Page 50 of Ondine

She sat long, quaking with fear. Then something settled over her, something that was perhaps a sense of fatality.

She stood and was not pleased with the gown she had chosen to wear to dinner.

Tearing through her trunk, she sought another and settled upon one with a bodice and looped sleeves in organdy, and an overskirt in deepest mauve.

Pearls gleamed elegantly from the hem, and she knew that once she had dressed her hair, she would appear striking in any crowd.

If Anne meant to do her harm, Ondine decided she would not hide from the attack.

She exited that inner chamber with her head high to find her husband at the mantel, his elbow against it as he sipped a whiskey. He raised a high arched brow at her appearance and gave her a dashing bow.

“My lady, I grant you this: You are no coward.”

“Shall we go?”

“If you’ve sins in your past, perhaps it might be best to confess them now.”

“Warwick Chatham, of all men, you’ll never be my confessor.”

He shrugged and took her arm, leading her from the room. But at their door he paused and pulled her close.

“Ondine, eternally you forget one thing: You are my wife.”

About to be cast out! she thought, feeding the fury that held her tears in check. She could not betray the king’s confidence.

“And you eternally forget one thing, great Lord of Chatham. I truly do not give a damn.”

“This night you should; the sharks are waiting.”

“Sir, then I shall sink or swim.”

“Perhaps you might need an arm.”

“Never yours!” she cried in fury and watched his eyes narrow darkly, felt the grip of his fingers wind tightly around her arm.

“Then, lady, drown if you will!”

She lowered her eyes, afraid of the fear enveloping her. Why? Oh, why on this night had she battled him so, despised his offers of assistance?

There was no help for it; it was done. Stiffly they walked into the hall, and desperately she worried what Anne might say.

She did not have long to worry or wait. They had barely reached the dining hall, peopled with nobles and ladies, chatting and laughing, when a man’s voice, harsh with vengeance, cried out upon them. “There they are now! Chatham—and his lady!”

The last was said with sarcasm. Ondine stiffened. A pathway parted between the crowd, and she saw Lyle Hardgrave, sneering as he approached them.

Warwick stiffened, hard and primed as a blade. A hush fell; the crowd drew back.

Ondine felt herself pulled forward on her husband’s arm. She realized that Justin had appeared from the crowd and stood in back of them, ready at his brother’s defense.

She doubted if Warwick even knew. His eyes were gold, a blaze upon Hardgrave.

“Aye. ’Tis Chatham and his—lady. Do you say, sir, that it is not so?”

Ondine heard a whisper from the crowd. “Someone should summon the king!”

Hardgrave and Warwick ignored all else but one another. Hardgrave openly leered at Ondine and bowed low with graceless mockery. “Nay, good neighbor! I say no such thing. ’Tis the lady Anne by chance discovered from whence she came.”

Anne stepped up from behind Hardgrave’s shoulder, in the greatest, most dramatic pretext of agitation.

“Warwick! I am ever so sorry! Let there be no discontent here!”

“Yes!” thundered a voice of authority, and the king stepped in amongst them. “Let there be no discontent here!” He frowned severely at the assembly, whirling to Anne.

“What is this?”

“Your Grace! ’Tis true she is no lady!”

“And why is that?”

“I’d rather not say—”

“Then, madam, may I suggest that you don’t?”

Traitor, traitor! She will call me traitor, Ondine wailed within. She didn’t know how she stood in those moments, her fear was so great.

“Your Grace!” Hardgrave said. “She came from the gallows! Warwick Chatham married a common poacher, pulled from the hangman’s noose!”

“She’s a common wench, straight from the streets!” Anne announced.

The king turned about, mildly interested, appearing as if he knew nothing of the matter.

“Is this true?” he inquired with polite interest.

Seconds passed. Ondine did not know whether to be relieved that the real truth was not known, or horrified that Anne had chanced upon this damning information.

And, oh, what a perfect moment for Warwick to turn against her!

He could cry that she bewitched him, and plead that he be rid of her on account of sorcery . . .

He did not. At that moment he turned to her, his amber gaze a glorious fire. He drew her hand slowly to his lips, bowed over it, and kissed it most reverently. His eyes met hers, lingering, as if he were, indeed, bewitched. And then he returned his gaze to the king, still holding her hand tight.

“Your Grace, it is true. Yet, who could blame me? Across a great expanse I saw her face, the beauty in her eyes, the pride in her fair countenance. Never had I seen a more glorious creature called woman, condemned to such a terrible fate. I came to her and, seeing her, knew that never again would I find such sweet beauty, never would I know such a chance for love, and so, aye, Your Grace, I did marry her, then, on the spot, and, by God, sire, what man would not reach out so for a touch of heaven?”

Charles was still for a moment, slowly smiling, bemused and quite taken with Warwick’s witty salvaging of the situation.

Charles laughed and applauded, and the assembly applauded with the king, all taken with the wonderful romance of it. Charles pummeled Warwick upon the back.

“By the rood, Chatham, most wonderously stated, and most certainly, I could not have passed such a great beauty by!” The king bowed whimsically and gracefully to Ondine.

“Lovely creature, you are indisputably a countess; I claim you to be among the greatest ladies of all my domain. Now, shall we have dinner?”

The king walked by; the assembly followed him.

Hardgrave and Warwick continued to stare at one another; Anne appeared furious and deflated.

Ondine trembled with a rush of warmth that brought color to her cheeks, and she felt faint.

Oh, dearest God, after all, he had defended her, with far more than mere appearance would dictate.

She did not want to be grateful, but she was.

Breathlessly so. Achingly so. No threat or rage of his could have ever humbled her.

The amazing reverence of his kiss upon her hand had done what words and warning might never accomplish.

She wanted to thank him; she didn’t know how.

“Hardgrave,” Warwick said icily, “slander my wife, and you slander me. She might be defenseless to your malice and your sword; I, most assuredly, am not.”

He led Ondine after the king. Ondine heard Justin comment cheerfully to Anne as he followed behind them.

“ Tsk, tsk, Anne. My dear sister might be from the streets, but that’s far better than the gutter, from where some females do come!”

Anne snapped out an oath that had definitely been born in the gutter. Justin laughed. Warwick turned to him, and they chuckled together, and each took one of her arms in a most gallant fashion.

She lowered her eyes, deeply in love with both the brothers Chatham.

* * *

Dinner came and passed, a feast with many courses. Jugglers performed, a bear danced, and the minstrels played. Ondine danced with the king, with Justin, with the rogue Buckingham . . .

And with her husband.

But Charles never seemed to tire, and even as the hour grew late, he told Warwick that he had a kingdom to rule and needed some counsel, if Warwick thought he might be able to set his personal problems aside for an evening.

Jake materialized to take Ondine to her chamber; she knew that he would remain outside the door.

For a long time she walked the floor, deep in thought. Pride burst in her, for the evening, for the man she loved. Anguish touched her, for already he planned to be rid of her. But—oh, God!—she owed him so . . .

She gnawed upon her nails and walked again with agitation. The hour grew later and later, but she suddenly cast open the door and asked Jake if she might summon a maid and a bath.

Jake seemed surprised and even a little disgruntled, but he called to one of the guards, and minutes later, a sleepy little maid appeared, and then a trail of pages brought a gigantic tub, filling it with steaming water.

Ondine bathed long and luxuriously in wonderfully scented oils. And while she soaked she sipped upon a glass of port for the courage she felt she needed.

When the water cooled, she emerged. She dressed in her sheerest gown, and the little maid brushed her hair to a high gloss, one that rivaled the fire of splendor.

Then the boys returned for the tub, the maid bobbed a curtsy and left, and she was alone. She found a high-backed chair, dragged it to the fire, curled her toes beneath her, sipped more port, and waited.

It was long past midnight when she heard the door twist. A flush rose within her, and an unbearable tingling sensation of warmth and nerves danced inside her.

Warwick strode into the room. She felt his eyes upon her. He walked to a small table and cast his small sword upon it. He saw the port bottle and poured himself a glass, then moved around before her, taking a chair opposite her, and, sitting, watched her over the rim of his glass.

“What are you doing still up?” he asked her.

Courage seemed to fly; he sounded so distant and so cold.

She lowered her eyes and shook her head.

He leaned forward suddenly, fingers tight around his glass, voice harsh.

“What?”

“I—I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

She paused, hesitant. Surely he knew of what she spoke! But he would not make it easy for her; he awaited her answer.

“Anne wished to make a mockery of me. You did not allow her. There were whispers throughout the night, but no one was appalled, everyone seemed enchanted with your story,” Ondine whispered at last.

He leaned back again. She felt his gold gaze so keenly over the rim of his glass.

“You are a Chatham. It is that simple, madam, you owe me no thanks.”

She couldn’t speak then; she felt foolish and rejected.

“Is there more?” he inquired suddenly.

She uncurled her feet, wanting only to escape. But she didn’t have time to rise. He suddenly cast his glass into the flames, creating a hiss and sizzle. He strode to her, hands on the sides of her chair, blocking her in.

“You smell like a garden, madam, as elusive as a dream, as seductive as night jasmine. Your gown leaves nothing to be imagined. Were I not so thoroughly aware of the most ardent hostility of your regard for me, I just might be so intended to imagine an attempt at seduction on your part, a most dumbfounding experience, and certainly shattering to self-control. What was on your mind, Ondine?”

She shook her head suddenly, vehemently. Her hair gleamed and cascaded with that small motion like rivers of molten silk.

“Let me be!” she gasped. Oh! This had taken all her courage, and he mocked her!

“Madam, seduction was your intent. Why?”

“Just let me pass—”

“No. Why?”

She would never break through the barrier of his arms, or that of his harsh determination. She raised her head to his last stern question.

“I told you! I wanted to thank you—”

“Holy Mother of God!” he thundered. “Thank me?”

“I—”

“Lady, come to me for one reason and one reason only. Ever. Come to me because you want me.”

“Oh, God!” she breathed, mortified. She couldn’t even seduce him properly! What a fool . . . “Please!” she rasped out.

He moved. She rose like a bird in flight, but spun back against his chest with another gasp. He caught the fabric of her gown.

“Could you possibly want me, Ondine?” he whispered to her.

And sensation fell all about her—the feel of her own skin, smooth and sensual with oil, the engulfing warmth of the fire, of his body, the feel of his arms around her.

She didn’t think. She stared into his eyes. She did not speak, or even nod, but felt compelled by the night, by magic. She stepped back and touched the shoulders of her gown. It fell to the floor, a mystical cloud at her feet.

He did not touch her, but held her eyes as he shed his clothing, hastily, smoothly, letting it lie where it had dropped. When he was naked, when the flames played splendidly in a vast golden glow over his shoulders and chest, he spoke to her at last.

“Come to me.”

She did, a step at a time. She fit into his arms and felt the great consuming passion of his kiss, the exciting arrogance of his hands upon her.

Their mouths came apart and met again, came apart and met. She pressed against him and longed to feel him with all her body. She pressed her lips to his shoulder, his chest, his throat, his fingers. She fell to her knees before him and gloried to the hoarse fever of his cry.

They never went into the bed, but made love upon the floor, with no covering but one another, no heat but that of the fire and of their fusing bodies. There was no future for her that night, nor was there a past . . . just the flaming passion of the night.