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dryly. But she had been with Joseph and his fellows through the long nights at Newgate and aligned herself with them.
    He lifted a brow, and she quickly wondered why she had chosen to offend him, and then she wondered why not. That the ugly little serving man might marry her, she had found possible. But not mis man, not a member of the landed gentry. Hope had become a twisted torture, a macabre jest. And since he was certainly not about to marry her, he was nothing more than curious. And since she was about to die, she might as well quell his curiosity with a truth that was offensive.
    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