Page 70 of Ondine
Still, Ondine was at a loss. Once she started this speech, she knew she must complete it, and complete it well. She did not dare be squeamish!
“Raoul . . .” she whispered painfully, taking his hand into hers and delicately drawing lines over the slim blue veins on the back of it. “Oh, Raoul . . .”
“What is it?” he cried to her, turning to see the very real distress in her eyes.
He took both her hands in his, holding them tightly as he spoke earnestly.
“Ondine . . . I’ve threatened you only because I must!
But I have coveted you forever, my beauty, and will be your husband. If you’ve trouble, you must tell me!”
“Oh!” she cried, and managed to squeeze a tear onto her cheeks. “It’s your father, Raoul, if he knows—”
“Forget Father!” Raoul said heatedly. “You will be my wife; the duchess; I will be the duke—not Father! Tell me, tell me anything, and I will protect you!”
“Would that you could!” she whispered. It was not so difficult to speak; she was merely acting again, and a good performance created its own satisfaction and reward.
“Do you doubt me?” he swore hoarsely. “Ondine, if only you cared . . .”
She took it a step further, elegantly sliding to her knees at his feet, allowing the silver hood to fall back as she faced him.
“I do, Raoul, oh, I do! I don’t know why I ever ran! I still need to know you . . . but I am so certain that we can be happy together . . . could have been happy together.”
“Could have! Come, Ondine, off your knees, into my arms!” He put his arm about her, drawing her to him. He attempted nothing like his brutal, disgusting kiss, and so Ondine rested there, smiling a bit secretively, since he could no longer see her eyes or lips.
“What is this ‘could have’! There is nothing, nothing that will keep me from you!”
“But there might well be, Raoul!” she wailed. “I lied to you, Raoul. You see, my fear is not for my life, but for my immortal soul!”
“What is this nonsense?”
“I do not really know, yet I’m afraid! Raoul, when I ran from here, I hid in the forest. There was a man there who helped me, and I married him.
At least, I think it was legal. But then, I left him.
I ran, for I realized that he was crude, nothing but a lout of a peasant.
But if he still lives, Raoul, then I cannot marry again.
Not unless he can be found; not unless—he dies, or the marriage is annulled. We must find him to do that, Raoul.”
Raoul jumped to his feet in a sudden fury, turning to stare at her. “Then you are no innocent! Yet you refuse me—”
“Nay!” she cried in her most pathetic voice.
“It is not you I refuse. Oh, Raoul, you know that isn’t so, please, know it!
But my soul, Raoul, he must be found!” She bit her lip, amazed that she could make her eyes glitter with tears.
“Raoul!” she whispered brokenly, and he was back beside her.
“Your father intends to bring a physician. He’ll part us then! I’ll never be able to love you!”
“Love me now!”
“Oh, that I could! But my soul, Raoul!”
“Damn your soul!”
“Ah, my life I could damn! But not my chances for eternity!”
“Oh, God!” Raoul swore, clenching his fists.
Neither of them noticed that a tense and haggard face, kept barely in restraint, gazed upon them from the open doorway of the smith. Fists were clenched more tightly than Raoul’s, eyes blazed a fury that well cautioned of eternal damnation.
Barely, barely did Warwick hold his temper. Barely, barely was he able to keep himself from reaching out and wrenching her to his side, slaying Raoul with a single blow from his hammer.
Wait, dear God, patience! he warned himself.
But patience came hard as he gazed upon her, a thing of molten beauty, fire and ice, in her silver fox.
He forced himself to breathe deeply, to loosen his hold upon the hammer.
Lean back, my friend, he cautioned, enjoy the show. Act Two would be his, and it would come very soon.
Raoul next fell to his knees at Ondine’s feet. “I swear, I’ll·find this man! And my father will not touch you, that I swear, too. Just keep silent for now, and trust in me.”
“As you say, Raoul.” Smiling, she smoothed back his hair. Then she shivered, and he suggested they return to the house. Hand in hand, they walked back through the snow.
* * *
Ondine was so elated and confident that the rest of the day went very well indeed. She called Berta in early so that she could wash her hair and dry it by the fire. Berta chose the most daring of her gowns, one with a ludicrously low bodice, yet Ondine demurely slipped into it without a word.
For the moment it was wise to keep Raoul panting. She could, in fact, almost feel pity for him. He was so weak against her will.
Yet he was weak in the hands of others, too; that above all had to be remembered.
Still...
Ah, it was so much easier to go down to dinner that night. It was easy to smile to welcoming comments, easy to consume her meal with relish, easy, even, to meet Raoul’s gaze across the table, to blush and allow her own gaze to fall, then meet his once again.
Even William seemed disarmed that night, glad of the camaraderie between the two. She played the spinet again, shared brandy in the study, and most blushingly accepted Raoul’s kiss on her cheek when she mounted the stairway.
It was her uncle who stopped her that night, catching her hand right before she would enter her room.
“Duchess—even I could swear that you have truly had a change of heart.”
She widened her eyes in surprise at the doubt in his statement. “Ah, Uncle! I believe that life can only be what we make it! What would I do, here alone? Who would I have, without you to protect and guide me?”
“You are truly resigned?”
“Why, sir, I am even content!”
He nodded, perhaps not really believing her, but content with her behavior for the moment.
Ondine smiled, then withdrew her hand in a leisurely manner and continued on into her room.
She closed and bolted the doors behind her, leaned against them, and even chuckled softly.
Then she swept through the sitting room, her hands already busy on the laces of her gown. All was going well; she would not have to fight her uncle. Raoul would. Tomorrow morning she would return to William’s desk and search it thoroughly.
She started to hum a little tune as she breezed into her bedchamber and slipped out of her gown, allowing it to lie at her feet. In her chemise only, she stretched luxuriously, believing for once that there was hope, that will alone could make her the victor.
“Good evening.”
The words snapped her instantly from her reverie. She opened her eyes wide, stunned to see a sooted and blackened figure seated easily upon her dresser, idly swinging long, long legs.
She opened her mouth, gasping for breath to scream, yet the sound never came. He was instantly up, clutching her from behind, sliding a hand across her mouth even as he pulled her against the muscled strength of his chest.
“Don’t scream, milady; gallows’ bride; Countess. But then it is Duchess now, I believe! Tsk, tsk! How confusing. But no matter, don’t bother to scream. ’Tis only me—that crude lout of a peasant you so woefully married!”