The Second Seduction

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The Second Seduction Page 9

by Shelley Munro


  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

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  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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  THE SECOND SEDUCTION

  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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  SHELLEY MUNRO

  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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  THE SECOND SEDUCTION

  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-

 

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