Ondine

by Heather Graham

  “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.

  He merely chuckled and slowly allowed her feet to touch the floor, forcing her to slide against him all the while. He did not release her, but kept her pinned to him as he told her, “My love, I but remind you that the rights I claim are simple: your attention when I wish to speak. There are other rights, my lady, that a husband could demand he claim.” Smiling grimly, the heat of warning in his dulcet tones, he allowed his fingers to play down the length of her spine, tarry upon its base, then move leisurely over her buttocks.

  “Damn you, villain, knave, jackass—” Ondine began.

  “You’ve left out husband and lord,” he reminded her, his hand moving again as he held her, the knuckles stroking upward over her hip and waist, and then the length of his fingers closing around her breast in an intimate caress that sent flames racing through her anew. Her eyes were locked with his. Her teeth were clenched, and still they chattered when she lashed out again.

  “Tyrant, vandal, blackguard—beast!”

  “Ah, and your heart beats like the hare’s when that beast is on the hunt, lady! Perhaps that is best; it is well that you learn some recall as to the master of this game.”

  Abruptly he released her, striding across the room, plucking a towel, and tossing it to her. Ondine caught the towel and hurriedly wrapped it about her, expecting to find his mouth curled in a sardonic grin. It was not; his eyes were very intense, his features masking all emotion.

  “Madam,” he said harshly, “I’ll not disturb you again.” He bowed elegantly, sweeping his plumed hat before him, then exited with long, even strides. The door clicked sharply.

  Ondine stared after him, alternately shivering with cold fury, and then trembling … with what strange searing heat she did not know. At length she swirled about and returned to her own chamber, slamming the door and dressing hurriedly. She thought of her husband and swore silently that she would pay him back one day, in more ways than one.

  Then she discovered that she was staring about her room. Gene-vieve’s room? Surely it had to be so.

  Poor Genevieve. Ondine realized that she wanted to know more about the girl. An
d at the same time, she trembled slightly. She didn’t want Genevieve’s “ghost” in her own life.

  Suddenly she felt Genevieve, sweet, gentle Genevieve, in everything around her—in the soft blues and whites of the chamber, in the draperies, in the bedclothes … even in the water pitcher.

  She turned about, tilted her chin, and left the chamber. Breakfast awaited her in the outer room, and she was quite determined that she would spend the day viewing her new domain.

  Warwick had disappeared when she forced herself to walk through the connecting door to his chamber, nor was he about in the music room, as Lottie called it. Breakfast awaited her, and she ate pleasurably alone, then determined to summon Mathilda. The housekeeper came to her, and Ondine gave her a charming smile. “I’d like a tour this morning, and I’m quite sure you know the place completely.”

  Mathilda’s eyes widened, apparently with relief, yet Ondine wondered if the woman wasn’t thinking it a very regretful thing that the master had returned with a new wife.

  Ondine rose and preceded the housekeeper to the hall doorway, pausing there. “Mathilda, I meant what I said. Lottie is to bear no punishment for the unfortunate episode this morning.”

  An anguished look appeared upon the woman’s features; she began to wring her hands, and her deep eyes carried a hint of tears restrained. “Milady! I beg your pardon! I did not wish you to be upset. ‘Tis difficult at best to leave one’s home and claim another; I could not bear to see you frightened here!”

  “I do not believe in ghosts.” She spoke gently, certain that Mathilda had dearly loved the countess Ondine had replaced—in name at least. “I am very sorry about the lady Genevieve,” she added softly.

  Mathilda nodded her head distractedly, then suddenly seemed to brighten. “Would you like to see her?”

  Ondine’s heart seemed to leap—was Mathilda mad herself?

  “Her portrait, in the gallery, my lady.”

  “Oh,” Ondine breathed, relieved. “I should love to see it.”

  Mathilda swept by her. They followed the long gallery past numerous portraits of Chathams. Then toward the western wing of the manse Mathilda stopped before a recent portrait of a woman.

  Ondine could not help but stare, fascinated and compelled. The woman sat upon a crimson-covered chair, a spaniel in her lap. The artist had captured more than her golden blond beauty and sky-blue eyes. He had found the essence of the woman, a wistful, ethereal look to the eyes, a gentleness about the mouth, caught in a smile both rueful and hesitant—and lovely. She was like soft sunlight, most fragile, and yet so stunning as to capture the heart with a gaze.

  “She was—charming, beautiful,” Ondine murmured.

  “Aye! The earl did love her dearly! Never did I see a man brood so fiercely, so darkly, as when she … departed this life.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And she carried his wee babe!” Mathilda added tragically.

  Ondine stiffened, but was careful to keep her smile. Perhaps Warwick’s behavior did make some sense. He had been horribly in love with his wife, stricken at the loss of his heir—and pressured to marry again, when he had no heart to call another wife. Why not, then, take a gallows’ bride, be free to wander callously where he would, and quell all hopes that he might be a delectable catch once more?

  “She is lovely,” Ondine repeated of Genevieve again to Mathilda. “But now I would see the manor, in its entirety.”

  “Aye, milady, aye.”

  A small spiral stairway led off from the gallery to the floor above—the servants’ quarters. Mathilda rattled off who slept where, perhaps a little annoyed that Ondine bothered herself with such arrangements. Ondine thanked her quietly, smiling pleasantly.

  From the servants’ quarters, she discovered that the house was not a U, but a square. The rooms in the top floor connected in a circle, as did the first; the family quarters did not. “There’s a passage from Justin’s apartments, but not from the master’s,” Mathilda explained to her. “There used to be many secret passages, hidden stairwells and chambers, you see. Cromwell’s men discovered many of them, though, and destroyed them, for the old lord was a Royalist, through and through. ‘Tis lucky the manor stands at all—yet Cromwell might have feared a bloody northern revolt if Chatham were destroyed. Even the Scots, with whom the Chathams always feud, would have banded to create havoc. With one Chatham dead upon the field, the lady dead upon the stairway as it was, Cromwell’s forces but ordered the passages sealed. The earl’s father liked the wing the way it was; privacy, he thought. And it seems my lord Chatham now prefers it, too.”

  “You’ve been with the Chathams long?” Ondine queried.

  “Aye. I was born here,” Mathilda responded. She then led Ondine back to the portrait gallery, and from there they passed through Justin’s apartments to the rear wing, where the second floor housed guest chambers. The ground level of that northern wing was an armory, and like the portrait gallery, it was a place where family history was preserved. It was stocked with swords and arms and plates in use by the present generation; it also housed ancient armor, subtly different with each generation and century.

  The eastern wing began with the laundry and kitchens, then proceeded to the great hall, an immense place. Once, Mathilda told Ondine proudly, it had been nothing but cold stone wall and a dirt floor. Now it was whitewashed, the ceiling was elaborately molded, tapestries were hung, and rich embroidered carpeting covered a gleaming tiled floor. Mathilda sighed with pleasure as she described the various balls and masques that had taken place in the hall.

  Warwick’s main office was off the grand hall. The walls here were completely filled with bookcases, and the books, Ondine noted, covered all subjects. Bound volumes of Shakespeare, the French and Italian poets, notes by Pepys, Christopher Wren, Thomas More. There were books on building, on farming, on breeding, on horses, on warfare. An oak desk angled so that sunlight poured in upon it, and there was a settee invitingly placed in a corner—almost a perfect scene. Ondine could well imagine that the master of the manor could sit at work while his beloved lounged nearby, a book in her hand.

  And she imagined Warwick at the desk, the fragile, gentle blond in the picture curled in the settee, her wistful smile upon her features; Warwick, looking up, offering his flashing white devilish grin in turn, golden eyes softly amber with tenderness.

  “Let’s go on, shall we?” she asked Mathilda.

  They passed through the grand foyer and through a set of double doors. “The chapel,” Mathilda announced.

  Ondine had expected something quite small; it was not. It seemed to stretch forever, a hall with Norman arches, a stone floor with a length of red carpet leading to the main altar and to numerous smaller chapels along the sides, each with wondrous sculptures atop their altars.

  “It’s most … unusual,” Ondine breathed.

  “Memorials,” Mathilda informed her. She pointed to the chapel nearest them, where an angel of mercy with gilded wings held a sword against her heart. The sculpture was stunning. “The earl’s father.”

  “He lies in the altar?”

  “Nay, he lies in the tombs beneath.”

  Mathilda walked forward, crossing herself and genuflecting as she paused before the main altar. A beautiful gold cross hung down from the ceiling. Ondine followed suit, then swept around to the left with Mathilda, where they came to an antechamber. It was a square room with an exit to the courtyard at the right, and an exit leaving the manor at the left. At its rear was a long wooden staircase that seemed to lead nowhere. The antechamber was small, the staircase flanked against the wall. At the upper landing there was simply nothing but paneled archways—nowhere to enter the second story, nowhere to go at all except for the narrow landing.

  “The cause of our ghost,” Mathilda explained with impatience, pointing at the stairway. She seemed eager to exit to the courtyard beyond. “The earl’s grandfather was killed upon the battlefield, not far from here. Upon hearing the news, the lady fell against the w
ood. It caved in, and she joined her lord in death.”

  “The staircase goes nowhere?”

  “The earl plans to destroy it. Once there were cubbyholes above for Chathams in hiding and runaway priests. When our sovereign Charles was on the run, he learned to love many Catholics for their support of him.”

  Mathilda obviously did not like the antechamber; they quickly left it to enter the courtyard. Ondine discovered where Warwick had ridden from the night before, from the archway far beneath her window.

  “That is it, my lady, unless you wish to view the crypt.”

  “I think not,” Ondine said.

  “May I serve you further?”

  “Nay, not now, thank you, Mathilda. But I think tomorrow that I should like to see about changing some furnishings.”

  “Change?” Mathilda inquired, appearing surprised and somewhat stricken. “You would change Genevieve’s bed—” Shebroke off, lowering her head.

  “Genevieve is dead, Mathilda. I cannot take her place, but neither can I bring her back. And I am not her.”

  Mathilda nodded. “If you’ll permit me to return to my duties, then, Countess … ?”

  “Certainly, Mathilda, and I thank you again. You were very thorough and helped me greatly.”

  Ondine remained in the courtyard, staring up at the windows about her.

  Mathilda lowered her head and started hurrying to one of the eastern archways, an entrance to the kitchen.

  But she was muttering, and Ondine was sure she heard the housekeeper’s words correctly. “Change! Oh, nay! I think not when the lord Chatham hears of such plans!”

  Ah, Mathilda, I am sorry! Ondine thought. The lord Chatham may think himself master of this game, but there are two who must play it, and at times it is my move.

  Then she felt a strange tingling at her nape; she was quite sure she was being watched. She looked up, scouring the windows, and saw high above that a drape fell back into place.

  The tingle became a warm and swelling sensation that ebbed and flowed throughout her as she identified the window. It was in Warwick’s chamber; it was her husband who had stared down upon her.