Page 71 of Ondine

“Warwick!”

She gasped out his name as his hand eased from her mouth, so stunned that the night seemed to swim all around her.

“The same, lady.”

She didn’t like the hard tone of his voice, or the tension she felt from his arms, his hold.

So many emotions raced through her heart that she could barely fathom them all: elation, that he should be here, holding her again; amazement .

. . it was indeed Warwick; terror and trembling, for if he was discovered here, he would be slain in a matter of seconds, and no one would condemn a guardian for killing a man in a “maiden’s” bedchamber!

Oh, and love! And then terror all over again, for he was most certainly livid with anger at her, and though he had somehow appeared in this ridiculous attire, she didn’t—couldn’t—understand the situation at all.

“The new smithy!” she murmured suddenly.

“Ah, yes, once again the same, madam!”

Oh, still the room swam! This . . . this seemed more than she could handle.

She thought that she would swoon, and then she thought that she should swoon, as her experience with Raoul was teaching her that men were malleable creatures, tending to be gentler when they feared they caused a lady distress.

She fluttered her eyes closed, emitted a last sighing gasp, and cast her weight against him.

He lowered her carefully to the floor, but she felt no tenderness from him. She didn’t even feel his touch.

She raised her lashes just a slit to see him leaning upon one knee, casually resting his elbow upon it.

“All the way, Ondine. ’Tis not Raoul you’re with, lady, but me, remember, that peasant lout of a husband.”

“Oh, do go to hell!” she snapped, opening her eyes fully. He chuckled softly, yet his expression remained grave, or what she could see of it, for his cheeks were ill kempt, shadowed with beard, and he was dusky colored from constant exposure to the fire and soot of the forge.

“You’re filthy,” she murmured.

“Alas, yes, we’ve come full circle, so it seems.”

He simply stared down at her, and she realized the disadvantage of her position, prone while he glared upon her from a certain height. She tried to sit, but he pressed her back, and the best she could do was to raise up on her elbows to contest him.

“What are you doing here!”

“Simple, I should think. I’ve come for you.”

“But—” She swallowed, frightened she would cry and terrified that such an action would turn to hysteria.

“Deceitful baggage, my darling duchess, but nevertheless, still my wife.”

“This is no concern of yours.”

“On the contrary; what concerns you must well concern me. Think, my love, of your immortal soul!” he mocked.

“Oh, do get out of here! How in God’s name did you get in?”

“The balcony—and I will not be going for some time yet.”

“Don’t you understand? They’ll kill you!”

He shrugged. “Would that distress you?”

“Certainly! I owe you my life; I don’t wish yours taken!”

“Ah, the emotion that gushes forth from you, love! Would that I were Raoul, so that you might cast yourself at my knee!”

She gritted her teeth. “Raoul is easy—”

“So are all your men, it seems.”

“All my men?”

“Ah, yes, Raoul, Justin—Clinton, for that matter. Jake! Hardgrave—the king! What is it that you do, my darling?”

“Will you please leave! You make a ridiculous blacksmith!”

“And I am not easy, is that it?”

“Warwick!” She lowered her voice and whispered more urgently, “Honestly, you do not realize—they would kill you!”

“Lady, I should like to see your uncle or that sniveling Raoul make such an attempt. I’d most gladly skewer either, or break their bloody necks!

” He placed his hands idly before him. “And I do take offense; these are, most conveniently, wonderful hands for a blacksmith. They’ve well the strength to tackle the tools—or a neck, for that matter. Or even an errant wife.”

“I’m finished with you, Warwick Chatham!” she hissed to him, praying he’d not truly lost his senses, for it seemed he didn’t even bother to keep his voice low. “You married me to discover what had become of—of Genevieve. Now you know. You promised me my freedom—”

“But you did not remain long enough for me to have that chance, did you, milady?”

“I—could not!” she murmured, lowering her eyes from his. “As you seem to know, I could not be sent from the country!”

He blinked, holding tight his expression, wishing most fervently that he had forced her to listen that night she had come so very close to losing her life . . . forced her to stay, to love him in return.

“This is a fool’s quest!” he told her harshly.

“A fool’s!” she cried softly, indignantly. “Chatham, are you blind! This house, these lands, are rightfully mine! Yet that is not what matters! Damn you, how—”

“I went to the king.”

“Then you know,” she whispered, “that I am still suspect of treason and could easily lose my head!”

“Nay, I know that when you ran, you ran in terror, too young and innocent to realize that running but made you more a victim of their game. Charles would never blindly kill—”

She interrupted him with a soft groan. “Warwick, there were witnesses; hoodwinked, but nevertheless honestly believing what they saw.”

“Charles can pardon you.”

She shook her head. “Perhaps he could, but how would that look if the law condemned me? I would never be free of the taint; nor would history ever forgive my father for a deed that was not his!”

He exhaled long and low, and she could not tell what he was thinking. “Ondine,” he said at last, “when we met, you were about to lose your life on the gallows. Pride is not so great a thing to die for! You could have claimed your rank—”

“And died by the headsman’s ax instead!”

“That time is past; you have seen Charles. You know that he believes you innocent.”

She closed her eyes tightly, inwardly pleading that he understand. “Charles cannot prove me innocent either. Only I can find the answer to that dilemma.”

He rose and slowly paced the floor. Gripping the bodice of her chemise tightly to her chest, she sat, watching him. At last he returned to her, hunching down before her, eyes a golden fire of intensity as he spoke.

“You know, too, don’t you, that I could leave here and return with the law—half the king’s army—and demand your return. You are my wife, duchess or no. I can claim my rights and settle it all myself from there.”

Tears stung her eyes, and she lowered her head. “I’ve time!” she pleaded softly, not knowing if he cared, or if his temperament was simply such that he did not let possessions go except by his own decree, in his own manner.

“Please, Warwick! I’ve less than a month now before being forced to a—a—”

“Bigamy is the term, my love.”

She moistened her lips nervously and shook her head. “I never intended to go through any ceremony—”

“Ah, dear Duchess! But what a convincing and fetching pretense you gave today! You were lucky, madam, that I did not end it then and there.”

“Warwick! I must find this forgery! In my possession, it could perhaps be evidence against them!”

“I cannot bear nearly a month, Lady.”

Her heart seemed to skip a beat. She swallowed. “Then you will leave? You’ll not interfere.”

“Oh, I’ll interfere, all right, if you press me too far. And I do not like this one bit; it’s foolhardy and dangerous. Nor will I leave this place; I’ll be here, love, day and night. You do not have a month; you’ve two weeks, if I can manage it.”

“Two weeks!”

“The closer you come to this ‘wedding,’ the more dangerous things will become. And when I warn you, lady, to cease some action that distresses me, you will do so. Immediately.”

She tossed her head back in a sudden fury, making her hair cascade down her back in a sun and fire trail, her eyes ablaze like precious sapphires.

“Sir, I thought perhaps you’d noted that I was no simple common lass. By blood, Warwick, not by marriage. I am the Duchess of Rochester. You’ll not treat me like—”

“My lady, I do not give a damn if you carry the blood of a thousand kings! You will listen to me because you are my wife, because I wish to keep you from danger, and because—I do promise you most assuredly!—I will not have what is mine mauled and petted and coveted by another. Now, have we come to an understanding, do you think?”

She lowered her head, clenching hard and miserably upon her jaw, but nodded. “Oh, Warwick, don’t you see! You are the one in danger here!”

“Hush!” he said suddenly.

He stared past her, through the bedroom to the outer door. She, too, heard footsteps in the hall. They held silent for a moment, then Warwick relaxed once again. The footsteps had passed by.

“Please!” she whispered. “You must leave here.”

He shook his head, and she noted the gleam about his eyes that sent her heart racing in shivers of excitement—dread, and yet the sweet anticipation of her dreams.

“Warwick—”

“I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

Oh, dear God, the danger! He was near mad!

She started shaking her head, so terribly nervous of his intent.

“Nay, Warwick—”

“You’re still my wife.”

“Not here, I can’t—”

“Anywhere, my love.”

“You’re, er, filthy!”

“Do excuse me!”

“Warwick . . .”

Her protest trailed to nothing, for it seemed the time for talk had left them.

He reached for her, cupping his hand at her neck, drawing her face to his, her lips touching his own.

It was a sweet and burning sensation, and she did indeed feel that she would faint then, pitch headfirst into a drowning pool of joy in his very being, joy in the warmth and splendor that riddled her body.

It was a gentle kiss, moist and longing, vastly tender, lingering, inquisitive. He moved from her and watched her eyes, smiling wistfully. His voice was husky.

“You are not, then, so terribly displeased to see me?”

She shook her head, lowering her lashes in sudden confusion.

“Then come to me.”

She raised her eyes, and they were wide. “Warwick,” she whispered most sincerely, “I cannot! You’re so very grimed—”

“Ignore the dirt; come love the heart.”