Ondine (5 page)

She began tearing into a wrapped parcel by the door, the thing that had made the thud Ondine had heard when Lord Chatham entered.

“Oh! How lovely!” Meg cried out delightedly.

Ondine tried to smile as Meg drew out a silken shift, then an underskirt of flowing blue linen. Meg continued to gasp delightedly as she next discovered a bodice and overshirt in rich teal velvet, then a stiff petticoat in ruffled lace.

“There’s even a pair of the loveliest shoes,” Meg muttered. “Who would have thought his mind would bend to find such fashionable garb?”

“He probably makes purchases for his paramours,” Ondine said acidly; then she wondered instantly why she should be so bitter, why she should care. Had she not had the various warnings? She would have known that he was not a man of celibacy. There was something about him, beyond the power of his physique, even beyond the draw of his rawly masculine features; even beyond the compelling fascination of his eyes. It was something in his movement, in his occasional humor, in the sensual way his lip could curl while his eyes blazed their golden challenge.

“Come, dear,” Meg said a little worriedly. “I’d not keep him waiting overly long when he wishes to dine.”

Let him wait! Ondine longed to cry out. She lowered her eyes quickly, at a loss with herself. She was famished. There was no reason to keep him waiting—not when he meant to offer her a meal!

She hurried over to Meg, dropped her towel, and mumbled out her thank-yous as Meg helped her into the clothing. He had not only done well with style, he had done remarkably well with fit. And no matter how she resented him, she couldn’t help but feel glorious in the new clothes. Gloriously alive. She was clean—and alive—by way of his curious bounty.

“Oh, love! You’re beautiful—really beautiful!” Meg gasped out happily. Her bright blue eyes were alight with pleasure. “So very lovely. I see now what it was that so beguiled Lord Chatham to snatch you to his heart! All we need is a brush now. We won’t pin your hair. You’re a bride tonight; we’ll just brush it to a gloss. Oh, I did do marvelous work, if I must say so myself!”

Ondine couldn’t help but smile at Meg’s sheer delight, yet as she sat for Meg as the woman lovingly worked the tangles from her hair, she gnawed her lower lip. She would be no bride tonight. One day she would find a way to repay Lord Warwick Chatham for his generosity—a generosity that had meant her life. Though he touched her temper and pride like a raw, taunting blade, she knew she owed him everything, and she meant to be entirely grateful. Yes, one day …

But not tonight. Tonight she would escape him and run into the forest, a place where she had found refuge before. There was no reason she should have any difficulty. Who would think that a humble waif would wish to escape the company of a nobleman, one not only wealthy, but extremely fine in stature and appearance?

Tonight, yes, she could easily be gone, ready to survey her situation once again, ready to battle the treachery that had brought her so low.

But not until after dinner. Were the public room below peopled with all the demons of hell, she would have hurried to it anyway, such was the depth of her hunger.

“Ahhh… copper, my dear!” Meg wasn’t calling her “my lady” at all anymore; they had somehow become very close, and the words would have been ridiculous between them. To Meg, she was another daughter; a girl to be cherished and reassured.

The feeling was nice. If only she had been simply a starving waif that Jake had found wandering the streets of London. She could have stayed with Meg, worked so very hard that the woman could never have doubted her worth.

But she hadn’t been a waif; she had been a criminal at Tyburn Tree. Her only recourse now was escape.

“I wish I had a glass that you might see yourself, but, alas, I haven’t one! But surely you will see your own beauty in your husband’s eyes, when they fall upon you. Come—you’re ready to meet your husband.”

But she wasn’t ready. Her fingers were shaking and she clasped them together, wondering desperately why she was so afraid of him. She didn’t want to meet his eyes again and feel that strange heat that raked the length of her spine when he touched her.

“And there’s a fine rare roast today!” Meg said cheerfully. “Summer potatoes, and carrots, swimming in gravy—” Ondine could almost smell the dinner from Meg’s words alone.

“Yes, I’m—I’m ready,” she murmured.

Meg opened the door and hurried her down a long hallway. They passed a common men’s room, where there were at least twenty pallets, and there were private rooms for those who could afford them.

And then there was another stairway. From the top of it Ondine could hear voices, mainly male. Men were laughing, drinking ale, relaxing from a hard day’s labor, unwinding from a long and jolting carriage ride. And every once in a while there was softer laughter, a woman’s voice.

“You must go down, my dear, if you’re to eat!” Meg prodded her.

As if awakened from sleep, Ondine nodded. She started down the stairs, then paused again.

She could see Warwick pacing impatiently. He paused with his back to her, then slowly turned as if a sixth sense had warned him of her presence.

She held still, her heart pounding. He was truly an indomitable figure standing there, so tall. He wore a plumed hat that added to his height and to his air of a buccaneer, as the brim fell low over one brow. She noted again that his appearance of leanness was deceptive. His shoulders were very broad, his back strong before tapering, his legs heavily muscled beneath the taut material of his breeches, so fashionably buckled beneath his knees. He’d shed his coat, and his shirt was very white against the deep bronze of his features. His eyes, in contrast to that white, seemed to blaze with startling color.

He stared at her for the first time. Like a deep and blazing touch of the sun, his eyes raked over her, slowly, openly, offering no apology.

A rakish grin tugged upon one corner of his lip; a gleam of laughter touched his eyes. They were gold and seared into her, and it seemed again that her blood heated and sped thoughtout her, causing her limbs to grow weak.

He lifted a hand to her, the gesture a command. She started to walk down to him. His fingers caught and curled around hers, and still she couldn’t draw her eyes from his.

Again he chuckled, a deep, husky sound, and his eyes moved from her face to regard her breasts where the mounds rose smooth above her bodice. He lowered his gaze to her hips, to her toes…

“You’ll do quite well,” he whispered, a breath that touched her throat and the lobe of her ear and made her shiver all over again.

She swallowed, bracing herself mentally against him. “I shall do quite well for what, my lord?” she inquired coolly.

He laughed.

“For my wife, of course. What else?”

Their table was by the rear wall. He sat across from her, and that fact alone caused her heart to pound more quickly. There would be no escape from this table. Should she rise, he could quickly stand and block her way.

There was food, and she was famished. She would not run now. She grabbed at the bread, and as his hand came down on hers, she raised her eyes, startled, to his.

“No one is going to take it away,” he promised her in a voice that was gentle. “You mustn’t eat too quickly, or you’ll become ill.”

His hand lifted from hers and he poured out two goblets of ale. He broke the bread himself, handing her a piece. She was still staring at him. He grinned and leaned against the wall, resting one foot idly upon the bench, his hand dangling nonchalantly over a knee. “I didn’t mean that you couldn’t eat,” he told her, a little amused.

Ondine kept her eyes warily on him while she bit into the bread. He seemed well aware of her nervous perusal of him and quite entertained by it. His smile was almost genuine as white teeth flashed against his candle-shadowed features. He suddenly had the look of a very rakish demon, a man casually aware of his effect upon women—upon her in particular—and totally amused by it.

“Where is Jake?” Ondine inquired between bites of bread.

“He is my servant, not my property. His free time is his own.”

Ondine tried to sip her ale with an element of delicacy, but she was too thirsty, and she drained half the goblet.

Somewhat surprised, he filled it for her again.

She sighed with the sudden flooding warmth of the ale. She determined to disconcert him as he did her.

“You do not consider your servants property, sir?”

“No man can be owned. To think so is folly.”

“And what of a wife?”

“Ah, well, that’s rather different, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“I dare say,” he replied slowly, drawing a finger about the rim of his chalice. His head was bowed now, not quite close to hers. The candle flame seemed to grow larger, and the room became quite hot.

“Yes, I dare say. A wife, you see, swears a vow of loyalty.”

“Servants can be loyal.”

“Aye, but a servant who fulfills his duty owes no more.”

“And a wife?”

“Ah, but a wife should not tire of her … duty, should she?”

“Depending on what those duties be,” Ondine replied coolly.

“None so difficult, I should think. For what one may call duty, one who has spirit would call pleasure, wouldn’t you say?”

Where did this lead? she wondered, a dizziness sweeping through her. She had drained her ale far too quickly. She
was
his wife; they spoke as if he mused on someone else. Her fingers trembled as she made a display of nonchalance, pecking at the bread again. It had lost its delicious flavor; it seemed thick in her throat.

“What is owed to one is owed to the other, is it not?” she said serenely. What did it matter what words they exchanged? She would not stay with him long enough to discover the meaning of his taunting wordplay.

He seemed to tire of his game, sighed, and sat back, reflective as he drank his ale. “I think I should tell you something of the manor. We’ve another night on the road, yet if we travel hard, we will come to North Lambria by the second eve.” He broke off. The tavern lad was back with a platter filled high with beef and new spring potatoes. Warwick dismissed him, preferring to mound a pewter plate for Ondine himself, going lightly with the food. He laughed at her expression and reminded her, “I’ve no wish to be mean with food, girl. Yet k seems it’s been long since you’ve known regular substance, and I’ ve no mind for a sickly hindrance.”

Sickly hindrance!

He didn’t seem at all inclined to eat himself, and again he leaned against the wall, casually resting that elbow on his knee as he spoke. “Mathilda keeps the house, so you will have no difficulty with its management. If you’ve questions, come to me. The servants you will meet, and Jake you already know. Clinton is in charge of the grounds, the tenants, and the stables. And there is my brother, Justin. He resides at the manor, so you will see him frequently.”

The roast beef was delicious. It was ecstasy to Ondine’s palate, so much so that she gave his words little attention. After all, they did, in truth, mean nothing to her.

She was, in fact, so involved with her food that she did not realize that he was aware of her total lack of interest until he swept the plate suddenly from her, bringing her eyes to his once again.

She gazed into his eyes. All amusement had fallen from them, as had any sensual taunt. She stiffened, sensing the sudden flare of a cold and ruthless anger within him. Her mouth went dry. She thought again that there was no escape, that he could catch her before she could rise from the table.

“Listen!” he snapped at her. “You’ve a role to take on, my gallows’ bride, and I’d appreciate a modicum of effort on your part Rather, dear wife, I demand it.”

A pulse ticked at his throat above the fine white linen of his shirt. Ondine blinked and nodded, wondering at the many faces of the man. The charming, seductive rake, the steel-edged autocrat, and the sensitive gentleman who had set his arms about her to buffer her view of the hanging. Which, then, of these faces, was the man?

Irritably he repeated himself. “Justin is my brother. Clinton manages the estate. Mathilda is the housekeeper. She is quite proficient, and if you listen and follow her lead, you’ll have no difficulty acting out the titled dame. They have long been with Chatham; it is their home as it is mine. I rule my land, as it is mine, but we live pleasantly there. None is cruelly treated. Do you understand?”

She was quite tempted to pull her plate back and see how he appeared with gravy framing his insolent eyes. Who did he think she was? Surely she had managed a household of far grander scale than his “manor” in the barely civilized north.

She opened her eyes with wide and malicious innocence. “Dear Lord Chatham! I shall certainly do my best to refrain from flying into a ‘common’ fit and thrashing your servants. Is that what you wish me to comprehend?”

He leaned back again, annoyed. “Madam, you’ll learn to watch your tongue.”

Long seconds passed as their glares locked, and Ondine’s eyes were the first to fall. She folded her hands in her lap, discovering that in one thing he was right. She hadn’t eaten much, but it seemed all that she could manage. It was imperative now that she be humble and gracious, lest she arouse his suspicions.

“I beg your pardon,” she told him demurely.

“Why don’t I believe that?” he muttered so softly that she might have imagined the words.

She looked at him, careful to keep the discussion focused upon her future life with him. “When Jake first came to me upon the cart, he said that some might say that I had wed a ‘beast.’ Are you a beast, milord Chatham?”

He made a ticking sound of annoyance and downed more ale. “The beast sits upon my armor, lady, nothing more.”

“Pray tell, what is this beast?”

He gazed at her dryly. “A dragon creature. Half lion, half myth. They say that once such ‘beasts’ roamed our forests, protecting Saxons from Normans—and Royalists from Cromwell’s wrath. I’ve yet to see one, myself, except in art and whimsy.”

Ondine smiled at little wistfully then, noting the charm of his grin. She was clean, her stomach was comfortably fed, and the promise of a new freedom loomed before her. She could afford to exchange a few words with the man, moments in which to lull him further to trust.

“When you wear the armor, sir, are you then the beast?”

He cocked his head slightly, arching a brow. “What we are is in how we are beheld, is it not?”

“So it would seem. Are there those who might behold you, then, a beast?”

“How can I judge for others?”

She picked up her goblet, twirling it idly in her hand, and scrutinized him quite openly, narrowing her eyes as if she gave the matter great thought.

“Aye, my lord Chatham, I can see where you might upon occasion appear the beast.”

“Do you? But then beasts can be quite tame, can’t they? And, my lady, my given name is Warwick. You must use it, at least upon occasion.”

He reached across the table suddenly, catching a lock of her hair between his fingers. Her flesh seemed to burn as his fingers brushed over her breast, and her breath caught in her throat with both indignation and a startling sensation. He didn’t notice. His interest in her was very keen; yet again, she felt much like a purchase, to be appraised for the value of appearance’ sake.

“You really are very beautiful,” he mused, as if such a thought should give him great surprise. “For a commoner.”

She could not help herself. She wrenched her hair from his grasp and moved as far to the wall as she could.

“Are commoners usually ugly, then, Lord Chatham?”

He sighed, as if weary of her troublesome behavior. “Nay, and I meant no offense. You’ve merely features very fine—far more so than many of the great and ‘noble’ beauties of the land.” She might have been a diversion, one with whom he had allowed himself to tarry, yet now found tedious.

“Have you quite finished?”

“What—”

“We’ve made our appearance. Word will spread quickly that you appeared at this table as my bride, a lady of bearing surely fit for mistress of the manor. Your past shall rest between Jake, yourself, and me. We need no longer stay here, and I, for one, am weary. I would think that you, too, would long for the comfort and cleanliness of a bed such as Meg offers here.”

A bed! With him in it beside her …

The dizziness swamped her in a burst of alarm and searing heat that brought a weak quiver to her limbs. Was he the beast, the rake, or the gentleman? She didn’t want to know. It was time to be the charming damsel now, herself; time to make good her elusive goal of freedom—and vengeance.

“Is appearance so important, then?” she murmured, stalling for time.

“Aye, especially so with us, milady.”

“Then why did you marry me, a common poacher? Please, don’t tell me you needed a wife! Surely you could have secured a dozen wives from better places, had you so chosen!”

“A dozen wives? A man may have but one, milady.” He hesitated. “I’ve grown tired of the pressure to marry, that is all. And I did not care to have a clinging countess about my neck, quizzing my movements. A gallows’ bride, madam, best suits my tastes. You are alive. I may be at peace and live my life as I choose. Does that satisfy you?” he inquired coolly.

“It must, if it’s what you wish to tell me.”

She lowered her eyes, fluttering her lashes carefully. A flash of guilt caused her heart to skip a beat. He
had
saved her life, had given her the pure ecstasy of cleanliness, and had caused her stomach to cease its habitual growl. Perhaps she could get an annulment for the marriage. She fervently hoped so, since there would be nothing she could do for quite some time. And she didn’t forget for a moment that she meant to pay him back.

“My lady, may we leave?”

She raised her eyes, allowing her lip to tremble. “Dear Lord Chatham, I implore you, may I have a minute for myself?”

“What?” He crossed his arms over his chest, scowling with a sudden impatience.

A flush that could not have been enacted rose to her cheeks, and she stuttered out her request again. “I’d have a moment. I— I wish to take care with my—”

“You needn’t—” he interrupted her abruptly, but she would not allow him to go on. She reached across the table, resting her fingers lightly on the top of his hand, staring at him with all the tender innocence she could muster.

“I implore you!”

He shook off her touch—almost with distaste—and lifted his hands into the air. “Do whatever pleases you. It makes no difference to me.”

Smiling graciously, she lowered her head and stood, willing her knees not to wobble. Hurriedly she swept from the bench, but she did not breathe until she had passed by him.

And then she gulped for air, blindly making her way through the tables for the stairway. There were still voices and laughter in that room; they all blended together as she raced up the stairway, aware only that Warwick’s eyes followed her intently all the way.

And, sitting still at that table, he frowned slightly as he watched her retreating back. She quite astounded him, for she was far more than he had imagined possible; slim, erect, shapely, dainty. As hollow as her cheeks were, their texture was as soft and pure as silk. She was truly a stunning beauty. None would doubt his attraction to such a woman; nor would anyone think to question her background.

Still scowling, he poured himself some ale. The only flaw seemed to be her temper. He had expected a great deal more humility and appreciation. She should have listened eagerly to his every word and not only been willing, but grateful to accept the life he was offering her.

Warwick leaned back and drank a long swallow of his ale. Then he grinned slightly. Her apprehension had been so evident, he’d been unable to resist the desire to taunt her.

To be fair, he should have told her bluntly that he had no intention of touching her—ever.

His smile faded. She assumed he would require the “duties” of a wife. He should have informed her that he would never desire such duties just because she was his wife and that, in time, he would see that she was freed from all obligation, yet supplied with an income to live out her natural days as she chose.

His fingers curled around his goblet, and he slammed it against the table with such vehemence that it almost cracked. He couldn’t tell her that, not yet. He pushed the goblet away, frowning with weariness. He might as well go up and let her know she need have no fear of him, “beast” that she claimed him to be.

And yet …

Strange how the memory of her eyes, deep and hauntingly blue, remained with him. And her scent … now one of the richest, sweetest rose. And the velvet touch of her hair between his fingers—fire hair, dark in shadow, yet gleaming with strands that caught the color of the sun.

He smiled slightly. He even liked the pride she wore as a shield about her, though it could irk him sorely. The cast of her chin, the haughty retort in her eyes.