But he did not retort to her insolence. She felt his eyes raking over her from head to toe, and despite herself, she felt a flush rake through her.
“Your speech is excellent.”
Ondine felt like laughing. She had met many a lord and lady in her day who could not say a line of the King’s English. And then she sobered quickly. If she was about to die, her true identity would go to the grave with her. And if she was possibly to live, then she must be very careful. If she lived, so would her dreams of justice and vengeance. She closed her eyes briefly. She wouldn’t live. This was all a merciless joke. But it suddenly seemed senseless to insult him further, so she offered up a quickly fabricated lie.
“My father was a poet I traveled to many courts with him.”
He nodded at her, still watching her. Then, to Ondine’s amazement, he turned irritably to the magistrate.
“Release her so that I may marry her.”
“What?” the magistrate shrieked, his fleshy cheeks puffing out. “But, my lord! The girl is nothing but a thief. A pretty piece, I’ll warrant, but—”
“Sir, if I am not mistaken, the law reads that she goes free if a man takes her as bride. I promise you, I am a man. I wish to marry her. Now get that rope off her neck and take her from the cart.”
Too stunned to speak, Ondine stared at the tall stranger. He couldn’t be serious. It was a grisly joke, meant to torture her to the very end.
“Do not be so cruel as to taunt me further!” she begged.
He emitted an impatient oath and sprang to the cart himself, slipping the rope from her neck, then lifting her with startling strength that almost sent her sprawling as he set her upon the ground. “Friar!” he snapped impatiently. “Are you a man of God, or aren’t you? Certainly you can stumble through a brief wedding ceremony.”
“My lord—” the magistrate began again.
The stranger’s temper snapped and harsh authority clipped his tone. “Get to the paperwork, sir.”
“But, my lord! To whom—”
“My given name, sir, is Warwick Chatham. May we proceed? I am not a man without influence. I would not like to have it brought to the king’s attention that his magistrates are slow witted—”
No more needed to be said. An excited murmur rose from the crowd, and the magistrate almost fell over himself in his haste to be efficient. The fat friar began to mumble out some broken words, and Ondine discovered that her shackles were gone and her hand was being held by the firm grip of the stranger.
It was the ale, she told herself. It had cast her into some strange dream that was an illusion meant to ease her death. But it wasn’t a dream—she could no longer feel the rough chafing of the noose about her neck.
She gasped as she felt his fingers bite cruelly into her arm, then her eyes widened to meet his hard hazel ones. “Speak your vows!” he told her curtly. “Unless you choose to hang—”
She spoke. She faltered and stumbled, but followed the friar’s orders. The friar kept mumbling until the stranger interrupted him.
“Is the ceremony complete?”
“Well, aye, my lord. You are legally wed—”
“Good.” He stuffed a coin into the friar’s hand. A scroll was set before them, and he signed his name, Warwick Chatham, with a flourish. Then his eyes, still hard and sharp, seemed to sear her with impatience. “Your name!” he hissed. “Or your mark if you are incapable of writing—”
The indignity of his suggestion made her move, but even so, she shook so badly that she did not sign with her usual clear script; the quill wavered and her name was barely legible. Just as well, she thought as her mind began to function again. It might have been recognized.
The friar puffed and blew on the ink to dry it. The document was rolled and tied, then snatched from the friar by Warwick as he emitted an irritable oath. He did not thank the friar for his services again. He turned to leave the Tyburn Tree, pulling Ondine along behind him. She jerked back, tears filling her eyes as she saw the two remaining ropes thrown over the beams. “Joseph!” she called out.
He smiled at her. “Go, girl! Long life and a fruitful union. Our blessed Jesus does provide miracles!”
A whipcrack sounded, and the horses whinnied and bolted. Ondine screamed as she heard the thud of weight snapping upon the ropes.
“Don’t look!” the stranger commanded. For the first time there was a rough sympathy in his tone, and despite her stench, he whirled Ondine comfortingly into his arms as he dragged her away.
She could not see, for her tears for Joseph and the boy filled her eyes. A moment later she was released and set to lean against something hard and cold. She blinked and discovered that it was a carriage with an elaborate coat of arms engraved upon the door. The little jackanapes who had first approached her stood waiting for them. “Is it done, then, milord?”
“It is,” Warwick Chatham replied.
“What do we do with ‘er now, then, sir?”
“Hmmm—”
Warwick’s eyes swept over her, and she felt a flush spreading throughout her body at his cool assessment. She felt somehow as if he had ravaged her. A slight smile played upon his lips as he cocked his head toward his coachman and lifted a well-arched brow.
“She is a bit of a mess, isn’t she, Jake?”
Despite everything, anger coursed through her. The arrogance of the man! Did he think that people emerged from Newgate smelling like roses? He deserved a night in the pit himself; hours of dank darkness to quell his pride, and infested water to sap his well-honed strength. Yet she was glad that she longed to slap him for his amusement. It would not be so hard to desert the man who had saved her life if she could resent him so furiously. She was surprised that he didn’t wrinkle his aristocratic nose at her. He laughed instead, apparently aware that his perusal had left her extremely indignant, her temper rising despite the circumstances.
“Milord Whomever-it-is-that-you-may-be!” she snapped. “I do not intend ingratitude for my life. But I am not an animal to be discussed as if I lacked the wit to comprehend my own language.”
His brow remained high, and he inclined his head slightly toward her, as if both surprised by her words and faintly amused.
“No, madam, you are not an animal. But you are in a truly slovenly form, and something must be done about it.”
Ondine lowered her lashes. She was more than slovenly; she was odious. And her temper was fading as quickly as it had come, because when she closed her eyes, she could see Joseph swinging from the rope. She had just barely escaped death.
“I am offensive,” she said quietly. “I am sorry.”
“You needn’t be. A bride from the gallows can hardly be expected to appear her best. And filth is a problem that can be remedied. What do you say, Jake?”
Jake scratched his bewhiskered chin. “I say we head home by way of Swallow’s Ford. To seek some—niceties!”
“As in a bath!” Warwick Chatham laughed. “Fine idea. Shall we?”
The carriage door swung open, and she felt the stranger’s arms upon her again, thrusting her up and into the carriage—an elegant carriage with velvet seats and silk linings.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked her. He watched her, his foot upon the mounting block.
“Comfortable? Ah … quite.” She should have swung with poor Joseph, yet she had married instead. Married!
She had married a man with a knight’s shoulders and hard hazel eyes, a man decked in the finest garb available. A rugged man, a frightening man,“a forest beast.” The little man, Jake, had grinned at the description. She trembled despite herself. She would escape him, surely, she swore inwardly to ease her fear. He was still watching her, waiting. For what? She cleared her throat to speak, politely now. Perhaps he had just hoped to save her.
“Sir, I offer my apologies for my temper, and my most heartfelt gratitude! Yet you needn’t feel responsible for me. If you’d just leave me, I do have friends in London—”
“That’s quite impossible,�
�� he told her.
“But surely—”
“Madam, I could swear I just heard you promise to love, honor, and obey till death us do part.”
“It was—real?” she demanded in a stilted whisper.
“It was.”
“Why?” she challenged him quickly.
“I needed a wife,” he told her bluntly. Then he closed the carriage door, calling to Jake, “On to Swallow’s Ford!” And the carriage jolted into action.
Chapter 2
Ondine understood quickly why they had chosen to come to Swallow’s Ford. It was a small place, and the proprietress of the local tavern and inn was a lovely buxom matron, thrilled with Ondine—and apparently quite fond of Warwick Chatham. She was more than willing to keep secret the circumstances of his new bride’s appearance.
It was Jake who brought her to Meg, by the rear door. Yet Ondine was glad, for she observed the layout of the barn, determining her chances of later finding a mount and fleeing for freedom. Her head still swam. She was so grateful for her life, yet ever so wary of Chatham. What could he want with her? Her teeth chattered with the thought. He appeared so sound and handsome.
He was not just arresting in appearance, she thought, but a peer as well! Jake had called her “Countess,” informing her that Warwick Chatham was the earl of North Lambria. This was a very frightening fact, for as a peer, he might well have recognized her surname on their wedding license, were her handwriting not so shaky! But then, perhaps, he would not know of her, for North Lambria was border country, harsh and rugged and beautiful, according to Jake, and, thankfully, far from Ondine’s own home.
Meg’s place was sparse but clean. The room to which Ondine was led was a simple one, offering no more than a bed, a washstand, and a screen, but the shutters were opened to the summer’s breeze, and the bedding smelled clean and fresh.
“Get behind the screen, my lady, and shed those rags,” Meg told her. “Like as not, they should be burned. You’ve no need to fear an intrusion; I’ll see to the tub and water meself. Just stay there till I give you a call.” She didn’t wait for Ondine’ s agreement, but bustled out the door.
Ondine did as she had been told, stepping behind the screen and nervously shedding her garments. Oh, but they were rank! She was glad to cast her gown away, and her shift, yet when she stood naked, she shivered again, her thoughts filled with the man who had so suddenly become her husband. He was so fine a figure of a man: tall, broad-shouldered, appearing lean, yet betraying a startling and frightening strength when his fingers wrapped around her arm, when the muscles of his arms constricted to lift her.
Aye, he was an arresting man, his manner as much as his form— the tone of his voice, the assessive tilt of his head. Was it breeding or life that had given him such command, an air that was totally assured, one that would brook no opposition of his will?
She hugged her arms about herself. She couldn’t deny that he both frightened and fascinated her. She could easily see how a woman could fall prey to the proud and rugged masculinity of his features, could long for the sound of his voice, the touch and strength of his hands. But would any woman be welcomed by him for more than a brief respite, an interlude of lusty entertainment?
She didn’t believe so. Not if ice hovered about his heart the way it did his eyes.
Ondine stiffened, hearing Meg’s voice as the door to the chamber opened. “Hurry now, lads; the tub center, and fill it quickly. There’s business aplenty downstairs, and if you’d earn your meals, you’d move quick!”
There were “Aye, Megs!” respectfully given, and the sounds of shuffling feet and spilling water. Then there was silence again after the door closed softly.
“My lady, ‘tis only me here now. Come while the water’s hot and the steam’s arising!”
Ondine didn’t want to walk before Meg. She felt terribly thin and horribly vulnerable.
“I’d prefer privacy,” she murmured. As the wife of Lord Chatham, she reflected dryly, she could surely issue a firm command that would, by right, be instantly obeyed. But she was supposed to be a common waif, unaccustomed to the firm voice of assumption. Nor would she demand things of Meg under any circumstance, as the woman seemed to have a heart the size of the moon.
Meg chuckled softly. “Ah, my girl, come, now! ‘Tis only me, Meg, and I raised a household of young ladies, I did. I’ve a mind to set into that tangled mop of hair upon your head, and come away assured that the vermin are clean of it!”
Ondine hesitated only a second, thinking of how lovely it would be to have someone thoroughly clean her hair.
She sprinted quickly from the sereen to the tub, yelping slightly as her tender flesh hit the heat of the water.
“It must be hot!” Meg commiserated cheerfully. “Now, here’s a cloth and two squares of the soap. The first will near take the skin from you, I must warn, yet it will leave you clean as a new-washed babe. Now, the second … ah, it was a special purchase when my man did travel to Paris! It has a scent of roses that lingers long and sweetly—just what you might crave now, I dare say!”
“Thank you,” Ondine murmured. She accepted the soaps, watching Meg’s pleasant and homely features as she did so. “You’re very kind.”
“Kind, oh, no, dear.” She sighed softly. “I’ve a longing for young people, ‘tis all. My girls are all wives now, with broods of their own. Oh, and I do love to have the babes …”
Meg chatted on. Ondine began to furiously scrub her skin. Meg had been quite right, she discovered quickly. The soap stung at first—she felt as if it peeled away a layer of her flesh. But it felt wonderful.
“Now, if I get me hands into that mop—” Meg poured a bucket of water onto Ondine’s head. Even that felt wonderful, but not so good as the movement of Meg’s fingers, scrubbing away at her scalp. “Ah, thank the Lord for this fine soap, for without it, we might’ve had to snip the length of this. And what a glory it is, dear child. As thick and long as a pelt of fur! Now duck!”
She shoved Ondine’s head into the water and vigorously worked her fingers through the young girl’s scalp once again. Ondine came up sputtering. Meg stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest and surveying her efforts with pleasure. “Ah, but you’re a beautiful child! So thin, so—but no matter! You’ve breasts aplenty, even if your hips and ribs could use a pound or two of flesh!”
Ondine felt a heated flush flame throughout her body, yet she could take no offense at Meg’s words; they were spoken so good-naturedly. She smiled, leaning her head back against the tub and relishing the feeling of being clean—and carrying that subtle scent of roses Meg had described. There was only one thing she thought to combat in the matron’s words, and that she did a little wistfully, a little wearily.
“I’m not a child.”
Yet how she longed to be one again! With her eyes closed and the steam misting around her, she could see the past all too clearly. A time when she had believed in the goodness of men; when treachery and death, poverty and deceit, had found no place in her perception. A smile touched her lips. Her mother had died at her birth, but, oh! She could remember her father so well, especially the day of the sixteenth celebration of her birth.
He had given her a sword—one that was light and easy to handle, emblazoned at the hilt with their family arms. Delighting in it, she had challenged him in the courtyard, lifting her voluminous skirts. He had been vastly pleased with her prowess, yet as they parried she laughed and quizzed him. What did it matter if she could fence!
“Ah, daughter!” he had told her. “None of us knows how the wind may blow. The day may come when I’ll not be here, guarding over you like an old buzzard. And you’ll be left to fight off a score of suiters by yourself!”
He had teased her, but his voice had carried an edge of sincerity. She had known she might be vastly wealthy; but it had meant nothing to her. There had been no reason for her father to die.
“Well, Meg, how goes this challenge I set before you?”
The voice was d
eep and pleasant, yet sardonic and amused. Ondine’s eyes flew open with horror just in time to hear the soft click of the door as it closed behind Warwick Chatham.
Too stunned to form a verbal protest, Ondine drew her knees to her chest and hugged her arms around them. She could not speak, for her throat was choked with outrage. Perhaps he thought himself her husband, but he was no more than a disconcerting stranger, intruding far too intimately. Her back was to him, and she stiffened. She lowered her head, hoping that the soaked cloak of her hair would give her some covering, some defense against her nakedness.
“Ah, my lord Chatham!” Meg said happily, clapping her hands together in a pleased gesture that purely denoted her acceptance of his presence. After all, Ondine realized bitterly, from Meg’s point of view the great lord Chatham was Ondine’s husband. He had done her a great honor by making her, a pathetic waif, his wife.
Ondine squeezed her eyes shut tightly. It was the truth. This man had saved her from death.
Yet it was truth, too, that he was a stranger, alarmingly virile, totally masculine. If she had met him but a year ago, she might have been intrigued. She would have had every advantage, and he would have owed her the chivalrous, romantic code of Charles’s court. She might have wondered about him, shivered deliciously and speculated from the safety of her own world.
She had not met him a year ago. She was vulnerable, at his mercy. And just as he compelled, he filled her soul with fear. And somehow he managed to play upon every ounce of her pride. She longed to pitch into battle with him and then run, as far away as she could possibly go.
Something fell upon the floor. She heard his footsteps, light for a man so tall and sinewed.
Ondine Page 4
