Page 7 of Ondine

No more needed to be said. An excited murmur rose from the crowd, and the magistrate almost fell over himself in his haste to be efficient.

The fat friar began to mumble out some broken words, and Ondine discovered that her shackles were gone and her hand was being held by the firm grip of the stranger.

It was the ale, she told herself. It had cast her into some strange dream that was an illusion meant to ease her death. But it wasn’t a dream—she could no longer feel the rough chafing of the noose about her neck.

She gasped as she felt his fingers bite cruelly into her arm, then her eyes widened to meet his hard hazel ones. “Speak your vows!” he told her curtly. “Unless you choose to hang—”

She spoke. She faltered and stumbled, but followed the friar’s orders. The friar kept mumbling until the stranger interrupted him.

“Is the ceremony complete?”

“Well, aye, my lord. You are legally wed—”

“Good.” He stuffed a coin into the friar’s hand. A scroll was set before them, and he signed his name, Warwick Chatham, with a flourish. Then his eyes, still hard and sharp, seemed to sear her with impatience. “Your name!” he hissed. “Or your mark if you are incapable of writing—”

The indignity of his suggestion made her move, but even so, she shook so badly that she did not sign with her usual clear script; the quill wavered and her name was barely legible. Just as well, she thought as her mind began to function again. It might have been recognized.

The friar puffed and blew on the ink to dry it.

The document was rolled and tied, then snatched from the friar by Warwick as he emitted an irritable oath.

He did not thank the friar for his services again.

He turned to leave the Tyburn Tree, pulling Ondine along behind him.

She jerked back, tears filling her eyes as she saw the two remaining ropes thrown over the beams. “Joseph!” she called out.

He smiled at her. “Go, girl! Long life and a fruitful union. Our blessed Jesus does provide miracles!”

A whipcrack sounded, and the horses whinnied and bolted. Ondine screamed as she heard the thud of weight snapping upon the ropes.

“Don’t look!” the stranger commanded. For the first time there was a rough sympathy in his tone, and despite her stench, he whirled Ondine comfortingly into his arms as he dragged her away.

She could not see, for her tears for Joseph and the boy filled her eyes.

A moment later she was released and set to lean against something hard and cold.

She blinked and discovered that it was a carriage with an elaborate coat of arms engraved upon the door.

The little jackanapes who had first approached her stood waiting for them. “Is it done, then, milord?”

“It is,” Warwick Chatham replied.

“What do we do with ’er now, then, sir?”

“Hmmm—”

Warwick’s eyes swept over her, and she felt a flush spreading throughout her body at his cool assessment. She felt somehow as if he had ravaged her. A slight smile played upon his lips as he cocked his head toward his coachman and lifted a well-arched brow.

“She is a bit of a mess, isn’t she, Jake?”

Despite everything, anger coursed through her.

The arrogance of the man! Did he think that people emerged from Newgate smelling like roses?

He deserved a night in the pit himself; hours of dank darkness to quell his pride, and infested water to sap his well-honed strength.

Yet she was glad that she longed to slap him for his amusement.

It would not be so hard to desert the man who had saved her life if she could resent him so furiously.

She was surprised that he didn’t wrinkle his aristocratic nose at her.

He laughed instead, apparently aware that his perusal had left her extremely indignant, her temper rising despite the circumstances.

“Milord Whomever-it-is-that-you-may-be!” she snapped. “I do not intend ingratitude for my life. But I am not an animal to be discussed as if I lacked the wit to comprehend my own language.”

His brow remained high, and he inclined his head slightly toward her, as if both surprised by her words and faintly amused.

“No, madam, you are not an animal. But you are in a truly slovenly form, and something must be done about it.”

Ondine lowered her lashes. She was more than slovenly; she was odious. And her temper was fading as quickly as it had come, because when she closed her eyes, she could see Joseph swinging from the rope. She had just barely escaped death.

“I am offensive,” she said quietly. “I am sorry.”

“You needn’t be. A bride from the gallows can hardly be expected to appear her best. And filth is a problem that can be remedied. What do you say, Jake?”

Jake scratched his bewhiskered chin. “I say we head home by way of Swallow’s Ford. To seek some—niceties!”

“As in a bath!” Warwick Chatham laughed. “Fine idea. Shall we?”

The carriage door swung open, and she felt the stranger’s arms upon her again, thrusting her up and into the carriage—an elegant carriage with velvet seats and silk linings.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked her. He watched her, his foot upon the mounting block.

“Comfortable? Ah . . . quite.” She should have swung with poor Joseph, yet she had married instead. Married!

She had married a man with a knight’s shoulders and hard hazel eyes, a man decked in the finest garb available.

A rugged man, a frightening man, “a forest beast.” The little man, Jake, had grinned at the description.

She trembled despite herself. She would escape him, surely, she swore inwardly to ease her fear.

He was still watching her, waiting. For what?

She cleared her throat to speak, politely now. Perhaps he had just hoped to save her.

“Sir, I offer my apologies for my temper, and my most heartfelt gratitude! Yet you needn’t feel responsible for me. If you’d just leave me, I do have friends in London—”

“That’s quite impossible,” he told her.

“But surely—”

“Madam, I could swear I just heard you promise to love, honor, and obey till death us do part.”

“It was—real?” she demanded in a stilted whisper.

“It was.”

“Why?” she challenged him quickly.

“I needed a wife,” he told her bluntly. Then he closed the carriage door, calling to Jake, “On to Swallow’s Ford!”

And the carriage jolted into action.