Page 34 of Ondine

“Over there—who is that?” Ondine asked curiously.

Far from the queen’s lounge across the court was another lounge.

The woman within it had lovely features, deep dark hair, and a tiny but glorious physique.

The man Warwick had pointed out as being the Duke of Buckingham was saying something to her.

She laughed, stretching as luxuriously as a cat.

“Louise, Duchess of Portsmouth.”

Ondine gasped. “The king’s mistress! With his wife here present, too!”

Warwick chuckled softly. “The lovely creature down there facing the net is Nelly Gwyn.”

But it wasn’t Nelly Gwyn who caught Ondine’s eye; it was a very different voluptuous brunette.

She chatted with Louise, laughed, watched the play.

She was stunning to look at, tall, graceful, with full red pouting lips, emitting a lazy ooze of sensuality that was unmistakable.

She sipped wine, she dangled grapes from her fingers, and she seemed to brood and laugh again, as if too easily bored.

“Who is that?”

“Lady Anne,” Warwick said. “Come; the queen has seen us.”

Ondine stiffened. So that was the lady Anne! Wrath rose high within her, then she nearly laughed. What did it matter?—she was about to see the king.

Warwick led Ondine along quickly to the queen’s lounge, sweeping a deep bow. “Your Highness.”

Ondine curtsied at his side, instantly aware that his affection for the smiling creature before them with the still sad eyes was most sincere.

“Warwick!” The queen still carried the slightest accent of her native Portugal.

“What a pleasure, milord!” He stepped forward to kiss her hand, and the ladies with her backed politely away.

Catherine disdained protocol and leaned forward to kiss his cheek, but then her bright eyes were looking beyond him to Ondine.

“Ah, Countess! Do step forward!” She took Ondine’s hand and studied her with open pleasure.

“Oh, but, Warwick, where did you find her? She’s lovely! Heads will turn, but they already have! All watch what a lovely couple you make—ah!” Catherine cried suddenly, clapping her hands together. “Game point—to my most noble husband!”

Ondine spun in startled surprise. She had not realized a player to be the king, yet now, too suddenly, she saw that the victor was indeed none other than Charles. He was shaking hands with his opponent, accepting a great sheet or towel from a servant with a friendly thanks, and turning toward them.

He did not see her right away; his great dark eyes were on Warwick.

He smiled with pleasure, his trim mustache spreading across his face with the widening of his smile.

Ondine felt numb again, staring at him, seeing him anew.

He was a tall man, as tall as Warwick, very dark and intriguing.

He was a Stuart king, yet as with royalty, he carried the blood of many houses; that of Scottish and French royalty, and the Italian lineage of the Medicis dukes of Tuscany.

Perhaps it was from this that he derived his looks, for he was dark and fascinating.

“Warwick!”

The king clapped her husband on the shoulder; Warwick greeted the king with the same enthusiasm.

“And rumor tells me you’ve brought a bride!”

“Aye, Your Grace. The lady Ondine, my wife.”

And then the moment was there. He stared straight at her.

Numb, dazed, praying with all her heart, she sank into a curtsy, all the while keeping her eyes mutely locked with the king’s deep-set stare.

Ah, did he stare! So very long, yet it all seemed too slow, out of a mist. Silently she pleaded; nightmare visions spun like mercury through her head.

He would speak, he would summon a guard, he would point a finger and rage out a single damning word: “Traitor!”

He did not say it; the word echoed only in her mind. He recognized her—oh, she could swear, though he moved not and gave nothing away, that he recognized her.

“Lady Ondine,” he said smoothly. He reached for her hand, bringing her to her feet. “We offer you our most heartfelt welcome to Hampton Court.”

She couldn’t speak; she smiled, and her eyes remained tied to his. She feared that the nervous relief welling within her would bring darkness cascading down, sending her to the floor in a dead swoon.

“Married without his king’s permission!” Charles laughed. “But now that I’ve seen the bride, I can offer only my blessing and my envy. Catherine! Is she not incredible!”

“And chaste, perhaps,” Catherine murmured, drawing no offense from the king, merely laughter.

Warwick slipped an arm around Ondine’s shoulder, pulling her to him and extricating her hands from the king’s. “Chaste, I do swear, my most gracious queen.”

“Possessive, Chatham!” Charles admonished.

“But, friend, I think you’ve trouble ahead.

Buckingham is near to drooling on my floor over here as he covets your bride.

Ah, but he dare not pursue her, while in my presence, and he fears your prowess, Warwick, so perhaps we are all safe.

But what—are we? I fear a cat prowls near, ready to shred the bride! Quick—a royal escape!”

Whimsically Charles had her hand once again. In an aside he laughingly informed Catherine he must show Ondine the fields and gardens outside the court, “And save her from the swains we have in abundance here!”

“We’ll gladly see the gardens,” Warwick said, yet this time, he could not retrieve Ondine from the king.

Charles placed a hand upon his chest and murmured mischievously, “You’ve matters to settle here, before they can get out of hand, friend. The cat I speak of prowls ever closer!”

Warwick’s mistake was in turning, for the king did not lie. Anne, a smile on her face, venom lacing her eyes, was almost upon them. “Lord Chatham!” she cried.

Without cutting her and creating a scene, Warwick had no recourse but to pause, as etiquette dictated.

Charles chose that moment to wink and escape with another wink to his wife and Ondine in tow.

They were quickly followed by two of the king’s guards, but as they broke from the structure of the tennis courts and started upon a tiled garden path, Charles abruptly turned.

“Oh, good fellows! Do leave me in peace for this once. Do you really believe the beautiful lady Chatham to be a threat?”

“Your Grace!” In unison the guards bowed; in unison, they disappeared.

Charles led her along the path, deeper and deeper into seclusion, to a place where strange plants grew in profusion.

He knelt by one and plucked the fruit from it.

He drew a knife from his pouch and slit the fruit, offering a piece to Ondine.

“Pineapple. First grown here in England by my own gardener. It’s an intriguing fruit. Taste it.”

She accepted the fruit, but could not eat it She stared into his eyes, still numb. “Your Majesty, did you mean that?”

“Of course! I would not lie about such a matter as a pineapple.”

“No, no.” Ondine shook her head vehemently. “I meant—” She paused, wincing. “Oh, Your Grace! Never would I harm your person! Yet I remain still implicated in treason—”

He waved a hand in the air, smiling, and in that smile she saw all the beautiful things that had made him a beloved man to those closest to him.

“I never did believe your father meant to slay me, my dear Duchess of Rochester.”

She let out a long breath. She felt terribly shaky, as if any moment she would fall to the ground. Yes, he had recognized her. She had known it the moment their eyes had met.

“Oh, God!” she whispered, and he touched her cheek with a gentle fascination, then moved quickly away, tossing the remains of the pineapple to the ground.

“Where have you been, Ondine? Where did that deadly rogue of a friend of mine find you?”

“On the gallows.”

“Gallows?” Charles turned to her curiously.

“I was caught poaching deer.”

“And you were to hang?”

“It’s not uncommon, I understand.”

Suddenly Charles started to laugh. “And Warwick happened by, to claim you in marriage and rescue the fair damsel in distress. It’s wonderful! Ah, what a story! Yet a secret one, I do presume.”

“Aye, milord, though I do not know the workings of my husband’s mind.”

Charles mused upon those words for a moment, then shrugged. “As he does not know yours?”

“I—yes.”

“Then you are well met, I believe,” Charles said. He started walking down the path again. Anxiously Ondine followed him.

“Your Grace, what am I to do?”

Again he paused, watching her so intently that in the end she flushed.

“There were witnesses that day. Two guards; one page. One of the guards has disappeared—possibly he was threatened into leaving? I don’t know .

. .” he murmured at last. “I searched high and low for the man. I cannot find him, but perhaps he fears to speak the truth. Then there are those papers—forgeries, probably, but good enough to fool a court. If you found those and destroyed them, your uncle and cousin would have no case against you. Still, you would have to trap them to clear your father . . . Ah, Ondine! Legally your uncle is your guardian—in charge of your estates! And legally I cannot pardon you; not unless they withdraw the accusation.”

“But you said—”

“I said that I, personally, do not believe you capable of such treason, milady. I suggest that when you deem the time appropriate, you search out the weaknesses in your family yourself. Perhaps you must return to your holdings and play your game for a while. Pretend that you would cast yourself on their mercy. Now, here, you are safe to think—and plan. You are Warwick Chatham’s bride.

All knew that the old Duke of Rochester had a daughter, but none knew her name.

Stay here with your husband, abide awhile in safety.

All things will come with time. Ah, Ondine!

I am, madam, a popular monarch. Yet I wandered Europe a pauper for endless years; I fought for my crown, I begged aid, I learned to trust good men, and yet the greatest lesson of all that I learned was care.

I am here now—the son of a wonderful man, yet a weak king who died by the headsman’s ax—not because of battle or debate, but because in the end the people invited me back.

They say that I came here affable—charming, if you will— but wary.

And they say now that I am a good king, accessible to his people, possibly sly, but indubitably introspective.

My charm, they say, can but hide the workings of the mind.

Perhaps that is all true. I have grown older, wiser.

I have learned that to wait and watch and keep one’s own council can bring all things to pass in time. Do you understand?”

Confused, Ondine shook her head. “You said I must act—”

“Nay, I said that in time you must act.” Charles leaned against a giant oak, his dark eyes touched by a glitter of humor, his sensual face most appealing with its grin.

“I’ve no doubt my lord of Chatham eyes you, little one, like a hawk.

With such a prize, well might I do the same.

Bend to his will, for it is a powerful one, and if you do not bend, you might well break.

Let patience be your virtue. With a ragged and laden heart he chases a ghost; in time his own quest will be satisfied. Then you can give measure to your own.”

“You suggest I leave him, then?”

“Nay—I suggest you merely travel alone when you return to your birthright. For I can tell you this. He married you—”

“For that quest of his you speak of only,” Ondine murmured.

Charles laughed. “I think not. I know him well, my girl. As well as one man can know another. I saw those lion’s eyes of his as I dragged you away. They sparkled with outrage and envy, possession and frustration. He is shocked that I—notorious as I might well be—would take a fancy to his wife.”

“I—”

The king chuckled again. “You need have no fear of me, my dear. I offer you no bargains or deals; I ask nothing of you. If you were not his wife, still I would ask nothing of you. History will forget that I strove for the arts and excellence in England, that I fought to make her strong, however I saw fit. History will, however, men being what they are, remember my liaisons. Yet no accurate historian shall ever be able to say that I dallied with any lady not equally willing to dally. Still”—he grimaced, and smiled once again—“it is wondrously fun to have my friend—Lord Chatham, known for his stature, his courage, his damned masculine appeal—jealous of me!”

Ondine lowered her head. She didn’t think that Warwick was particularly jealous, any more than he would be of Dragon, Chatham Manor itself, or any other possession. She did not wish, though, to argue with the king.

“Come—we must get back. I enjoy a good jest to cast that husband of yours into confusion, yet I’d not have him truly suspect I’d accost his wife for a dalliance. But we’ll talk again. Tonight. We’ll banquet for dinner, and dance to the minstrels, shall we?”

“Aye, Your Grace! Oh, Your Majesty—”

“Yes?”

“I—bless you, sire!”

He smiled slowly, lowering his lashes. “Don’t look at me so fervently, lady, with those tears upon your eyes. I might easily imagine myself younger, a less loyal friend . . . Come!”

He took her hand, and they hurried back along the path.