He cursed under his breath. God knows what the smugglers had hidden in the caves that ran inland from the cove. They wouldn’t take to people nosing about if they used the caves for storage. He grimaced, not happy with the smuggler’s presence but knowing that many of the villagers relied on the income to make ends meet. They’d suffer if he stamped his authority on the situation, and he couldn’t allow that. Until he had alternative methods of raising funds, the smugglers stayed. With the support they received from the local aristocracy, he’d have a battle to remove them anyway.
There was no choice.
He didn’t want to escort her.
His gaze skittered down her back to the feminine sway of her hips, the flash of a stocking-clad ankle.
With an inward curse, he leaped off Oberon and hurried after the woman, leading his horse behind him. “Wait!” He grabbed her upper arm with his free hand and spun her to face him.
Her chin jerked up, and her pale blue eyes dared him to exert further force. “I’ll be careful. I don’t require watching like a child.” She enunciated carefully. Precisely. Her brows shot up, and she directed her gaze to his hand.
“I’ll show you the path to the beach.” Lucien released her and paused, shocked. That was not what he’d meant to say. He’d meant to order her to return home. “It’s not safe to wander on your own here. Take a footman next time or one of the stable lads.”
“I’m used to wandering the estate at home. At will.”
“This is your home now.” Lucien narrowed his eyes, and the scar on his cheek pulled as his facial muscles tensed. Francesca would have laughed and made him laugh in return until she got her own way. Pain lanced through his mind, pulsated near his heart. “You will obey. Take a footman on your outings, or you’ll stay at the castle.”
The woman glowered at him. Her light eyes darkened with an inner fire that underlined the stubbornness of her chin. Under her cloak, he saw the subtle rise and fall of her breasts. When he realized where he was looking, he stiffened. He jerked his gaze to her face and clenched his jaw while he waited for her decision. “Well?” he demanded, not bothering to hide his irritation.
Their eyes met and held in a silent duel, but she gave him a grudging nod. “I’ll take a footman.”
Despite her compliance, Lucien sensed she wanted to tell him to go to the devil. His mouth twisted. Hell, she was too late. He was already there.
“Come.” He gestured for her to precede him down the path and made a clicking sound to urge Oberon to walk on behind him.
They picked their way down the debris-strewn path, an uneasy silence between them. Lucien’s thoughts drifted to Francesca.
His search for Hawk was taking longer than he’d envisaged. Each whisper from the village of St. Clare made hope surge, but the man was proving wily and slipped through his fingers. The man remained one step ahead all the time. Lucien let out a frustrated sigh.
Without warning, the woman stopped in the middle of the track and turned to face him. “Why don’t you like me? What have I done to deserve such dislike? You didn’t even come to my room last night.”
Lucien’s mouth fell open at her inference. He shut it so rapidly his teeth clicked together. He was her husband. How dare she question him? Only one other woman had ever pushed him this way…
He reined in his temper and waited for the tight sensation in his chest to dissipate.
“I know you don’t like me. You can hardly deny it.”
Lucien snorted. If she thought marriages took place for anything other than necessity, she was a fool. “Like” was not an essential ingredient when it came to marriage. The woman glared at him again. And the way her hands fisted, he was sure her fingernails were digging into her flesh.
“You didn’t let me finish,” she snapped, her eyes turning the same deep, unfathomable blue they had earlier. “Can’t we try to be friends?”
A cynical laugh escaped before Lucien could censor his reaction.
He had loved before.
And lost.
But that didn’t mean he owed his new wife an explanation. “As you wish.” He offered a curt bow. As much as he desired her gone, he couldn’t avoid the woman. It would be best for everyone if they at least appeared civil during their interactions.
“It can’t be that dangerous in the cove,” the woman said without warning. “Someone else is on the beach.”
Lucien jolted to full attention. He scanned the seashore to no avail. “Where?”
“To the right of the big boulder, the one jutting into the sea.”
He caught a blur of movement before the figure disappeared from sight. Odd. The villagers rarely visited this cove. Lucien presumed it was because of the smugglers, but the lack of visitors could be rooted in superstition. Charles had spoken of a shipwreck close to the castle during the last century. He’d mentioned tales of ghouls guarding a mystery treasure. Lucien scoffed at the romantic notion. It was more likely a story put about by smugglers to ensure privacy. This made the man’s presence suspicious, and he needed to question him.
The information he’d turned up on Hawk was sparse. One whisper that interested him connected the mysterious Hawk with the smugglers. Lucien had questioned a young shepherd, and the boy had blurted out that the smugglers had a new leader, a mystery man who wore a mask and spoke with the voice of the devil.
Charles had also mentioned an old hermit who lived in a cave farther down the coast. The man’s only living son had died in a confrontation with excisemen and he’d retreated to suffer his grief alone. Lucien intended to question him about the mystery man who’d taken over the smuggler gang. Someone must know where the new leader had come from and his real identity. Gossip was inevitable in a village of this size. The man must have enemies, a scorned lover—someone willing to reveal his name.
Lucien hesitated, wanting to storm the cove and demand answers. But he couldn’t leave the woman alone without protection. Frustration spiked inside him. Hellfire. She would get in the way when a chance presented itself.
A quick glance spoke of her determination to go down to the beach. The up-tilted chin, the firm lips, and the steady gaze signaled her intentions with no words. His shoulders slumped, admitting defeat. “Come then.”
The woman looked at him, her brows arching.
Lucien experienced a slight heat in his cheeks and scowled to counteract the sensation. “I have estate business this afternoon. We must make haste.”
“It’s mid-morning.”
Now he felt beleaguered and petty. It was the calm expression on her face, the steady, candid gaze in those cool blue eyes and her damn eyebrows. They spoke a language all of their own.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement in the cove. Reminded of his mission, he narrowed his eyes in concentration.
When he held his dying Francesca in his arms, he’d promised her he’d retaliate and avenge her death. He intended to honor the pledge. The second part of the promise, unwillingly given to ease her passage into death—undertaking to seek love again—he shoved aside as he turned to the English mouse.
“If you want to go, we must go now.” Lucien turned to his mount and made a clicking sound behind his teeth. Oberon trotted obediently behind him, leaving the woman to follow. Every one of his senses sprang to life. Lucien gritted his teeth. Without looking, he knew the woman was frowning. Too bad. If she didn’t like it, she was welcome to leave. His stride lengthened as he increased the pace, heading toward the dead oak and the marker where the path split. He stalked along the right fork, leading down to the cove.
The wind whipped over the edge of the cliff, pulling at his hair. The distinctive tang of salt carried on the wind, and a vision of young boys playing in the sea flickered through his mind. A smile tugged his lips, but the instant he seized the memory, his mind locked up, refusing to release the slice of his past. He had no idea who the boys were or the location.
Intense frustration beat at him, as it had since gaining consciousness
in Naples over three years ago. Physically, the doctors told him there was nothing wrong with him. But the attack by thieves had left him with huge gaps in his memory. Francesca hadn’t cared about his foggy past. An angel, she’d rescued him after the assault and nursed him to health. Now whole in body, but scarred both on his face and in mind, Lucien had no recollection of his past. Francesca had said it didn’t matter—they’d make their own memories.
Together.
Lucien smiled, holding the memory close until a voice jerked him back to the present.
“How long will it take to walk to the beach? Does the tide make any difference to when I can visit the cove?”
A groan built deep in his throat, his mouth curled up in disgust. That was all he needed—a woman who talked nonstop and demanded his attention.
* * * * *
“Hawk, the lookout sighted two people up on the cliff. Man and a woman.”
Hawk turned to stare at the wizened man who’d called out. Beneath the loose black mask, his mouth firmed to a thin line of irritation. Damn inconvenient. He wanted to shift the cargo inland today, but that wouldn’t be possible with loitering strangers.
“Did they see the lookout?” His low voice held authority. Power. It breached the distance between them easily.
Whiting raised his lantern to navigate the uneven, slippery floor of the cave until he stood in front of Hawk. “He said they did.”
Hawk bit back his impatience. Damn idiot. Did none of them understand how the return of the long-lost heir threatened them? Hastings must have a guardian angel looking over his shoulder. A snarl built deep inside Hawk’s chest, fighting for release. He refused to give in to the luxury, the loss of control. Hastings might have escaped death at his hands twice, but it wouldn’t happen a third time. On this occasion, he had a plan—a foolproof strategy that would allow him to taunt Hastings before the final deathblow. Thank God he’d had the foresight to clear the tunnels leading beneath the castle. No more spur-of-the-moment attacks. Instead, he looked forward to weeks of enjoyable entertainment before the culmination of his scheming. The tension inside him eased at the notion.
“Order him to take an empty sack and collect seaweed. Once the sack is full, tell him to carry it up the path.” His words held enough bite to make the older man shuffle uneasily. Good. A little fear was a healthy commodity.
“Aye, Hawk.” Whiting doffed his hat, half turned away to carry out the instructions, then hesitated. “And if they question him?”
Hawk shrugged, his mind already busy with alternative plans to transport the cargo. “They won’t. If he carries the bag, his purpose will be self-evident.”
“Right you are.”
Whiting prowled toward the mouth of the cave with a minimum of noise. The best of a dim-witted lot. At least this group carried out orders without question. Hawk listened to the low hum of speech as Whiting relayed his message to the lookout.
A dull thud sounded from farther up the passage followed by a curse. Long strides took Hawk to the source of the noise. He surveyed the barrel on the cave floor. Brandy trickled from the cask, the fumes filling the air.
“Whiting will deduct that from your share. Do it again, and you’ll deal with me.” Hawk’s voice lashed out, leaving the man pale in the flickering light of the lantern. “Understood?”
The man cowered but met his gaze for a brief moment. “Aye.”
Hawk noticed the silence in the cave, and his gaze leaped to the rest of his workers. “Back to work. I want this cargo shifted by the end of the day. Move.”
A flurry of activity greeted his order as the men put their backs into the job at hand. When Hawk was satisfied the work was progressing, he stalked to the mouth of the cave, passing Whiting on the way.
“Watch the men. I want this finished today.”
“Today?”
“Today,” Hawk reiterated. “Supervise the men. I’ll keep watch on the cove. Go.”
“Aye,” Whiting bit out. “Sir.”
Hawk remained still until Whiting’s footsteps faded. But under the mask, his face tensed, eyes narrowed. Whiting’s attitude had changed over the last two months. He’d questioned orders. Damn, he didn’t have time for a power struggle. Not when everything he’d worked for looked as if it might be wrenched from his grasp, making all his plans for naught.
Hawk peered outside, along the shoreline. A man was leading a horse, followed by a woman. He’d recognize that brute of a horse anywhere. Hellfire and be damned.
Hastings.
His hand itched to reach for his gun. He could finish this now. And solve each of his problems in one fell swoop. One shot would do the trick. His hand moved without volition to caress the pistol on his hip. One shot at close range would end Hastings.
Except that would make things too easy. Hawk stilled, frustration making him frown. He wanted Hastings to suffer for all the wrongs he had inflicted, to know who killed him and why. Hawk wanted to see his enemy’s face as his life ebbed away so he could savor his victory.
He intended to dance on his enemy’s grave.
* * * * *
Rosalind followed the horse down the path, maintaining a wary, respectful distance. The black looked docile enough, the way it nuzzled at Hastings’s shoulder like a pet lamb, but she wasn’t taking any chances. After a nasty bite from a horse when she was a child, she preferred to keep safe from harm’s way. Walking on her own two feet or riding in a sturdy carriage rated as more sensible in her opinion. She’d leave the unpredictable four-legged creatures to her husband.
Her gaze fixed on Hastings as she fingered the bump on her head, wincing at the slight pain. Every time she recalled the intruder in her chamber, she came to Hastings. And each time, she discarded him as a suspect. She couldn’t explain why, but instinct told her he hadn’t been in her chamber. Gruff and irritable he might be, but she doubted he’d harm her. She sighed. Instead, he ignored her, which was a hundred times worse.
For a time, she’d suspected he’d forbid her to continue her walk. Rosalind sniffed, thinking his decree unnecessary. The castle itself presented a sight more danger than walking about the estate—what with all the strange noises and carryings on.
Her thoughts circled back to Hastings. Sometimes he seemed almost angry with her, other times terse to the point of rudeness. Then there were the odd visions that assailed her when she touched him.
A gust of wind whistled in from the sea, whipping back the hood of her cloak. Her hair toppled from the loose knot at the back of her head, long strands flying in front of her face, obscuring her view. She stumbled on a crumbly section of the path. A startled cry escaped as she fell.
The horse shied in alarm, jostling Hastings. He muttered an oath as he fought to calm the fractious animal. Rosalind’s head jerked up warily.
“Whoa, Oberon. Steady, boy.” Hastings smoothed his hand down his mount’s glossy neck, and the beast ceased his nervous fidgeting.
“Ouch.” She pushed up to a kneeling position. The small, sharp shells that littered the path had pierced her stockings and were digging into her flesh. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall in front of Hastings. Instead, she scrambled to her feet and brushed down her skirts. Screwing up her hands until her fingernails dug into her palms helped keep the tears at bay.
“What do you think you were doing?” Hastings snapped.
Rosalind bit back the words trembling at her lips, her anger burning away the threatening tears. Surely that was obvious? She wanted to walk on the beach, longed to taste the salt in the water and feel the sand running through her fingers. She intended to savor the new experience. “I—”
“You need a keeper.” The bite in his voice made the tears burn again. “Let me see.” He strode toward her, brushed aside her cloak and slid his hands under her woolen skirts before she could blink. The sensation of his bare hands caressing her calves made her freeze in shock. But the snort of the horse snapped Rosalind to her senses.
“I— Don’t do that
!”
“You’re bleeding.” His tone brooked no argument.
“Good morning, sir,” a masculine voice said.
The black horse shied for a second time. To her horror, Rosalind let out a muffled squeak. Hastings cursed, swept her up, hugging her close to his side, and turned to calm his mount.
“Sorry I frightened your horse, my lord.” The man edged past Oberon.
Rosalind’s sympathy stirred for the man’s predicament.
“You came from the cove?” Hastings demanded.
“Yes, my lord. Collecting seaweed. Grows good vegetables. Sell it, I do.” He swiped a hand over his forehead and glanced back down at the sea, a strange expression of almost desperation on his face as if he were afraid.
Rosalind followed his gaze to see what he was looking at. She saw nothing except the wide expanse of sand and sea. But the man seemed nervous. He shifted his sack from shoulder to shoulder, looking ill at ease.
The horse pawed at the ground and snorted, rolling his eyes. Oberon must be the cause of the man’s anxiety. She feared for her own safety while standing this close to the massive beast.
The man wiped his face again, leaving a grubby mark, and scurried off with a muffled farewell.
Hastings scowled after the departing man and turned to face Rosalind. “I’ll check your knee.”
Rosalind swallowed and backed up. The caress of his work-roughened hands sliding over her limbs lived with her still. The remembered sensation crouched at the forefront of her mind and recalling it made her hot and shivery all over. Work-roughened? Her brows drew together in a frown. He’d stated he had estate business this afternoon. A vision formed in her mind, and it had nothing to do with her sight and everything to do with her imagination. A robust man, naked to the waist, chopping wood…
Somehow, she doubted Hastings would appear skinny and frail under that shirt. His appearance would differ from the stable lad she’d surprised having a wash at the well. Heat flooded her face. Aghast at her thoughts she backed up farther still. Several times when she’d touched a man or woman by mistake, she’d seen risqué pictures in their minds. Now it was happening to her, and she wasn’t sure she was comfortable with all the conflicting emotions roiling through her mind. They made her restless and excited at the same time, her stomach churning with unexpected nerves.
The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen Page 4