Page 59 of Ondine

A log snapped and crackled on the fire, bringing Ondine back from the depths of the fog that had claimed her.

She opened her eyes slowly and saw the golden blaze of the fire before her. It was the only light in the room; no candles burned. Only that soft glow came to her.

It wasn’t her room she lay in, but Warwick’s.

She knew that, even as her eyes adjusted to the shimmering blaze.

She was upon Warwick’s massive bed. The sheets felt clean and fresh, as she felt herself.

She lifted her hands and saw a white ruff upon her sleeves and knew that someone had bathed and dressed her.

A chill swept through her, despite the warmth of the blaze, despite the serenity and security of the room.

Memories of the recent past swept over her with a rush of terror—her feeling of utter helplessness, of watching her own doom, of having no part in it.

She shuddered as she thought of the rope about her neck—a sensation with which she was growing dreadfully familiar!

—and the sheer madness of Mathilda’s eyes.

But Warwick . . . Warwick had been there, to catch her when she would fall once again.

And yet, despite it all, she was glad. She had fulfilled her promise, and not so much for the debt of her life, but because she loved him.

He would no longer live in pained frustration, wondering what brutal power had chosen to haunt his life and kill his beautiful bride. She would be free—and so would he.

Ah, still the things he’d said rankled deep in her heart; her pride decreed it so!

Still someday she might dream to come before him, her lands and title restored, and smile sweetly while she chose any man but him!

Such a thing was pride. Yet such a thing was love that she already felt the horrible aching void of leaving him while she lay here, in his bed.

A despair fell over her, threatening to overwhelm all good intentions.

She had to leave. Tonight. She could not trust him; the danger was over, but so was her role.

He might well want her in the Colonies anyway—shoved away and out of sight while he pursued his fight for a divorce with Charles and the Church of England.

She dared not linger, but she didn’t know his mind.

She sighed, then feared that the sigh would turn to a sob; she opened her eyes wide, stretching. She noticed then a movement beside her and turned quickly to discover Warwick, his features shadowed, haunted, his eyes pure gold and glittering like the sun upon her.

“Ondine . . .”

She smiled, tremulously, determined now to reassure him, for all that she might despise his temper and his arrogance, he was a man of his word. Never had he faltered in her defense, never had he forgotten his vow to preserve her life—always had he been there, somehow, when she needed him.

“Can you speak, can you move?”

His hand touched hers; she wound her fingers around it and smiled. “I’m well, I feel no effects.”

His eyes and touch moved to her throat, where he gently probed that flesh. “A chafe, I believe, no more. ’Twas poppy seed that drugged you. I had Lottie comb the kitchen and cellar, for I feared the drug upon you as much as the deed that—near came to fruition.”

“Mathilda is . . .”

“Dead, aye, gone to peace, poor woman.”

“And Clinton?”

“He aches, as is natural.” He fell silent for a moment, then closed his eyes tightly and opened them again. “She was my aunt, you know. Here, as long as I remember. Always a part of my life. And none of us knew, we never imagined . . .”

“I’m sorry, Warwick.”

He sighed and said nothing, then looked at her once again. “It was easier, this, than had it been Justin, or Clinton. Easier to find madness the culprit than avarice. And, then again, ’tis easier to have it known and ended.”

“Have you—made your peace with Justin?”

He nodded, idly taking her fingers, playing gently and absently with his own.

“Aye, that I have. ’Twas not so hard, for he understood that I lived with a madness of my own, that madness being fear.

He did not know till we spoke tonight that you had once been attacked in the chapel before, cast into the crypt.

And Clinton . . . Clinton knew nothing. You see, when I first claimed that Genevieve had been murdered, no one believed me.

They thought I had gone into a deep pit of grief and was lashing out blindly.

Clinton felt guilty that he had not recognized this madness in his mother; he felt he should have known.

Justin and I have tried hard to reassure him that none of us knew what nightmares haunted her and twisted her mind. ”

Ondine lowered her lashes, watching the long brown fingers move on hers.

She felt like crying; she must not. He spoke with such weariness, he appeared so very exhausted and haggard, such a ton taken from him.

When had he slept last? Certainly not long or well on their journey home.

He had been stiff and distant, but always near her, always on guard.

He certainly had not slept on their last night in the cottage.

That night! That night she must remember now!

His cold brutality; his words, daggers in themselves!

His arrogance, his determination to dominate all with absolute and ruthless control.

Warwick Chatham, master of his realm, of his life, of all that came beneath him.

This she must remember, for she had to leave.

“Warwick, what now? What of Mathilda and Clinton? Suicide, the Church claims, is the greatest sin, yet I cannot believe that God will not take pity on her wretched soul—”

“Nor can I,” Warwick assured her flatly. “My grandfather gave her life; she will lie in Chatham ground. And suicide . . . I say that it cannot be called so, for it was an illness as sure as the plague that killed Mathilda, and Masses will be said for her soul. Have no fear on that account.”

She plucked at the sheet, nodding, glad.

Had Warwick discovered that murder had been cold-blooded for gain, she felt sure the killer would have received no mercy.

Yet in this she was not surprised, for she thought him honorable in such things, and was both glad and proud that all the Chatham men knew when and how to bind together in support of one another, the legitimate heirs and bastard all the same.

“Clinton was most distressed. He felt he handed you over, straight into the arms of death. He did not know.”

“He mustn’t feel that. He had really meant to—to shield me from you.”

“Aye!” Warwick said, his tone lowering to that dangerous one she knew so well. “And what were you doing, wandering about? How did you get past Jake? He swears you did not go by the door.”

She hesitated, then decided there would be no harm in answering him.

It was best that he know about the corridor, the spiral stairs and the door.

She would need that escape route no longer, once he slept tonight—which he must, for he was so very weary—she would leave with all silence through the door.

“There is a panel in my chamber.”

He scowled. “I’ve searched that place—”

“’Tis behind the latrine,” she told him softly.

He swore beneath his breath, thoroughly self-disgusted. “Tomorrow it will be opened! Ah, this place! We hid so many Royalists and priests! But the time is over now for the refuge of fugitives; I’ll have no more secrets in it.”

She smiled absently, for that would be none of her concern. She started to rise, saying, “I must see Clinton. I want to tell him that I am sorry, that—”

“Nay, not now. You’ll have the morning.”

The morning . . . so he did, indeed, intend to see her gone by afternoon.

What had she imagined? Ah, but he was tender tonight, and so very warm, when she had known such coldness from him!

She wanted his touch so desperately; some fresh memory of all that had been beautiful between them to take with her into the horrible emptiness of the future!

She wanted no more words between them; no more thoughts of the mourning that must engulf Chatham.

She wanted one last glimpse of magic, be it illusion, be it a dream. She hoped to forget the world for just a few hours . . .

He touched her forehead, smoothing back a lock of her hair. He pressed his lips against her forehead, and they were hot and fervent and tender. Then he backed away from her, smiling ruefully.

“There’s much to be said; much to be planned. But no more tonight. I shudder each time I think of how close it came . . .”

“You were there,” she whispered.

“Just barely,” he told her. “Jake thought of the chapel; some blessed sense of suspicion and recall came to him. Without Clinton and Justin, I’d never have broken the door.

It was a close rescue, madam, frighteningly so.

So now you will try your strength no more, but sleep, and I will pray that the nightmare leaves your mind and that you are truly well. ”

“I am well!” she protested with a frown. He was standing, preparing to leave her to sleep—this last night.

She caught his hand, a fire of panic sparkling in her eyes, making them shimmer like a liquid sea in the soft glow of the blaze that made an intimate haven of the room. She came to her knees, holding his hand, halting his departure.

“Warwick, I—”

“No words tonight!” he commanded her. “You must lie back, sleep, recover!”

“There is naught to recover from!” she said swiftly, faltering, uncertain—frightened that he would reject even this overture from her.

“Please,” she whispered, then hesitated, lashes sweeping over her cheeks once more.

“I—” She paused, finding the courage to stare up at him.

Then she thought of her own person, and an entry to the conversation she sought to find.