was there sign of anyone on the slender ledge that ran along the second floor eave.

Frustrated, she sat upon her bed again, then in fury she rose and slammed through to the music room. She rummaged until she found whiskey in Warwick’s drawers. Pouring herself a dram, she sat back in his chair, determined that she would confront him—even if she waited all night.

Coming in near dawn, Warwick was quite startled to find her there, a glass in her hand, hair a crest of silken flame about the white lace of her gown, toes resting atop his desk as she stretched in casual rebellion from his chair to his desk.

Her eyes, he noted, were blue fire, and her righteous gaze fell upon him.

Warily he kept his features rigid, bracing himself against the door as he watched her, removing his gauntlets.

“Well,” he said quietly, “to what, madam, do I owe the honor of your wakeful presence at this hour of the night?”

She didn’t answer right away, but continued to study him with her sea-fire eyes. Irritated to feel himself on the defensive, he strode into the room, casting his gloves upon the desk before her.

She lifted her glass to him. “Milord, I think it is time we had a discussion.”