Page 48 of Ondine

Warwick most assuredly meant to put his absurd plan into action; he’d barely left her before Mathilda and Lottie arrived breathlessly at her chamber door, prepared to start packing.

Mathilda was upset that Warwick should drag Ondine back and forth when a child was expected, but Warwick himself assured Mathilda she would be fine.

Mathilda brought her mistress more goat’s milk.

Ondine hated the stuff, but for Mathilda’s sake she drank it with a weak smile.

There was one aspect to the trip that seemed quite nice: Justin was accompanying them. He whispered to Ondine that though he had been in definite disfavor with Charles for dueling, Warwick had spoken to the king, and Justin now had permission to return to court.

Clinton remained behind in charge, and his good-bye embrace to Ondine seemed warm and comforting. She prayed again that neither he nor Justin would be guilty of murder, as she was growing to love them both dearly.

She thought that Warwick might choose to ride above with Jake as was so often his custom; he did not. He seated himself next to her, facing his brother.

The journey went marvelously well, or so Ondine thought, until they had but one night of travel left.

They stopped to picnic, and though the lunch was casual and easy, she and Warwick managed to quarrel at its end when Justin mentioned they should stop and rest early—for Ondine’s health and the coming Chatham heir.

Justin rode with Jake. Ondine and Warwick were alone in the carriage as the afternoon waned.

Yet in the darkness of the carriage she felt his eyes upon her, and a deep tension struck her.

“Warwick—” She said his name, then hesitated, for their relationship was ever strange to her. She knew him intimately; she knew him not at all.

“My love?” It was always there—that bitter twist to his tone when he addressed her so.

She stiffened, staring out into the darkness. “I know what it is now that we set about; I comprehend the reason for your deception. But still I think it cruel. Wouldn’t it perhaps be best to tell Mathilda and the others that we were mistaken, there is no child?”

He was silent, and she could not read his mind or expression in the growing darkness.

“Perhaps even now, Countess,” he said coolly, “it is not a lie that I perpetuate.”

“Trust me, my lord,” she replied regally, “it is a lie.”

“Is it?” Amusement crept into his voice.

“Ondine, you are aware of nature’s functions, are you not?

” He pulled closer to her, whispering with warm, evocative breath about the things that happened when men came together with women.

The sound of his voice—even the words!—sent hot shivers racing through her; she clamped her teeth together in anger, for he seemed unconcerned.

“Leave me be!” she cried, twisting from his touch. “I know what—I know all about—I—”

He laughed, releasing her at her insistence for once. But the sound of his laughter faded into the night, and she felt a touch of cold gravel in his tone when he spoke next.

“You sound quite upset, my love. Does the idea sound so repugnant to you, then? A child of mine?”

A child of his . . . .

Nay, it was not repugnant; it was a dream, a fantasy, unreal—a family life, wanted and cherished and .

. . normal. She saw years that stretched ahead with laughter and warmth and love.

She saw a future together, where he would speak as tenderly of her as he did of his lost Genevieve, where he would laugh and tease and want her forever.

Men! How dare he think to quiz her so, when he thought of nothing but convenience and his own pursuits?

“Of course, Lord Chatham, the thought is repulsive to me! We go our own ways, remember? I’d not be saddled with a child.”

He caught her chin quite suddenly, fingers harsh upon her, but still the darkness hid from her all but his anger.

“Lady, this I promise you: No heir of mine will ever leave my presence! It might take you longer to be free, but free you would be—unsaddled. Any child is mine—and Mathilda’s, since you show such little concern!

And trust me, lady, should she be given the task of raising the heir, she would not note your disappearance! ”

“Bastard!” Ondine exploded, continuing heedlessly. “Then—things must cease, ere the lie is truth!”

He released her, leaning back, completely in shadow.

“Nothing ceases.”

“You—”

“You are my wife. And there, my lady, the matter ends.”

She swore at him with some of the wonderfully apt and colorful phrases she had learned within Newgate, yet to no avail, for soon the carriage jolted to a stop.

Jake opened the carriage door, addressing Warwick by name. “Shall we stop? We’ve reached the Boar’s Head.”

“Aye, we’ll stop.”

Jake called to Justin, who leapt down to the ground.

Warwick showed no sign of his temper to Jake or Justin, and Ondine chose to do the same.

She did, in fact, think to be utterly charming to her brother-in-law.

They teased and laughed all through the meal.

Warwick joined in, yet Ondine was certain it was not with his whole heart.

Yet even as she laughed and dined, she found herself praying once again: Dearest Lord, don’t let it be Justin!

For though he was gallant to her and ever full of flattery and laughter, there was, despite his mischief, a certain care; he knew that she was his brother’s—property.

In that he took care never to quip too far, never to touch her overly long.

Above all there was a certain respect between them, and Ondine believed Warwick might well be ready to die in truth himself, rather than learn that his blood had betrayed him in murder.

It was late when they finished in the dining room, late when they trod the steps to separate rooms.

Ondine feared their conversation that night; she feared his very nearness. But she needn’t have. He told her harshly to sleep, and he lay down far from her, partially clothed, and his eyes closed very quickly.

She did not find solace so easily, but stayed awake, torn by misery and emptiness. She wished fervently that she had never spoken in the carriage.

* * *

They left the tavern at dawn, Justin riding with Jake, but Ondine still so weary from lack of sleep that she had no thought to carry any further argument with Warwick.

Indeed, she tried to rest against the carriage, but it jolted so that he drew her to his lap, and with no protest she sighed and rested.

They had not gone far, though, when the carriage stopped quite suddenly. Warwick, frowning, adjusted to open the door, startled to find Justin in the act of wrenching it from the outside.

“What—”

“We’re being followed,” Justin said quickly. “I thought you should know.”

“Followed?” Warwick queried tensely.

“Lyle Hardgrave and the lady Anne. I saw the stag’s head on the coat of arms. They’re right behind us.”

Ondine, dazed with sleep, still saw the brothers exchange glances, as if they were allies upon the field, recognizing a foe, eager to accept a challenge.

“We’ll stay far ahead of that pair, shall we?”

“My thought exactly,” Justin replied. He smiled at Ondine, youthful exuberance alive in his gaze, a chuckle in his throat. “Go back to sleep, my beauty—beasts do guard your slumber!”

She returned his smile, casting a questioning gaze at Warwick as the door closed again. He did not return her gaze, but stared pensively out to the great oaks as the carriage jolted forward again.

“Milord?” she murmured. “Do you think—”

“I dare think nothing.”

“Can you not clear your own brother from the suspicions in your mind when those two plague your every step?”

“Are you so anxious, then, for Justin’s innocence?”

“Aye,” she answered honestly.

“You care for him so?”

“Of course!” she cried, reproach lacing her eyes and her tone. “He is your blood, and you love him dearly! And he is young and dashing and seems so loyal to your cause.”

Warwick sighed and placed his hand upon her head, urging her back down to rest.

“’Tis a pity, then, milady, ’twas not Justin to discover you in the hold of the hangman’s noose.”

She would have answered him; she caught her tongue because he did not speak with anger or mockery, just weariness. His knuckles moved over her cheek lightly. “Sleep, Ondine. The day wears on long and tedious.”

The king was in his laboratory when they arrived.

A barge took them down the river, not so far as the tennis courts, but perhaps halfway, where there was a large plain building, recently whitewashed and pleasantly designed with windows. The king’s guards stood before the entrance, but they made way for them.

Ondine could not help but smile at the sight of the king. He was clad in a large apron, and he stood behind a table, busy with vials that steamed and smoked, intent as he measured one bubbling liquid against another, his dark eyes alive with interest.

He looked up at their arrival, a broad smile curling his full lip. “I’ve done it! I believe I’ve done it!”

Warwick arched a brow, approaching the scene. “Might I ask, Your Grace, done what?”

“Root and herb and sunshine, friend, ’tis the trick. Why, I’ve ‘Bon vivant’!”

“‘Bon Vivant’?”

“Ah, but you’re still too young a fellow!

” the king said impatiently. “This was taught to me once in my wandering years by an old French chemist—’tis a potion to ease certain strains of age, which we’ll not discuss!

It’s a potion I’ve at last remembered and perfected, which pleases me so much in fact—Justin Chatham! —that I am glad to see you returned!”

Justin, standing carefully behind Ondine, cleared his throat. The king set down his vials, removed his apron, and stepped forward. He, too, cleared his throat, and Justin came forward, kneeling down to kiss the king’s ring.

“Duly contrite, Justin?” the king queried.

“Duly so, sire!” Justin replied.