Page 58 of Ondine

From the stables he’d gone to his office and procured a large supply of gold coins. She would refuse them, but she’d take them, and she’d be on that ship to sail far away from England if he had to have her bound and gagged until the ship was too far out for the little fool to dream of returning.

Warwick paused in his study, frowning to find the brandy bottle on his desk.

No matter, he took a long burning swig of the stuff, knowing he would need it.

He would face his final confrontation with her tonight, and it would take everything that lurked within him to keep himself from touching her, from breaking, from telling her not that he despised her as a peasant, but that he adored her as a woman.

She had to leave. He was not a superstitious man, but he felt as if the very walls of Chatham were closing in around them, as if the storm and darkness and howling wind were a warning that death was closing in once again . . .

He straightened his shoulders, then strode through his chamber and the bath, ready to confront her. He swung open the door to her chamber, then stopped, frozen with amazement and fear.

She was not there.

“Ondine!” he called. The wind moaned the only reply. In seconds he tore about the place, searching every nook and cranny, beneath her bed, beneath his bed, in the bath, the closet, everywhere.

She was not there.

He stormed out to the hall, shrieking for Jake. The little man ran anxiously up the stairs.

“She’s gone!”

“She can’t be! I swear by my life, she passed me not!”

Justin emerged into the portrait hallway from the dining room, staring warily at his brother’s torn features, then at Jake.

“What—”

“She’s gone! By God, I have to find her. Justin—”

“I’ve never touched one of your wives!” Justin railed furiously, and then he, too, seemed to sense some import in the night, and his face paled. “Why do we stand here? We must confront the danger.”

The front door opened and closed. Clinton entered, carrying the household ledgers. He stared up at those tense men in surprise.

“What is it?”

“Ondine! Have you seen her?”

Clinton stiffened and hesitated. “If you intend to offer the lass more ill use, Warwick, I’ll not tell you a thing! And if you so desire, I’ll be glad to depart this place in the morning! You behave as no decent man, but as the beast the title claims you to be!”

Warwick came tearing down the stairs and clutched his cousin’s shoulders frantically. “Clinton, for God’s mercy! I intend no harm to her! I am frightened to the bone!”

Clinton tensed, aware now that something was wrong, and that Warwick was frantic. He hesitated just a second longer, then spoke gently.

“She is in her room. She seemed ill; Mother took her.”

“What? Nay, Clinton, nay—she is not in her room. I came from there—she is gone.”

“Then . . .”

“Where is Mathilda?” Justin asked suddenly.

Silence followed his inquiry. Then Jake spoke, his voice quavering uncertainly.

“The . . . the chapel? There ’twas where she disappeared before . . .”

His sentence fell. Warwick, with the others at his heels, raced like the raging wind to the chapel door.

It was barred. He slammed his shoulder against the wood, but it was sturdy stuff.

He slammed against it again and found his brother and cousin at his side.

With the next heave the latch broke, and the door went tumbling in.

For one moment they all paused, icy horror enwrapping them. Mathilda sat on the stone by Genevieve’s altar, her legs dangling over it, as she dragged Ondine ever closer to the orifice.

Ondine . . . She seemed to sleep, her sweet peaceful beautiful lips curving upward in innocence. Could she be dead? Nay! For a noose was about her throat; a noose well tied and tightened! It was strung to the altar so that once she fell, the short length of rope would hang her quick and well.

“Warwick! And Justin, too, I see. Dear, dear Clinton! ’Tis almost done now. I take my lady with me—and future Chathams may now reside in peace!”

“No!” Warwick shrieked the word; the sound rose like thunder and cascaded about them, anguish deeper than life or death.

Mathilda smiled sweetly, then edged herself into the gap.

“No!” Even as he raged, Warwick moved, leaping across the chapel with a great cat’s power and rage.

He was too late; Mathilda was gone, and Ondine’s lovely form began to follow hers.

It was not too late, it couldn’t be, dear God, it couldn’t be!

He threw himself toward the cavity and, catching his wife’s skirt, tugged and pulled and lifted—and dragged her back to his side, panting. Justin was there, quickly easing the noose from about her throat. She was so white, so pale, so cold!

Warwick pressed his head to her chest, listened and prayed.

“She lives!” Justin shrieked. “She lives! I hear her breathe.”

And then her eyes opened. Lost, she saw Warwick above her, saw his haggard features, his golden eyes.

She smiled, and her eyes fell shut once again.

Warwick cast the rope far away. He rose to his knees, swept her into his arms, and stood, resting his cheek against her hair, tears stinging his eyes at the precious, precious beauty of her warmth.

He turned to take her away from this loathsome place of death, but paused then, for his eyes fell upon Clinton. Clinton, who had tenderly lifted the small weight of his mother’s body from the hole of darkness. Clinton, ravaged now and stunned by the events.

“She was mad,” he whispered raggedly, still trying to understand it all. Then his gaze rested on Warwick, fell upon Ondine with a flicker of happiness.

“By God, Warwick. I am so sorry.” He shook his head painfully. “I didn’t know; I had no idea . . .”

“I know that,” Warwick said softly. “And I, too, am sorry, Clinton. It was the generations past that so destroyed her.”

Clinton, dazed, cradling his mother’s cheek, nodded.

“Before God, Warwick,” he said hoarsely, “I love your wife, as a cousin should. Never would I have seen harm come her way if I’d had any idea at all .

. . Oh, God! Blessed saints, I know sorrow, yet I feel the keenest joy that Ondine lives and breathes!

If it will ease you, Cousin, I’ll bury my mother, then leave—”

“Nay, Clinton,” Warwick said gently, raw with Clinton’s pain.

“Nay! We are Chathams, all. We three have paid this night for the sins of our fathers, but that horrible debt is paid. From it all we have one another. Chatham is yours, as well as mine. She was your mother—my father’s half sister.

We will bury her; and we will go on, together, to see that the past remains truly buried. ”

Then Justin spoke. “Take her, Warwick; take Ondine from here. I will see to Mathilda with Clinton.”

Warwick nodded. He stepped outside into the wind, for he felt he needed that cleansing touch.

Far out in the northern hills the wolves began to howl.

And he was glad, for he knew that it was a natural sound, and no specter to haunt the night, ever again.

The rain began, cleansing, refreshing.

He started for the house, anxious to bring Ondine back to consciousness, anxious to love her with all his heart.