Page 35 of Ondine

“Who is this—this common slut!” Anne demanded.

A scene had been brewing, a distasteful scene. For that reason Warwick had allowed Anne to lead him from the tennis courts to the garden, where they could be alone. Now he folded his arms over his chest and returned her glare bemusedly. “Watch your tongue, Anne. She is no common slut, but my wife.”

Anne stamped a foot in fury.

“Nay! She cannot be. We were all but betrothed! You swore you’d not marry again! You play some game—yet I will discover it!”

He sighed, wearying quickly, then wondering why. Anne had lost none of her beauty, none of her spirit, and certainly none of the blatant, forthright determination that had once appealed to him.

He was about to answer, but paused, holding his jaw taut, fighting the feelings, the simple answer that swarmed from his heart to his mind.

Nay . . . Anne had lost nothing. It was just that the rich darkness of her hair could not compare with tresses that could rustle through his fingers like fire and sunlight, flame and gold.

Her eyes were not like the sea, infinitely deep.

Her voluptuous breasts could not compare with the smooth cream of mystery and allure of his wife’s; her stance, her grace, her temper, her laughter, her . . .

The bloody little witch! Ah, but she was driving him insane! He could not care! Yet he seemed he could find no fascination for another.

“We were never even remotely betrothed, Anne. And I assure you, Ondine is legally my wife.”

Anne sucked in a great gasp of air. “You married her—and would not marry me!”

“Anne! I never pretended that I would marry you! We enjoyed one another with equal desire, and there it ended!”

She raised a hand to slap him. He wasn’t about to accept her blow and caught it quickly. “Anne! Cease this nonsense.”

Anne didn’t wrench her hand away; she used its position to angle closely against his chest, pulling his fingers to the cleavage of her gown and crying, “Feel my heart, Warwick! It flutters and thunders! With desire, Warwick, with desire!”

He chuckled softly; she was a wonderful dramatist.

“Anne, we both know you fulfill your desires whenever and with whomever you so choose.”

Her eyes snapped with annoyance. “Warwick!” she cried, and she chuckled softly. “We have been through this before, Warwick. And I will lie with you again . . .”

He had to smile at her sultry determination, yet it was at that moment that the king—and Ondine—suddenly came upon them.

He glanced sharply at his wife. There was nothing of reluctance about her now; no fear, no nervousness.

She was breathless and laughing and her eyes were sparkling with a beauty to rival any perfect set of sapphires.

Something seemed to strike him, like lightning, a rage of steel tearing into his gut, creating a jagged pain—wonder and envy.

Never had she smiled for him so. Never had she stared upon him so radiantly.

Never had he been more painfully aware that, yes, there was a passion within her, deep and sensual, wild and sweet. Seeing her then, he felt it to the core. But it was a thing she kept from him; kept behind her reserve. She fought him, laughing and whispering to the king.

“Men think from their codpieces!” Anne hissed.

Ondine was no longer laughing joyously at the king’s witticisms. She was staring at Warwick and Anne, and he realized that still his hand was entwined with hers upon her breast.

But he would not apologize. He did not wrench his hand away like a flushing lad. He met his wife’s eyes defiantly, then moved very slowly.

“Anne, I think you’ve not yet met my wife, Ondine. Ondine, the lady Anne.”

Neither of them acknowledged the introduction. Charles cast Warwick a bemused expression, then broke the discomfort of the meeting by saying, “To a barge, shall we? A banquet, quite fit for a king, is the evening’s plan. Let’s to it, shall we?”

He turned, leading Anne. Warwick caught Ondine’s hand when she would have eluded him.

He felt the strength within her and held her tight.

He was so riled that he quizzed her in a harsh whisper, “What’s this, milady?

You fought and spit and clawed like a cat when I would bring you here, yet again you are the cat—a kitten who purrs and teases for the king. ”

“I find him charming!” Ondine replied evenly.

“Ah, so you would be one of his collection of whores!”

She turned to him, her eyes wide, her voice so sweet it stung.

“His whore? Should I be so? Perhaps! He grants titles and wealth—and is ever so handsome and alluring, gentle and kind!”

The king and Anne were far ahead. Warwick stopped. Smiling, he laced his fingers through Ondine’s hair and wrenched it slightly, bringing her throat to an arch, her glittering eyes to battle with his.

“You sweet, chaste, and charming gutter-bitch! You will remember that you are my wife.”

“Marital vows?” she retorted. “I shall learn from you, dear husband, how they must be kept!”

He tugged more tightly on her hair, bringing tears to her eyes. “Laugh and tease as you will, my love, but I warn you only once: Watch your step!”

“The king is your dear friend!” she reminded him sweetly.

“My friend, yes,” Warwick said softly, a deathly hush that chilled her blood. “But a man. And few men, even when held in check by friendship, can resist a blatant tart’s invitation!”

“Something with which you are well acquainted, my lord?”

He held still for several seconds, staring at her. “Aye,” he said at last. “But do I resist much temptation, my love. There are ways to tame you, still, my love.”

“Bitch, tart—my love! Do make up your mind which of these I am, Lord Chatham!”

“Warwick! Ondine! We sail!” The king’s call was a command. Warwick stared at her a moment longer, then once again they walked, his long strides making her breathless to keep up, and she controlled her nearly irresistible urge to tear at him with tooth and nail.

* * *

That day, they were surrounded by people. The court was so exciting! She had no chance to be with Warwick alone again. She met a number of lords and ladies about the court, and she was taken beneath the queen’s wing. Catherine seemed to enjoy her company.

It seemed but a blur before the banquet began.

There was wonderful succulent food that she was full able to enjoy, since the king, all seriousness for that time, spoke to Warwick of his complaints with his Parliament, of his plans to build and broaden, about the Dutch, about the French.

And Catherine—his wife on such occasions was always at his side—spoke to Ondine about fashion and fabric, poetry and art.

Jugglers performed, minstrels played, handlers brought in a pair of bears to dance. It was a magical evening.

It ended earlier for Ondine than for Warwick; Charles was not through with his friend. There were problems with the Scots to be solved, and Charles meant to discuss them that evening.

Warwick pensively returned her to the door of their apartments, stiffly telling her with no further recriminations that Jake would be there, and departed for further dealings with the king.

Let it only be the king, she prayed despite herself, and not Anne!

She thought she would never sleep with all the joy, the excitement—and the anger—yet she did.

Relief and gratitude for her magic meeting with the king was like a potent drug.

She tossed and turned and fumed about her husband, but not for long.

Just like warm, gentle fingers encompassing her, the night claimed her and she rested, far to her own side of the bed.

But it did not matter. She discovered in the morning that Warwick had slept out on one of the settees. He still slept when she cracked the door in the morning. He was surely uncomfortable, she thought, since his long form did not fit the furniture, his legs stretching over the edge.

He must be exhausted to still sleep so! And then knives cut at her heart. Had he stayed up all night with the king, or with his mistress?

She closed the door to the bedroom and dressed quickly, fuming all the while. She tiptoed to the outer door, but then slammed it hard behind her, smiling with satisfaction as she heard his startled oaths behind her.

Warwick awoke in a foul temper, feeling drugged with weariness—Charles had kept him so late. Had he been able to catch her, he thought, he would have surely thrashed her!

“Witch!” he muttered aloud in a plaintive growl as he ran his fingers through his hair, pressing his temples hard to clear them. He groaned. God rot this entire mess! He’d wanted to tempt and trap a killer, to watch Hardgrave and Anne, to observe and discover.

And instead he spent his every moment in heated tempest over his gallows’ bride, the bait of his trap!

His mind was completely involved with the intrigue of her.

She had been terrified to come here, loathe to see the king, yet now she laughed and walked with him as if he were an old friend, a long-lost lover . . .

And it was she that he watched, lost in the intrigue of her eyes, her form . . .

“Lust!” he swore furiously aloud. “And anger. Dammit! She owes me obedience!”

“And love and honor!”

Startled, Warwick turned bloodshot eyes to the doorway to find the king.

Warwick groaned; the king laughed. “What is this, Warwick! You would waste the morning! Come! This is the time to swim the Thames. Where is your lady? Up and about already? I do congratulate you on your marriage, friend. Come, now—you’re by far the younger man!

A swim awakens the senses and the blood.

” Charles had a number of his beloved spaniels with him; they all yapped and barked and ran about, causing Warwick’s mild headache to become splitting.

The king most surely realized the torture he brought!