Page 86 of Ondine

“Women’s work!” Raoul uttered disdainfully. Then his eyes brightened. “Ondine can accompany me.”

She nearly cried out and just barely restrained herself. Jem, removing an empty tureen from the table, did not do so well. He dropped the silver server, drawing a cuff on the shoulder and a chastisement from William.

“Get back to the kitchen, you bumbling old man!” His anger stayed with him as he turned on Raoul. “She’ll not go with you! She’ll stay right here.”

“Father—”

“You trust her; I do not. She has set the month deadline. When she is your bride, she will be your domain, yours to control, if you’re capable of doing so! Until then, she is my concern, and I do not trust her. She will stay here.”

“It doesn’t matter, Raoul,” Ondine said quickly, feigning a humble sigh.

He grunted something, then bit into his food. The meal progressed in silence. Ondine ate without noting what was in her dish; she burned with the fever to escape and could barely stay in her place.

At last William mumbled impatiently, then turned on his son again. “Are you not finished! Go, get your things together! You must hurry upon the road, or the merchant will be gone before you ever bring your lazy carcass to the town!”

Raoul let out an oath, tossing his fork to the table, but rising at his father’s command. Ondine kept her head lowered, thinking it somewhat intriguing that William and Raoul would betray each other if they could.

Raoul came around to the back of her chair. He placed his hand upon her hair, then bent to her.

“Just a night, my love. And I shall buy you the finest material you have ever seen. Your gown for our wedding will be splendid.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. She was even able to keep from flinching as he kissed her cheek; she would never have to bear his touch again!

He left the room, and she heard his footsteps as he ran up the stairway.

She waited just a moment, then yawned and pushed her chair back. “Ah, I do feel so lethargic! Now that the meal is over, I believe I shall take that walk.”

William’s hand clamped down around her wrist in a cruel vise. He stared at her, smiling with naked malice.

“Nay, my dear niece! You’ll go nowhere!”

Ice seemed to blanket her; she felt like a cornered animal, trapped by a rabid bear. She had to shake herself to clear her mind from the awful hypnotism of his eyes.

“Really, Uncle!” she drawled petulantly, casually trying to free her hand. “I just wish to take a walk—”

“You wish to run to your lover, my dear. I’m afraid I’ve other plans for you both. Go to your room.”

“No!” she gasped, stunned by the assurance of his words, wrenching now with fevered resistance against his hold. His eyes raised; she barely noted it in her efforts to free herself, but quickly discovered the reason.

Berault was behind her, lacing his field worker’s arms around her to halt her fury. She would not go down without a fight, she wailed desperately inside.

But it seemed that she was, indeed, going down.

She screamed; she clawed at her uncle and managed to draw blood down his cheek.

Then Berault’s heavy hand closed over her mouth, and she found herself desperate to breathe.

She was carried in his arms, staring into stupid eyes, still feeling his hand crushing not only her words, but what breath she had in her lungs.

“Don’t hurt her! Don’t mar her!” William snarled out softly. “I’ve promised her in good shape!”

Berault nodded, but it did Ondine no good.

His hand remained too tightly over her face, no matter how she squirmed and twisted.

She tried to inhale for desperately needed air, she could not get enough.

No matter what her will, her strength began to ebb from her.

She couldn’t see clearly, everything was spinning.

Berault’s scent was sickening, his touch a horror that cast her into a swimming chasm.

She was smothering, she realized bleakly, she was going to die . . .

She did not die, but the world slipped from her. Arms that had flailed in fury fell slack. Berault carried nothing but an empty shell, for consciousness had totally deserted her.

* * *

Jem had been sent from the hall, but he had lingered, unobserved, in the pantry. Ashen, he had knit his old hands into tense knots at his sides when the lackey, Berault, had taken hold of Ondine.

Then he stood miserably in agony and indecision. What should he do? Try to reach her, stay to see that she was all right? Yet what could he do? Gladly he would rush into any fray, but his bones and body could do her little good!

He paused just a moment, then looked about himself. Berault was gone up the stairs; Berta was still listening to instructions from William. Ondine’s door was not to be opened for any reason until night fell, then he would supervise the preparation of the meal to be sent to her.

Only the one poor kitchen wench—a sweet girl, but simple since birth—remained about her tasks. Jem mumbled something to her about finding a chicken for a stew to be made, then slipped out the back door and started running across the snow.

He should have waited long enough to cloak himself, he realized; the sun had done little yet to dispel the bitter cold. He slid against icy patches, felt a keen pain about his heart. He must go on, he told himself; he must go on.

He reached the smith, but the man was not there. Jem paused, regaining his breath, convincing his legs that they move again. Then he started off again, running, panting, hearing his breath come like a storm against his ears.

He reached the blacksmith’s cottage, the first of those in a row where the grounds servants lived.

He burst through the door, near frozen and wheezing, so that he was glad to the smithy’s quick reactions and strong arms. For Warwick grabbed him, supported his weight, and brought him quickly to the fire, kneeling down before him as he had done the night before.

“What is it, old man? What’s happened?” he demanded tersely.

Jem had to gasp for breath for several more seconds. “She tried to sneak out this morning; they caught her. William is sending Raoul away; he has Ondine locked in her room. I believe she fainted in that buffoon’s grasp, for she screamed once, but did not do so again.”

Warwick issued a furious stream of oaths, standing and pacing hard behind Jem. “I knew we waited too long; William knows who I am! Though tonight was to have been his sale of human flesh, he is taking no chances!”

He continued to pace. Jem stared into the fire, all life near drained from him, for it seemed his task was complete.

But the raging knight behind him suddenly stopped and came back to his side, grasping his blue-veined hands.

“Jem, you’ve got to go back. You must behave as if you are no part of this. Have no fear, I am going for her.”

Jem’s eyes widened; his heart skipped a beat. “How?”

“Through the balcony; she’ll have to come out that way, too. Jem, you’ve been a dear and loyal friend to her—wait patiently, and you will be out, too.”

Jem looked down at his hands, not meaning to speak aloud, but so bleak and anxious in his heart that he murmured another dubious, “How?”

Warwick, at his side, offered him a taut, dry smile.

“I’ve no time for lengthy tales now, Jem, but you should know this: She is my wife, legally wed, cherished and loved.

I knew nothing of this snake-infested place, though, till she came here.

I am the lord of a distant northern realm.

The man who sent the message last night is a dear servant of mine; even now he rides to London for kin of mine to come here, should I need their aid.

When they come, if all is well and the duchess and I have already departed, you will tell them that the Earl of North Lambria has bid you serve them. ”

Jem stared into Warwick’s eyes, which burned with such strength and conviction. He nodded, somewhat awed, yet certain that if someone could save his duchess, it was this man, whether his story was true or no!

“Come,” Warwick said softly. “You must get back to the house.”

Jem nodded again, not speaking, saving his strength and his breath for the cold outside.

“I will follow shortly,” Warwick said, opening his door.

Jem decided then that he must speak. “Take care, milord, take care—”

“That I will. Go, Jem.”

* * *

Ondine awoke upon her bed. For a few seconds she sucked in air, grateful merely to fill her lungs, but then she quickly swung her legs over the bed and raced to the sitting room door. She knew, though, before she tested it, that it would be securely locked.

Nay! her heart screamed out, and she would have pit herself against it, would have banged and kicked and shrieked, except that some small sense lured her from panic and warned that she must not fall prey to hysteria.

She sank to the floor, suddenly shivering.

She would never break their bolt upon her door, and the door was solid oak.

There would be no escape that way, and even if some miracle did occur, causing the door to dissolve for her convenience, she was certain that Berta sat outside, smugly guarding her beaten charge.

She had to reach Warwick! He would be waiting, he would be expecting her . . .

She stood again, because thoughts of her husband had given birth to an idea.

The balcony. He had come to her by that path; she must go to him the same way.

For a moment she paused, so close to her door that she could hear sounds from below.

Raoul had come down again; he argued with his father once again.

She could not clearly make out his words, but she knew that she was part of the argument—and the fact that Raoul thought this task too menial for him, and that he wasn’t about to carry materials home like a packhorse.

His father advised him again to bring one of the hefty land laborers.

Ondine listened no more, but decided with a quick breath that she must now make her escape, while William was busy arguing with his son.