Page 31 of Ondine

Three days time . . .

Ondine spent those three days in a torment of anxiety and fear. She did not even think of the whisperer—of her name called to her in the night. She was too preoccupied with the desperate search to find a way to avoid King Charles’s court.

Warwick was determined; when he was determined, he wasn’t to be crossed. There was no help.

She could not escape. Warwick did not leave the manor at nights; he remained in the music chamber while she tossed and turned in her own.

It seemed he carefully avoided her during the day, as if he would avoid a headache.

During the evening meal, in Justin’s presence, he was absolutely charming.

Justin liked to tease about the child, and, thought Ondine, surely a lord was supposed to be caring and tender to the lady who carried his child.

On these occasions Ondine gritted her teeth and did not refute the lie.

Mathilda was so solicitous of her that Ondine wished she might crawl into a dark hole each time she saw the housekeeper. How could Warwick be so cruel! Mathilda’s hopes were destined to be dashed.

Even Clinton applauded her on the apparent speed with which she set about to provide Chatham an heir.

But at least Clinton tended to be a quiet, straightforward man, and though Ondine knew he would not let her on a horse, she spent a great deal of her time in the stables, stroking the animals, fervently wishing and dreaming that she might find a way to steal one and disappear.

As the first day passed she would tell herself that she had time to plan an escape.

But as the second day came and went she began to realize that she would never, never have an opportunity to get away.

Jake, though quite unobtrusively, followed her constantly.

She practically tripped over Mathilda or Lottie anytime she attempted to move. It was hopeless.

Mathilda helped her pack her trunks, with only the best apparel.

Charles maintained an elegant court, one filled with artists and poets, women dressed beautifully in designs inspired by the latest fashion dolls from France.

She simply must pack her very best—not that Mathilda thought it mattered a whit.

With a sniff she informed Ondine, “You’ve natural youth and the most exquisite beauty!

You’ll outshine them all! Ah, but it’s fascinating. I do love it!”

“You’ve been?” Ondine wondered.

“Ah, yes! I accompanied . . .”

“Genevieve,” Ondine finished for her, and she found herself giving Mathilda a quick hug.

Mathilda wiped a tear from her cheek, then flashed a bright smile. “Ah, but I would love to see you there! To take haughty-tottie Lady Anne down a peg!”

Ondine smiled in return—stiffly. Always she endured the most horrible mixture of emotions!

The logical: she couldn’t go to court! And the dreadfully illogical: the searing pain of jealousy.

It seemed most likely that Lady Anne wouldn’t be taken down a peg at all, for she would have her lover in her arms once more.

When Mathilda left her, Ondine threw her pillow viciously across the room. One more night . . . they were due to leave at dawn, and she simply could not go. For her life, she could not go.

And Warwick! Oh, the atrocious nerve of the man, that he should think to drag her—unwilling!—with him to the place of his old immoral haunts. He was welcome to his whore, but not when he shackled her along!

But, no . . . he was not welcome to her! No matter how she hated the feelings, they were there, Ondine cared. She was falling in love with him—loving him almost as passionately as she hated him.

At dinner she was charming, laughing with Justin, quite pleased to flirt with him.

Warwick was exceptionally quiet, yet his eyes were always on her, and she knew that he was as wary and tense as she.

She tried to disarm him, chatting ridiculously about the gowns she would bring and how dearly she would love to get her hands on the newest fashion dolls.

She had barely consumed half the food on her plate before Warwick was standing behind her chair, pulling it from the table.

“Warwick—” Her voice was tinged with annoyance, since she had been quite taken by surprise.

“My love!” he returned smoothly, bending near so that his breath touched her cheek, the underlying danger of his words piercingly clear to her. “We’re to leave with the sun, and in such case, I’d have you not lose sleep this night.”

Oh, how she longed—just once!—to turn about and soundly box his ears! To destroy his charade. To wound him . . . as he wounded her!

She lowered her head quickly. This was not the time to argue, not if she wished to carry out her plans, her last desperate chance for escape, before it was too late.

She stood quite meekly. Justin was up, kissing her hand, giving her a courtly and courteous bow.

“Sweet sister, this rogue of a brother of mine constantly sweeps you away. Alas, that I could not have seen you first!”

“Umm, alas,” Warwick murmured dryly. “Good night, Brother.”

Justin laughed. “Good night!”

Beyond a doubt, I am a prisoner! Ondine thought woefully as Warwick led her along the hall. His prisoner . . . and one of my own making. For even as she moved, she shrank from what she had devised. To leave him . . .

Leave the touch like fire upon her. The warmth of his body, close to hers.

A mockery, yes. Yet these small crumbs were hers.

His hand upon her wrist. His breath, his voice, his eyes.

His occasional tenderness, and his passion when he swore to protect her.

She closed her eyes tightly as they walked.

Fool! He cared nothing for her—she was here to be used.

He opened the door. She started to walk through the music chamber, straight for her own.

“Ondine!”

Her heart faltered, and she paused, turning back. She felt his stare, wary, just as it had been at dinner. He smiled, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning nonchalantly against the spinet.

“Milord?”

“We do leave in the morning.”

“Aye, milord.”

“My love,” he said softly, coming toward her, smiling a warning as he gently stroked her cheek, “I remember your protests were most vehement—so much so that I cannot help but doubt this sudden meekness of yours.”

She lowered her eyes and stepped back, keeping her head bowed as she lifted her hands helplessly.

“You have said that I shall go, walking, or dragged. I prefer to walk. If you’ll pardon me, I am quite tired, and we do leave early.”

She turned quickly and fled, not daring to see if he had believed her performance.

In her own chamber she discarded nothing but her shoes and quickly scrambled beneath the covers on her bed. How long would she have to wait? she wondered bleakly. Until she was absolutely certain that he slept?

It was her only hope—to escape their chamber while he slept, to reach the stables when Clinton was absent and steal a horse. And even then she could only pray that Jake did not sleep at the door, since he needn’t stand guard when his master was doing so.

Oh, how interminably time passed! She seemed to lie forever, barely breathing, holding the covers closely to her. She could hear Warwick pacing in the music chamber. What was he thinking of? Did he yearn to reach court and the passionate arms of his mistress?

Oh, but it would be best to be away from that arrogant beast! He thrilled her, he infuriated her! He excited her, he frightened her. She wanted all of him and none of him! Be damned with him! She did not want him! She wanted only her freedom, to clear her father and herself.

Finally he went to bed. The candles were doused; only the fires burned. And she had to wait . . .

At least an hour had passed since the last candle had been doused. Oh, surely, God help her, he slept by now . . .

She was about to rise, but instead she went rigid, stunned to realize that he did not sleep at all, that he stood in the doorway, his grim, ever-mocking smile in place against the hard and handsome features of his face.

She swallowed, closed her eyes quickly, and prayed that the shadowed darkness of night had hid her startled glimpse of him.

With her eyes so tightly closed she felt ever more at a disadvantage. She could only wait in the absolute and tense darkness.

More time passed. She tried to breathe easily. He must have decided that she slept, returning to his own chamber to sleep. He must have done so.

She opened her eyes—and let out a startled scream.

He hadn’t gone to bed at all; he was standing right above her, hands on his hips, his golden eyes devilish in the glow of the firelight.

He moved like a whip at the sound of her scream, wrenching the covers from her, baring her completely clad figure.

“Dear wife! What is this, then? The latest in bedroom fashion?” He sat beside her, fingering the ruff at her throat. “How remiss of me! I would have sworn I had seen fit to clothe you properly for bed!”

Ondine closed her eyes again, weary, desolate.

“Go to hell!” she said with the little emotion remaining in her.

“Sorry, my love, but it is to court that I go, with my cherished bride on my arm.” He stood, caught her arm, and wrenched her to her feet, despite her startled—and guttural—oath of protest. Then she was facing him in defensive fury, aware that her plans were dashed, wondering what new torture this meant.

“What now!” she cried out. “You’ve found me. I cannot leave—”

“Conniving witch!” he interrupted harshly. “You intended to speed past me? I told you, love, I wake at the slightest sound.”

“I made no sound!”

“Ah, but the devious wheels of your mind churned all evening!”

“So! I am caught! Leave me be!”

“Nay, how could I, Countess? Leave you—to sleep in such discomfort?” he cried in a facsimile of gravest concern. “Turn about!”

She didn’t have a chance to obey the command; his fingers closed around her shoulders, performing the act for her. Then those same fingers began to unhook her gown.