Ondine (6 page)

Yes, she might well have been born to rule a manor. And—by God!—he would see that she survived to have her freedom.

Warwick frowned suddenly, his muscles tensing as an inexplicable sensation of danger seized him. He thought of his new bride: the utter disdain in her delicate features when he had surveyed them, cleansed, for the first time; her quick temper; her immeasurable pride. She was not ungrateful for her life, yet it seemed that she had no intention of compromising her newfound freedom.

She hadn’t appeared really frightened of him, but she had been wary—and suspicious. She was prone to staring him straight in the eye, instead of batting her lashes with the charming ease of the born coquette.

“Damn!” he swore suddenly, furious with himself as his jaw locked grimly. She’d played him for an idiot and done so very well.

“Beauty” was attempting to escape the “beast.”

Still swearing softly beneath his breath, Lord Chatham traversed the stairway, two steps at a time.

Ondine had managed to walk sedately up the front stairs from the public room. Once upon the darkened landing, she ran. Her heart was thudding as she passed the common rooms and the more expensive private rooms … the door to the room where she had so recently bathed and exchanged her rags for riches.

At the back stairway she paused for a moment, clutching her hand to her heart as she gasped for a deep breath. The kitchen, she knew, led off the door where she had entered earlier. It was time to remember all that she had learned about evasion; not to bolt, but to wait and listen, carefully …

There was no one near the door. She forced herself to ascertain that fact as a surety, then glided silently down the back stairs. The tavern was busy now, for the tables were filled when she fled the public room. All the lads and maids and Meg herself should be busily occupied. And which of them would think that the common bride of a great lord would think to elude him?

The wood of the back door seemed to have swelled with the coolness of the night. Ondine gnawed at her lower lip, fighting a wave of panic as the door refused to give. She tugged upon it with greater effort and almost gasped when it sprang quite suddenly from the force of frantic desperation.

Collecting herself, she sped outside, bringing the door shut behind her, and leaned against it for one moment to collect her breath. She stared out across the dirt and pens of the yard, across the rolling fertile fields to the forest beyond. Her heart seemed to sink within her, for the distance to that forest was great, far greater than she had realized before. On foot, wearing the delicate pumps her strange “husband” had purchased for her, she would take forever reaching the ebony haven of nature’s succoring retreat.

Think! Quickly! she warned herself. By God, she hadn’t escaped the king’s guards and dozens of petty sheriffs to find herself frantic against a single man. It had taken a posse of fifty trained horsemen to capture her party of poor men and thieves in the forest outside London. And if Little Pat hadn’t fallen then, she would have eluded even them.

There was no way out of it, she decided quickly, drawing upon learned instinct. She was going to have to steal one of Lord Chatham’s carriage horses. Nor could she allow herself to feel guilty for the theft; she hadn’t the time. She could only vow to herself once again that she would find revenge against those who had so tricked and used her—and her poor woefully betrayed father! And she would pay the Earl of North Lambda back for his gift of life and substance at a later date.

So determined, Ondine raced across the dirt to the stable, praying that no one would be about. The massive doors were still open to the night, and a single lantern burned near them, high on the wall. Despite the flame, she blinked as she swept around the open doorway, pausing once again with her back to the wood structure as she attempted to see clearly. The stable was as neat as the inn: fresh hay was strewn richly over the ground; harnesses, bits, bridles, and saddles were polished and hung on pegs by the entrance.

Horses pawed the ground from two opposing rows of stalls, separated by low, thin barriers of wood.

The right horse …

She had been condemned to die one time too many and was determined now to steal only one of her “husband’s” horses, lest she be caught with the beast. She didn’t intend to be caught, but having borne the label of “traitor,” felt the promised horror of the headsman’s ax, and, in truth, the scratch of the rope, she was hesitant despite herself. Another man could claim her a thief, but not the man who had so curiously chosen to marry her.

She reflected briefly that she would almost rather face the law again than the man with the chill gold gaze once she had crossed him. That thought caused her to shiver, but shivering set her into action at last. She gazed to the doorway once again, assured herself that no tavern lad was about, then silently skimmed across the hay, looking for one of the chestnut mounts that had pulled their carriage. She paused at last behind a high rump, certain she had found the right horse. It was a tall creature, like its master. And like its master, it had broad, powerful shoulders, and a sleek and fluid body, well muscled and long in the legs.

“Shhh, my fine lad!” she murmured to the hrose, closing in on its hind quarters lest it should choose to kick. She moved along its flanks to its neck while stroking its glossy coat. The animal snorted; its great dark eyes rolled to survey her. Ondine rubbed its velvet-soft nose. “You’re really a love, aren’t you?” she murmured, finding no resistance to her touch. “We’re going to take a ride, you and I. Do you mind?”

The horse was tethered by a halter to the wall before it, and Ondine slipped the rope quickly and led the horse to the center of the stable. Swearing softly against the volume of her skirts, she slipped the guide rope over the animal’s head to secure it on the other side as a rein, then collected her skirts in one hand before leaping upon its back. The animal made no protest and stood still while she awkwardly mounted.

She nudged her heels against his ribs. “Now, my lad,” she whispered, “we’ve a need to leave here quietly and then race like the wind.”

The horse pranced obediently toward the door. But just as he did so, a shadow streaked into the opening. Cast against the glow of the single lantern, Ondine could see nothing but the figure of the man, looming tall and stalwart, legs apart, hands on his hips.

“And to where, madam, might you be ‘racing like wind’?”

It was a question most cordially voiced, but there was an edge of steel behind it, low and throaty and menacing in the very control with which it was spoken. He stepped forward, and the candlelight fell on his face, the jaw slightly twisted and clamped hard, the lean features taut. His eyes seemed to catch the energy and fire of the candle’s glow; they were alive in themselves with a blaze of taunting gold. He smiled as he stepped forward, surveying her, his movements curiously negligent, as if he had truly come to offer no more than his casual interest. His head tilted toward her, the tawny arch of a single brow raised pleasantly, a mockery of concern. Yet beneath the fine white cloth of his shirt she saw a ripple in the sinewed breadth of his shoulders … and in his arms, as if they twitched with the desire to lash out. And beneath his tight breeches she saw the powerful knots of muscle in his thighs, so restrained was his stance.

When it would have served her best, Ondine did not take the time to think. Seeing him caused her heart to catch, then race in a flurry of raw panic. She gasped, throwing her heels hard against the horse, praying madly that she could race away. But even as a cry escaped her and she thought to rule the horse, Warwick’s arm streaked out and caught the halter rope. The animal reared high, snorting. Ondine fought to stay mounted, but to no avail. She slid from the horse’s back to the hay and cried out again, closing her eyes and praying that the massive hooves would not fall upon her.

They did not. She opened her eyes. The horse was standing at his master’s side, shivering but still to Warwick’s soothing whisper. Ondine scrambled to her feet, trembling like the horse, yet taut and ready to run.

He still blocked the doorway—the beautiful entrance to the cool breeze of the night and freedom.

He stared at her for long moments without moving, long moments in which dread rose in her to a point where she thought she would scream and collapse with it. And then he spoke, quietly, pleasantly.

“Perhaps you would be so good as to return Wick to his stall.” He patted the animal’s gleaming neck, eyeing him with affection. “Good carriage horses are hard to come by, my lady. I’d just as soon not lose him to the night.”

Abruptly his gaze returned to her. Ondine did not think she was capable of moving forward to reach the horse’s halter. Yet caught by the blaze in Warwick’s eyes, she did so, stepping with stiff and jerking motions, touching the halter with care to avoid any contact with him. Shaking, trembling, her feet leaden, she walked the horse back to his stall, fumbling with the lead rope as she tethered him there. Her breath caught as she realized that Warwick had followed her and that she had not heard his movement. He stood behind the horse. Gazing beyond the animal’s tail, she could see only his legs, spread slightly with his feet planted firm upon the earth.

Her mind seemed to spin and then go numb. Then suddenly it took flight again. He was to the left of her now, no longer between her and the doorway. She pretended to take her time with the rope, and then she bolted, pitching all her speed and strength and youth into her sudden run. The door, the sweet scent of night, was before her.

She might have been afloat in the clouds, so desperately did she hurl herself along. And then it seemed that she was flying, for there was a moment when there was nothing beneath her, nothing but the air.

Yet that moment was horribly fleeting, and when it had past, she was back in the hay, gasping for breath, her mind reeling with the thud of her head against the hard earth of the stable. She closed her eyes, fighting the pain and the swamping sensation of dizziness.

Then she felt weight about her, a tight and heated vise. Gasping out a scream, she opened her eyes, only to find a less than gentle hand clamped over her mouth and her husband’s burning eyes searing into her own, his thighs straddling her hips.

“What would you, madam, make a beast of me in truth?” he demanded in a harsh and furious whisper. He moved his hand from her face quickly, distastefully, assured that she would not dare to push him further.

In that, he was right. Dazed, she returned his stare, too keenly aware of the hard cold floor beneath her, the terrible heat of his thighs around her, and the subtle scent of him, clean like the night, but carrying a hint of raw masculinity that was so threatening, her limbs seemed to grow warm and uselessly weak. What would he do to her now? she wondered despairingly.

He leaned low against her, surveying her again with fury. “Ingrate!” he spat out suddenly, and she gasped again as his fist clenched and muscles bunched beneath his shirt with the thunderous movement of his arm. Instinctively she closed her eyes against the coming blow, but there was none. His hand slammed into the earth at the side of her head, and a second later he was on his feet, staring down at her.

“Get up,” he told her coldly, and when she found that she could not move, he impatiently reached down to her, dragging her to her feet, swearing beneath his breath. “So I saved a horse thief as well as a poacher and God alone knows what else! Pray, tell me, my lady,” he mocked tightly, a pulse ticking with a fervor in his throat, his fingers like steel as they held her, “what is it I did to you that you are ever so determined to leave me for the life of a starving, filthy renegade once again?”

Ondine could not look into his eyes; she stared at his hand, and its brutal hold about her own, wondering if her bones would snap beneath it. Didn’t he know, didn’t he care? Or did he intend far worse?

He released her so suddenly that her instinctive pull against him sent her back to the front wall of the barn, where she stood still, her hands braced against it. “By God, what will I do with you?” he muttered, and at last she was ready to strike back.

* ‘It matters little to me, my lord!” she cried with sudden passion. “There is naught that you can do”—she choked on her own words—“little that can compare to Newgate, to running, to starving, to vicious murder by tra—”

She cut herself off suddenly; desperately she fought back tears. At this moment, she needed her pride. It was her only remaining source of strength. She lifted her head and met his curiously narrowed eyes with despair, bringing her voice to a casual disregard.

“Beat me, lash me, hang me—I care not.”

He took a step toward her and for a moment she regretted her hasty words, certain he intended to take her up on one—or all— of her suggestions.

His fingers twined around her elbow, but their touch now, though firm, had no painful bite. “If starvation is so appealing to you, my lady,” he drawled sarcastically, “I must then apologize for keeping you from it. But you’re not leaving, and I pray ask you not to contemplate such a thought again. I’m weary. Let’s end this night.”

There was no fighting his grip. Still feeling her heart beat so quickly that she feared it would tire and cease, Ondine came along with him. They crossed the yard and reached the rear door. He opened it, and his gaze and the inclination of his head suggested that she precede him. Ondine did so, but when the span of his fingers fell on her waist, propelling her toward the staircase, dread rushed up to flood her features once again, and she couldn’t help but turn to him. “My lord …”

“Go, my lady.”

She closed her eyes, fighting the sensation of faintness. She remembered that upon the gallows she would have willingly married any man, and that men naturally demanded intimacies of their wives. Old men, ugly men, fat men, stinking men …

Yet in her heart and mind she had counted, even then, upon escape. She had been saved by marriage. Her husband was neither old nor ugly nor fat, and his scent was a fascinating one, like the night wind …