Ondine (16 page)

Whimsically Charles had her hand once again. In an aside he laughingly informed Catherine he must show Ondine the fields and gardens outside the court, “And save her from the swains we have in abundance here!”

“We’ll gladly see the gardens,” Warwick said, yet this time, he could not retrieve Ondine from the king.

Charles placed a hand upon his chest and murmured mischievously, “You’ve matters to settle here, before they can get out of hand, friend. The cat I speak of prowls ever closer!”

Warwick’s mistake was in turning, for the king did not lie. Anne, a smile on her face, venom lacing her eyes, was almost upon them. “Lord Chatham!” she cried.

Without cutting her and creating a scene, Warwick had no recourse but to pause, as etiquette dictated. Charles chose that moment to wink and escape with another wink to his wife and Ondine in tow. They were quickly followed by two of the king’s guards, but as they broke from the structure of the tennis courts and started upon a tiled garden path, Charles abruptly turned.

“Oh, good fellows! Do leave me in peace for this once. Do you really believe the beautiful lady Chatham to be a threat?”

“Your Grace!” In unison the guards bowed; in unison, they disappeared. Charles led her along the path, deeper and deeper into seclusion, to a place where strange plants grew in profusion. He knelt by one and plucked the fruit from it. He drew a knife from his pouch and slit the fruit, offering a piece to Ondine. “Pineapple. First grown here in England by my own gardener. It’s an intriguing fruit. Taste it.”

She accepted the fruit, but could not eat it. She stared into his eyes, still numb. “Your Majesty, did you mean that?”

“Of course! I would not lie about such a matter as a pineapple.”

“No, no.” Ondine shook her head vehemently. “I meant—” She paused, wincing. “Oh, Your Grace! Never would I harm your person! Yet I remain still implicated in treason—”

He waved a hand in the air, smiling, and in that smile she saw all the beautiful things that had made him a beloved man to those closest to him.

“I never did believe your father meant to slay me, my dear Duchess of Rochester.”

She let out a long breath. She felt terribly shaky, as if any moment she would fall to the ground. Yes, he had recognized her. She had known it the moment their eyes had met.

“Oh, God!” she whispered, and he touched her cheek with a gentle fascination, then moved quickly away, tossing the remains of the pineapple to the ground.

“Where have you been, Ondine? Where did that deadly rogue of a friend of mine find you?”

“On the gallows.”

“Gallows?” Charles turned to her curiously.

“I was caught poaching deer.”

“And you were to hang?”

“It’s not uncommon, I understand.”

Suddenly Charles started to laugh. “And Warwick happened by, to claim you in marriage and rescue the fair damsel in distress. It’s wonderful! Ah, what a story! Yet a secret one, I do presume.”

“Aye, milord, though I do not know the workings of my husband’s mind.”

Charles mused upon those words for a moment, then shrugged. “As he does not know yours?”

“I—yes.”

“Then you are well met, I believe,” Charles said. He started walking down the path again. Anxiously Ondine followed him.

“Your Grace, what am I to do?”.

Again he paused, watching her so intently that in the end she flushed. “There were witnesses that day. Two guards; one page. One of the guards has disappeared—possibly he was threatened into leaving? I don’t know …” he murmured at last. “I searched high and low for the man. I cannot find him, but perhaps he fears to speak the truth. Then there are those papers—forgeries, probably, but good enough to fool a court. If you found those and destroyed them, your uncle and cousin would have no case against you. Still, you would have to trap them to clear your father … Ah, Ondine! Legally your uncle is your guardian—in charge of your estates! And legally I cannot pardon you; not unless they withdraw the accusation.”

“But you said—”

“I said that I, personally, do not believe you capable of such treason, milady. I suggest that when you deem the time appropriate, you search out the weaknesses in your family yourself. Perhaps you must return to your holdings and play your game for a while. Pretend that you would cast yourself on their mercy. Now, here, you are safe to think—and plan. You are Warwick Chatham’s bride. All knew that the old Duke of Rochester had a daughter, but none knew her name. Stay here with your husband, abide awhile in safety. All things will come with time. Ah, Ondine! I am, madam, a popular monarch. Yet I wandered Europe a pauper for endless years; I fought for my crown, I begged aid, I learned to trust good men, and yet the greatest lesson of all that I learned was care. I am here now—the son of a wonderful man, yet a weak king who died by the headsman’s ax—not because of battle or debate, but because in the end the people invited me back. They say that I came here affable—charming, if you will—but wary. And they say now that I am a good king, accessible to his people, possibly sly, but indubitably introspective. My charm, they say, can but hide the workings of the mind. Perhaps that is all true. I have grown older, wiser. I have learned that to wait and watch and keep one’s own council can bring all things to pass in time. Do you understand?”

Confused, Ondine shook her head. “You said I must act—”

“Nay, I said that in time you must act.” Charles leaned against a giant oak, his dark eyes touched by a glitter of humor, his sensual face most appealing with its grin. “I’ve no doubt my lord of Chatham eyes you, little one, like a hawk. With such a prize, well might I do the same. Bend to his will, for it is a powerful one, and if you do not bend, you might well break. Let patience be your virtue. With a ragged and laden heart he chases a ghost; in time his own quest will be satisfied. Then you can give measure to your own.”

“You suggest I leave him, then?”

“Nay—I suggest you merely travel alone when you return to your birthright. For I can tell you this. He married you—”

“For that quest of his you speak of only,” Ondine murmured.

Charles laughed. “I think not. I know him well, my girl. As well as one man can know another. I saw those lion’s eyes of his as I dragged you away. They sparkled with outrage and envy, possession and frustration. He is shocked that I—notorious as I

might well be—would take a fancy to his wife.”
“j__”

The king chuckled again. “You need have no fear of me, my dear. I offer you no bargains or deals; I ask nothing of you. If you were not his wife, still I would ask nothing of you. History will forget that I strove for the arts and excellence in England, that I fought to make her strong, however I saw fit. History will, however, men being what they are, remember my liaisons. Yet no accurate historian shall ever be able to say that I dallied with any lady not equally willing to dally. Still”—he grimaced, and smiled once again—“it is wondrously fun to have my friend— Lord Chatham, known for his stature, his courage, his damned masculine appeal—jealous of me!”

Ondine lowered her head. She didn’t think that Warwick was particularly jealous, any more than he would be of Dragon, Chatham Manor itself, or any other possession. She did not wish, though, to argue with the king.

“Come—we must get back. I enjoy a good jest to cast that husband of yours into confusion, yet I’d not have him truly suspect I’d accost his wife for a dalliance. But we’ll talk again. Tonight. We’ll banquet for dinner, and dance to the minstrels, shall we?”

“Aye, Your Grace! Oh, Your Majesty—”

“Yes?”

“I—bless you, sire!”.

He smiled slowly, lowering his lashes. “Don’t look at me so fervently, lady, with those tears upon your eyes. I might easily imagine myself younger, a less loyal friend… Come!”

He took her hand, and they hurried back along the path.

“Who is this—this common slut!” Anne demanded.

A scene had been brewing, a distasteful scene. For that reason Warwick had allowed Anne to lead him from the tennis courts to the garden, where they could be alone. Now he folded his arms over his chest and returned her glare bemusedly. “Watch your tongue, Anne. She is no common slut, but my wife.”

Anne stamped a foot in fury.

“Nay! She cannot be. We were all but betrothed! You swore you’d not marry again! You play some game—yet I will discover it!”

He sighed, wearying quickly, then wondering why. Anne had lost none of her beauty, none of her spirit, and certainly none of the blatant, forthright determination that had once appealed to him.

He was about to answer, but paused, holding his jaw taut, fighting the feelings, the simple answer that swarmed from his heart to his mind.

Nay … Anne had lost nothing. It was just that the rich darkness of her hair could not compare with tresses that could rustle through his fingers like fire and sunlight, flame and gold. Her eyes were not like the sea, infinitely deep. Her voluptuous breasts could not compare with the smooth cream of mystery and allure of his wife’s; her stance, her grace, her temper, her laughter, her …

The bloody little witch! Ah, but she was driving him insane! He could not care! Yet he seemed he could find no fascination for another.

“We were never even remotely betrothed, Anne. And I assure you, Ondine is legally my wife.”

Anne sucked in a great gasp of air. “You married her—and would not marry me!”

“Anne! I never pretended that I would marry you! We enjoyed one another with equal desire, and there it ended!”

She raised a hand to slap him. He wasn’t about to accept her blow and caught it quickly. “Anne! Cease this nonsense.”

Anne didn’t wrench her hand away; she used its position to angle closely against his chest, pulling his fingers to the cleavage of her gown and crying, “Feel my heart, Warwick! It flutters and thunders! With desire, Warwick, with desire!”

He chuckled softly; she was a wonderful dramatist.

“Anne, we both know you fulfill your desires whenever and with whomever you so choose.”

Her eyes snapped with annoyance. “Warwick!” she cried, and she chuckled softly. “We have been through this before, Warwick. And I will lie with you again …”

He had to smile at her sultry determination, yet it was at that moment that the king—and Ondine—suddenly came upon them.

He glanced sharply at his wife. There was nothing of reluctance about her now; no fear, no nervousness. She was breathless and laughing and her eyes were sparkling with a beauty to rival any perfect set of sapphires. Something seemed to strike him, like lightning, a rage of steel tearing into his gut, creating a jagged pain—wonder and envy. Never had she smiled for him so. Never had she stared upon him so radiantly.

Never had he been more painfully aware that, yes, there was a passion within her, deep and sensual, wild and sweet. Seeing her then, he felt it to the core. But it was a thing she kept from him; kept behind her reserve. She fought him, laughing and whispering to the king.

“Men think from their codpieces!” Anne hissed.

Ondine was no longer laughing joyously at the king’s witticisms.

She was staring at Warwick and Anne, and he realized that still his hand was entwined with hers upon her breast.

But he would not apologize. He did not wrench his hand away like a flushing lad. He met his wife’s eyes defiantly, then moved very slowly.

“Anne, I think you’ve not yet met my wife, Ondine. Ondine, the lady Anne.”

Neither of them acknowledged the introduction. Charles cast Warwick a bemused expression, then broke the discomfort of the meeting by saying, “To a barge, shall we? A banquet, quite fit for a king, is the evening’s plan. Let’s to it, shall we?”

He turned, leading Anne. Warwick caught Ondine’s hand when she would have eluded him. He felt the strength within her and held her tight. He was so riled that he quizzed her in a harsh whisper, “What’s this, milady? You fought and spit and clawed like a cat when I would bring you here, yet again you are the cat—a kitten who purrs and teases for the king.”

“I find him charming!” Ondine replied evenly.

“Ah, so you would be one of his collection of whores!”

She turned to him, her eyes wide, her voice so sweet it stung.

“His whore? Should I be so? Perhaps! He grants titles and wealth—and is ever so handsome and alluring, gentle and kind!”

The king and Anne were far ahead. Warwick stopped. Smiling, he laced his fingers through Ondine’s hair and wrenched it slightly, bringing her throat to an arch, her glittering eyes to battle with his.

“You sweet, chaste, and charming gutter-bitch! You will remember that you are my wife.”

“Marital vows?” she retorted. “I shall learn from you, dear husband, how they must be kept!”

He tugged more tightly on her hair, bringing tears to her eyes. “Laugh and tease as you will, my love, but I warn you only once: Watch your step!”

“The king is your dear friend!” she reminded him sweetly.

“My friend, yes,” Warwick said softly, a deathly hush that chilled her blood. “But a man. And few men, even when held in check by friendship, can resist a blatant tart’s invitation!”

“Something with which you are well acquainted, my lord?”

He held still for several seconds, staring at her. “Aye,” he said at last. “But do I resist much temptation, my love. There are ways to tame you, still, my love.”

“Bitch, tart—my love! Do make up your mind which of these I am, Lord Chatham!”

“Warwick! Ondine! We sail!” The king’s call was a command. Warwick stared at her a moment longer, then once again they walked, his long strides making her breathless to keep up, and she controlled her nearly irresistible urge to tear at him with tooth and nail.

That day, they were surrounded by people. The court was so exciting! She had no chance to be with Warwick alone again. She met a number of lords and ladies about the court, and she was taken beneath the queen’s wing. Catherine seemed to enjoy her company.

It seemed but a blur before the banquet began. There was wonderful succulent food that she was full able to enjoy, since the king, all seriousness for that time, spoke to Warwick of his complaints with his Parliament, of his plans to build and broaden, about the Dutch, about the French. And Catherine—his wife on such occasions was always at his side—spoke to Ondine about fashion and fabric, poetry and art. Jugglers performed, minstrels played, handlers brought in a pair of bears to dance. It was a magical evening.

It ended earlier for Ondine than for Warwick; Charles was not through with his friend. There were problems with the Scots to be solved, and Charles meant to discuss them that evening.

Warwick pensively returned her to the door of their apartments, stiffly telling her with no further recriminations that Jake would be there, and departed for further dealings with the king.

Let it only be the king, she prayed despite herself, and not Anne!

She thought she would never sleep with all the joy, the excitement—and the anger—yet she did. Relief and gratitude for her magic meeting with the king was like a potent drug. She tossed and turned and fumed about her husband, but not for long. Just like warm, gentle fingers encompassing her, the night claimed her and she rested, far to her own side of the bed.

But it did not matter. She discovered in the morning that Warwick had slept out on one of the settees. He still slept when she cracked the door in the morning. He was surely uncomfortable, she thought, since his long form did not fit the furniture, his legs stretching over the edge.

He must be exhausted to still sleep so! And then knives cut at her heart. Had he stayed up all night with the king, or with his mistress?

She closed the door to the bedroom and dressed quickly, fuming all the while. She tiptoed to the outer door, but then slammed it hard behind her, smiling with satisfaction as she heard his startled oaths behind her.

Warwick awoke in a foul temper, feeling drugged with weariness—Charles had kept him so late. Had he been able to catch her, he thought, he would have surely thrashed her!

“Witch!” he muttered aloud in a plaintive growl as he ran his fingers through his hair, pressing his temples hard to clear them. He groaned. God rot this entire mess! He’d wanted to tempt and trap a killer, to watch Hardgrave and Anne, to observe and discover.

And instead he spent his every moment in heated tempest over his gallows’ bride, the bait of his trap! His mind was completely involved with the intrigue of her. She had been terrified to come here, loathe to see the king, yet now she laughed and walked with him as if he were an old friend, a long-lost lover …

And it was she that he watched, lost in the intrigue of her eyes, her form …

“Lust!” he swore furiously aloud. “And anger. Dammit! She owes me obedience!”

“And love and honor!”

Startled, Warwick turned bloodshot eyes to the doorway to find the king. Warwick groaned; the king laughed. “What is this, Warwick! You would waste the morning! Come! This is the time to swim the Thames. Where is your lady? Up and about already? I do congratulate you on your marriage, friend. Come, now— you’re by far the younger man! A swim awakens the senses and the blood.” Charles had a number of his beloved spaniels with him; they all yapped and barked and ran about, causing Warwick’s mild headache to become splitting. The king most surely realized the torture he brought.

Warwick felt like throwing a boot at him. The king’s eyes danced with amusement. Slowly Warwick smiled. He felt a sudden faith that the king would never betray him. Oh, he might with Anne, and a few others, yes; they’d both known some women who had known many men. But he couldn’t believe at that moment—or in any sober moment—that the king would ever touch a woman who was his wife.

“Swim, aye, Your Majesty!” Warwick said with high exaggeration. Charles laughed; then, like the friends they were, they departed for the exercise.

Ondine met Nell Gwyn that day and enjoyed her good-natured and down-to-earth wit. She spent the majority of the afternoon, though, with Catherine, surprised by the queen’s open admissions. “Never feel anger against Charles for me!” she stated softly. “Parliament wished him to divorce me for my barrenness, and he would not! Ah, and I am no saint! I’m glad to see one paramour squirm—Lady Anne! Oh, you are beautiful—and she is enraged!”

Ondine didn’t think that Anne was outraged. She watched Ondine with a feline stare—and a secretive smile of knowledge.

And why not? Ondine had barely seen her husband. Most probably, Anne had seen a great deal of him.

Ondine did not see him until dinner. And it was quite strange then to sit beside him. One minute he offered her his greatest, if feigned, courtesy, and the next he stared at her with an elusive amber fire about his eyes, gravely pondering her.

Then at one point during the meal he stiffened, his eyes focusing across the room. “Hardgrave!” He swore softly.

Ondine, curious, followed his gaze to the newly arrived viscount. Hardgrave was as fashionable as the rest of the company. He wore a plumed hat much like Warwick’s, red stockings, cream breeches, and a burnt-orange surcoat. He appeared far stockier than her husband and was a formidable man—broad-shouldered and muscular. He was short, which made him appear broader, and he carried with him none of Warwick’s natural grace.

Hardgrave came to offer his homage to his king, and then he and Warwick exchanged courtesies, for the benefit of the company, that thinly veiled their hostility. Warwick did not introduce Ondine. The viscount stared at her, she offered a weak smile, and he left.

“Take the greatest care near him!” Warwick whispered quite sharply to her, and she found that his eyes were upon her more fiercely than she had ever seen them. She nodded, too laden
with
the timbre of his voice to taunt him in return.

The meal ended as the king flapped his hands and cheerfully said that with the charm and nobility of the company present, they must all dance into the night.

Food was cleared, and the tables were taken away. In the galleries the musicians began to play. Ondine immediately found herself claimed by the king, and with the pulse and beat of the music in her ears, the king the most charming of escorts, she suddenly found her heart light, youth and laughter bubbling within her.

They paused at last to sate their thirsts with rum punch from a crystal bowl set upon the table, and it was there that Ondine at last met Lord Hardgrave formally.

“Hardgrave!” the king said, sipping his punch. “Ah, what a piece of neglect! You did not meet the new lady of Chatham. Ondine, Lyle Hardgrave, Viscount—”

“The lady knows my lands, Your Grace,” Hardgrave said, and his pale blue eyes upon her were both flattering and cold. “As she surely knows of me. Your husband and I, my lady, are bitter enemies.”

“Not in my court,” Charles said sharply.

Ondine hadn’t known much about the man. She was curious about him, yet presumed that men whose lands adjoined might well find friction. Were they not natural friends, it might be quite easy to become natural enemies.

“Never in your court,” Hardgrave acknowledged.

She sensed something then, and she knew not how, or why, but she warmed. Looking up, she saw her husband, far across the room. She had known by that warmth that he was watching her.

He was in the company of a lovely young lady that she had not met.

Ondine gave Hardgrave a sweet smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Hardgrave.”

He clicked his heels and bent to kiss her hand. Perhaps Charles decided the act dangerous; perhaps he had just grown bored. He swept Ondine back to the dance with a sudden flourish and he whirled and twirled so quickly and with such grace and energy that she laughed until she could not stop, and at last begged for mercy, saying that she must escape out the open doorway for a breath of air. The king, waylaid then by his wife, could not follow her.

She was breathless with the dance, breathless with laughter, when she came outside to lean against the stone of the balcony and gasp in air, and cool her flesh and blood. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment. Oh, it was good! Life was good—so very, very sweet!