Page 84 of Ondine

His feet fell to the floor again. He was annoyed when he addressed her next. “I will have what I want! Father must bend to me in this matter. As long as you come to me meek, bear his fury as well you deserve, step with care and obedience, all will be well.”

She pushed back her chair, her food barely tasted. He rose as if to stop her, yet she placed a pleading hand upon his arm.

“Raoul, I am, most naturally, distressed. I—”

“We’ve the night alone!” he said with dismay.

She shook her head. “I feel ill. Please, forgive me, Raoul. Forgive me in the knowledge that soon, ah, soon we will always be together. Please!” The last came a bit desperately, for it was true—before God!—she had to escape him.

“Raoul! I am grateful. I am amazed; I am in awe of the days that will come before us! But this night, this night I cannot help the fear, and I feel weak with it, exhausted!”

That was not so much a pretense; she felt dizzy, miserable, and very, very frightened.

Slowly he nodded.

She waited for no more from him, but turned, swirling her skirts behind herself. She hurried up the stairs and did not feel at all safe until she was within her chamber with the door bolted.

Not even that safe haven, though, gave ease to her agitation.

So her uncle knew . . . Oh, God, what did that foretell?

And Raoul, Raoul was a liar of extreme vileness, for bitterly she knew that he would never tolerate another man’s child, and certainly not that of a man he believed to be an illiterate peasant!

She had claimed exhaustion; she was far from it.

Time and time again she walked the length of her chambers, from sitting room to bedroom, then back again.

Raoul still believed that he was marrying her—she was certain that William had determined that he would not.

William, then, must be planning some other fate for her, but what would that fate be?

She paused at last, lying on her bed, placing her cheek against the coolness of her pillow. Perhaps Warwick was absolutely right; perhaps this had been a fool’s quest from the very beginning. It might well be the time to flee, without waiting for another day . . .

Warwick! Ah, if Berta had seen her condition, it was only a matter of time before her husband, her lover, discovered it likewise. She wondered with a soft groan if he would ever believe she had come here ignorant of the babe she carried and that she loved the babe, his babe.

Warwick . . .

He would come. He would come to her tonight, slipping into the room like a powerful shadow. He would be there to hold her, to cherish her against the fear and terror that seemed a new and devious noose, tightening for the impending kill.

When he came, when he held her, when he leant his strength to her, she would agree that they must run now, that they mustn’t wait another minute, that there was nothing to be gained in staying.

Oh, but she was a fool! She was risking so much here!

Her life, the babe’s—and even Warwick’s.

For he would never leave her, and it was true, should he see her in difficulty, he would cast himself upon her assailant, heedless of weapons, heedless of number . . .

Her face burned, even against the coolness of the sheet. She closed her eyes tightly, then resolved to fight her fear and think productively on what was to come. She had only to wait, to embrace her lover when he came as surely as the night wind, to place in his hands her heart and her life.

Determined, she stood and rinsed her face. Still anxious, she sat before her dresser and began to comb out her hair. She felt the warmth of the fire, the darkness of the night beyond. Ah, it was a cold night, the earth blanketed in snow, the wind beginning to whisper and moan, swirl and threaten.

She cast the brush away and stood, and thought again with quivering awareness that he would soon be with her, strong and powerful.

No words would be needed at first. He would come to her an inferno, eager for her arms, eager to appease the fires that burned so high when they lived like this, apart and thinking always of the other, apart and wary of danger.

They would long to crush and hold and assure one another that they were alive still, together still . . .

Smiling wistfully, Ondine stood and slowly, carefully, began to shed her clothing—her shoes, stockings, garters, overskirt, and underskirt. Then, shivering, she crawled quickly into her bed, beneath the covers, hugging them to her.

He would come. He would come. He would warm her . . .

Firelight played across the room. She watched its movement across the ceiling. She thought of his touch, his love. She imagined his face in her mind, his eyes, cheeks, and chin, so stubborn, so gallant. She saw his hands, bronze against her flesh . . .

Her sweet dream was suddenly and violently interrupted by a fierce pounding at her door.

She bolted up, hugging the covers to her chest, her heart slamming against her chest in a frenzy.

“Ondine! Let me in!”

“Ah, one moment, Uncle!” She spoke the words, but they barely came out. She had to moisten her lips and repeat them.

Yet that utterance broke the spell of terror upon her; she flew to her chest, anxiously ripping through her things.

She found her heaviest nightdress and quickly clawed it over her head, struggling with the buttons even as she hurried to the door.

Dear God! Whatever his quarrel, she had to get rid of him quickly, before Warwick could appear . . .

Breathless, her hair a tangled stream about her, she cast the door open.

He pushed her aside and marched in, striding through the sitting room, then into the bedchamber.

He came back to her. For an instant in the flicker of the fire she saw his eyes and nearly quailed; there was such hatred for her there—a fanatical hatred, as if she had been the cause of every nuisance and injustice in his life!

Then, amazingly, he blinked, and that strange stare was gone as if it had never been, to be replaced by a cunning one, lacking all gentleness in its look of mockery.

“Ondine . . . ah, dear child, I was greatly worried!”

“Worried?” she repeated, pointedly dubious.

“Aye,” he murmured, moving to her fire, warming his hands there. She followed him, yet kept her distance, wondering what new treachery this act could be.

“I’ve been to town,” he told her, glancing at her over his shoulder. “Seems there’s a madman haunting our area, Niece. A killer, given motive and motion by the full moon, seeking out young maids through windows and balconies, butchering them where they lie.”

“A crazed killer, Uncle?” Ondine repeated, frowning but wide-eyed in her pretense of innocence, desperate lest Warwick arrive!

“As I heard of it, I immediately turned toward home, thinking how the oak stands next to your room, and how such a man—crazed!—might easily scale it.”

Ondine lowered her lashes, determined to test him, for above all, she had to be rid of him.

“Uncle, were there a crazed killer about, I believe you would gladly point him to the tree and boost him to the window. William, I am aware of all that you know about me; I know you would dearly love to see me dead. Perhaps you hesitate from murder only because of the king. So tell me, Uncle, what is this tale of yours?”

“Ondine!” he protested, leaving the fire to take a firm seat in the chair that angled from it.

“Ondine . . . aye, ’tis true, I know all about you.

And I despise you for the conniving harlot that you are!

” He smiled at her in an amazingly pleasant fashion for the bitter brutality of his words.

“But, alas! That fool child of mine has set his heart upon you; therefore, I, the doting father, must do all in my power to keep you safe! And, my dearest child . . .” He rose, coming to her with such a silent tread that she did not think to elude him, and brushed her cheek with his knuckles.

“Ah, yes! Dear child, were I to wish you slain, I would prefer the pleasure come from my own hands, and those of no other! Nay, rest assured, girl! Tonight I have come to protect you from whatever demons might attempt to scale those walls!”

White and trembling, she stepped away from him. He smiled once again and went back to the chair with a sigh of satisfaction.

She stared at him in ashen horror for long moments. He maintained his victor’s grin. She tried to think; her mind had gone numb with the rest of her. Then an agonizing realization rushed in about her. He did not intend to leave! He meant to stay in that chair, all the night long!

Nay, he could not! He could not! Warwick would come; he would leap within, unarmed. William would attack him with pistol and sword, and Warwick, unarmed, would be at his mercy.

“Girl, you look like a ghost, staring at me so!” William snapped furiously. “Go to bed!”

She couldn’t move. Surely he couldn’t suspect Warwick! He might have discovered that she was with child, but he must believe his son’s tale, since the tale had already been told. He must believe that she had married a thief in the forest, that from him came the child.

“Go to bed!”

I cannot. I cannot, I must stay near the balcony, and warn him if he should come near.

“A killer, Uncle?” she repeated, finding life at last. “A slayer of innocents, coming in the night?”

She hurried to the balcony doors and cast them open, praying that Warwick would be down in the snow, that she could warn him.

But there was no sign of her lover yet; no sign at all.

“Ondine! Get back in here!”

William was on his feet again, rushing to her, slamming the doors against the cold, and pulling her back inside. “Go to bed, girl! Now! I will sleep in the chair!”

Sleep. He had to fall asleep. That seemed her only salvation.

She lowered her head, nodded, and fled past him, jumping into her bed, pulling the sheets to her chin once again in misery.

Don’t come now, my love. Don’t come now! she prayed.

Ah, how heavy time could hang when one lay in terror and misery! Every crackle of the fire, every gust of the wind, played upon her tortured nerves. She twisted, she bolted, she shivered horribly. The wind would not cease, nor the rustle of the old oak.

She sighed softly, then took up a position on the floor near the balcony. If he appeared, William would know. He might well seek to tear her hair out, beat her or even strangle her upon the spot. But Warwick, at least, would escape, for she would scream and scream until he was justly warned.

Time . . .

It ticked by. She tried to remain straight. She dozed, then awoke with a start, panicked at the scratch of a leaf against stone. Stiff she would remain, cold, aching, until she would doze again, awake again . . .

At last she awakened, startled by the cry of a bird, to discover that the dawn was breaking.

Dawn; he would not come now.

Tears filled her eyes; she did not know if Warwick had been forewarned, or if he had deserted her. Of if—oh, heaven forbid!—he had somehow been discovered and lay bleeding somewhere . . .

Where was Warwick! Oh, God, oh, God! What had become of him?