The Second Seduction

by Shelley Munro

  ere

  was something in the man’s behavior that made Lucien’s

  hackles rise. He was too helpful, too willing.

  “Right you are, sir.”

  Th

  e man sauntered up the track and disappeared into the

  courtyard. Lucien wondered who the second man had been.

  He’d disappeared quickly enough to raise suspicion.

  Lucien whistled softly and heard Oberon’s answering

  whicker. His hand rose to open the stall, but it was unlocked.

  Had the two men intended harm to Oberon? His horse

  sounded sedate enough, but instinct called for caution.

  Rosalind screwed up her face in a frown. What was she

  going to say? What was she going to do? She imagined Hast-

  ings standing on the other side of the door. Excitement shot

  through her veins.

  Th

  e hinge creaked when the door opened. Rosalind

  watched with a combination of trepidation and anticipation.

  Th

  e gap widened to reveal Hastings’ shiny black boots, his

  mud-splattered stockings, and breeches. Her eyes rose to his

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  gray shirt and black jacket. Rosalind’s mouth dried, her pulse

  pounding with expectancy, excitement. She swallowed and

  lifted her gaze to loose black hair and his . . . mouth. Finally,

  she was drawn to astonished obsidian eyes.

  Speak, she thought frantically. Quickly, before he asks what

  you are doing here. Distract. Attack. Something. Anything.

  “You’re back,” she cried and planted a kiss on his be-

  guiling lips. He tensed. In shock or astonishment, Rosalind

  wasn’t sure but ceased to care. His lips were as soft as a baby’s

  skin. Her hands curled about his shoulders and she leaned

  into him, enjoying the play of hard muscles and the earthy

  masculine scent of him.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded fi nally, pulling

  away enough to glare at her.

  “I’m pleased to see you.” A stupid half-wit would sense

  his bewilderment. But along with confusion lay shocked en-

  joyment. And that, decided Rosalind, was a good thing.

  “I’ve only been gone for two days,” Hastings said.

  Rosalind half expected him to thrust her away from him

  and demand to know what she was doing with his horse. But,

  he didn’t. A perplexed furrow appeared between his eyes. Her

  grin surfaced unbidden as her gaze drifted back to his lips.

  Th

  is kissing business was a little disappointing. Somehow,

  she’d expected something more.

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  “Did I do something wrong when I kissed you?” Rosalind

  screwed up her nose, searching his face for enlightenment.

  If anything, he seemed more perplexed.

  “Do I need more practice? Perhaps if I try again I can

  do better.” Rosalind leaned toward her husband with her

  lips pursed.

  Hastings’ hands shot out to grab her forearms. “What are

  you doing? Th

  is talk about kissing . . . it’s not . . . proper.”

  “You sound like my aunt.” Rosalind tossed her head. “If

  I’m not allowed to kiss you, then how do I learn? Should I ask

  Charles, or perhaps Justin to teach me?” A child that looked

  like Hastings . . . Lucien . . . would please her very much.

  Lucien stared at his wife in disbelief. Kiss . . . His chest

  felt tight inside as though he were bound with stout ropes.

  Th

  e idea of her kissing another man made his hands clench at

  his sides. “Keep away from Charles and Justin,” he ordered.

  “You’re married to me.”

  “But you don’t kiss me. You’re not a husband,” his wife

  stated. Her blue eyes narrowed and in that instant, she remind-

  ed him of Francesca again. Stubborn. Determined. Focused.

  Lucien grabbed the English mouse, hauled her close, and

  planted his lips on hers, reacting to the provocation before

  he’d thought the matter through.

  She stood on tiptoes, straining to meet him half way.

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  Soft lips, untutored lips, trembled beneath the onslaught. It

  was her innocence that made him gentle the kiss, to sip and

  savor where seconds before he’d demanded. Lavender and the

  scent of another fl ower fl owed over him. Her hands burrowed

  inside his jacket and around his waist, then she relaxed, sink-

  ing into him until he felt her breasts, her body imprinting

  against him. Danger, his mind shouted, but his body had

  other ideas. Lucien groaned when she slid innocently across

  his lower body. Without volition, his tongue slid along the

  soft fullness of her bottom lip. She gasped, and his tongue

  slid inside to taste oranges and cloves. Her hands slid up his

  chest, past his thundering heart to twine around his neck.

  Th

  e touch of warm feminine hands reminded him he’d in-

  tended to kiss her once. Chastely. Drawing deep for strength,

  he pulled away from the kiss, breathing hard.

  Damn the mouse and the way she wriggled beneath his

  skin and made him feel. He’d spent the time away from her

  thinking, wondering. And worrying. She still insisted that

  someone stalked her and intended her harm. With all that had

  happened, he was starting to believe. Th

  e whispers during his

  visit to Dover confi rmed that danger stalked those who lived

  in Castle St. Clare. He’d stopped at the Fox and Hounds

  down on the waterfront for refreshment, and the innkeeper

  had told him of money off ered to three of his regulars to

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  scare the lady of St. Clare. Lucien had taken that to mean

  Rosalind. Further questioning had elicited that the men had

  failed to reappear. Lucien wondered if they were the hunters

  who had shot at Rosalind and her maid. Th

  ey could still be

  in the area, which meant Rosalind must stay at the castle for

  her safety.

  He studied the petite blonde he was married to. Rosa-

  lind wasn’t the spoiled, aloof woman he’d assumed on their

  fi rst meeting.

  She whimpered, pressing against him urgently. His

  head dipped to brush her lips with his while his mind sorted

  through the possibilities.

  “Easy,” he whispered, breaking off their kiss and smooth-

  ing one hand over her tangled curls. “Th

  ere, I’ve kissed you.

  Tell me why you’re in Oberon’s stall.”

  “I . . . I was looking for my kitten,” she blurted.

  Th

  e high color on her cheeks told him she lied. “Come,

  Rosalind. You can do better than that. Th

  e truth now.”

  “I was eavesdropping,” she acknowledged without a trace

  of guilt.

  Lucien didn’t like her confession. Hawk had ears every-

  where, many of them willing to slit a throat for a few measly

  gold coins. Th

  e men he’d heard about in Dover could be

  allied to Hawk. He wished she’d listen to reason. He’d hate

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  to have another woman’s death on his conscience. “Why?”

  “I didn’t mean to. I was looking for you. I wanted to

  know if you had returned home.”

  “Why?”

  She smiled. “It’s lonely without you.”

  Every instinct inside Lucien leapt to attention. He scru-

  tinized her face, sensing an untruth again. He hadn’t spent

  much time with her at all. In fact, he kept trying to push her

  away. What was she hiding?

  “Lady Augusta seeks your company.”

  “Humph. She wants a handy body to sharpen her

  tongue on.”

  Th

  e image unfurled a grin, and that irritated him. He

  meant to keep this woman at a distance, but somehow she

  managed to creep past every one of his defenses.

  “You’ve heard about the kitchen caving in?” she asked,

  changing the subject.

  “Yes.”

  “One tunnel beneath the castle probably means there

  are others.”

  Lucien grabbed her shoulders and shook her lightly. “Tell

  me you’re not searching for more.”

  “Someone is using a passage to gain access to my cham-

  ber.” Her chin jutted up in a gesture Lucien was too familiar

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  with. “Do you think the treasure is buried beneath the North

  tower? Or, the part that’s covered with ivy could contain

  hidden riches.”

  Th

  ere was no point forbidding her to search, he thought.

  If he’d learned anything during their short marriage, it was

  of her unwavering determination.

  “You stay away from the North tower. It’s dangerous.”

  Lucien took her arm and hustled her from the stall. “Tell me

  what you have been doing while I’ve been in Dover.”

  Immediate tension froze her face. His glance caught a

  fl eeting expression of guilt. “Have you visited the village?” he

  asked, his voice low and dangerous.

  Rosalind avoided his gaze and looked at her feet. “I was

  searching for Mary.”

  She hadn’t taken an escort. Her guilty face made that

  clear. “I can make sure you don’t leave the castle again.”

  Her head shot up. Blue eyes fl ashed with a hint of temper

  that intrigued him. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me.”

  “But the village people rely on me to treat the sick.”

  “Th

  ey won’t have anyone to rely on if you’re dead.”

  “Th

  e castle isn’t safe either,” she pointed out. “Mary’s still

  missing. Servants have died . . .”

  Th

  e blonde chit was blaming him! “I know people have

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  died. Do you think I’m happy about it?”

  “No, I’m saying you should take action so there’s no

  repeat.”

  Her gaze challenged him, and Lucien’s temper soared.

  What the devil did she think he was doing? Going to a social

  gathering with the neighbors? “I have . . .”

  “You must put an end to the rumors of treasure.”

  “Madam, cease your prattling on matters you have no

  knowledge of. We will return to the castle.” He off ered his

  arm and glared when she was slow to obey. Finally, she laid

  her hand on his arm, her distaste of touching him clear.

  Strange, she hadn’t minded kissing him. She had initiated

  the kiss and now she was treating him like a clump of nettles.

  “Come. Lady Augusta requires your attendance.” His temper

  pricked, Lucien strode from the stableyard and under the

  castle portcullis. He clasped her hand in a fi rm grasp, giving

  Rosalind little option but to go with him.

  “You don’t take a guard with you when you leave the

  castle.”

  Speechless for a moment, Lucien wondered how to get

  through to her. Although the woman was a nuisance, he had

  to admit he liked her . . . determination. “I’m a man,” he said

  fi nally. “It’s diff erent.”

  “Humph!” Her mouth fl attened and her face turned an

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  alarming shade of red.

  Th

  at line of argument had never worked with Francesca,

  either. “You have something to say?” he asked, continuing

  his walk to the Great Hall.

  “Nothing,” she snapped. “Nothing you’d want to hear,

  stubborn lout,” she added in a low mutter.

  He suppressed amusement at the insult. Danger. Now,

  there was the rub. Rosalind knew nothing but the tip of the

  rotten stench that enclosed both St. Clare castle and village.

  And, he wasn’t about to share the horrors with her. Bad

  enough that he suff ered the consequences.

  “Tell me of the progress in the kitchens. I understand

  you ordered work to begin on new kitchens.”

  “Th

  e old kitchen was disgraceful,” Rosalind declared.

  “It’s no wonder the food served is inedible.”

  Lucien noticed the fi rming of her chin, the narrowing

  of her eyes, and the unswerving resolve. Th

  e devil made him

  prod. “Lady Augusta tells me your plans are a shocking waste

  of money. Money the St. Clare family can ill aff ord.”

  “Perhaps I know where the treasure is,” she snapped.

  A fl eeting memory fl ashed through his mind. Lucien

  came to an abrupt halt, trying not to concentrate too hard or

  force the memory. Children. A cave . . . Th

  en, nothing. His

  curse rang through the air, heartfelt and colorful.

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  “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Absolutely nothing.”

  Her hand tightened on his arm. “You’ve recalled a

  memory from your past.”

  “Maybe.” His voice was curt and he knew it. Frustra-

  tion and self-preservation made him refuse to discuss the

  past and his lost memories. People treated him diff erently

  when they realized, looking for signs of madness with each

  furtive glance.

  “Is it the treasure?” she demanded.

  Lucien’s head whipped about to stare at her in consterna-

  tion. Everyone except the English mouse.

  “I thought so.” Every word dripped with smug satisfaction.

  “Did you search for the treasure when you were a child?”

  “Usually after listening to the tales that Charles’ father

  spun. He was a gifted storyteller; he made it all sound so

  exciting. He . . .” Lucien trailed off with astonishment. Th

  e

  memories had arrived without prompting. He’d just known

  instead of having to forcibly drag them from the fog inside

  his head. Amazing. Lucien concentrated, a furrow forming

  between his brows as he pushed for more. Was it possible the

  earl spoke the truth, and he was a St. Clare after all?

  Rosalind tightened her grip on his forearm. “Don’t,” she

  said. “Don’t force the memories that haunt you. You’ll make

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  your head hurt. Tell me more about the tales your uncle told.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t remember,” Lucien said. Disappointment beat

  at him. Damn it! Why couldn’t he remember the important

  things? Childhood memories were a waste of time.

  Th

  ey entered the Great Hall. Muffl

  ed thumping echoed

  through the castle, a reminder of the needless deaths of the

  servants.

  “Have you tried to fi nd where the passage goes?”

  Lucien’s head whipped about to stare down at his wife.

  Her face held innocent enquiry, yet she’d voiced the very

  thing he’d mused over. “You are not going to search for trea-

  sure,” he stated. Firmly, he thought.

  “I’ve already started.”

  Lucien sucked in a deep breath, biting his tongue when

  he really wanted to shake sense into the woman. No matter

  how many times he issued orders, she went her own pig-

  headed way. “Do you want me to lock you in your room?”

  “At the risk of repeating myself, I have been shot at and

  thumped over the head. And it was only luck that saved me

  from falling through the kitchen fl oor.”

  “Make no mistake, I will lock you in your room if you

  insist on placing yourself in dangerous situations.”

  “But, that’s not fair.”

  “Rosalind, I don’t have time to guard you, and since you

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  refuse to obey my instructions to take a footman with you,

  then you leave me with no alternative.” Th

  e wounded look on

  her face made him feel like a bully. However, he had enough

  to deal with. His investigations in Dover had borne fruit.

  After questioning several of the captains, he’d learned of a

  boat that had sailed to France around the time he and Fran-

  cesca were attacked. Not noteworthy until the captain had

  mentioned several of the local thugs for hire were on board,

  and they’d boasted of easy riches for disposing of an Italian

  and his wife. He hadn’t been able to track down the boat and

  captain since they hadn’t been in port, but he had located one

  of the seamen who had sailed with the Gallant on a previ-

  ous voyage. Bitter at being unfairly dismissed, the man had

  grasped the opportunity to earn a few coins and gain revenge.

  He’d heard the men talk about a man called Hawk and how

  he was paying them handsomely. It was only a matter of time

  and he would have Hawk. Along with explanations that were

  unclear to him — provided he could make the man talk.

  “Will you stay locked in your chamber?”

  Lucien gaped at his wife. “What?”

  “I asked if you would stay . . .”