Page 88 of Ondine

Ondine could not care; nothing seemed to matter. She was dimly aware of the pain that stung her cheek; well might she have entered a netherworld of desolation and despair.

She might have told Raoul that he could do as he pleased; it did not matter, for she could never be touched again.

She was already a doomed creature; life had no meaning to her.

She felt cold, as if the snow had already blanketed and claimed her, cold and numb and knowing but one thing: Warwick lay bloodied and dead: There was nothing else left to fight for.

They could do what they would to her, for she, too, was like death along with him.

“Harlot! Bitch of satan, look at me!”

He slapped her face again, jarring her from her blank and sightless stare into some world beyond. She focused upon Raoul’s face, yet gave no indication that she knew him or cared, for the shock and anguish were so deep.

“By God, I’ll make you see me!” he swore with a vengeance. She felt him tearing upon her cloak, knew that he twisted and manipulated her, and still she couldn’t care. Nothing on earth could truly touch her again . . .

And yet it did, quite suddenly. She felt his hand upon her bodice, set to rend the material in his frenzy, and it seemed then the greatest sacrilege that he should touch what Warwick had so tenderly possessed, with hands twice bloodied.

A shriek came from her, maddened, demented, and she pitted herself against him with new fury, kicking, clawing, raking with superhuman strength.

He swore; he fought her in return, yet she had no sense of fear, no thought of weakening, no logic that he, the stronger, would win in the end.

Like a wounded she-cat she flailed against him, shrieking all the while, keening to wake the very dead. He secured her wrists at last, yet still she fought, kicking, biting, more from madness than courage.

His weight fell over her at last, and in some recess of her mind she knew that she was lost. Yet even as he started to laugh, a sound as demented as her screams, the door to the cottage burst open once again.

“Raoul!”

William Deauveau shouted out his son’s name; Raoul did not appear to hear him as he caught Ondine’s chin roughly between his palms.

“Raoul!”

A hand fell on his shoulder, jerking him away from her. Dazed, Raoul stared up at his father.

“The stinking slut!” he said blankly, blinking his confusion at the interruption. “The stinking slut! She was sleeping with the filthy smith all the while that she turned her wretched nose up to me!”

“I know—”

“You knew!”

“We are rid of her!”

“Rid of her! Nay, I will have her—as everyone else has!”

William’s tone became soothing. “Aye, Son, have her, but not like this. She must not be injured.”

“Injured! I will tear her limb from limb!”

Stunned and quiet once again, Ondine vaguely noted that Jem—dear Jem!—hovered anxiously in the doorway. Had he gone for William Deauveau? she wondered. Brought him here? Ah, Jem! Truly, it doesn’t matter, for I am like one dead—all that truly mattered in life has been taken from me! she thought.

William pushed Raoul aside and touched Ondine’s cheek, eyeing her as he would a horse up for bid, touching the bruise.

“Raoul, listen to me! You’ve already caused us grave harm; another wished to bring the death blow to that smith!

We are paid dearly and well to have her out of our lives—legally dead!

But she must be no more bruised or beaten! ”

“Nay! Nay!” Raoul protested. “I’ll not give her to another—”

“For God’s sake, Son! Where is your dignity! This trollop will not be your wife!”

“Not my wife, my whore!” Raoul said sullenly.

“Then it must be quick, for the lord who purchases her will soon arrive; we need pack snow against that cheek so that the bruise will not appear so livid.”

“I’ll bruise her again—”

“You’ll not! Damn you, even if you are my own whelp! You’ll destroy all that we’ve done here! Leave, now! Go to the house! I’ll bring her back. Go straight to your chambers, Son, with the right words in her ears to make her miraculously amiable!”

Raoul looked at his father dubiously; William’s temper was at the snapping point once again.

“Go now! You waste time, if you would have her!”

Ondine saw through a gray mist that Jem backed away from the door, far from Raoul’s observance. Now she was aware only of William Deauveau, for he leaned low against her, placing the flat of his knife against her cheek. Tears filled her eyes, and she began to laugh softly.

“The more quickly you bring that blade against me, Uncle, the greater boon you shall grant me!”

He smiled, bringing the knife down to her throat, then to her breast, and onward, to her belly.

“Have you forgotten something, my dearest niece? You carry that last hope of eternal life for the man you called lover and lord. Would you die so easily yourself? Perhaps you would—but would you condemn an unborn child to death with you?”

She despised herself then, for his deepening grin assured her that she had made some sign or movement betraying the fact that his words had touched her.

It was true; Warwick lay dead, but his child, blood of his blood, lived within her.

Didn’t she—loving him, oh, loving him, but creating the folly that had cost him his life! —owe him the life of their wee babe?

Desolation overwhelmed her again; she was once more their prisoner. She would be turned over to Hardgrave, who would grant her no mercy. She had no chance for herself, or for her child.

But even then it seemed that William knew her thoughts, for he reminded her, “While there’s life, my dear, there is hope.”

Nay, there is no hope; I care nothing for life . . .

“Get up. Get up now, and accompany me quietly to the house. If you do not, Ondine, I will kill you here and now. But it will not be a swift or simple matter. I will first dig the knife into your belly, cut out your child, and then your entrails. I will do it very slowly, to assure you a sight of your growing fetus before you breathe your last.”

She stared at him and knew that he meant it, that he was capable of such a deed, that he would make her see the child. Perhaps she would even know if it would have been a son or a daughter.

No one can touch you now, not really, she reminded herself.

William spoke softly again. “Can you slay your own blood—his blood—so easily? For it will be you who decrees death for the babe!”

She forced herself to stir, to rise. She almost fell, and he supported her.

A numbness fell over her again, cold like the grave.

She barely felt him as he cast her silver fur about her and led her from the cottage.

She did not even look back. The sight of Warwick, dead and bloodied upon the floor, would make her crave death again despite the child.

Jem still hovered outside, falling back from William. Ondine thought to give him a small desolate smile, for poor Jem, he had tried so hard.

They started back to the house. Ondine was vaguely aware of the cold air of the day against her face, of the crunching sound her feet made against the snow, of William’s grip, locked tight and grim upon her arm.

Then he began to swear softly, and Ondine saw that a carriage stood in the courtyard before the house. A man alit from it.

Hardgrave was there.

He clumped through the snow toward them. William continued to swear softly, beneath his breath. Hardgrave was bellowing out oaths in a voice that thundered across the snow.

Ondine just stared blankly at them both, even when Hardgrave touched her, jerking her chin about to study the bruise there.

“Damn you, Deauveau! What happened here? I told you that I did not want her touched!”

“’Tis only a minor bruise—”

“Where is Chatham?”

“Dead already, I fear. I—”

“God damn you, Deauveau!” Hardgrave grated out furiously. “I told you that I—”

“A slight problem here; it was necessary to kill him.”

“Can you handle nothing?”

William made an impatient sound. “What is the difference? He is dead, the girl is yours. The bruise is light, some cooling snow upon it, and it will all but disappear.”

Hardgrave stared more deeply into Ondine’s eyes. “What is the matter with her? She seems as an idiot.”

“Shock, perhaps. She has reason left; she needs only to be jolted into it.”

Hardgrave started to swear again. “If Chatham is dead, there is no hurt to him in knowing what I will do! Deauveau, I hope you do rot on a trailor’s rope! You are a bumbling fool. I’ve a mind to call this off; to leave you holding your corpse and at whim to dispose of your duchess yourself!”

“I’ve your gold already,” Deauveau reminded him coolly. “And it makes no difference to me if I kill or leave her to your disposal. Do you want her or not?”

Lyle Hardgrave hesitated, his colorless eyes perusing Ondine as he balanced his weight from foot to foot. “Where is Chatham? I would see the body.”

“Down at the servants’ quarters; the first cottage. He was shot in the head, but remains there, upon the floor. Go, see him for yourself.”

Hardgrave glared menacingly at William Deauveau once again, knotting his huge hand into a fist and waving it beneath William’s nose.

“I shall see to Chatham, then return for her. See that you pack her cheek; dress her in an untorn and unsullied gown, and if you should bumble my orders again, ’tis possible I’ll slay the whole stinking lot of you! ”

William stiffened, but did not reply. Hardgrave thumped on past them. Ondine felt William’s tug upon her arm once again.

“Come, milady. Seems you’re to have one last glimpse of Deauveau Place! Ah, yes! And one last lover’s tryst with your betrothed, for if we hurry, Raoul might be satisfied, too!”

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