Page 52 of Ondine

They ate upon the bed with the tray between them.

They finished as if of one mind, and their eyes locked upon one another’s.

Warwick removed the tray, and they still sat, cross-legged, not an arm’s length away.

He moved to slip her sash, to part her robe, and for the longest time he simply stroked her flesh, drawing tender lines between the valley of her breasts.

In time she uttered a sound and rose to her knees, still fascinated by the depths of his eyes, longing to touch him.

She slipped the robe from his shoulders and cast her fingers upon him in leisurely discovery.

She felt the line of muscle and sinew, played within the vast mass of hair upon his chest. For long moments the silence between them continued, broken only by the eloquence of their eyes.

The warmth of the fire crackled. She threaded her fingers into his hair, rested her chin atop his head, and felt his face cradled against her breast. Then he, too, was on his knees, and slow simmering ardor blazed to vast and seeking hunger.

He sank to his haunches, wrapping the slender length of her legs around him.

Whisper followed whisper, tenderness tempered urgency.

All the things he said, the things he did, movement and measure, she would remember.

Ecstasy upon ecstasy . . .

So would he recall, with vivid imagery, the sweet magic beauty of that night. So would he recall . . .

* * *

They came, at last, the next afternoon to the races.

Warwick showed great enthusiasm for the horses, finding Justin and swearing that it was a shame they’d none of their own breed that day.

Justin said that his colt could beat any mount upon the field; Warwick retorted that whether the colt could would matter little—Dragon could take any horse he’d seen to date.

There was gaming and gambling, betting and good cheer.

The king was attended by his queen, the skies were clear, and the day was astoundingly sunny and clear.

Staring at all the elegantly dressed lords and ladies, at the hawkers and merchants, Ondine smiled easily, in love with life itself.

There was but one flaw this morning; one sour note that could make her smile falter.

Anne and Hardgrave stood not far behind them, Anne as glorious as ever, Hardgrave stocky but attractive in lace sleeves and velvet maroon breeches and coat.

He saw Ondine’s eyes upon him and smiled in a manner that made her heart leap with curious fear.

It was not that he gazed at her with such an evident leer—men, she knew with a sigh of resignation, often wore such ridiculous expressions.

Nay, it was something more. She frowned, then realized her concern.

He did not look like one merely lecherous, but one who thought—no, expected!—to fulfill his every fantasy.

Ondine held Warwick’s arm tightly. He patted her hand absently and pointed out a dappled gray steed to Justin, swearing it would win by a full length.

Moments later the horses were running. Warwick and Justin stepped forward with enthusiasm. Ondine turned slightly and saw that Anne and Hardgrave were not far behind.

There was a wild array of shouting as the horses raced over the finish line. People grouped more tightly about the track.

“You’re sure? You’re absolutely positive that you procured the right vial from the king’s laboratory?”

Ondine frowned, certain that Anne was speaking in a hushed whisper behind her. She heard gruff laughter and strained to hear Hardgrave’s reply, but she could not. Too many lucky gamblers were laughing and congratulating one another about them.

To her surprise Anne and Hardgrave approached them. “Did you choose a winner, Warwick?” Hardgrave inquired politely.

“I usually do,” Warwick replied.

“Did you gamble, then?” Anne asked pleasantly.

“Alas, no, we came too late.” Ondine noted that Warwick answered pleasantly, but that his lazy gaze upon the two was nevertheless intent and wary.

“Oh!” Anne said suddenly. “Perhaps we could move to the oak—there—and have a better view.”

Justin gazed at his brother. Warwick arched a brow, but it was true that they might better inspect the horses from that vantage point. They moved to the oak.

“They start!” Anne announced. “Who shall win?”

“I say the bay!” Hardgrave boomed.

“The bay!” Justin protested. “Nay—that chestnut, yon. See his great breadth of shoulder.”

Warwick laughed. “You’re both wrong! ’Tis that great black stallion will take the race. I’ll stake a hundred pounds upon it!”

“I’ll see that bet!” Hardgrave challenged.

They are children—the lot of them! Ondine decided with disgust. Give them a bit of entertainment, and bygones were bygones so that the game might be enjoyed.

“And what do you say, Ondine?” Anne queried her.

“Why, the ebony stallion, of course,” Ondine replied more tartly than she wished. “I would support my husband.”

Anne grinned and idly looked around as the men crowded the fence. “They do sell the most wonderful things about here. Pastries that are delicious, ribbons and bows, buckles and lace. We must walk about later. It’s wonderful fun, don’t you think?”

“Aye, that it is.”

A shot was fired; the crowd roared as the next race began. They were pushed and shoved from behind, and Ondine suddenly felt herself roughly jerked toward the oak.

And then she didn’t understand in the least what came to pass, for it was so quick.

A clothed hand was clamped over her mouth.

She tugged upon it madly, determined to shriek and scream, yet she could not.

There was some scent about the hand, about the rag shoved over her mouth, that stole all sense and reason.

She saw the sky, the people, the horses, and all swirled around her.

She felt as if she were being lifted, up, up into the oak, into the sky.

Dear God, what was happening? How had she come to be so very far away? And whose hand was this that constrained her, and what was this sickly sweet odor that robbed her of strength and sense and motion? Her fingers clawed and failed, grew weak and helpless . . .

She heard a scream and thought that it might be her own, but it was not; it was Anne who screamed. She was on the ground, clutching her torn bodice to her breast. Hardgrave was bending to her; Warwick and Justin, confused in the melee, were drawing their swords.

Ondine saw it all as if from a great distance. She wanted to fight; she desperately wanted to scream for Warwick. She could not. Her limbs had gone leaden; her voice had no substance.

Then everything faded around her and all was darkness.

* * *

She awoke with a groan, disoriented. Her head was pounding with a miserable velocity, and she felt quite nauseated. It seemed that she was upon a ship that rocked with the waves in an endless and miserable roll.

She opened her eyes; the world seemed to spin and her head to pound more fiercely.

She closed them quickly, wincing as memory came to her.

She had been standing with the others at the tree.

Then suddenly she had been touched, caught by that unknown hand and—drugged!

She remembered now, and still it made no sense.

She had been attacked, yet Anne had screamed.

Anne had lain upon the ground, as if abused.

Who had been there? A set of thugs? They were bold offenders surely to perpetuate a crime with so many in attendance! Why the attack, and where was she?

She had to open her eyes, had to discover her whereabouts.

She willed her eyes open once again. Light seared into her brain, creating new pain, but she held through it, and in moments her vision cleared.

She tried to move and discovered that she could not.

Her hands were tied to narrow bedposts, and she felt that she pitched and rolled because her prison, it seemed, was a musty ship’s cabin, stale and disheveled, small and tight.

A single window brought in the light, which displayed nothing to quell her growing panic.

In the cabin there was a chart chest, a trunk, and the bunk she lay upon, nothing more.

An open bottle of rum sat upon the chart table and a dirty coat was cast over it.

There was a pitcher on the trunk and a washbowl that seemed permanently etched with grime.

The cabin had an unwholesome odor that threatened to make her ill where she lay.

Nay, nay! She gritted her teeth together, willing herself to think. There was no great mystery here; she had been kidnapped and dragged aboard a ship. But by whom? And for what reason?

Anne! Ondine remembered the words she had overheard, the lady Anne demanding if Hardgrave had taken the right vial from the king’s laboratory. Vial! A drug to steal the sense from her . . .

Was this to be murder, then?

Panicking, she strained and thrashed, yet achieved nothing. Her flesh grew raw, for the more she struggled, the tighter the ropes became. She quieted suddenly, her heart a drumbeat in her ears, for she heard footsteps beyond the door, then voices.

“Hey! What do ye do there, matey?”

“I’m in to ’er, that’s all.”

“She’s to be left; them’s orders!”

“Orders be damned! I’m the one who risked life and limb to snatch her, and I’ll look if I damn well choose!”

The door slammed opened. Ondine closed her eyes, thinking it best to pretend that the drug still claimed her.

Two pairs of footsteps approached the bunk, and with them a stench of long-unwashed flesh that well suited the cabin. She prayed that she would not cough or sneeze at the offense, that she might lie still and listen and learn some bit of information.

Yet it seemed that she lay there for aeons of agony, with the men saying nothing, and her only sense being that of smell; she smelled the tars so thoroughly that she longed to scream.

At last one spoke in a whisper, the braggart who had “risked life and limb” to snatch her.

“She’s fair and fine, Josh, that she is. Young and firm! Would that she’d awake.”

Josh snorted. “Fer what, my friend? Ye’ve heard the order; she’s not to be touched.”

“And why not, might I ask? She’s married, she is—no virgin lass. And think on it, probably wed to an old and graying noble; she’d appreciate sport such as I could give.”

“Sport such as you, you weasel?” Josh sneered. “Forget it! She goes to the bloke downriver—for the rest of the gold!”

“We get the gold; she’ll be delivered goods. C’mon, Josh,” the weasel cajoled. “Wot’s he to know the difference? Steal the lord’s lady was me order! Well, steal her I did! I deserve some reward!”

“You’ll not risk my part of it!”

“Who’s to know?”

“Him—the man who’s paying us, that’s who! ’Less you plan to tear out her vocal chords, and he’d not like that a bit! He said he wanted her unscratched!”

“Bah! I’ll not scratch her!”

There was a silence, a silence in which Ondine thought she would surely die, scream, or go wretchedly mad.

And then he touched her. He caught her hair between his fingers, then placed his stinking paw over her bodice.

She did scream. Her eyes came open wide and horrified, gleaming into the weasel’s. And, oh, he was vile! More snake than any a man—jailor or inmate!—she had ever crossed in Newgate. His teeth were jagged, filthy, yellow. And his hand, the hand that touched her, seemed all but gray . . .

“Don’t! Don’t! Don’t dare! I swear I’ll kill you—”

He interrupted her with a pleased wheeze of laughter. “Spitfire, vixen! All the better. Kill me, will you, bitch? And how?” He reached to the post, tugging at the rope to wrench her wrists in a painful grasp. He started laughing again.

Josh stepped forward; he was not so bad as the weasel, Ondine thought quickly. He was cleaner by far. His clothing, though, was near as threadbare, and he was an older man, lean and pale, apparently agitated by the whole affair.

Ondine held her breath, then let out another long and furious scream, one that pierced the ears and surely threatened doom.

“Leave her, you fool!” Josh commanded.

The weasel chuckled, leaning over her. She inhaled the foul, rummy stench of his breath and thought she would be sick. Dizziness almost overwhelmed her as she realized that he intended to press his stinking mouth to hers.

Her hands were tied, she realized then, but her legs were not. She brought up a knee with all her fury and strength and slammed it fiercely against the weasel’s britches.

He screamed and doubled over, glaring at her hatefully. “Hoity-toity bitch! Nobility! Thinks she’s too damn good for the common man! Maybe not, milady, maybe not! Maybe I’ll decide that the devil can take the gold, and I’ll teach you how to really scream. I’ll—”

She thrashed, aiming for him again. He seemed about to attack her when Josh caught his arms, dragging him away. “Leave her, damn you! Leave her now. That gold is part mine, and part the captain’s, and you’ll not steal it from us!”

He gave the weasel a fierce shrug. The man shook himself, then stamped from the cabin.

“Where am I?” Ondine demanded of Josh. “What gold do you speak of? Free me—and I’ll promise far greater riches!”

Josh didn’t reply. He walked to the table, his back to her.

“Please! I am the Countess of North Lambria! I can—”

“You’ll be nothing but a rich man’s doxy and whim soon, lovely,” Josh said with a weary sigh, turning about. Ondine’s eyes widened as she saw he carried a soaked cloth.

“No!” she screamed.

“Y’er trouble!” he told her flatly. “Too much trouble!”

She squirmed and kicked and twisted, but there was no help for it. Josh sidestepped her legs, swearing that they needed to be tied.

Then the cloth descended over her face. She gasped desperately for breath and found nothing but a void of darkness once again.