“Careful! You’ll slide over the edge.” Hastings reached over and with one effortless move heaved her to safety. “If you’re sure you’re uninjured, we should carry on.” He jerked his head in the direction of the sun. “The noon hour approaches.”
Rosalind scanned his determined face and nodded. “I’m fine,” she said, even though it was a lie. Her heart beat in a frantic tattoo, and she couldn’t get the wretched picture of him out of her mind. The half-naked him…with the sheen of sweat coating his muscles.
Before he could remonstrate further, Rosalind plunged down the path at breakneck speed, trying to outdistance her turbulent thoughts. Aunt Elizabeth would be mortified if she could read her thoughts or see her unladylike flight. Not that the situation pleased Rosalind herself. It was difficult enough facing her husband without her mind conjuring visions of him naked.
4 – On The Beach With Lucien
Lucien shook his head, befuddled by the woman’s behavior. She’d looked at him like…like… He shuddered, a lick of answering heat searing him before he thrust it aside.
That was the way Francesca used to study him as if she wanted to eat him for her next meal.
He glowered at her rapidly departing figure. “A trick of the light.”
This jump of heat and awareness was his body’s reaction to her proximity. Any woman would have caused the same sensation. After all, he hadn’t had a woman since Francesca. He hadn’t wanted one.
Touching the woman had been a mistake. A big mistake, but she’d hurt herself, so he excused his slip from grace.
Lucien tugged Oberon down the last steep portion of the path before it flattened to sandy beach. With childlike glee, the woman tugged off her gloves and bent to pick up handfuls of sand. The sand slid through her fingers, small, shiny fragments catching the sun as they fell. A laugh of pure joy drifted on the breeze. How long had it been since he’d laughed in a carefree way? The answer jumped to mind immediately.
Ten months to the day.
He hadn’t laughed since Francesca’s murder. Anguish clogged his throat. His resolve hardened. Enough. Time to focus on the task at hand. Find Francesca’s murderer, bring him to justice, then make the trip back to Naples.
Once revenge was his, he’d return home.
The woman darted forward and scooped up a glistening white shell. A few seconds later, she changed direction and pounced on another one. She splashed into the sea, heedless of the water wetting her boots, to wash her treasures. Holding them up to the light, she studied them carefully and slid them into the depths of her voluminous cloak, then darted off again.
Lucien sighed and followed, leading Oberon behind him. Without warning, he sensed someone watching them. He glanced at the woman, but her attention was on a pile of flotsam washed up by the tide. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the top of the cliff where the path ran. Nothing. Yet his gut screamed at him to tread cautiously. He studied the beach but could discern nothing out of place. Still, the hairs at the back of his neck prickled. He slowed, having learned to trust his instincts.
Up ahead on the expanse of sand exposed by the retreating tide, he saw footprints. More footprints than one man would have made while collecting seaweed.
Oberon snorted, sensing his watchful concern. Lucien frowned while splitting his attention between the woman and the rest of the cove. The nagging apprehension that refused to leave bloomed into a concrete thought. He’d watched smugglers landing their prize last night at high tide. At the time, the sea had covered most of the sand, yet this morning several sets of footprints were discernible. It looked as though they led to the network of caves he’d discovered at the far end of the cove. Which meant this area was not a safe place for the woman to walk alone. Even one of the burly footmen Lady Augusta employed would be little deterrent against a smuggler’s gang intent on mischief. Although he hadn’t heard rumors that this group was prone to violence, the excisemen ran an ongoing bloody battle with smuggling gangs farther down the East Sussex coast.
The woman meandered up the beach, and Lucien made a clicking sound to Oberon to hurry his mount. It was best if he kept a close eye on her. Hopefully, she’d soon tire of wet boots and sand clinging to her fair skin.
The length of the cove later, she was still skipping along, pouncing on each new pile of washed-up debris with childish delight. A grudging smile tugged his lips, only dying when he had to follow her back to the other end of the cove. Shaking his head with rising impatience, he strode forward. “It’s time to go.”
At the same time, the woman turned to him. Grimness etched into her features, and her mouth pursed tight in annoyance. “Look what I’ve found.” She thrust a scruffy black ball at him. “Look!”
Before he could offer an opinion or even discover what had raised her ire, she clutched the mass of black to her chest.
“What is it?”
Her mouth smoothed out, like a flower blossoming, and turned up into a ravishing smile of delight. Lucien blinked at the suddenness of her mood change.
“It’s alive. I’m taking it home.” Her blue eyes deepened in color about the same time her dainty chin tilted upward in the small act of stubbornness he was coming to recognize. Some sort of creature, he deduced, but he had no idea of its identity since she clutched it to her bosom.
“What is alive?” Annoyance simmered through him. Did she think he was an unthinking monster? Then he answered the question himself. Of course she did.
Only monsters looked like him.
“It’s a cat. A kitten. We should return to the castle. I need my herbal remedies.” That chin of hers was still pointing upward in determined defiance, imperious despite her small stature.
Lucien sighed, more than ready to leave the cove and not about to offer an argument to the contrary. He bent from the waist in a stiff bow. “After you, my lady.”
The surprise that flickered across her face almost made him smile. Perhaps he was learning how to manage the woman. A rusty-sounding chuckle escaped him. He sobered immediately, arching one brow in silent inquiry when she remained rooted to the spot, gaping at him.
“Do you want to walk up the path in front of Oberon?” Lucien had noticed her reticence with his mount. Despite her liking for the kitten, she wasn’t a lover of horseflesh.
“Thank you.” The words were stiff and a little ungracious as she swept past with her nose in the air.
Lucien grinned, the action foreign and awkward. The woman looked as prickly as the hedgehog he’d surprised during his midnight rambling last night. And he’d discovered something. To make sure she kept her distance, all he needed was Oberon at his side.
The walk back to Castle St. Clare took half the time the outward journey had. The woman marched up the path in front of him, clutching the kitten and not attempting a word of chatter. She crooned to the creature but, apart from that, they undertook the journey in silence. In the outer courtyard, they parted ways. Lucien led Oberon to the stables, and the woman disappeared inside the castle.
Lucien paused. She hadn’t cast him a second glance. Not one. Oberon nudged him in the back and, with an impatient snort, sent him lurching forward.
“All right.” Lucien pushed the woman to the back of his mind and smoothed a hand over his mount’s withers. The woman was of no importance anyway.
Tickell, the St. Clare butler, opened the heavy oak door a second before Rosalind grasped the head of the brass lion knocker. She smiled her thanks and rushed past, eager to get to her chamber.
“Where have you been?”
The stern feminine screech echoed through the Great Hall and stopped Rosalind dead. A log resettled in the grate, sending a shower of sparks sailing upward into the chimney. She used the brief distraction to inhale before turning to face Lady Augusta. One glimpse of Lady Augusta’s pinched face told her she was in for a tongue-lashing, no matter what excuse she offered.
Forcing her mouth to curve into a polite smile, she said, “I’ve been for a walk, my lady.”
La
dy Augusta stared down her long nose, her gaze imperious. “A walk? I expected you here.” The elderly woman swished her fan through the air in a manner that made Rosalind’s knuckles tingle. “A household this size does not run by itself.”
Nothing like starting off wrong-footed. She hadn’t realized Lady Augusta wanted to oversee her in the household duties. That wasn’t the impression the elderly woman had given yesterday. Rosalind sighed and wondered how to proceed. She’d have to apologize. The kitten stirred in her hands and let out a weak mew. “I’m sorry—”
“What have you there?” Lady Augusta thrust her face closer and let out a hiss. “A cat! It looks diseased. Remove the creature at once. I won’t have it in my castle. Filthy beast.”
A nervous tremor raced down Rosalind’s body, but instinct told her if she let Lady Augusta win this round, she was doomed. Determined to hold fast, she straightened and prepared for battle. The kitten depended on her.
The wooden door at their backs burst open. A flurry of breeze stirred the tapestries on the far wall before Tickell closed the door after Hastings. The fire hissed with renewed life, sending up a sullen plume of smoke.
“Aunt.” He inclined his head in a respectful nod.
“Tell her to remove that vermin from my castle,” Lady Augusta demanded, her voice high and querulous. “It’s unlucky to have a black cat indoors. Witch’s beast!” she ended with a hiss.
Rosalind backed up at the vehement tone but kept her gaze on Lady Augusta. The elderly woman quivered with anger, the ribbons on her bonnet rattling and echoing the sentiment.
“Take the cat to your room and keep it there,” Hastings said without focusing on her.
Lady Augusta swelled with indignation. “But—”
“Go, Rosalind.”
She hurried off before Lady Augusta changed Hastings’s mind. But she couldn’t resist a quick peek over her shoulder before she left. Hastings was watching her. A strange warmth grew inside her as she ducked through the door and out of his sight.
He’d called her by her given name.
Perhaps there was hope for the future.
Rosalind dashed down the same dimly lit passageway she’d walked this morning. A smile flitted across her mouth as she skipped to the end of the corridor. Not only had Hastings called her by name, but he’d taken her side against Lady Augusta. She stroked a finger across the kitten’s head, and her smile widened. Both things were hopeful signs.
At a second fork in the corridor, she hesitated before walking left. More portraits of long-forgotten ancestors filled the walls, interspaced with alcoves holding marble busts. Slowing her steps, she turned a circle. None of the pictures appeared familiar. Had she walked this way this morning? When she looked back in the direction she had come from, she noted footprints on the floor. Hers. She turned again and frowned. This wasn’t the way she’d walked this morning.
“Bother.” She’d have to turn back and try the other way. Castle St. Clare, she was learning, comprised a multitude of rooms. Some belonged to centuries earlier while others, such as the ones the family used for entertaining guests, were recent additions. Navigation of the place reminded her of exploring a maze.
Rosalind turned left again and entered a cavern-like room with a soaring ceiling. Wicked knives decorated the walls while a ray of light from an arrow slit highlighted a display of tarnished shields.
Another room she didn’t recognize. She studied a rusty set of armor. A battle-ax hung on the wall alongside the armor.
When the kitten stirred, Rosalind stepped toward the open door at the far end of the room. From a second arrow slit, she glimpsed the sea. The grayish-blue water stretched to the horizon. In that moment, she decided to find the entrance to one of the towers. The climb to the top would yield a magnificent view.
She stared out another arrow slit. The steady drip-drip of water sounded continuously, and a blast of cold air made her shiver. The kitten quivered in her arms, reminding Rosalind of the need to hurry. She spun and headed to the door at the far end of the armory room. A whooshing followed by a loud thump made her start, a small cry of surprise escaping. The battle-ax now lay on the floor, right where she had stood but a few minutes ago.
Swallowing hastily to force her heart back to its rightful place, she stared up at the spot on the wall where the ax had hung. The wooden hook tilted at a drunken angle. A shudder swept down her body as she realized how close she’d come to injury.
The same ill-at-ease sensation—as if someone was spying on her—made the area between her shoulder blades itch. Rosalind whirled, her gaze searching the room. Nothing seemed out of place. Her nervous laugh echoed back to her. Imagination. No doubt the hook was old and perhaps unstable. It was merely bad luck.
Shaking off her trepidation as nonsense, Rosalind increased her pace and burst into another unfamiliar passage, her shoes clattering on the stone floor.
A lone sconce lit the way, creating unwelcoming shadows and dark corners. Rosalind drew in a lungful of the musty air. The uneasiness persisted. Gooseflesh sprang up on her arms and legs. She glanced over her shoulder again and moved faster. Anxiety of the like she’d never experienced before threatened to overwhelm her. Almost running now, she plowed into an obstacle.
A scream tore from her throat when she realized another person was clutching her arms. “Let me go!”
“Rosalind.” The insistent voice pierced her panic, cutting through her whimper of fear. “Lady Hastings!” This time a shake accompanied her name.
Her eyes focused on the man standing in front of her. She smelled his shaving soap and the faint tang of the sea on his clothes along with smoke from a recently smoked pipe. “Mr. Soulden.”
Charles Soulden’s hands dropped to his sides. Concern shimmered in his blue eyes as he stepped away. “Lady Hastings. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I…I wasn’t expecting anyone and wasn’t looking where I was going,” she murmured, embarrassment heating her cheeks. “It is I who must apologize.”
Charles Soulden sketched a bow and smiled with boyish charm. “No harm done.” He stepped past Rosalind as if to leave.
“Wait!” Rosalind had no idea where she was. He couldn’t leave her here. Lost. Not that she wanted to admit that the floor plan of the castle disoriented her.
His blond brows rose toward his wig. “May I help you?”
Rosalind glanced down at the kitten in her hands. “Ah…which way…?”
A grin twitched at the corners of his mouth. “It takes time to learn how to navigate the castle.”
In his cream breeches and jacket, he brought to mind a golden angel. All that was missing was a pair of wings.
“I’m not lost,” Rosalind snapped, irritated at noticing his good looks when she was a married woman.
“No, of course not. Walk to the end of this passage and turn left. You should find yourself at the end of the Long Gallery near the chapel.”
“Thank you.” Shame tempered the irritation lacing her voice. He was being helpful; he couldn’t help his good looks any more than Hastings was to blame for the scar running the length of his face. “I can find my way from there.”
His grin widened as if he saw straight through her. “What’s that you have there?”
“A kitten.”
His eyes twinkled mischievously. “Does Lady Augusta know?”
“Yes,” Rosalind said, her tone indicating she didn’t wish to discuss the matter. The kitten squirmed, making guilt ripple through her. She’d dallied long enough. “I must go. Good day.”
“Good day, Lady Hastings.”
Rosalind hurried down the passage, following Mr. Soulden’s directions. Five minutes later she burst into her chamber more than a little puffed.
Mary thrust aside her darning and leaped up at the suddenness of her appearance, her freckled face paling. “My lady?”
“Where’s my healing bag, Mary?”
“What do you have there?”
“A kitten. The poor thing was
half-drowned when I found it. I suspect it came from a ship, and it either fell or someone tossed the kitten into the sea. My bag, Mary.”
Mary bustled away and returned with Rosalind’s pouch of herbs and ointments. “How could it survive, falling in the water that way?” She drew closer then jerked back in alarm when Rosalind pulled back her cloak. “It be black!”
Rosalind scowled at her maid. “This is not a witch’s cat.”
“Hmm.” Mary pursed her lips, looked as if she might add another comment but desisted on seeing Rosalind’s glare.
“I need a hot brick to make a warm bed for the kitten.” Rosalind turned her attention to the little creature. Still damp and bedraggled, it shivered and looked downright pitiful. Huge hazel eyes gazed at her for an instant before sliding shut. The kitten gave another convulsive shudder, and Rosalind leaped into action.
She rubbed the kitten with a soft linen towel, then she checked him for injuries. Although skinny and in need of food, there were no apparent wounds. Mary returned with a hastily assembled bed, and Rosalind was about to place the kitten inside when his paws snared her attention—his toes, to be more precise. She whipped a cover over the kitten, so only his head was visible.
“That cat is black,” Mary stated, with a toss of her head.
Rosalind frowned at the top of the kitten’s head. And he had too many toes. Thank goodness Mary hadn’t noticed.
A loud thump on the chamber door startled them both. For an instant, they stared at each other, silent messages passing back and forth while they decided how to proceed. The kitten had made Rosalind forget her troubles, albeit for a short time. A second insistent thump had Mary scurrying to answer. She jerked the door open and stepped back. Rosalind froze.
Hastings.
Rosalind settled her attention back on the kitten, stroking it with the cover she had thrown over it. “Lord Hastings? May I help you with something?”
The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen Page 5