Page 73 of Ondine

She went to her closet for a gown, nervously scrutinized the room, became content that nothing was amiss, and returned to her bed.

There she could not dwell on the present.

She could only sigh with contentment, run her hand over the place where he had been, and dream of the day when she could tell him that their love had bore fruit, that they would soon be parents; dream of the life that grew within her, of that day when she and Warwick would welcome that beloved being into their world . . .

All things seemed possible now. She would know no weakness. Warwick was with her again. And he loved her.

Loved her . . .

* * *

She was radiant when she awoke, humming when Berta appeared with her tea, oblivious of the woman who had been such a horrid thorn in her side. She drank her tea in a leisurely manner, smiled at Berta’s choice of a gown, and inquired, with cordial concern as to the woman’s state of health.

Berta, naturally, eyed her with suspicion, yet Ondine could continue to smile with great smugness, for there was nothing suspect, nothing that Berta might find.

Downstairs, Ondine greeted her uncle and Raoul with unfeigned enthusiasm; it was easy to do so now. With Warwick about, she was certain that she could soon bring about the downfall of these two, and that belief brought her confidence.

“You slept well, did you, my dear?” William asked, and she knew that he was baffled, ever suspicious, but as with Berta, what could he discover? Ondine’s smile was radiant, her eyes were bright. She was able to look upon Raoul as if she were indeed anxious to claim him as a lover.

“I slept wonderfully, Uncle. I have never found such comfort in my bed!” she said demurely, eagerly helping herself to fresh baked bread.

Raoul laughed, excited by her appearance, believing that the brightness in her eyes shone for him, that all she offered would soon be his.

“There will be greater comfort when you come to mine,” he said.

She might have laughed in his face; she carefully lowered her eyes instead, glad that a flush suffused her cheeks, for it seemed to please her uncle mightily.

And so breakfast passed. Ondine idled about, sipping more tea, when her uncle reported that he had work to do in the study and asked Raoul to accompany him. When they were gone, Ondine once again took care that no one noticed her and slipped upstairs to her uncle’s chambers.

She tore into his desk, determined, excited, and then slowly disappointed, for even with her most tedious perusal of all papers and documents, she could find nothing.

She sat back then, despondent, yet even as defeat settled over her, excitement began to grow again.

She leaned forward, for she noticed something ingrained on her uncle’s blotter.

She moved forward, staring more closely, and shivers filled her as she realized that though the documents he had threatened her with were not here, they had been written here.

She could see that someone had practiced her handwriting here!

Practiced it, until her signature was almost perfect. What perfect proof against them!

Oh, how she longed to snatch the blotter from the desk!

She bit her lip and removed her hands from it.

She could not go running from the house with it!

And yet it might well be exactly what she needed.

Any man of decent eye could see what had been practiced against her.

However, she needed to have strength behind her, strength to invade the place, to seize the evidence.

If she gave herself away now, the blotter would be destroyed before she could use it.

Ondine departed the chamber carefully, slipping back into her own room, where she might have privacy to control her excitement. But she’d barely closed her door before Berta knocked and entered without leave to do so.

“I’ve come back to clean,” she told Ondine sourly. “Seems there’s mud all about your bed!”

“Oh?” Ondine murmured. “Perhaps my boots carried it in.”

Berta just stared at her, then said, “Raoul waits for you downstairs.”

“Does he? Thank you.”

She quickly escaped Berta’s glare, rushing down the stairs to meet Raoul. He caught her hands and snapped his fingers at Berta, who had followed her to the landing.

“Bring the duchess her cloak, Berta. We’re going for a walk.”

Berta complied, and Ondine swept the silver fox about herself, waiting patiently with downcast eyes while Raoul adjusted the hood about her head.

She took his hand meekly, yet when she saw that they were returning to the bench at the lean-to by the forge, she was ready to pull back.

“Raoul, ’tis so cold today—”

“My dear, ’tis the only place we can talk without being overheard!”

Oh, if you only knew who was listening! Warwick’s temper was such a slender thread, and knowing now that he listened made her performance ridiculously difficult.

Once seated, Raoul ardently took her hands. “You must tell me everything about this man—his looks, his name, exactly where you came across him. I must find him quickly!”

“Uh—he’s blond!” she replied quickly. “Very blond. His hair is almost as pale as moondust. And his eyes are very blue. Nordic descent, I would think,” she mused.

“And his name?”

“Tom.”

“Tom—what?”

“Miller. Aye, that’s it. Tom, the miller’s son. ’Cept he turned to thievery rather than grain. And if he has not been hanged yet, he hides out in the forest near Westminster.”

“I’ll find him!” Raoul swore. “I’ll find him! And then, my love, nothing will stand between us. Ondine, kiss me! Give me just one kiss. Feel the ardor in my lips, the passion in my heart! Let me touch you—”

The door to the smithy suddenly swung full wide. Warwick came upon them, a red glowing shoe held out before him in a set of prongs. He stared at the two with a feint of surprise, but without apology.

Raoul stared at him heatedly, swore something beneath his breath about uncouth peasants, and then yelled, “What are you doing here!”

“I am the blacksmith,” Warwick said, watching the shoe cool.

Ondine drew her hands hastily from Raoul’s, aware by the glitter of Warwick’s eyes that his temper was as hot as the shoe he had formed.

“Raoul, I’m freezing!” she muttered. But it seemed that Raoul was distracted then, too. From the steps of the house his father waved to him in impatience.

“My love, I’ll be right back.”

Frowning, he ignored Warwick, touched her cheek, and went off at his father’s beckoning.

Warwick did not come near her, but his whisper sent a chill sweeping down her spine.

“I warned you, my love, to watch your step!”

“It’s near over!” Ondine said excitedly, careful to keep her eyes forward. “I’ve found something—”

Raoul was turning back to them.

“Tell me in your room tonight.”

“Nay! You cannot come there!” She discovered herself blushing furiously. “Berta found all your dirt!”

“Then, my love, see that you track in mud of your own, for I shall be there!”

“Warwick!” she gasped, yet to little avail. He had already turned back to the forge. Ondine jumped to her feet, eager to elude Raoul before he could persist. She thought that she could handle her cousin; she did not think that she could manage Warwick.

She passed Raoul by on the snow. “I am so cold! My dear cousin, we’ll meet again at dinner!”

She sped back to the house, highly agitated, yet still elated. She found solace in her room, alone with the beating of her heart, with her excitement—and with her dread.

Too soon, though, Berta made an appearance with a meal tray, and it seemed as soon as that tray was gone, her bath came. It didn’t matter. She was still in such a high state of nervousness that she barely noticed Berta.

But Berta noticed her. She eyed the girl’s young body when she stepped from the bath, moving slowly with her towel.

And though Ondine gave Berta no thought whatsoever. Berta was thinking only of her.

She judged, and came to a satisfied conclusion.

She finished with Ondine’s hair, then quickly took her leave. Ondine was very, very glad to be left alone. She sighed as Berta left.

“Thank God that witch is no more upon me!” she railed in a whisper of disdain.

Yet she would not have been so elated if she had known that Berta had gone straight to William.

But at that moment she had no premonition of doom. She was dreaming of Warwick again, daydreaming of the night they had shared together, dazed with the beauty of love so sweetly requited.

She went to dinner, still in that dreamy state.

Raoul was unerringly polite, and with Warwick’s iron-hand presence nearby, she was even better able to play the sweet betrothed to the hilt.

And she was so glad of her discovery that morning, so confident, that she noted nothing strange in her uncle’s behavior.

William was most decidedly in a rare courteous mood!

“Your glass, my dear, is empty, shall I fill it for you?”

“Aye, Uncle.”

“More beef? More fowl?”

“Ah, nay, I think. Thank you.”

“Ah, you appear a little worn! You mustn’t play tonight, or tarry here, but go to your room and rest.”

“I am a bit weary.”

Weary! She was overjoyed. Everything was going her way...

After the briefest kiss upon the forehead from Raoul, she was able to escape to her room.

She dressed herself in a simple gown and waited.

Then, waiting, grew restless and anxious.

She stripped away the gown she had donned and wrapped herself instead in the silver fox fur cloak.

With that cover and nothing beneath it, she hovered near the balcony, waiting again, anxious again.

Midnight came, and with it appeared Warwick.

She greeted him with a glad cry, throwing her arms about him.

“Oh, my love! I’m so glad to see you, but so frightened. It’s dangerous . . .”

“I had to come, you know that. I tried to be cleaner, but I dared not shave.”

“I care not how you come to me.”

“Love me . . .”

“I do.”

He wrapped her tightly into his arms, rubbed his chin against her hair, breathing in her scent. His arms were about the soft fur of the cloak, and he thought that he’d never seen her more beautiful, felt a touch softer than the silver fur, unless that touch be the silk of her flesh.

“Love me now . . .”

“Gladly, oh, Warwick . . .”

“The cloak—there’s nothing beneath it.”

“Nothing—but all of me. All that loves you, so desperately, milord!” she replied, and his hands cast the cloak from her, and he thought that, aye, here was softness, sleekness, beauty, greater than silver or gold.

Ah, yes, glory came with darkness, with midnight, with words whispered in firelight and shadow!

He threatened her again about Raoul, but not until they’d satisfied those first intensive needs, not until they lay together, damp with contentment, arms entwined.

Then she teased him with questions about his past—about the lady Anne and the nights he had ridden away from Chatham.

“I had to ride out or else go mad!” he swore to her. “For you see, I did not dare to love you.”

“It wasn’t another woman?”

“Never,” he swore. “Never, from the very first time I laid my eyes upon you.”

“Oh, Warwick!” She kissed him hard and with loving enthusiasm, leaning against him, adoring just that very natural and intimate contact of their bodies, the amber glow in his eyes, the rugged wonder of his face.

“But what of Anne?”

He shrugged. “Anne was just—there. Ondine, I did not deceive Genevieve—ever. And though she was tender and sweet, I did not love her, not as I love you.”

“Oh, Warwick!” she repeated, and she kissed him again.

“As to Raoul . . .” He growled low in his throat.

And only then did she remember that they were very near out of the dilemma.

“Warwick!”

“What!”

“I’ve found it, well, not ‘it,’ but something that might well clear me! There’s a blotter, on my uncle’s desk, and it’s quite easy to see that someone practiced my handwriting there!”

He scowled where there should have been pleasure. “You were prowling around his chambers.”

“I had to—”

“Nay! What if he had caught you!”

“But I must—”

“Nay! I will get this blotter. Tomorrow. You will not go near those rooms again. I’m at the end of my patience. I will get that evidence you have discovered, and we will have done with this. I’ll find it tomorrow, and we leave tomorrow night.”

She paused, burying her face in his neck. “Warwick, it will not be enough.”

“What?”

She swallowed back a little sob.

“Please . . . give me just a few more days! The blotter might prove something, but it will not clear my father’s name!”

He sighed. He didn’t believe she could find proof to clear her father’s name. “Three days, Ondine, no more. I cannot tolerate Raoul even touching you! On the third night, we leave!”

“You’ll come for me here?” she inquired softly.

“Nay—you’ll come to me at the blacksmith’s cottage, as soon as you can escape after dinner.” He hesitated. “I like not the idea of your slipping from the balcony.” Again he paused, turning to take her passionately into his arms.

“I love you, Ondine,” he said, holding her tight, all the rugged planes of his face tense, strong, and endearingly handsome. “But alas, it seems that very balcony beckons me again.”

She clung to him, despising the moment that he left her.

“Will you come tomorrow night?”

“Aye.”

“’Tis so dangerous!”

“Madam, I cannot stay away!” he told her. Then he held her once again, loathe to go, knowing he must.

Daylight was returning.