Page 87 of Ondine

She just barely remembered the cold and hurried to her wardrobe, glad then that Berta had replaced the encompassing fox fur, since she would need it now.

She cast it about her shoulders, then quickly burst out the balcony doors, willing herself not to look down, finding that she did so anyway.

Ah, the ground seemed so far away; the limbs of the old oak that she might cling to seemed to be all too spindly and weak.

There is no choice! she warned herself and came to the rail. She looked down again. Ah, the snow below was so white! It appeared as if a blanket of clouds lay beneath her, clouds that could comfort and shield her if she should fall.

The snow would not be thick upon the ground; the earth below it would be hard and brutal.

If she fell, she would break her bones and possibly her neck, but she couldn’t think on that.

Nor could she think that she would kill not only herself, but her child.

She had to cherish the illusion that the snow was a field of clouds, that she would not fall . . .

She took a deep breath and grabbed onto the nearest sturdy branch, reminding herself that her husband was far heavier than she, and that he had trusted the branches of the tree. She closed her eyes for a moment, dizzy; then she prayed and swung from the rail, grasping the branch.

Hand over hand, she moved quickly to the great trunk of the oak, then grasped and fumbled for a lower branch, and then another.

Ah, still, the ground seemed far when she reached the lowest branch!

She clung to it, tears stinging her eyes, her breath coming forth from her in gusts that misted the air.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut once again, then loosened her hold, allowing herself to fall.

The snow clogged her nose and mouth; for a moment she lay there panting, trying her limbs, amazed to discover that she was whole.

Then she realized the folly of tarrying and came quickly to her feet, hoping that the silver fox fur would help her blend into the snow while she raced along the expanse of grounds to the cottages.

Yet even as she ran, exhilaration came to her. Oh, it was done! The worst of it was over! They had thought to imprison her; she had escaped them. All she had to do was reach Warwick, to come to her beloved, and away they would go.

It was a song, a sweet, sweet melody of triumph that sang in her heart as she raced along, anxious then just to see his face, to feel his touch, to know the promise of life stretching before them!

She was panting, half laughing, half sobbing, when she came to the cottage. She burst into it, his name a whisper on her lips.

Yet she stood still at the entrance, puzzled, for he was not there. A fire burned at the hearth, his very warmth and presence seemed to linger, but he was not there.

She sighed impatiently and thought that he must be fulfilling some last task to cover their escape.

Longing for him, she sat upon his lumpy bunk and ran her fingers over the place where surely he had slept, smiling most wistfully.

Something must be done about her uncle and Raoul, but that would have to wait.

For now, she could be gratefully content that her husband loved her, that she loved him with all her heart, and that in time, she would tell him that they were destined to be a family.

Not a bad conclusion for a gallows’ bride and a haunted, mysterious groom!

Oh, if only he were here! If only they were away!

If only this small fear did not live in her breast, a fear that would plague her until they had left Deauveau Place far behind . . .

* * *

Someone was arguing at the main house; voices rose so high and viciously that Warwick, slipping past the main entry, could detect undercurrents of violence, if not actual words.

Well and good, he decided grimly; for he was an open target here, slipping through the snow.

He came around the stone corner to the side of the house and the oak that had given him such glad cover on previous nights.

Accustomed to the ritual, he quickly shimmied up the trunk and onto a branch, eager to reach the balcony.

Yet when his boots found a stance and he quietly stepped through the doors to her chambers, he was astounded and worried to death, for she was not there.

Anxiously he searched the place, and tested the door, frowning as he noted it still bolted from beyond. A deeper worry touched him still, for he realized she must have gone as he had come, and he could only pray that she had not injured life or limb in the unaided attempt.

Quietly he opened and closed the balcony doors again, staring upon the snow there, smiling with both bitterness and love.

Ah, yes, her footprints were here, feet far tinier than his, clearly etched upon the fine whiteness.

He knew her well, his wife, his love; she could not be imprisoned or beaten.

If life lingered in her at all, she would fight, and he loved her for that spirit.

Even so, he longed to thrash her for her carelessness!

Sighing softly, he hopped lithely to the branch, retraced his crawling path, and leapt back down to the snow.

The argument had ceased when he reached the front of the house again, but Warwick gave it little thought. He had only to reach her now, to hold her briefly, and then take her away.

* * *

Though Warwick gave no heed to the end of that dire argument inside, Jem was near brought to heart failure by the conclusion of it. Raoul had whined, decrying his absurd assignment. William had insisted and reminded him again that he needn’t be a packhorse, he need only take a servant with him.

Raoul had banged his way into the kitchen then, demanding a decent meal and a flagon of wine to take on his way.

And it was there, while he had impatiently awaited his package, that he had murmured, “The smith! I’ll take the new smith, for that brute has the back and shoulders of an Atlas, and can carry all! ”

He snatched his satchel from Jem then, eyes furrowing with wrath. “Wake up, man! Has age made you dense! You’re blessed, old timer, that we see fit to keep you in the kitchen!”

He trudged out then, heedless of a reply. Jem remained motionless, heavy laden with dread.

He waited until Raoul had gone, then sighed, for he must go into the snow again. He thought to grab a shawl—oh, such a small thing, a needed comfort! Yet later it would prove that the time had been poorly taken, and that rather should his flesh have congealed than what came to pass!

* * *

When the door burst open, Ondine gave a glad cry and came to her feet, hurtling herself against her husband with such velocity that they both came out to stand in the snow.

Warwick, startled by her impetus, wrapped his arms about hers instinctively, protectively.

She was so beautiful in that fur, in his arms, against the snow.

For a moment he forgot his anger and held her there.

Then he realized their danger, how easily they could be seen there, and he caught her arm roughly, dragging her back into the comparative safety inside.

Ondine did not feel how stiff he was then, for she was too elated at the sight of him, too eager to hold him, too desperate to speak.

“Warwick! Oh, my love, we must flee! Now! I near to died a thousand deaths last night, I was so afraid! William hovered there the night long. He knows something, I know not what! Warwick—”

His face was stern when he set her from him, jaw set in a twist, eyes blazing. She felt then the tension in his hands and hushed, wary of his look, knowing too well his temper.

“Warwick?” She backed away from him, noting that he followed her with determined, menacing strides.

“Warwick, you don’t understand! We must get away—”

“Oh, I understand that perfectly, my love! In fact”—he paused, dropping a few twigs on the fire, eyeing her in the beauty of her silver fox, her hair a trail like the sun, streaming atop it—“we are leaving now. I’ve sent the lad—the apprentice—around to the stables for the nag I hired.

I dared not come here with Dragon, you see, for he is too fine a piece of horseflesh for a blacksmith.

” He smiled at her, but it was a dangerous smile.

“In fact, my love,” he told her, “I have never been so anxious to take you from here, for I do intend to thrash you soundly!”

Surely he did not mean it! She stared at him in stunned surprise, then thought his threat was purely masculine bluff, but why? And graver things were upon them now . . .

“Warwick—”

He stood, chuckling softly. “Poor sweet, you do not know the half of it! Let’s see, where do I begin? Tonight. Ondine, you were to be drugged once again—and sold to my old nemesis, the lord Lyle Hardgrave!”

“Hardgrave!” she gasped, amazed that he could be a part of this. “I don’t understand. How—”

“Jake, milady, has been staying at a certain establishment of ill repute called the White Feather. You know of it?”

She nodded blankly.

“How Hardgrave became involved or discovered our whereabouts, I do not know, only that he has.”

“Hardgrave . . . and Anne?”

“Aye,” Warwick said, stooping to poke the fire, then standing again to approach her, hands on his hips.

“’Tis a confused group we have here, eh?

Seems Anne was the one to find us; she wished to sell only you—so that I would perhaps raise havoc, but eventually come around to a need for her luscious arms once again.

Hardgrave, however, means to kill me. You were to have been quietly drugged and taken care of this eve.

I should have been left to flounder in bafflement.

Anne made the first deal, but Hardgrave accosted your uncle to make the second.

Hardgrave, if Jake’s fair friend had her information right—”

“Jake’s friend?”

“A lovely buxom tavern wench, name of Molly. If Molly heard correct, Hardgrave made arrangements to come earlier—this noon—to see to my death and disposal. Anne would not have known, until I, like you, came to be discovered as vanished—then deceased.”

Ondine shook her head, incredulous at all these curious twists. Warwick smiled grimly and continued.

“Now, added to this confusion, my love, your cousin knows nothing of the matter. He is so enamored of you that your uncle apparently feels it must all be done with him away!”

“Oh!” Ondine gasped, still incredulous—and still wary, for his anger extended to her!

He came to her then, smiling, his hands flat against the wall on either side of her head as he stared at her with the greatest reproach.

“Ah, yes, ways and means! I know everything, my love. I even know that your uncle wishes you might be slain instead of sold into the slave markets—because you’re with child!”

The last came out with all his thunderous fury, and she understood in an instant the explosion of the simmering anger he bore her.

Nor could the charge be denied; she placed her hands against the sinewed breadth of his chest, thinking to plea, for he could not be really angry. They were near to safety, and he must, in truth, be glad of it!

“Warwick, I—”

“Nay, give me not that sweet and innocent face, for I am not some besotted fool, prey to your guileless smile. Madam, I swear, you should go over my knee! You are forever in danger, and you left me! Left me and my home, knowing full well you carried my heir!”

“Nay, Warwick. I did not know!”

“Aye!” he cried, ever bringing his face and flashing eyes closer to hers. “Still you protest innocence, to me, your lord and master!”

“Hmmph!” she responded, with like fire that time, for she would not succumb to his fury. “Lord, perhaps. Master! None is my master, only if I should choose it so!”

“I make the choices!” he countered, but she saw there was also laughter in his eyes. She raised her arms, throwing them around his neck. “Warwick! I swear, I did not know it when I left! Nor should I have cared, for you did plan to be rid of me!”

“Never—an act, and you knew it!”

“I did not! You never professed love at the time—”

He stopped her words with a gentle kiss, caressing her cheeks between his palms. Then he looked at her, smiling ruefully.

“My sweet, I do profess love now, and once we’re away from here, well will I indulge in it! But I’m still tempted to see you soundly thrashed as such a wandering wife deserves . . .”

“Oh, Warwick!” She giggled, leaping slightly to fit herself more closely to him, closing her eyes in sweet elation as she held him close. “I do love you. I do love you . . .”

She was so absorbed in him, nay, they were so absorbed in each other, that neither heard the sounds of stealth outside; neither knew anything at all until they were interrupted by the slamming burst of the door and heard a shout, crazed and demented with fury.

“Whore!”

Ondine had time to open her eyes; Warwick never had a chance to move, except to tighten his arms protectively around her.

Then a pistol blast exploded.

Ondine screamed hysterically, barely aware that the ball had sped past her cheek and was imbedded in the wall behind her.

She was aware of nothing except her husband, for the ball had done its damage well before passing on. Warwick’s temple was saturated with red. Blood red.

In horror she stared into his golden eyes; in disbelief and agony she watched them glaze . . . and close. And she felt his arms slip from her as he crashed, dead weight, down to the floor.

She didn’t even see Raoul then; she screamed and fell down beside her husband, praying deliriously that it could not be true, he could not be dead. “Warwick! My God, Warwick!”

She reached to roll him over, to rip cloth from her skirt to staunch that awful flow of blood, his life’s blood, her life’s blood.

“Whore!”

The charge was leveled against her, and she was forced to notice Raoul, for his fingers bit into her arm cruelly, and he dragged her screaming and fighting from Warwick’s side. Maddened, dangerously hysterical, she bit furiously into the hand that held her so cruelly.

Raoul swore and released her, but only to send a stinging blow against her face that sent her reeling, dazed near unconsciousness, onto the thinly mattressed bunk. She could barely see Raoul’s face, gaunt and narrow with evil emotion, ugly in its twisted passion, staring down at her.

“He’s done, madam. Your filthy lover is dead. You refused me, while you ran to him! No more, my lady slut! He has received his just reward; you shall now receive yours. Slowly.”