Page 82 of Ondine

At his cottage, far from the main house, as such workers’ lodgings were, Warwick lay upon his thin pallet staring at the ceiling, waiting for time to pass, for the night to grow deep and dark.

Firelight danced upon the ceiling, and he watched its pattern, yet his mind raced as he did so, his body tensed and eased, tensed and eased.

Ah, these feelings! They tortured him, they ripped him in two.

He saw again a blood-red fury as he thought of the Deauveaus, William and Raoul, and his fists would clench, his muscles constrict.

How he longed to face them in a battle to the death!

Come hell itself, he would do so! Cold-blooded murderers and worse!

Traitors, debauchers, blackmailers; conniving, sniveling snakes!

Raoul—ready and eager to slay a babe! His babe!

Agh!

He rolled and twisted, bracing against the bed to still his rage.

And yet it was something he could contain, in his fashion, for he determined with lethal intent that he would, in time, find a way to force the men into open battle.

Cowards—they were no true foes! They had used trickery to perform their murder, slaying the duke before he ever understood their treachery!

But Ondine . . .

He rolled again, staring at the dancing patterns on the ceiling.

He was almost afraid to see her this night, yet he was compelled to do so.

He longed to drag her over his knee and redden some fair part of her anatomy!

God! How could she have done this! Left Chatham, come here, left him, entered into this liars’ maze when she carried his child!

Dear God, he couldn’t yell in her room—he was overflowing with oaths.

Time had not eased his bitter anger against her; it had increased it.

He shouldn’t go there; he had to. He had to tell her that she was to meet him tomorrow at this cottage, and that they would leave then—be damned to all else!

He was her husband; he was her law. He was the father of the life within her that she so carelessly endangered; he was the man who loved her beyond all else!

He swung his legs over the cot, ready to don his cloak and scale the walls to her chamber.

Tomorrow, he thought grimly, he would get her away from here, then come back for justice and vengeance himself.

Charles could banish him from the kingdom for fighting if he chose, yet Warwick did not give a damn.

He started suddenly, holding still and listening. Something furtive moved by his door. He was about to yank it open so that the intruder might pitch in when he heard a soft rapping. Curious and wary, he opened it.

An old man stood there, shivering in the night. One of the servants from the house, Warwick realized, recognizing him. He was certainly no threat, being well, well on in years, small and gaunt—and trembling like a windblown leaf.

“Come in, old man,” Warwick said, reaching for the fellow’s arm and dragging him near to the fire. The man nodded gratefully, taking the one plain but sturdy chair there and rubbing his hands before the blaze as Warwick crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at him, waiting patiently.

Slowly the man’s teeth ceased their chatter, and before Warwick could speak again, he began an outpouring of words. “I’ve a note for you, smith. A message from the White Feather, from a man called Jake.”

“A message? Hand it over, man!”

Frowning with surprise and deep concern, Warwick took a sealed envelope from the man’s trembling fingers. “There’s tea in the pot over the fire; warm yourself,” he told the man absently as he ripped into the envelope.

Jake’s words were brief.

“A plot afoot,” the message read. “Come to the tavern now. Urgent. Do not go near Ondine this night!”

Scowling, Warwick looked back to the old servant, now attempting to pour himself a tin mug of tea, still shaking so badly that the pot banged against the tin.

Warwick took the pot from his hands, poured the tea, then haunched down by the old man’s feet, waiting impatiently for him to warm his blue lips with the steaming liquid.

“How did you come by this message?” he demanded.

Proud eyes gazed into his. “’Tis no trickery, sir, not by me!

I’ve a son wed to a lass who’s sister of a wench at the White Feather.

My grandson came to the back door tonight, with a package for me.

He told me I must get this envelope to you, and then he said that I was to stress that you must not come to the house. ”

“Can you get a message to your lady?” he asked tensely.

Eyes burning brightly, the old man nodded.

“I don’t wish to place you in jeopardy—” Warwick began.

“Sir, you are no smith; that I can see, and so would those two who label themselves ‘lords’ if they had any interest outside themselves! If you’re here to help the duchess, then readily will I place myself in jeopardy, for I have loved her many years, and would die a thousand deaths not to see her wed to that treacherous scum! ”

“Good man!” Warwick said softly, smiling. “Then tell her this, and it is urgent! Tell her she must slip away in the morning; tell her she must come here before noon! She must act their perfect lackey in the morning, yet not fail to arrive here! Can you do this for me?”

“Aye. They have tried to keep her from me, and me from her, but, sir, I will reach her! I swear it!”

“Thank you—”

“Jem, sir, my name is Jem.”

“Thank you, Jem. Bless you. If all goes well tomorrow, you’ll see your lady again, anytime that you wish! All that you must do is await my word.”

Jem handed Warwick the tin cup and stood, no longer shivering. His slender shoulders were straight.

“You’ll take her away from here—tomorrow?”

“Aye.”

“Then bless you, sir! God bless you, and God go with you! And God damn the two of them for all eternity!”

“Amen!” Warwick agreed.

He let Jem out, then reached for his cloak. He had a long ride ahead of him, a long ride out to his curious assignation at the White Feather.