Page 66 of Ondine

Ondine swung back around. “Meaning, Berta, that you are ordered to drag me into a tub should I refuse.”

Berta said nothing, but shuffled her feet.

Ondine sighed. “Order the bath, then!”

She fumed all the while that preparations were made, aware that she was made a prisoner in her own home, taught that her place was little better than the servants’, nay, even less so! For the servants were not the subject of her uncle’s strict scrutiny, nor of Raoul’s demented cravings.

When Berta went to touch her with the soap, Ondine came near to slapping her. She managed to contain herself, crisply enunciating that she would be left alone at this point.

Berta did leave her then, and she sank into the hot water, relieved by the steam.

But her peace was scant; Berta returned quickly to be there when she rose, ready with a towel.

Nor did she escape further administrations, for Berta remained to comb and brush her hair, and in this the unlikely lady’s maid was surprisingly talented, smoothing tangles from the long skeins of hair while affording a minimum of pain.

Disagreement arose again then, for Ondine wished to have her hair coiled atop her head; Berta informed her that Raoul wished to see it free and untethered down her back.

Ondine held her temper just barely, then shrugged.

She asked for one of her new high-necked gowns.

Berta brought one from her closet that had been there before her return, an organdy with a deep neckline.

Ondine thought that her temper would surely erupt, yet she contented herself with throwing her brush across the room and thinking nasty thoughts of Raoul.

Look, Cousin, all you will! Stare, then!

For I swear you’ll burn in hell before you ever touch me!

Dressed at last—exactly as had been ordered!

—Ondine came back down the stairs and through the hallway to the great room, where her uncle and cousin awaited her at the table.

They rose for her to sit, and though she kept her eyes downcast, she was vividly aware of their stares.

William’s was suspicious; Raoul’s both appreciative and smugly satisfied.

“Good evening, Niece,” William said pleasantly enough, seating himself again once she was down. “Welcome . . . to your table.”

“Is it my table?” she asked sweetly.

He set his lip grimly and moved to pour her wine.

“You look . . . lovely,” Raoul commented.

“Just as you wished?”

“Aye, just as I wished.”

Ondine managed to retain her smile. Raoul was the weaker of the two, and she might well need this advantage. She turned about as a platter of lamb was offered to her, then frowned, for she didn’t know the man carrying the silver tray; Jem should have been serving.

She waited until they had been left alone in the room and then asked, “Where is Jem?”

Her uncle broke off a piece of bread and chewed it thoroughly, watching her before he spoke.

“Jem will work in the kitchen now.”

Ondine gasped with outrage. “He is too old for such heavy work! You will kill him—”

“I think he will manage,” William interrupted dryly.

Raoul reached his hand across the table, winding his fingers around hers. She thought to pull them away; he held them fast, and her eyes, too liquid with tears, came to his.

“It is best this way,” he told her.

“It is the best, Niece, that you and Jem will get!” William said flatly. “I find myself suspicious of him. And you, my dear, are aware that I trust you not in the least. Stay apart from each other, Ondine, unless you would cause this dear friend greater discomfort!”

She tried to sip her wine, but choked upon it, snapping out, “Oh, I despise you both!”

Raoul stiffened; William smiled. “Watch this beautiful kitten you so desire, Raoul. She is far from declawed!”

Raoul’s fingers tightened punishingly around Ondine’s. “What matters, Father, her heart—she is beaten. And she will yet learn to wear her collar with grace. One month, Ondine,” he added softly, “and I will see you completely humbled.”

She managed to wrench her fingers from his and folded her hands in her lap.

“You’re not eating, my dear,” William remarked pleasantly. She said nothing in response, and he apparently lost interest, indulging his hearty appetite. He turned to his son. “The lead carriage horse has lost another shoe. We must find a new blacksmith by tomorrow.”

Ondine shrieked out an oath that astounded them both and was quickly on her feet, challenging them furiously. That they should send Jem to the kitchen was sorry enough a complication, but Nat, the blacksmith, had served Deauveaus for generations, and she would not see him cast out on her account.

“Jem is not good enough for you, Uncle?” she demanded, her hands set rebelliously on her hips, her chin upthrust. “You must vent your cruelty upon Nat, too? I’ll not see him or speak to him, I swear it!

But don’t cast him away, I”—she hesitated, swallowing back bile—“I beg you, I implore you,” she said more softly, lowering her eyes in surrender.

“Please, I’ll make whatever concessions you demand, but do not leave Nat without a living as winter approaches! ”

She dared to look at William again, only to discover him smiling with the greatest amusement and cynical pleasure.

“Very, very pretty, my dear! But alas! I’ve nothing to bargain with!

I did not cast Nat out of the property on your account; he died last week, of the most natural causes, a happy old man. ”

Chagrined, Ondine hesitated, then faltered. She stared across the table to Raoul. His dark eyes were curiously intent upon her, and she realized with a little rush of fear that her passionate defense of Nat had only served to excite his interest.

Raoul might prefer her soft and acquiescent, but he was not adverse to the excitement of a challenge. He would, indeed, enjoy breaking her to his will.

But she dared not think of such things, else she would find herself running now, no closer to justice than she had ever been. She raised her chin once again and asked quietly, “Is this true?”

“Aye, Ondine. His goodwife said that he came to his cottage one night, hale and hearty as ever despite his age, yet fell asleep and simply did not waken.”

She swallowed once again, lowered her eyes, then sat. But though the lamb was delicious, herb laden and minted, she could not eat. One swallow made her queasy, and she thought it a result of her wretched discomfort with her return home.

She kept her head lowered and meekly requested their leave to return to her room.

And again she knew that William watched her bowed head, trying to fathom her pretense. “You’ll have to learn, and quickly, Duchess, to appreciate the company of your family.”

“I am weary only, Uncle,” she said in a soft tone. “The travel today, the excitement of coming home . . .”

Her voice trailed away. He watched her a moment longer. “You may go to your room,” he said at last.

She rose and swiftly moved to leave the room.

“Ondine!”

She paused in the hallway, drawing a deep breath, for Raoul was following her. His hands fell on her shoulders, and he turned her to face him.

For long moments he stared at her, and she thought again that he might well be handsome to another woman, so defined of feature, so dark and suave.

Yet all that she could see in his face was cruelty and the weakness that came of treachery.

He was but his father’s puppet; yet he was not adverse to spilling blood slyly to attain his goals.

She forced herself not to wrench from his hold, but lowered her head in feigned subjugation.

“What is it, Raoul?”

He hesitated; she felt his nearness, and the bile that lay in her stomach seemed to churn fearsomely.

He touched her cheek, and she clenched hard on her teeth. He raised her chin and she looked into his dark eyes.

“You are incredibly beautiful. I have longed for you all my life. I’ve no real desire to hurt you. Go gently here, and you will fare far better, my cousin.”

She shrugged. “I am here, Raoul. Your father has well established his rule of the house. What can I do but succumb to all that you desire?”

“Grow to love me!” he told her heatedly. “By God, I never wished to harm you!”

“That is why you slew my father, Raoul?” she could not help but query disdainfully.

“By God, Ondine, it is you who slew him!” Raoul replied in a hushed fury. “Had you but shown a preference for me—”

“The saints be thanked!” Ondine interrupted him sarcastically. “You do admit your guilt!”

“I admit nothing! I came to talk some sense into you; to save you from yourself! But you go on, wretched, arrogant bitch! You will, my lady, receive your just dues! Once those vows are taken, madam, you will pay!”

She was not prepared for him and was stunned when he lowered his mouth to hers, grinding his lips there cruelly, seeking entry for a deeper kiss. Caught against him, she could only twist from his assault with her heart painfully beating, choking in her throat and struggling desperately for freedom.

“No!”

She pulled from him with a sudden burst of strength, bringing her hand to her bruised lips and staring at him with horror. The taste about her mouth, the scent; oh, she felt ill . . .

“You promised! You swore you would give me time!”

He seemed about to strike her at first, but when she shrank back, he stiffened, held his temper in check, then said in a curious tone, “Is that it, Ondine, time?”

She thought quickly, desperate to stave him off with no further contact.

“I need that time!” she whispered in a plea. “Time to forget my father’s blood on your hands! Time to become accustomed to you! Please, I will tread gently! I will be with you, walk with you, talk with you—but give me time!”

He hesitated, then pulled her against him. She was ready to fight once more, but held herself back in time.

He merely kissed the top of her head and set her from him.

“Good night, then. Tomorrow we will ride together and talk.”

She nodded, yearning to escape to her chambers.