Page 33 of Ondine

Warwick was not so far away.

He sat in a dark corner of the tavern, watching Jake—watching his wife—and brooding deeply. He watched her laughter, and he watched her grace, and he swore against himself a thousand times over.

Ah, she was driving him mad!

What manner of fool was he? The inner query brought a pulse ticking hard against the sinewed line of his throat.

She was his wife, dammit. If he had any sense, he’d stalk into her room, ignore that wary fear and anger in her eyes, and remind her that she had promised to love, honor, and obey his every command.

His teeth clenched, taut with rising tension.

She was just that, his wife—married from the gallows as a pawn, a pawn he had sworn to protect—to whom he had promised freedom.

He couldn’t think of her as his wife . He had to remember Genevieve—young, innocent, slain.

Nay, he could not allow himself to love his wife!

He could only guard her—carefully now!—for Hardgrave was at court, as was the lady Anne.

He meant to trap the killer there, for he would not believe the murderer could be his own brother—or Clinton. Surely it was Hardgrave.

His attention was drawn to her again. The melody of her laughter filled his senses, and he sighed.

He would not go up until she was asleep. He dared not hold her again, for he wanted her, and deep inside he knew that a storm brewed between them, threatening to sweep them into its tempest and passion.

* * *

Ondine was nervous when morning came. Warwick was not with her as she dressed meticulously, praying she would find the king merciful!

She came downstairs to find Warwick in the common room, and she faltered when she saw him, for she was certain he would still have avoided her company.

Odd that she should find him so manly in the work clothes he wore so oft about Chatham; stranger still that no matter what his mode and dress, the unexpected sight of him could send her heart reeling, her temper soaring, her pulses racing.

Today he was splendid in a lace shirt and velvet coat and breeches in deep blue.

His hair was free, dark and thick and wavy.

She realized that not even for a royal appearance would he wear a wig.

But it didn’t matter; he could cater to fashion, he could spurn it.

Tall and dark with his ever-changing hazel eyes, he was the height of masculine beauty and rugged appeal.

And surely no man had ever worn a rich plumed hat with such flair.

He doffed that hat as she came before him, bowing deeply. He seemed as highly strung as she this morning, fire dancing in his gaze, his manner most strange.

“Milady! How kind that you remain with us!”

“Kind? I’d no choice.”

“Yet most common lasses would be most enthralled at the thought of a stay at court.”

“Most, perhaps.”

“Ah, but then I’ve never thought that you might be grouped with anything common, my love.”

Ondine glared at him uneasily, yet he pushed the point no further.

He remained most pleasant as they ate, edging her nerves still further.

His arm was about her as he paid Meg. He placed her graciously into the carriage, then bowed to take his leave, apparently preferring Jake’s company once again. He smiled when Ondine scowled.

“Milady wife! Where is your complaint this morning?”

“I’ve none, my lord. Yet I think there’s no need to practice your charm, since it is something you doff on and off as a cloak.”

He cast her a dry grin. “Practice? And what would this practice be for, Countess?”

“That is your concern, Warwick, isn’t it?”

The rising sun seemed to falter in the sky a bit. His smile remained, yet it became cold.

“Aye, Countess, that it is. Excuse me, then. Our next stop will be Hampton Court.”

* * *

And so it was. It seemed that no time passed before they were upon the Thames, brilliantly blue today beneath a rare cloudless sky.

The massive gates of Hampton greeted them.

There were guards in livery, scores of people everywhere, lords and ladies in high plummage, pages, clerks, the clergy, scullery maids, stable boys, gardeners, and merchants.

The workers seemed to hurry; the nobility to amble.

Ondine pulled the curtains back to stare about her, fascinated.

The carriage brought them through the main gates, bringing them ever closer to the palace itself in warm red earth-colored tones.

Ondine gazed at the giant clock in the courtyard, and only then did she think again that she might be weighing her life not in days, but in hours and minutes.

The carriage came to a halt. Seconds later the door swung open, and her husband’s eyes were glittering upon her as he decorously reached for her hand, assisting her from the carriage. She barely glanced his way, wondering in all this milling of people just where the king might be.

Moments later they were entering a grand hall with an even grander stairway, and a man, apparently the head steward of the place, was greeting Warwick, promising that his accommodations were of the finest, seen to by the king himself.

Their apartments were up the grand stairway, down a long hall.

The steward proudly opened double doors, displaying a grand den with books and closets, a multitude of richly upholstered chairs and settees, and gleaming round tables set before the windows, where they caught the magic light of the sun.

“The bedchamber,” the steward told them, leading them forward, “is beyond.”

Another set of double doors was pushed open. It was a beautifully appointed bedchamber, with a huge four-poster bed, heavy and intricately carved. The inner drapes were of gauze and brocade.

A window looked over the gardens and the Thames far beyond. Here, too, were chairs and dressers, and there was another small round table, set as if it might offer an intimate breakfast place for sleepy lovers just come from a tousled bed.

Servants were following with their luggage.

The steward showed Ondine where the bellpull was and assured her she could summon a lady’s maid within seconds, should she require anything.

He was ever so polite and correct, yet he studied her in such a way that she knew she would quickly be the subject of gossip raging throughout the entire compound.

And she didn’t really care. It seemed that a buzzing had started in her ears, and she knew that that buzzing was fear. Any moment now she would see the king.

Curiously Warwick moved about the rooms, tapping on the walls. He exchanged glances with the steward, who assured him the rooms had been “thoroughly explored.”

Ondine tried to question him, but he interrupted her. “His Majesty plays tennis. We’ll take the barge to meet him at the courts.”

Fine, she thought! For she must get this confrontation over with! Inwardly she trembled, went numb, and trembled all over again. She hurried as they left the palace, traversed the gardens, and made their way for the barge.

“You are eager to do hommage to your king,” Warwick observed at last. “Why might that be, I wonder?”

She practiced a sweet smile on him. “Why, because I’ve heard he’s wondrously fair, milord. A gentleman to the core and, by nature, fond of my gentle sex.”

She felt his fingers tighten convulsively around her arm; they loosened, and he returned her smile.

“He is as dark as a Spaniard, milady.”

“Aye, so I’ve heard. Fair in beauty, then.”

He did not respond, but pointed before them. “A barge, milady. You’ll see for yourself in a matter of minutes.”

Seconds later they were aboard the small craft that sailed for the sheer convenience of transporting guests to the tennis courts. Warwick brought Ondine to sit, but she could not. She preferred to stand portside and feel the wind. He stood by her, and she knew that again he watched her.

And then the structure—large and covered—loomed ahead of them.

The barge docked; the plank was set. Warwick led her along it.

Even as they entered the courts, liveried servants presented them with chalices of wine.

It was not crowded, but still there were many onlookers.

Ladies sat about on chaise longues, watching the play.

Regally clad gentlemen urged on the players.

The sound of the ball sailing over the net, whacking against the court, was constant.

Ondine did not mean to stop and stare, certainly not in her present state of agitation, and yet she did. She had never seen a tennis court, though she had heard that the king was a great aficionado of the sport.

Her husband’s arm came about her shoulder, and for the briefest of moments she allowed herself a sense of security and ease.

She should have told him! Oh, surely, he might well have protected her, held her . . .

No man could protect an accused traitor.

“Queen Catherine,” Warwick whispered, pointing to a lounge.

The woman Ondine saw was far from her first youth, yet lovely in the sweetness of her face. She smiled and clapped and chatted with the ladies who surrounded her. “And there, the cutups, Buckingham, Lord Burkhurst; there, that’s Sedley.”

“The cutups?” Ondine murmured.

“Idle rogues, my love. Tales of debauchery that come from this court come from them, not His Grace, whom they do but amuse. He is not so much a lecher,” Warwick mused, “but a true lover. His wife, his mistresses, they are his friends as well. The king also keeps grave council, the likes of Pepys, Wren, and others. Those, my love, are rogues of whom you must beware.”

“More so than you, milord?” she asked innocently.

“Infinitely.”