Ondine (40 page)

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, eausing 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.

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—”