Ondine (41 page)

“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.
_x
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.”

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!”

Jem had not tarried outside the cottage once he had been deserted by the living, but had rushed within, lamenting his foolish decision to cloak his old bones, for if he’d come just a moment sooner, he might have warned the lovers within that Raoul was almost upon him. The lord Chatham might then have turned, might well have ducked or escaped the ball that had cost him his life.

Near tears, Jem hurried to the body, determined to see that the man’s eyes were closed, that he might receive that small dignity in death. He rolled the body over, shaking as he saw the blood congealed on the forehead, then starting like a hare as he heard a soft groan shudder from the man’s lips.

“You live!” he gasped, and then some form of youth came to him; he was spry as a lad as he hurried to the water ewer, ripped away a piece of his shirt and soaked it, and returned to kneel by the downed man. Carefully, tenderly, Jem cleared the blood away and saw that though there was much of it, the damage was in truth minor; only the flesh had been grazed and ripped; the skull remained untouched.

“Awake, sir, awake!” Jem muttered feverishly, smoothing cool clear water over Warwick’s face. “Please, oh, I pray thee God, let him awake! Sir, disaster is upon us!”

Another groan issued from blue lips just now regaining some normal color, and then Warwick’s eyes opened, eyes golden and sizzling as they stared into Jem’s, keenly battling confusion.

“Jem!”

He moved to sit up, then groaned once again, grasping his head.

“I’d thought you dead!” Jem cried. “They think you dead.”

“Ah, it would be kind in comparison to the thunder in my temple!” Warwick claimed, but then he threw his hands upon Jem’s shoulders, pain forgotten, memory returned.

“Where is she? Ondine?”

“Taken, sir, in a daze, for she believes you slain! She asked for death herself, but was cruelly reminded of—of your child.”

Warwick scrambled to his feet, wavered, and leaned upon Jem for a minute, near to breaking the old man’s shoulders. He shook his head, in an effort to clear it, and seemed to cast away all the mists about him. He strode with long firm steps to his bunk and reached beneath it, drawing out a long lethal sword. He stared at Jem once again and asked hoarsely, “They’ve taken her—to the house?”

Jem caught his lip between his teeth and nodded; already, the blood was flowing thick upon Chatham’s temple again.

“So I believe.” He ambled over to the door and cracked it, peering out. Then he inhaled sharply.

“Milord! Someone comes this way, firm of stride, noble in dress!”

“Hardgrave!” Warwick swore. His eyes came sharply to Jem’s. “Get to the house, Jem, see what happens there. Pass him humbly, as if you have not come from here.”

Jem swallowed nervously, thinking this man not well enough to battle the broad-shouldered aristocrat plodding his way so determinedly through the snow.

“Go, Jem!”

He saw that Warwick Chatham was lying down once again, where he had fallen.

“Go!”

Jem left the cottage, torn. What good that Chatham survived death once, if only to fall in truth? Yet perhaps it was true, too, that he needed to make haste, for in some small way he might find a chance to give aid to his mistress.

As he shuffled past the newcomer, he felt despair chill him again, more deeply than the cold. The man with the limpid blue eyes looked like the very angel of death.

Hardgrave slammed into the cottage, furious still, yet suddenly quite gratified, for he felt keen satisfaction to see Warwick Chatham, the great and powerful Earl of North Lambria, nothing but lifeless flesh and crumpled bone upon the floor.

He laughed, sauntering into the room, thinking it a shame he felt no need, for he would like to relieve himself upon the body. He moved closer, thinking to kneel down, grasp a handful of that thick hair, and see how the ball had destroyed that noble head.

He crouched down, then inhaled with a startled gasp, for the corpse moved! Piercing gold eyes seared into his, seared with all the fire and fury of hell, and all the loathing he had ever borne himself.

“Chatham!” He whistled, quick to stand, ready to battle, excited himself that the death might still be upon his hand.

“Aye, Chatham! Alive, my friend!”

Alive, leaping with instant agility to his feet, balancing his weight on slightly bent knees, the sword he had shielded beneath his prone body now lethally raised in his hand.

Hardgrave let out a cry, a battle cry, and drew his own weapon. Steel clashed against steel. Hardgrave ground his teeth together and swung again, sending out a shuddering blow, once again received upon steel rather than flesh.