Ondine Read Free Page B

husband. She would be brave! She would not give into phantom terrors in the night!
    “I await your leisure,” she promised. With a little flush, she hurried into the bedchamber.
    Warwick limped around the solar, then poured himself a glass of strong port from a decanter on the sideboard. Anne, he reflected, had taunted him far more than he cared to admit, about Genevieve and their child and the supposed “curse,” and about himself.
    Tension held his body in a firm grip as memory heated his blood to a painful boil. How he longed to hold a woman like Anne; one strong and ripe and primed for passion, willing to welcome his desire! He stood still and swallowed fiercely, desperately trying to swallow down that blaze of longing.
    He tossed back his head and finished the port. His wife was good and gentle—in truth, he would not betray her. Yet, in truth, it was sometimes most painful to restrain all his passion and need.
    Curiously his thoughts turned to the woman in the forest again. Had she been real? Or had he been dreaming?
    A man had been threatening her, and she had been fighting back. Then she had taken to the water and disappeared. Real— or imaginary? Though he hadn’t really seen her, he could remember that she was beautiful. Passionate and glorious. Thoughts of her made him hungry now, eager to hold such a sprite of fire and fury in his arms.
    Genevieve, he reminded himself, was his life. He owed her his life and his loyalty—and his dreams. Warwick sighed and sat again to cast off his boots. They made a thud as they hit the stone floor.
    And then he heard another thud.
    Curiously he turned, stunned to see that the door between the solar and the bedroom had been closed. He frowned; Genevieve had never, even as a new bride, sought to close a door against him. And tonight she had not been afraid of him at all. She had invited him in.
    “Warwick! She comes! Oh, she comes!”
    He sprang into action at the scream of anguished fear and beseechment, throwing himself at the door. It was bolted.
    “Genevieve!” he thundered, but there was no answer.
    He threw his shoulder against the door, again and again, ignoring the burning pain that tore through him with the effort.
    “Genevieve!”
    The door gave, its hinges broken. He staggered into the room. But Genevieve was not there. The curtained, canopied bed was empty. A breeze stirred from the balcony, sending the pale gauze drapes drifting about like whispering ghosts.
    A scream sounded from below.
    Dread filled him; his legs seemed leaden as he forced himself to the balcony. The scream came again, and his eyes were riveted downward.
    ‘ ‘Genevieve!”
    Genevieve was set in the king’s own chapel as prayers were offered up for her soul. Warwick barely left her side until the day came to lead the black-shrouded hearse back to North Lambria, where she could be interred in the family crypt.
    And on that day he sat in the bedchamber they had shared and brooded deeply on the folly of taking such a tender maid to be his wife. It was at that time that he noted a draft where there should not have been one. Pensively he studied the tapestries that hung on the walls flanking the fire and mantel.
    Then suddenly he pulled aside a tapestry, discovering that it concealed a break in the wall. When pressure was applied, the wall slipped silently back, creating a small passageway.
    He followed the passageway, almost tripping down a flight of dank, dark, and treacherously curved stairs.
    He returned to the chamber for a torch, then followed the stairs. They lead to an old, long-deserted dungeon. Amidst the rats and ancient slime Warwick found something peculiar—a monk’s cowl and a Greek theatrical mask.
    He stared at them in a dark and furious silence, bundled them into his arms, and returned to his chamber.
    Everyone in the king’s court knew that the Earl of North Lambria was disconsolate. He withdrew to his estates, isolating himself.
    Charles, who sorely missed his