Ondine (10 page)

“Girl—are you well?”

He had returned … she hadn’t heard him!

“Aye … aye!” she sputtered. “I’m … fine.”

He said nothing else. Ondine released the breath she had not known she held.

And curiously, in moments, she slept.

Ondine awoke to discover Lottie tapping upon her door, offering Ondine a scented bath, and food in the salon when she should desire it.

Ondine, quite delighted with the thought of the bath, flashed Lottie a smile and hurried for the dressing room, hastily shedding her gown.

She sank her feet into the water, then more carefully her rump, for the water was hot indeed. Sweeping her hair about her head, she leaned back with a contented sigh, luxuriating in the swirling caress of the bath oil. After a moment she opened her eyes curiously, surprised to find Lottie still stationed before her, waiting with a massive length of towel. Catching her mistress’s eyes upon her, Lottie flushed again and bowed.

“Lottie, whatever are you doing?” Ondine inquired gently.

“Why, I—” She broke off, dropping her chin. “I don’t know, milady. I’ve never held such a position before.”

Ondine chuckled softly, then sobered, for she had no wish to hurt the young girl’s feelings. She liked Lottie; her broad face, farm-fresh smile, and cherry-red cheeks.

“Then, Lottie, I shall tell you a secret,” Ondine said, giving the girl an encouraging smile. “I’m a bit nervous myself, so we shall bluff our way through it together. If you would, I’d enjoy a cup of tea while I soak. Then, perhaps, you could lay out a gown for me.”

Lottie nodded eagerly. Ondine closed her eyes again as she heard the girl scamper through the master’s chamber to the room beyond. Seconds later she was back, a cup of tea in her hands. “Perhaps you could draw that little stool near, and I could use it for a table,” Ondine suggested, and again Lottie nodded eagerly.

It was as Lottie brought the small stool that Ondine noted how badly she shook. Curiously she set her cup upon the stool and asked, “What is it, Lottie? Surely you’re not afraid of me?”

“I’m not afraid of you—you seem ever so kind! It’s—” She broke off quickly, alarmed at her own words.

“It’s what, Lottie?” Ondine demanded with a sigh of exasperation.

Lottie looked anxiously to the door of the master’s chamber, as if she were afraid someone might be hovering there. She knelt down by the tub and stared wide-eyed and frightened at Ondine.

“I’m afraid
for
you, milady!”

“Afraid for me!” Ondine repeated, astonished. “Why ever would you be?” Ondine felt a furious tremor shake her. Was there, then, something more about the handsome, tyrannical, and secretive rogue who had married her than she had dared to guess? Something of the demon that hinted only in his eyes? Was there an intrigue dark as his brooding perusal?

Once more Lottie’s glance skittered to the door; then her timid gaze returned to Ondine. “Didn’t you hear them?”

“Hear what?”

“The wolves—blessed Jesus, did they howl last night!”

Ondine started to laugh, relief flooding muscles she didn’t realize had gone so taut. “Lottie! Wolves are prone to prowl forest land, and to howl with the moon when they do so.”

Lottie shook her head with frustration, saying, “Lady, I fear for your life! The first countess was sorely afraid—poor delicate thing!—and she did die, sweet lady!”

“Lottie! She was afraid—of her husband?”

“Oh, nay, lady, ‘twas never him, though others sometimes thought so! Genevieve had her own maid, a Yorkshire girl, but she did speak wkh me oft in the kitchen, and she was so afraid!”

Ice suddenly seemed to sluice through Ondine’s veins, yet she fought to maintain control. She could not let the girl see how very ignorant she was of her husband’s affairs, else she might lose all she was gaining in truth.

“Of what was she afraid?” Ondine tried to ask casually.

“The ghosts.”

Lottie spoke so solemnly that it was all Ondine could do to keep from laughing and submerging herself deeply into the water with pure relief.

“Lottie, you must not fear for me, then, for I have no fear at all of ghosts.” She smiled brilliantly. “All great castles and manors have ghosts, Lottie. But my father, who was a dear and wise man, taught me that the dead were the safest men that one could meet; the only ones who could not—assuredly not!—harm you in any way.”

Lottie did not appear at all soothed or appeased.

“How did the countess die, Lottie? Childbirth? It is a cruel trick of fate, yet does occur—”

“Nay, nay, my lady! They all said that she was unstable—all but the earl, that is—”

“Unstable?”

“Mad! But she was not! Just fragile and—frightened. She had been promised to the Church, but her father pleaded that the earl take her to wife on his deathbed, and”—Lottie quickly crossed herself—“such a request needs must be met. The two were wed—”

“Lottie, how did she die?”

“She heard voices, you see. The ghosts’ voices.”

Ondine was growing impatient, yet she could see how deathly serious it was to Lottie. “Lottie, what ghosts?”

“Why, of His Lordship’s grandmother, of course. Dead—fallen from the old wood staircase to the chapel. And of the old lord’s mistress, hastened to her own death. Genevieve died the same, poor, most noble lady! From a tower at court, she fell, and I knew she had heard the voices, calling to her again!”

“Lottie!” The shocked and horrified gasp came from the doorway. Both girls—Ondine and Lottie—found their startled, guilty attention drawn there. Mathilda stood there quite white-faced, one hand to her heart, the other leaning against the doorframe.

“Lottie, you wretched child! How dare you upset the countess with such wicked gossip!”

Lottie, stricken, fell back on her heels beneath the tongue-lashing. Ondine, irritated at being so disturbed in the bathtub no less, attempted to assert her opinion.

“I’m not upset! I questioned the girl, she but—”

Mathilda had reached Lottie by then and was wrenching the girl’s arm angrily.

“I meant no harm!” Lottie cried out.

“Horrid child! You should have remained in the kitchen!”

“Nay!” Ondine proclaimed, gripping the rim of the tub on either side, determined to outrule Mathilda. “I don’t wish—” she began, but her words were curtly cut by a masculine voice, thundering in upon them with aggravated authority.

“By the rood—what in God’s earth goes on here?”

Warwick now stood at the door, decked in riding coat and breeches, tall with hat and boots, dominating the scene. His eyes, searing points of gold, leveled upon Ondine, were alight with accusation, as if she were surely the cause of this uncustomary domestic upheaval.

She met his gaze with a simmering fury. She was but the victim of them all, trapped within a tub of melting bubbles, naked and waterlogged, and sorely bereft of her privacy. She longed to scream, to throw things at them all! It seemed a horrible invasion, especially so with Warwick there, his eyes upon her, before the other women, and they all decently appareled.

“What is the difficulty?” Warwick demanded of them all.

Ondine bent her knees quickly to her body, alarmed at the crimson color staining her flesh from a vivid flow of humiliation, yet even as she wrapped her arms around them, she was retorting with the best restraint of manner that she could.

“There is no difficulty here, milord. Mathilda was concerned with Lottie’s service; I am not. If you would all just leave—”

“And what is your difficulty?” he asked his housekeeper, coldly interrupting Ondine.

“I—milord—I was concerned with the child’s choice of rumor to convey to the countess.”

“Oh!” Lottie’s head fell to the floor as she buried it in the crook of her arm. Her cry was muffled. “I meant no harm, truly! I—”

“No harm is done!” Ondine snapped out, wishing for nothing more than it all to end, for Mathilda and more especially Warwick to depart so that she might rise from the tub and salvage a sense of dignity. “If I might be left in peace with my maid—”

Warwick apparently hadn’t heard a word that she had spoken. He was striding into the dressing room and bending to the distraught Lottie. “Come, girl; ‘tis the end of it.” He brought her to her feet.

“She should be punished!” Mathilda stated.

“I’ll not have it!” Ondine commanded in a sudden fury. They were all standing right over her! “Must this go on while I bathe?”

“Mathilda, Lottie, you are dismissed,” Warwick said smoothly. “There shall be no recourse, Mathilda, as the countess has requested.”

Mathilda, with the still-trembling Lottie at her heels, began to depart. Ondine realized that she was about to lose her maid while retaining her husband.

“Milord, I need Lottie’s services. Lottie, you will stay—”

Lottie paused.

“You will go,” Warwick said quietly. Lottie nodded mutely and fled, and Ondine learned quickly the lesson that her husband’s orders would always override her own, no matter how softly they were spoken.

With their departure, Warwick closed the door behind them, then came forward, resting a booted foot upon the stool and leaning an elbow upon his knee to stare at her.

“Milord, if you don’t mind—”

“I do mind. What was it all about?” He was intense, and far too close. She was losing her protective covering of bubbles and was shivering fiercely.

“What was it all about?” she hissed, tossing her head back. She inadvertently displayed a long smooth column of neck and the rise of her breasts. “It was, milord, over things you might have thought to tell me, since it is some role I am to play for you, and I have not been given any lines! You have not thought to warn me, sir, that you were a widower—and the servants claim some ghosts to have lured your bride to death!”

He did not reply, but straightened slowly and walked across the room to lean against the latticed doors of closet space. She could not fathom at all his expression when his eyes touched hers again; he seemed both distant and too near, aware of her in every aspect, yet disinterested.

“Countess …” His use of the title was always sardonic. “Certainly you do not believe such things.”

No, she didn’t, but she found herself shivering fiercely and longing again to know why this conversation, with Warwick so strangely intent, had to take place now.

“Nay,” she spat out. “But it would have been reasonable, Lord Chatham, to have given me an explanation!”

He shrugged, and it seemed that the touch of a rueful grin tugged at the corner of his lip.

“Perhaps I feared that you would quake at the thought of ghosts; of a manor where the halls are prone to echo with the howls of the neighboring wolves.”

“My lord,” Ondine replied dryly, making as great a mockery with the use of the words as he,“you consider my life to be yours; I doubt that you care about my feelings in the least.”

He smiled elusively. “You are wrong, Countess. I am quite interested in your feelings … and impressions. And if you do not fear ghosts, my love”—his voice fell low—“then why is it that you sit there shaking like an ash in wind?”

“Because of your horrendous lack of good manners, sir!” Ondine cried furiously. “You claim that I am to be mistress of this house, yet not only do servants spat before me in my bath, but you come along to further disrupt my peace and privacy!”

He tilted his head, his eyes glittering as laughter rumbled from his throat. “But, my lady, I am your husband! If I should not disturb your bath, then, pray tell, who should?”

“I should like to get out,” Ondine announced icily.

“Then, please do, Countess,” he said gallantly, offering her a full and courtly bow.

She didn’t move, nor could she think of a scathing retort, so unnerved was she by his taunting charm and laughter. A flush of pink rose instantly to her breasts and face, and she was furious that she could not control it. Instantly he commented upon it.

“You’ve seen many a horror in your day, lady, as you are so wont to remind me. Nothing disturbs you—do you recall those words?”

“Get out!” Ondine railed, shaking suddenly from a frightening savage heat that ripped along her spine.

He did not, but proceeded in long strides toward her again, planting his foot upon the stool, his arm upon his knee, and bending very low to her. “Never think to order me about, madam. Or out of a chamber that is mine in any way. Where I will have access, I will take it without need of your blessing.” He spoke pleasantly, but with such an underlying note of arrogant assurance that her temper soared to new heights. She swore out a score of oaths and forgot even herself as she brought her hand flying and spraying from the water with swift vehemence.

He caught her wrist, but not before her palm had caught his cheek. Yet whatever triumphant satisfaction the action had brought her was quickly swept from her soul, for she had not taken time to wonder at his response. And could she not now do more than gasp with sudden and searing panic, for that response was quick. Mouth grim and eyes set, his jaw clamped, he secured her other wrist and pulled her upon her feet with an effortless but ruthless strength. He brought her dripping into his arms as he lifted her from the tub to the floor. Then he lifted her off her feet and locked her arms about his waist, bringing her naked length fully to his. He smiled as her eyes stared up, wide with shock. She knew that her limbs trembled fiercely, that he felt the mounds of her breasts through the fabric of shirt and jacket, that her slim legs were all but entangled with his hard muscled ones, and that surely he felt the rampant thunder of her heart. And he smiled his rake’s smile, a flash of white teeth, a bemused glitter of his eyes. “Lady! It seems I am forever reminding you how little is required of you! Yet it seems you insist upon goading my temper over trifling things, when, alas, you are allowed to escape so very much!”

Then quite suddenly it seemed that his fingers were gently raking into the damp wings of her hair, caressing her nape, arching her throat. She was not prone to seek forgiveness where none was due; and with him she would surely swear in her heart she would never do so.

But she was willing now. Ever so willing, for she was alive with both fear and excitement, and it was the excitement she loathed the most. She felt like liquid silver, and she abhorred him for holding her so negligently, for knowing her flesh and her vulnerability.

“I beg your pardon,” she rasped out desperately, but the plea came far too late, for already his head was lowered, his mouth laying claim to hers. She gasped at that contact, and further abetted his intent, parting her lips to his. Theirs was a subtle caress, but firm and yielding, a sweet wine that poured upon her with a potency she hadn’t the strength to fight. She felt the searing touch of his tongue stroking into deep crevices of her mouth. Each stroke had a shattering impact upon her trembling body, so much so that she held still, until some good sense showed her the absurdity of it all. With a fervent twist of the head that surely cost her locks of hair, she turned her face from his, gasping out a new spate of oaths that described his behavior and himself in no uncertain terms.