Page 8 of Ondine

Ondine understood quickly why they had chosen to come to Swallow’s Ford.

It was a small place, and the proprietress of the local tavern and inn was a lovely buxom matron, thrilled with Ondine—and apparently quite fond of Warwick Chatham.

She was more than willing to keep secret the circumstances of his new bride’s appearance.

It was Jake who brought her to Meg, by the rear door.

Yet Ondine was glad, for she observed the layout of the barn, determining her chances of later finding a mount and fleeing for freedom.

Her head still swam. She was so grateful for her life, yet ever so wary of Chatham.

What could he want with her? Her teeth chattered with the thought. He appeared so sound and handsome.

He was not just arresting in appearance, she thought, but a peer as well!

Jake had called her “Countess,” informing her that Warwick Chatham was the earl of North Lambria.

This was a very frightening fact, for as a peer, he might well have recognized her surname on their wedding license, were her handwriting not so shaky!

But then, perhaps, he would not know of her, for North Lambria was border country, harsh and rugged and beautiful, according to Jake, and, thankfully, far from Ondine’s own home.

Meg’s place was sparse but clean. The room to which Ondine was led was a simple one, offering no more than a bed, a washstand, and a screen, but the shutters were opened to the summer’s breeze, and the bedding smelled clean and fresh.

“Get behind the screen, my lady, and shed those rags,” Meg told her. “Like as not, they should be burned. You’ve no need to fear an intrusion; I’ll see to the tub and water meself. Just stay there till I give you a call.” She didn’t wait for Ondine’s agreement, but bustled out the door.

Ondine did as she had been told, stepping behind the screen and nervously shedding her garments.

Oh, but they were rank! She was glad to cast her gown away, and her shift, yet when she stood naked, she shivered again, her thoughts filled with the man who had so suddenly become her husband.

He was so fine a figure of a man: tall, broad-shouldered, appearing lean, yet betraying a startling and frightening strength when his fingers wrapped around her arm, when the muscles of his arms constricted to lift her.

Aye, he was an arresting man, his manner as much as his form the tone of his voice, the assessive tilt of his head. Was it breeding or life that had given him such command, an air that was totally assured, one that would brook no opposition of his will?

She hugged her arms about herself. She couldn’t deny that he both frightened and fascinated her.

She could easily see how a woman could fall prey to the proud and rugged masculinity of his features, could long for the sound of his voice, the touch and strength of his hands.

But would any woman be welcomed by him for more than a brief respite, an interlude of lusty entertainment?

She didn’t believe so. Not if ice hovered about his heart the way it did his eyes.

Ondine stiffened, hearing Meg’s voice as the door to the chamber opened. “Hurry now, lads; the tub center, and fill it quickly. There’s business aplenty downstairs, and if you’d earn your meals, you’d move quick!”

There were “Aye, Megs!” respectfully given, and the sounds of shuffling feet and spilling water. Then there was silence again after the door closed softly.

“My lady, ’tis only me here now. Come while the water’s hot and the steam’s arising!”

Ondine didn’t want to walk before Meg. She felt terribly thin and horribly vulnerable.

“I’d prefer privacy,” she murmured. As the wife of Lord Chatham, she reflected dryly, she could surely issue a firm command that would, by right, be instantly obeyed.

But she was supposed to be a common waif, unaccustomed to the firm voice of assumption.

Nor would she demand things of Meg under any circumstance, as the woman seemed to have a heart the size of the moon.

Meg chuckled softly. “Ah, my girl, come, now! ’Tis only me, Meg, and I raised a household of young ladies, I did. I’ve a mind to set into that tangled mop of hair upon your head, and come away assured that the vermin are clean of it!”

Ondine hesitated only a second, thinking of how lovely it would be to have someone thoroughly clean her hair.

She sprinted quickly from the screen to the tub, yelping slightly as her tender flesh hit the heat of the water.

“It must be hot!” Meg commiserated cheerfully.

“Now, here’s a cloth and two squares of the soap.

The first will near take the skin from you, I must warn, yet it will leave you clean as a new-washed babe.

Now, the second . . . ah, it was a special purchase when my man did travel to Paris!

It has a scent of roses that lingers long and sweetly—just what you might crave now, I dare say! ”

“Thank you,” Ondine murmured. She accepted the soaps, watching Meg’s pleasant and homely features as she did so. “You’re very kind.”

“Kind, oh, no, dear.” She sighed softly. “I’ve a longing for young people, ’tis all. My girls are all wives now, with broods of their own. Oh, and I do love to have the babes . . .”

Meg chatted on. Ondine began to furiously scrub her skin. Meg had been quite right, she discovered quickly. The soap stung at first—she felt as if it peeled away a layer of her flesh. But it felt wonderful.

“Now, if I get me hands into that mop—” Meg poured a bucket of water onto Ondine’s head.

Even that felt wonderful, but not so good as the movement of Meg’s fingers, scrubbing away at her scalp.

“Ah, thank the Lord for this fine soap, for without it, we might’ve had to snip the length of this.

And what a glory it is, dear child. As thick and long as a pelt of fur! Now duck!”

She shoved Ondine’s head into the water and vigorously worked her fingers through the young girl’s scalp once again.

Ondine came up sputtering. Meg stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest and surveying her efforts with pleasure.

“Ah, but you’re a beautiful child! So thin, so—but no matter!

You’ve breasts aplenty, even if your hips and ribs could use a pound or two of flesh! ”

Ondine felt a heated flush flame throughout her body, yet she could take no offense at Meg’s words; they were spoken so good-naturedly.

She smiled, leaning her head back against the tub and relishing the feeling of being clean—and carrying that subtle scent of roses Meg had described.

There was only one thing she thought to combat in the matron’s words, and that she did a little wistfully, a little wearily.

“I’m not a child.”

Yet how she longed to be one again! With her eyes closed and the steam misting around her, she could see the past all too clearly.

A time when she had believed in the goodness of men; when treachery and death, poverty and deceit, had found no place in her perception.

A smile touched her lips. Her mother had died at her birth, but, oh!

She could remember her father so well, especially the day of the sixteenth celebration of her birth.

He had given her a sword—one that was light and easy to handle, emblazoned at the hilt with their family arms. Delighting in it, she had challenged him in the courtyard, lifting her voluminous skirts.

He had been vastly pleased with her prowess, yet as they parried she laughed and quizzed him. What did it matter if she could fence!

“Ah, daughter!” he had told her. “None of us knows how the wind may blow. The day may come when I’ll not be here, guarding over you like an old buzzard. And you’ll be left to fight off a score of suiters by yourself!”

He had teased her, but his voice had carried an edge of sincerity. She had known she might be vastly wealthy; but it had meant nothing to her. There had been no reason for her father to die.

“Well, Meg, how goes this challenge I set before you?”

The voice was deep and pleasant, yet sardonic and amused. Ondine’s eyes flew open with horror just in time to hear the soft click of the door as it closed behind Warwick Chatham.

Too stunned to form a verbal protest, Ondine drew her knees to her chest and hugged her arms around them.

She could not speak, for her throat was choked with outrage.

Perhaps he thought himself her husband, but he was no more than a disconcerting stranger, intruding far too intimately.

Her back was to him, and she stiffened. She lowered her head, hoping that the soaked cloak of her hair would give her some covering, some defense against her nakedness.

“Ah, my lord Chatham!” Meg said happily, clapping her hands together in a pleased gesture that purely denoted her acceptance of his presence.

After all, Ondine realized bitterly, from Meg’s point of view the great lord Chatham was Ondine’s husband.

He had done her a great honor by making her, a pathetic waif, his wife.

Ondine squeezed her eyes shut tightly. It was the truth. This man had saved her from death.

Yet it was truth, too, that he was a stranger, alarmingly virile, totally masculine.

If she had met him but a year ago, she might have been intrigued.

She would have had every advantage, and he would have owed her the chivalrous, romantic code of Charles’s court.

She might have wondered about him, shivered deliciously and speculated from the safety of her own world.

She had not met him a year ago. She was vulnerable, at his mercy. And just as he compelled, he filled her soul with fear. And somehow he managed to play upon every ounce of her pride. She longed to pitch into battle with him and then run, as far away as she could possibly go.

Something fell upon the floor. She heard his footsteps, light for a man so tall and sinewed.