Page 32 of Ondine

“Stop! I’m caught! I only wish to salvage what sleep I—”

“You’re not sleeping so well prepared to leave, my love. Hold still—or I’ll rip it from you.”

There was no venom in his words, just truth. Trembling, she stood still as he finished with the hooks; then she wrenched away from him, choking out her words.

“You needn’t bother. I’ll disrobe myself.”

He lifted a hand with casual agreement, but gave no ground. “Then do so, my love.”

She stared at him.

“Now,” he said.

Labeling him every vile thing that she could, she turned once more, still shaking, and stepped from her gown. He remained behind her, and she could not turn to him.

“Do go on, Countess,” he drawled.

She repeated the names she had already called him, having run out of fresh derogatory titles. She still shook so badly that her fingers could not find the ties to her corset.

He stepped forward. Her flesh burned where his fingers touched. Her form had never been more rigid.

Seconds later her corset fell, along with the lace frills of her underskirt. Swearing ever more vehemently, she bent to cast away her hose, then plunge back into her bed, burying herself in the covers.

“Now, will you please go away!” she cried out miserably.

He did not. He sat upon the bed once again, and she stiffened at the touch of his hand upon her back.

“Ondine, why are you so set against a trip to court?”

His voice was strangely gentle and puzzled. She held her breath, listening to the thunder of her heart. She did not open her eyes; she had no wish to see his when they were amber, warmed by concern, curious . . . caring. They could too quickly grow cold and severe.

“I do not like courts,” she said stiffly.

“If you told me—”

“I’ve told you all I intend to!”

She heard his soft sigh, as if he wished he might penetrate her wall of reserve. But then he stood up from the bed, and when he spoke again, his voice was once more sharp with command.

“I’m sorry, then, that the journey distresses you. But it will take place.”

She knew that he left her, not by sound, but by the sudden chill that invaded her. She dug her fingers into the sheets to keep from crying out in her desperation, tears of self-pity and fear.

But she didn’t cry. She would never let him hear her cry. And then, once again, she began to plot and plan. Once it became morning . . .

It was such a wonderful plan that she slept at last, smiling.

In the morning Lottie came to her. Ondine washed and dressed and instructed Lottie on her hair. She couldn’t have been better prepared for a journey.

But as servants ran about with the trunks to be brought to the carriage, with both Mathilda and Warwick in the music chamber, she suddenly gasped out a terrible cry of pain and doubled over.

She was quite good! Ondine decided elatedly. Her act was so convincing that Warwick ran straight to her, clutching her shoulders, supporting her. She could easily have been on the stage!

“My lady—?”

“Oh, my lady!” Mathilda gasped worriedly, rushing to her, too. “Is it the child?”

“Oohh!” Ondine groaned out. “Surely not! Ohh, if I could just lie down again, the pain . . .”

She barely noticed that Warwick released her. Mathilda—dear Mathilda!—set her arms about her mistress and started walking her through to her own chamber.

“We’ll get these constricting things off of you at once! You’ll lie down and stay down. We won’t take a single chance with that precious wee babe!”

“But Warwick—”

“The earl shall have to go on by himself. Now you lie down and I’ll find a loose and flowing nightdress—Oh, dear, I fear the best of them are packed!”

Barely able to contain a smile of triumph, Ondine sank back to her bed weakly, casting an elbow over her eyes to await Mathilda’s tender administrations.

But the next touch she felt was anything but tender. Hard arms swept around her, lifting her. She opened her eyes wide in alarm, only to meet her husband’s fierce ones, narrow and glittering.

“There’s nothing my lady needs so much as fresh air,” Warwick announced, “and the sooner the better.”

“But, Warwick—” Mathilda began.

“My lady is as healthy as a brood mare, Mathilda—just nervous, nothing more! I promise you, the air will do her wonders.”

With Ondine in his arms he strode from their chambers at such a furious pace that Mathilda could not keep up to make her protests heard.

Ondine dropped all pretense, glaring at him furiously, pitting her arms against his chest rather uselessly. No struggle would free her. “You—bastard!” she grated out.

“Nell Gwyn never put on such a performance, my love, and she was the rage of the theater before becoming the rage of the king.”

“I can walk!”

“I know you can!”

He continued down the staircase and outside to the carriage, where both Justin and Clinton waited to see them off, too startled to hide their surprise.

“A fit of the vapors,” Warwick explained briefly.

She did not get to say good-bye to either of them and found herself rather gracelessly deposited into the plush carriage, with the door immediately slammed upon her.

She heard the men vaguely. Farewells were shouted out, yet it was all done in a matter of seconds, and before she had a chance to reach for the door handle, the carriage was moving quickly down the drive.

Once again, Warwick opted to ride up top with Jake. Ondine gasped out one sob of frustration, then cast her head against the velvet seat and closed her eyes, so very weary that none of it seemed to matter.

She rode that way for hours, jolting, jostling, numb. But then somewhere along the road and within herself, she began to struggle for reason. There was still hope. As long as one breathed, there was still hope to be found.

She tried to remember her previous rationalization. She really hadn’t seen anyone that long-ago day, except the king and a few of his guards. They had just arrived, invited to the joust and banquet.

A page had brought the king to them. The king had been accompanied by two guards.

Charles! She had to see him . . . alone.

If she bowed before him bravely as Warwick’s wife—and begged him with all the desperation in her eyes—he might gainsay his tongue.

Oh, aye! The king was an intuitive man, sensitive to his subjects.

It was one of the reasons that he was so loved, as a king and as a man.

And he loved women. He had proclaimed himself enchanted with her again and again that day.

He was a cavalier—the greatest of cavaliers!

Surely if she could but just get to be alone with him, plead her case, he would at the very least give her a chance.

Her heart pounded swiftly. No! It would never work.

But it had to work!

The carriage did not stop until darkness had fallen. When the door opened and Warwick reached for her, she saw that it was night and that they had come to a tavern.

She stared at him loathfully, wrenching her hand from his when he would help her alight. He shrugged and let her be, yet her legs were so cramped from the ride that she stumbled, and his arms embraced her anyway. She did not fight him further, but stiffened against his hold.

Jake followed them into the tavern, arranging for rooms while Warwick found a table where they might order food. Jake returned to them, assuring Warwick that their accommodations would be the best in the house.

They were served roasted fowl and steamed vegetables and ale.

Warwick and Jake comfortably fell into a discussion about the road ahead.

Ondine picked at her food and swallowed a large quantity of ale.

It warmed her, and also exhausted her. She did not realize that she was falling asleep at the table until Warwick touched her, his fingers curling around hers.

She gazed up at him, eyes wide, and found that his were warm and curious. But he did not question her.

“Come. I’ll see you to bed.”

“No . . .”

“Ye’re about to fall into yer trencher, lady,” Jake said, rising. Warwick had her arm. She allowed him to lead her up the rickety stairs, away from the noise of the tavern.

She realized with some alarm that they were sharing a room.

But the ale and lack of sleep had taken their toll—she couldn’t really care.

Nor could she protest when he turned her about, helping her with her hooks.

In her shift she walked away from him and crawled into the one bed.

Moments later she knew that he was beside her.

Miraculously, though, she slept, slept with his arm around her, and when another dream disturbed her, she was aware of a whispered tenderness.

“Easy, love, sleep, easy. Dear God, what is it that you fear? I am here . . .”

But in the morning he was gone.

And he left Jake to tend to her the next night, when they came to Meg’s tavern, so very near to London.