through to him, only one word in two audible. He scowled,
frustrated, tired and plain irritated with the situation.
He sucked in a deep breath and willed himself past the
anger to concentrate. Damn, he needed to see what was
happening. Th
e woman had implied she intended to treat
the infi rm. Yet twice today she had appeared where he was.
A coincidence? Lucien didn’t know, but his gut churned
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relentlessly and he’d learned to trust instinct. Shaking his
head, he edged closer to a small hole in the cottage wall.
Th
e woman’s soft voice sounded much closer now. “Show
me where your leg hurts, Mistress Baker.”
Lucien watched his wife bend over a large woman lying
on a pallet. Th
e maid stood with her back to the window,
partially blocking his view.
“By the joint or right in the bone?” his wife asked. Lucien
saw her glance at her maid and once again, they seemed to
communicate silently.
Th
e maid surged forward and clasped the sick woman’s
hands in hers. “Tell me about your family. You have children?”
Th
e sick woman groaned but rallied. “Aye. Four children.
‘Twas six but we lost two to the plague that passed through
three year ago.”
Lucien caught the fl icker of sympathy on the maid’s face.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmured.
“Aye,” the woman continued. “And I might lose more if
Hawk doesn’t leave off fl ashing ‘is coin.”
Every muscle in Lucien’s body tensed as he strained to
listen, to withhold his shout of jubilation.
“Hawk?” his wife murmured. “I’ve heard of this man but
haven’t met him yet.”
Lucien detected nothing more than casual interest.
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Mistress Baker exhaled loudly. “Probably won’t. Keeps
to his self. Head of the smugglers hereabouts. Don’t stand
for no nonsense. Has all the people involved. Safer that way
so no one will bleat to the authorities. Not that we would,
given the coin ‘e pays. Time’s tough right now, and ‘e keeps
us bellies full.”
“Does the man live in the village?” his wife asked.
“No one knows ‘is face. Wears a mask, ‘e does. Even
when ‘e ‘elps unload.” Alarm crossed her face without warn-
ing, and Mistress Baker clutched at Rosalind’s arm. “Here I
be gossiping to you ‘bout smugglers. Comes of being on me
own too much. Best not ask questions. If yer meant to know,
yer be told. Safer that way.”
Th
e soft scuff of boot against stone came from behind.
Lucien leapt away from the cottage to the dilapidated build-
ing next door and pretended to inspect the structure for
soundness. Without acknowledging his watcher, he moved
along the alley examining the buildings. At the end, he ca-
sually turned. Th
ere was no one in sight, but he sensed the
watchful surveillance.
Lucien cursed under his breath. Th
e timing stunk. Just
when things had turned interesting, when he’d thought he’d
been about to learn something helpful. At least the woman
had confi rmed what he had already guessed — that the
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whole village was ensnared with Hawk. Even though the
fact was confi rmed, frustration bubbled inside him. Because
he was an unknown quantity to the villagers they refused to
talk to him.
But they’d talked to the woman . . .
Aggravated, but realizing he would learn little else today,
he strode to the stables and called for Oberon. When the
blacksmith’s son led him out to the yard, his mount danced
nervously at the end of his reins. Th
e lad handed him over with
clear relief. A good, hard gallop would sort out his mount,
Lucien thought, and hopefully settle his own disquiet.
Lucien smoothed his hand down Oberon’s neck and
murmured quietly, but his horse refused to settle. He snorted,
tossing his head and rolling his eyes. His glossy black ears
fl icked back until they lay fl at against his head. Lucien swung
up into the saddle. Oberon snorted again and reared. Lucien
heard the startled shout of the stable lad but had his hands
full trying to control his horse. Oberon’s front legs hit the
ground then, without pausing, his mount bolted from the
village. Th
e wind whistled past Lucien’s ears, tearing locks
of hair from his queue. Hedges became a green blur as he
struggled to control his mount.
“Whoa, dammit!” Lucien roared. He tightened his grip
on the reins and pulled back using brute strength. Oberon
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took no notice.
Lucien steered him at a hedge, hoping it would slow their
breakneck speed. He felt Oberon gather under him and they
sailed the hedge, barely slowing in pace. He hauled back on
the reins again. If anything, his actions stirred Oberon to
greater speed. His mount emitted a frenzied whinny that
sounded uncannily like a scream. Bucking and rearing, he
tried to throw Lucien. When that failed, Oberon galloped
headlong down a narrow, twisting, turning track leading
deep into the forest. Overhanging branches tore at Lucien’s
clothes, smacked his face and gouged at his limbs. Mud splat-
tered up until both he and Oberon were liberally coated.
Dammit, what the hell was wrong with his mount?
Lucien leaned forward and instantly Oberon slowed. He
eased back into the saddle. Oberon immediately went into a
series of frenzied bucks, twisting and screwing his muscular
body. Sweat lathered his glossy neck, each breath roaring
from his nostrils like a fabled fi re-breathing dragon. A branch
overhanging the path almost dislodged Lucien.
“Dammit!” He eased his weight off the saddle again.
Oberon slowed, confi rming Lucien’s suspicions. Keeping his
weight forward, Lucien tightened the reins. Oberon obeyed
like the usually well-behaved mount he was, and Lucien
cursed. Someone had interfered with his mount while he’d
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conducted his tour of the village.
Lucien slowed Oberon until his mount halted by a large
oak, his sides heaving from the mad gallop. Lucien dismount-
ed and undid the cinch with quick, angry movements. He
surveyed the trickle of blood that ran from under the saddle
blanket with grim satisfaction. If that bastard, Hawk, felt the
need to take action like this, then he must be closing in on
the man.
A sharp thorn almost as long as his little fi nger protruded
from the saddle blanket. On closer inspection, he found three
more. Yanking them free, he tossed them to the forest fl oor
where they would do no further harm. Th
e thorn had gouged
into his h
orse’s fl esh, but the harm had been directed toward
him rather than his mount. A few days rest and the wound
would heal. Lucien replaced the saddle and tightened the
girth enough to keep the saddle on, but no more. He gathered
the reins and commenced the long walk back to the castle,
seething at Hawk’s eff rontery.
He knew that many of the villagers worked with the
smugglers, but did they work only when the boats came in
from France, or did they act for Hawk in all things? And who
had done the dirty deed? Lucien snorted. He’d made it easy
for them, allowing the blacksmith’s son to take his horse to
the stable. Was the blacksmith’s son the culprit? Hell, anyone
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could have sneaked into the stables and interfered with his
mount. Th
ey had all acted as though he was unwelcome; all
were equally suspicious. All had refused to meet his gaze,
even the English mouse.
When he thought back, he recalled she had behaved more
suspiciously than any of the villagers. Th
e more he thought of
it, the more convinced he was that the insipid English woman
had secrets. Th
e likelihood seemed high that the secrets were
related to his enemy, Hawk. Th
ere was no other explanation.
102
VI
While Mary made small talk with Mistress Baker,
Rosalind pretended to study the woman’s swollen
leg. She ran her hands slowly but steadily down the reddened
limb and concentrated on the place inside her mind that
helped her heal. A picture formed, and with it the answers to
help Mistress Baker.
“How long has your leg been like this?” she asked, want-
ing to appear as though she was unsure.
“Nigh on six months now,” Mistress Baker answered.
“Did you have a fall?”
“Aye, ‘twas in blackberry season. Right clumsy, I be at
times. Fell headlong into a bush. I healed up right enough,
apart from this leg that fl ares up now and then.”
Rosalind nodded. “I suspect there’s still a thorn embedded
SHELLEY MUNRO
in your leg causing the problem.”
“No! Couldn’t be. I’ve had a poisonous wound before
and ‘twern’t nothin’ like this.”
Unsurprised at the woman’s denials but sure in her own
mind, Rosalind nodded again. “Would you allow me to try
a treatment?”
“I’ve tried everything,” Mistress Baker said, her jowls
wobbling as she nodded briskly. “Don’t suppose trying a new
treatment would hurt none. Not that I’m saying you be right,
Lady Rosalind. But as I see it, can’t be much worse off than
I be now.”
Rosalind shared a quiet smile with Mary before turning
to open her treatment bag. Her hands hovered over various
herbs before she selected several and ground them to a paste
in a special dish she kept in her bag. “Mix this powder with
water and smooth it over your leg. Right here,” Rosalind said
touching a bright red spot with a gentle fi nger. She studied
Mistress Baker for a short time then reached into her bag
again and pulled out a small bottle. “You might try taking
this medicine too.”
“I don’t know ‘bout no medicine,” Mistress Baker mur-
mured.
Rosalind understood the problem immediately. “I make it
with honey. Try it, you’ll be surprised at how pleasant it tastes.”
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Mistress Baker remained doubtful, but Rosalind pressed
the medicine on her. “I’ll visit you tomorrow if I can, or fail-
ing that, expect me the day after.” Rosalind glanced at the
discolored limb. If something wasn’t done soon the woman
would lose her leg. She’d seen it happen before. “Mary, per-
haps we should ask Mistress Baker for clear directions to see
the Miller family.”
Mistress Baker chuckled. “Got lost, did ye?”
“We will learn our way around soon enough,” Mary said.
“Th
e village is not large.”
“Aye, right enough.” Mistress Baker nodded sagely. “I’ll
look for you tomorrow or the next day.”
Rosalind and Mary left after receiving detailed direc-
tions to get to the Miller’s cottage.
“I thought Matthew was meant to wait for us,” Mary
murmured, searching for the hefty footman in his distinc-
tive livery.
Rosalind glanced down the rutted lane that ran between
the rows of cottages. “Th
e Miller cottage isn’t far. I’m sure
Matthew is resourceful enough to fi nd us.”
“But, my lord said . . .”
“Let me worry about Hastings,” Rosalind said, ignor-
ing the twinge of guilt at breaking a promise. She hurried
Mary past the stable. A weathered sign swung drunkenly
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over the porch of the public house next door. Up close, the
sign bore the image of a horse’s head, and it creaked loudly
with each gust of wind. Raucous laughter spilled from an
open bay window.
“What ‘ave we ’ere, then?” a man hollered out the window.
“Pretty chicks like you shouldn’t be walking alone.”
A second man joined his friend, and Mary grabbed Ro-
salind forcibly by the elbow. “Miss, this is not the place to
stand and gawp.”
Rosalind allowed Mary to drag her away but continued
to look over her shoulder. “I’ve never been in a public house
before. Have you?”
“Yes, miss. I have. And it’s not the place for the likes
of you.”
Rosalind frowned. All the interesting places weren’t con-
sidered proper. One day . . .
Mary slowed when they reached a stone gateway on the
outskirts of the village. “Th
is must be the shortcut Mistress
Baker mentioned.”
“Th
ere’s the dead oak. Th
e path looks overgrown.”
Rosalind’s boots sank into mud as she peered down the
path. She pulled her boot from the mud with a loud squelch.
“And wet.”
“Do you want to go back?” Mary asked.
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“No, I’m muddy now and you don’t look much better.
We might as well keep going.”
Th
e path twisted and turned taking them deep into a
copse of beech and oak. Th
e leafy canopy blocked the light,
making navigating the path even more treacherous. Rosalind
pushed on, wincing when icy water from a puddle splashed
over the top of her boots. Th
ey walked for another ten minutes
before Rosalind paused to rescue her skirts from the clutches
of a prickly bush. “I’m not sure this is the right way. Mistress
Baker said we needed to follow the path for fi ve minutes. I
didn’t see the fork in the path she mentioned. Did you?”
“No, Lady Rosalind. I don’t like it here. Have you no-
ticed there are no birds singing? And it’s getting darker.”
Rosalind frowned. She’d noticed but had decided it was
mere imagination. Th
ey stared at each other wordlessly.
“Do you think we should go back?”
Th
ere was a distinct wobble in Mary’s voice, and her
fear spread to Rosalind. Every nerve in her body screamed,
urging fl ight.
“It can’t be much further,” Rosalind whispered. Somehow,
their surroundings warranted a hushed undertone. She swal-
lowed as she tugged her hat free from a low hanging branch.
Mary glanced over her shoulder. “If you’re sure . . .”
No, Rosalind wasn’t sure at all. Perhaps it hadn’t been
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wise to ignore Hastings’ orders to take an escort.
Th
e snap of a dry twig made them both jump.
Mary emitted a soft squeak. “What was that?”
“How should I know?” Rosalind’s heart thudded loudly.
Another crack sounded and a red deer burst from the under-
growth. It seemed as panicked as they and crashed into the
bushes a few feet from them before disappearing.
“A deer,” Rosalind said weakly, pressing a trembling hand
to her breast, willing her heart to return to normal speed.
“Shall we carry on?”
“Yes, miss.”
Th
ey set off again, traveling through the murky light.
Th
e sharp crack of a branch made her heart jump up her
throat again. Rosalind stilled.
“Miss?”
Rosalind let out a burst of breath. “Probably another
deer.” She forged ahead, despite the jangle of her nerves. Th
e
trees thinned, letting in more light and with the improved
vision, Rosalind experienced a rise in courage. She caught
a fl ash of white as a bird fl itted from one tree to another.
Another tremulous breath eased her wariness a little more.
“Look, Mary. I do believe that is the fork in the path
Mistress Baker spoke of.” She hurried toward the path,
desperate to leave the inhospitable forest. “I’m right. It is.
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Th
ere’s the marker stone. Mary?” Rosalind turned to smile
at her friend.
She wasn’t there.
“Mary?” Rosalind peered down the path, but Mary was
nowhere in sight. A chill crawled along Rosalind’s spine.
“Mary!” A muscle ticked at the corner of her mouth.
She stood indecisively in the middle of the path and fer-
The Second Seduction Page 9