The Second Seduction

  vently wished she’d listened to Hastings. She hated to admit

  to the fact, but it seemed he had the right of it. It wasn’t safe

  to wander without an escort.

  Rosalind’s stomach clenched hard as she fought her

  rising panic. She couldn’t stand dithering for the rest of the

  day. Finally, after much internal debate, she decided to forge

  on to the Miller’s cottage. According to Mistress Baker’s

  directions, it must be close. With one fi nal, searching look

  down the path, she turned and hastened down the right fork,

  dread nipping her heels. Anxiety increased her speed until

  she was running, heedless of the mud and water that splashed

  her gown, the branches and twigs that scratched her face and

  tugged at her cloak and hat.

  On the path in front of her, she saw a fl ash of brown.

  Another deer, she thought. Masculine shouts fi lled the air

  and then a gun fi red.

  Rosalind halted in shock.

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  Another gunshot exploded through the silence. Bark

  fl ew from a beech tree right next to her. A third gunshot re-

  verberated through the trees, and Rosalind’s hat went fl ying

  off her head.

  “Don’t shoot!” she screamed, crouching down on the

  path. “Stop shooting!”

  Th

  ere was silence for a brief moment. “Over there,” she

  heard a low, rough voice say.

  She heard the crunch of dried leaves under boots, the

  snap of small twigs, and the rustle of the undergrowth. She

  swallowed, trying to still her trembling limbs. Surely, the

  men hadn’t mistaken her for a deer?

  “Over there.”

  Th

  e sound of running footsteps crashing through the un-

  dergrowth moved toward her instead of retreating. Without

  thinking, Rosalind scrambled behind a bush and burrowed

  into the midst of another until she was hidden from sight.

  “I can’t see her.”

  “Where did she go?”

  Rigid with terror, Rosalind huddled beneath the bush,

  scarcely daring to breathe. Th

  ey were not hunting deer; they

  were hunting her.

  Rosalind heard the thud of footsteps on the path near her

  hiding place. A branch dug into her hip, but she was afraid to

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  move in case the men discovered her.

  “She must have gone down the fork in the path.”

  Th

  rough the screen of green leaves, Rosalind saw a fl ash

  of brown cloth. A man passed so close she smelled his pun-

  gent body odor and heard the rasp of his breathing.

  “Don’t think we ‘it ‘er,” he said. “Least ways, there’s no

  blood.”

  “No matter,” the second man replied. “Good fright will

  do the job. Our man weren’t particular.”

  Th

  e men’s voices faded, but Rosalind remained crouched

  until her legs screamed in protest. Cautiously, she stood,

  searching for danger. Th

  e only route of escape was the path

  back through the forest, and she must hurry before the men

  backtracked in search of her. Rosalind sped along the path,

  traveling with a minimum of noise. She glanced over her

  shoulder, terrifi ed the men would sight her and give chase.

  “Miss, there you are! I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Arghh!”

  “Lady Rosalind!” Mary’s arms wrapped around her neck

  in a stranglehold, squeezing her so tightly, Rosalind could

  hardly draw breath.

  “I’m so pleased to see you,” Mary sobbed. “Where have

  you been? I got a stone in my boot and stopped to take it out,

  then by the time I had my boot back on, I couldn’t see you. I

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  was trying to catch up when someone stuff ed a bag over my

  head and tied up my hands and feet and . . .”

  “Mary,” Rosalind whispered, her tone urgent. Th

  e men

  might appear at any moment. “We haven’t time for discus-

  sion. Make haste. Th

  ere are men searching for me. Mary!”

  Rosalind shook her maid when she did nothing but stare

  blankly at her. “Please, we must leave. Now!” Rosalind

  wrenched Mary’s hands from around her neck and peered

  intently at her tear-stained face. “Mary, listen to me. Th

  e men

  have guns. Th

  ey shot directly at me.”

  Mary’s face looked the color of milk, and Rosalind re-

  alized she hadn’t registered a single word. She snapped her

  fi ngers in front of Mary and when that failed, slapped her

  across the face.

  “Ow! What did you do that for? Luckily,” she continued,

  a stubborn set to her mouth, “I managed to wriggle free of

  the ropes.”

  Rosalind grabbed Mary’s forearm and propelled her

  down the path in the direction of St. Clare village. “Hurry!”

  “My head hurts.”

  “Worry about that later. I tell you, they were shooting at

  me. Th

  ey meant to kill me. I hate to think what will happen

  if they catch up with us.”

  “I be too young to die,” Mary mumbled.

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  “Exactly!” At last, she was getting through to Mary.

  “Make haste.”

  A branch hit Rosalind across the face, hard enough to

  make her eyes water. Each breath rasped through her lungs

  until a sharp pain jabbed at her side. Hurry! Hurry! Th

  eir

  footfalls sounded horrendously loud in the silent forest. Th

  e

  mud sucked at her feet, she slipped and staggered through

  a particularly swampy part of the path but her pace barely

  slackened. After a brief glance to make sure Mary followed,

  she increased the pace.

  Th

  ey burst from the edge of the forest onto the road.

  Th

  e view down the hill to the village of St. Clare looked so

  normal that Rosalind blinked. She paused, sucking in great

  draughts of air. Beside her, Mary wheezed, and Rosalind saw

  she was alarmingly red in the face.

  Th

  ey both heard the hoofbeats at the same time. Alarm

  shot across Mary’s face while Rosalind braced to run.

  “Who is it?” Mary’s voice wobbled, and she sounded as

  though she might burst into tears again.

  “How should I know?” Rosalind knew it wouldn’t take

  much to push her maid into hysterics. Mary was such an idiot

  at times. Brave and bawdy one moment, while the next she

  was a sniveling ninny.

  “What are we going to do?”

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  Rosalind rolled her eyes. Hiding sounded good to her.

  Before she could make good on the thought, a man leading a

  horse came into sight.

  “It be Hastings!” Mary said.

  Hastings stopped dead when he saw them. It wasn’t

  diffi

  cult for Rosalind to imagine what they looked like. She

  dragged a hand through her frizzy hair and for a moment

  r
egretted the loss of her hat.

  “Where is your footman?” he demanded.

  “How should I know,” Rosalind muttered. “In the vil-

  lage, I suppose.”

  “I told you not to go anywhere without an escort.”

  Hastings’ words sounded as though they were forced between

  his teeth.

  Rosalind took a good, hard look at him and stepped back.

  Although he didn’t take the same care that his cousin Charles

  did with his apparel, he usually looked presentable. Today

  mud splattered his black breeches. He had a scratch across his

  cheek that stopped short of his scar, and several dried leaves

  clung to his long black hair. “What happened to you?”

  “Someone meddled with my horse,” he gritted out.

  Rosalind froze mid-step. “I was shot at, and someone

  grabbed Mary and tied her up.”

  “I told you it wasn’t safe to wander the estate without an

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  escort. I will take you back to the castle.” Lucien scowled.

  Someone had shot at her. It sounded like a fi ne story she’d

  concocted to placate him. “Tell me about these men that shot

  at you.”

  “I saw only two men, but there may have been three. Th

  e

  trees and undergrowth were so thick it was diffi

  cult to tell.”

  “And what happened?” He’d see how deep she would dig

  herself in.

  “Mary and I were walking along the path, following

  Mistress Baker’s directions to get to the Miller cottage. Th

  e

  directions she gave us took us through the forest.” She ges-

  tured at the trees behind them. “I thought Mary was behind

  me, but she wasn’t. I heard something crashing through the

  undergrowth, and then a deer bounded across the path in

  front of me. Th

  e next minute the men arrived, and they

  were shooting.”

  “A deer? It sounds like the men were hunting and you

  managed to get in the way.”

  Her chin jerked up. “Th

  e men were shooting at me. I

  heard them say so. And if they were hunting, then why did

  they grab Mary?”

  Lucien found himself staring in fascination. Her argu-

  ment had brought a delicate color to her cheeks while her

  blue eyes had darkened. Th

  ey fl ashed at him, leaving Lucien

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  in no doubt of her feelings. She was furious at him for doubt-

  ing her. He wondered if he were wrong. Perhaps she was in-

  nocent. Maybe it was mere coincidence that she turned up

  wherever he was?

  “It is my feeling,” he said, scrutinizing her closely, “that

  someone wanted me dead. Th

  ey hoped I would lose control

  of Oberon and suff er a fall bad enough to kill me. What have

  you to say to that?”

  “What have I . . .” She broke off and glared at him.

  “Come, Mary. I desire a bath.” With that, she whirled away

  and stomped down the slight hill, her maid trailing.

  Th

  e maid limped, Lucien saw as he resumed a slow walk

  after the two women. Had she lied? She appeared dirty and

  wind blown, but no more so than after a vigorous walk.

  Th

  en, he recalled the absolute disgust when she’d realized

  he thought she was making the whole story up. Followed by

  sheer incredulity on her expressive face. Lucien’s scar drew

  tight when he frowned, then slackened when his mouth eased

  into rueful humor. Ten minutes ago he’d been sure, but now

  he doubted his instincts.

  He ambled after the women into the village. Th

  is time,

  the villagers appeared a mite more friendly, with the chil-

  dren rushing forward to swarm about the two women while

  the womenfolk nodded brisk greetings as they went about

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  THE SECOND SEDUCTION

  their business.

  When they walked past the public house, a stooped

  fi gure limped from the stables. His head was swathed in a

  grubby white bandage.

  “Matthew,” Rosalind called in horror. She darted for-

  ward, then pulled up in consternation to stare at the foot-

  man. “Whatever happened to you?”

  “Aye,” the maid chimed in. “We waited for you.” She

  looked him up and down and drew back suddenly. “Have you

  been drinking?”

  Lucien winced at her shrill screech. He noted the foot-

  man did too, his hands creeping up to hold his head. A

  large rip ran the length of his green, St. Clare livery while

  his white stockings were splattered with mud and straw.

  Lucien’s nose twitched when he stepped closer. Along with

  the pungent aroma of whisky, he smelled the distinct odor

  of stable manure.

  “Have you been sitting in Nag’s Head drinking?” the

  maid demanded again.

  “Shush. Let the man speak.” Th

  e English mouse

  stepped alongside the footman and touched him gently on

  the upper arm.

  A small gasp escaped his wife. Lucien sent her a curious

  glance. Th

  e color had fl ed her face, leaving her cheeks pale.

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  “I expect your head hurts, Matthew.” She turned to Lucien.

  “Do you think there is somewhere Matthew can sit down?”

  Lucien snorted. Matthew wouldn’t be sitting if he had

  his way. Th

  e footman had neglected his duties. He’d be lucky

  if he kept his job. “Explain,” he said curtly. Th

  ere were a few

  too many accidents for his liking. He glanced at Rosalind.

  Beads of blood on her jaw line snagged his attention. A

  scratch. Concern welled, taking him by surprise. Pushing

  aside the unease within, he concentrated on the footman.

  Lucien didn’t want to feel anything for the English mouse.

  “‘Twas on my way to meet up with Lady Rosalind, just

  like ye told me.” He paused, saw the look on Lucien’s face,

  and wavered on his feet.

  “Sit, man,” Lucien snapped. “Before you fall.”

  Th

  e footman slumped against one of the wooden pillars

  at the entrance to the Nag’s Head. “Took a short cut, I did,

  through the small alley that runs behind the stables. Some-

  one hit me on the noggin. Th

  at’s last I remember.”

  Lucien studied the footman, weighing his words.

  “Why do you smell like the bottom of a whisky barrel?”

  the red-haired maid demanded.

  Lucien bit back amusement. All he needed to do was

  stand and glower. Th

  e maid would ask the questions.

  “Hush, Mary. Can’t you see Matthew is in no condition

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  THE SECOND SEDUCTION

  for your questions? We need a wagon or cart to transport

  Matthew to the castle.”

  “A cart?” Lucien said.

  His wife drew herself up. “Can’t you see he has a head-

  ache? Matthew is in no condition to walk.”

  Very well, Lucien thought, his eyes narrowing at his wife’s

  tone
. He would organize a cart for the footman, but he had

  every intention of interrogating the man back at the castle.

  119

  VII

  Rosalind hurried down the dimly lit passageway, uncom-

  fortably aware she was very late for dinner. She glanced

  down at the puce-colored gown and the cream lace ruffl

  es

  Mary had added at the last moment in an eff ort to improve

  the style. Not that she’d had much choice with the gown.

  Unbelievably, someone had entered her chamber whilst she

  was asleep and stole every single item of clothing from her

  dressing room. Th

  e idea of being watched while asleep made

  her equally uncomfortable and angry. Yes, angry! Rosalind

  acknowledged the uneasiness she’d felt each time she entered

  her chamber, but now . . .

  Th

  e chime of a clock made Rosalind hasten with an in-

  elegant burst of speed, her shoes clattering on the wooden

  fl oor. When she turned the corner, she paused to take a deep

  THE SECOND SEDUCTION

  breath before sailing into the dining room with a pleasant

  smile fi xed to her face.

  “I’m sorry I’m so late,” she apologized. Bother, she hadn’t

  known they were having dinner guests. Why hadn’t some-

  one told her? Mary hadn’t known either or she would have

  informed her.

  Th

  e gentlemen stood, and Rosalind headed for the lone

  unoccupied seat. Of course, it was next to Lady Augusta.

  Hastings stepped around the table and pulled out the

  chair for her. Rosalind couldn’t help but notice the quick,

  cursory inspection he gave her gown. Inclining her head

  in thanks, she slid into her chair while Hastings returned

  to his seat next to Lady Helena at the far end of the table.

  Every muscle in her body tensed when Lady Helena engaged

  Hastings in conversation. He leaned closer, and one of Lady

  Helena’s delicate white hands fl uttered out to touch him on

  the arm. Rosalind gritted her teeth. Why did that woman

  insist on fl irting with her husband?

  “What on earth are you wearing?” Lady Augusta demanded.

  “Looks like one of her maid’s gowns,” Lady Elizabeth

  commented.

  Two bright red patches on her cheeks highlighted Lady

  Augusta’s anger. “Are you trying to make the St. Clare family

  look like penny-pinchers? Th

  at’s what the neighbors will

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  think when they see the state of your gown.” She spoke in an

  undertone but still managed to stress her displeasure.

  Rosalind inhaled sharply, struggling to hold back the