The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen

by Shelley Munro

  “Ouch,” she muttered, rubbing her knee with one hand.

  “What the hell? Who’s there?” Hastings sounded belligerent and annoyed at the disruption.

  “Me,” Rosalind said in a small voice as a candle flared to life. At least he was here for a change. She scrambled to her feet, mortified to realize she’d pulled up her nightgown to rub her bare knee. What must he think of her?

  “What the devil are you doing in my room?” He sat up to lounge against the pillows, watching her with his dark eyes.

  Rosalind’s chin lifted on hearing his tone. “Someone was in my bedroom.”

  “A servant,” he said, holding up his left hand to inspect his fingernails.

  Her eyes narrowed at the nonverbal slap. “I’m not stupid.” The words tripped from her tongue before she could stop them. She stomped to the bed, and her hand snaked out to seize his arm. “Come with me,” she ordered. “I’ll show you.”

  The intimacy of the moment exploded on her conscience all at once. Warm, naked skin pulsed beneath her touch. She averted her gaze, positive every sinful notion racing through her head showed on her face and jerked her hand from his muscled arm before her gift shattered the intimate moment.

  “Would you like me to dress first?”

  Rosalind’s eyes shot to his chest. She had no idea how she’d missed the broad expanse of bare skin. Fascinated, her gaze wandered from the solid slab of muscle, up over the bulge of his biceps to his strong neck. Heat converged on her cheeks, but she was unwilling to halt her visual exploration.

  “Rosalind?”

  She met his gaze and quivered, helplessly trapped in the moment. She couldn’t, didn’t want to look away.

  Hastings swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Rosalind followed the movement. Long legs sprinkled with dark hairs… No clothes!

  “Still brave, Rosalind?”

  Her heart raced, and she felt like a child who’d run about playing in the garden until she collapsed in exhaustion. She studied the rise and fall of his chest. A sprinkling of dark hair ran across it and lower. Two dark nipples showed, yet he looked different from her—strong and rugged, despite the puckered scar on his upper shoulder. The urgent desire to touch him made her hand tingle. While she hovered, battling against need, he stood. The covers dropped away. And Rosalind saw her husband in his full glory.

  Her eyes bulged. Her pulse rate pumped in a rapid rhythm. Suddenly unsteady on her feet, she ran clammy hands down her nightgown to wipe them dry.

  A soft sound jerked her gaze northward. The amusement in Hastings’s eyes made her fidget and step from foot to foot. Part of her wanted to run and hide while the rest wanted to act with boldness and that made her blush again. Curiosity burned inside her as she picked up her candle and relit it with Hastings’s. She had many unanswered questions. Was his skin the same texture as hers?

  “Like what you see?” The instant the words left his mouth, Lucien wanted to curse. What the hell was he doing, taunting her like this? Taunting himself, his conscience prodded, because, like it or not, his body was reacting to her presence and basking in her innocence. Pretty soon she would notice, or at least wonder why his body parts were expanding.

  Lucien grabbed a pair of breeches and stepped into them.

  “I’ve nothing to compare you with, so I’m not sure.”

  “Nothing to…” The raspy crack of laughter astonished him as much as it did Rosalind if her gaping mouth was anything to judge by. He fastened the breeches, keeping his gaze on her face. Inquisitive yet brave, given the way he was guilty of barking at her on occasion. Why didn’t she give up on him? Swift on the heels of this came the realization he’d miss her attention.

  She peered at him, and he had to smother his amusement. Did she know he could see straight through the nightgown when she held her candle up? For a tiny thing, she was surprisingly well endowed. The stirring at his groin wrenched his thoughts to an abrupt halt.

  “Who was in your room?” A change of subject would aid both of them.

  “How should I know?” Her impatience was clear. “Are there secret passages leading from my chamber? It’s the only thing that makes sense. How else could a person enter my room without making the door creak?”

  Lucien stared, amusement bubbling to the surface yet again. That was the longest speech she’d uttered since their visit to the cove. The mouse had the courage of a lion.

  He bowed. “After you, my lady.”

  She swept from the room and stalked ahead of him, her candle lighting the way. Lucien grinned. If she stuck her nose much higher, she’d trip over her feet.

  The journey to Rosalind’s chamber took mere seconds. A crafty way of luring him into her bed? As Lucien pondered this his cock tightened. Then he visualized Francesca. “Damn,” he muttered, willing his body to obedience.

  As much as he loved his first wife and mourned her passing, he admired Rosalind for her bravery and generosity in helping the village people without complaint. She was the perfect mistress for St. Clare, according to Aunt Augusta. But thinking about her sexually made him disloyal.

  He stepped over the threshold and Rosalind lit another candle. He couldn’t help himself. She thrust the candle at him and directed his attention to the floor.

  “See,” she said.

  Lucien looked. A few grains of sand lay on the carpet. “The maid needs to do a better job cleaning your shoes.”

  “What?”

  Her shriek made him wince. Disappointment surged to the fore. It was a scheme to get him into her chamber. Lucien edged to the door. If he stayed, he might give in to temptation.

  Rosalind glared at the splotches of sand on the carpet. “There were footprints.” Her frown appeared frustrated as she glowered at him. “They’re gone now, but they were there. The footprints were not my imagination.”

  Lucien sensed she’d refuse to let him return to bed until they settled the matter to her satisfaction. “Where did they lead?”

  One cotton-clad shoulder lifted in a helpless shrug. “I’m not sure.”

  “What do you want me to do?” A trace of impatience escaped.

  “No one is listening. Mary is missing. She wouldn’t leave without telling me. We grew up together. She hasn’t run off with a lover. Since I arrived at Castle St. Clare, I’ve been shot at by hunters, pushed out of bed and been under scrutiny.”

  “When were you pushed out of bed?”

  “The morning after our marriage.”

  “You thought I did it? No, don’t deny it. It’s clear from your face.”

  “Well, who else would do it?”

  The scar on his cheek pulled in reaction.

  “Don’t act so affronted,” Rosalind snapped. “What else was I meant to think when you kept wanting me to cry off?”

  “That was—” Lucien halted.

  “Yes?”

  “Different. I didn’t push you from your bed.” Lucien gave the walls of her chamber a fresh assessment. “So you suspect there’s a secret passage?”

  “I’ve looked several times but can’t see anything unusual. There’s no other explanation. Do you remember playing in hidden passages when you were a child?”

  Lucien’s head snapped up to stare at her. “I’ve made it clear my memory of the past is nil. How would I know if there are passages?”

  Frustration churned his gut, nagging like a painful boil. Fragments teased him, but they disappeared like mist, leaving him angry and discouraged. He still doubted he was the long-lost heir, Hastings. Nothing so far proved or disproved the notion. No, he belonged in Italy on the Bacci estate.

  “There are no passages, no plot to murder you or your maid. If that’s all, I’m returning to my chamber.”

  “Wait.” Rosalind lurched at him, grasping his arm, so he came to a halt. Pain etched into her face. “Don’t go.”

  Startled, Lucien waited. Her hand tightened on his forearm, her warmth shooting up his arm and galloping to his groin. He smothered a groan. The speed of his physical
reaction astonished him. Francesca remained in his thoughts. Constantly. And he continued with his determined search for her killer. But he thought about Rosalind too. His scar pulled so he knew he was frowning.

  She was the type of person who touched others often. It wasn’t a familiar action, more an offer of comfort. The strange thing was the way her touch warmed him and calmed his ruffled thoughts.

  “There’s no one in the room apart from us,” he said. “Why don’t I summon a maid to keep you company? I must travel to Dover on business tomorrow. It’s a long journey. I need to sleep even if you don’t.”

  Rosalind fought the need to shake him. His need for sleep was an excuse for him to leave. Even if she hadn’t read his thoughts, she’d have guessed by the way he raked his hand through his hair. There! He’d done it again. Her husband was uncomfortable in her presence, and it showed.

  She grimaced at her bare feet. The warmth from his skin worked its way up her arm, followed by a tingling sensation. A picture formed in her mind. Not that woman again! Fighting her was like battling a ghost. Impossible. And she’d had enough. But before she ripped her hand off his arm, the picture formed. A man?

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Hastings’s fingers smoothed her arm, and he patted her awkwardly. Like one would pat a child on the head.

  “Nothing is wrong,” Rosalind said. “Don’t you have an early start tomorrow morning?”

  “Of course.”

  Hastings strode to the door but glanced over his shoulder once, his brows drawn together in a baffled expression. Rosalind bit back a snort. And he thought he was confused. He should try living in her shoes for a few days, with other people’s thoughts and memories swirling about his brain. Then he’d understand the meaning of confusion.

  “Good night,” she said.

  The door clicked as he closed it, leaving her alone.

  Hawk.

  Intense curiosity burned inside, and she wished Mary were here so they could discuss the matter. To think she’d come so close to seeing the man when she’d overheard him in the garden. This wasn’t the first time the name Hawk had appeared to her in a vision. Just this morning, when she was treating the stable boy’s cough, she’d read the lad’s mind and seen a faceless character. The mystery man terrified the stable boy.

  Rosalind paced the length of her chamber, concentrating on the two different visions. It was curious that neither was clear. She paused by the walnut dresser.

  The solution was obvious. She needed to investigate Hawk herself and discover the man’s identity.

  10 – Disaster In The Kitchen And A Clue

  Early in the morning two days later, and Rosalind was alone again. She sighed before turning her attention to the chafing dish of eggs on the side table.

  “Gloomy pile of rocks.” Staying inside the castle all day brought on the urge to scream, loud and long, until everyone knew of her displeasure. With Mary still missing, she decided to walk to the village and question the seamstress.

  The butler entered the room and hovered inside the doorway. After a pause, he coughed.

  “Did you want something, Tickell?”

  “I do not wish to disturb you, my lady, but there is a boy from the village at the kitchen door. He refuses to leave until he sees you.” It was clear the boy’s impudence offended Tickell.

  Rosalind pushed her plate away, unable to eat while her mind was full of worry about Mary. Perhaps the boy had news. “I will see him.”

  “In here?” Tickell’s voice rose in horror.

  Rosalind assumed the boy was a dirty urchin with light fingers. Either that or the threat of Lady Augusta’s disapproval struck healthy fear in the butler. “I’ll come to the kitchen. Let me finish breaking my fast first.”

  “You will come to the kitchens?” Tickell sounded even more critical of this decision.

  “Give the boy something to eat while he’s waiting.” She picked up her bowl of chocolate, giving Tickell no further opportunity to object. She grinned as the pause between his speaking and moving to carry out her instructions lengthened. Finally, he sniffed and departed in plodding steps.

  Ten minutes after Tickell’s footfalls faded, she pushed her bowl aside and, after two wrong turnings, reached the kitchen out of breath.

  The cook, a thin woman with bright red cheeks and wisps of brown hair escaping from beneath her cap, looked up from her pastry. “Oh, my lady! Are ye lost?”

  “No, I’ve come to see the village boy. Tickell said he was waiting to speak with me.” Rosalind searched the smoky room, but the only child visible was the one stacking logs beside the hearth. He tossed a log on the blazing fire, the vigorous flames sending off sweltering waves of heat. An older boy was turning a spit bearing a large joint of beef. A chubby maid measured ingredients into a large bowl.

  Tickell stalked from the butlers’ pantry to direct orders at another maid plucking a chicken. When silence fell in the kitchen, he turned. “Lady Hastings, there you are.” His vexation showed in his straight shoulders and compressed mouth.

  Rosalind smothered a smile. “Where is the boy?”

  “Outside.” A pained inflection filled his voice this time as he glanced at the door leading to the kitchen garden.

  Rosalind betrayed none of her annoyance. “Has he eaten?”

  Tickell allowed a slight sniff. “Yes, my lady.”

  “Very well. I would like a pot of chocolate and two cups, please.” Rosalind noted three stools in the far corner near the door. “We will have our chocolate over there.” She swept past Tickell and across the uneven flagstone floor to summon the child.

  Outside, a grubby boy scrambled to his feet. His nut-brown eyes widened until they resembled the round buttons on her best cloak. As she studied him, he gulped but stood his ground.

  She smiled. “Good day. I understand you wish to speak with me on a matter of grave importance.”

  The child swallowed again.

  “Come inside. I have sore need of a cup of chocolate. I expect you’d like one too.” Rosalind made her way back into the kitchen, past the disapproving Tickell and the gaping cook. The hesitant footsteps behind told her the child followed as instructed.

  “Sit,” Rosalind said to the boy, promptly following her own instruction. “Ah, here is the chocolate now.” She smiled encouragement at the young maid. A footman arrived with a small wooden table and the maid set down the tray with the chocolate pot, cups and a plate of jam tarts.

  “What’s your name?” Rosalind asked once the maid left them alone. She poured the chocolate into the two cups and, after sharp words from Tickell, the kitchen routine resumed. She added a spoonful of honey to sweeten the chocolate and handed the cup to the boy before placing two tarts on a plate and passing it to the child as well.

  “Billy.”

  “Well, Billy, how can I help you?”

  The boy’s hand trembled. To give him time to gather his courage, Rosalind picked up her cup and took a sip.

  “’Tis my brother,” the boy mumbled. He chose a jam tart and took a cautious bite.

  “Is something wrong with your brother? Is he sick?”

  Billy nodded while stuffing the rest of the jam tart in his mouth. He coughed.

  Rosalind hid her smile. “Take a drink before you tell me more.”

  A slurp sounded as Billy did as she suggested. Then he placed his cup down and leaned toward her. “Bin shot,” the boy whispered.

  Rosalind’s mouth formed an O of concern.

  “In the leg. He can’t work at his job in stables. Ma cries. I heard how you be a healer.” Billy looked at her with childish hope. “Will you come?”

  Shot. Rosalind glanced over her shoulder to see if any of the servants were listening. Satisfied none were close enough to eavesdrop, she whispered, “Who shot your brother?”

  “Excise men chasing the smugglers.”

  “Smugglers!” Rosalind slapped a hand over her mouth. Another glance reassured her no one had overheard. “Your brother is involved
with the smugglers?”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  Hawk. “I’ll come and see your brother. Finish your chocolate while I collect my bag of medicines.” Rosalind stood. “Wait for me here.” It would offer the perfect opportunity to ask questions about Mary’s disappearance and the mystery man, Hawk.

  A loud grinding rumble sounded without warning. The ground shook beneath her feet. Billy jumped up, his eyes huge in a terrified face. A scream from the cook echoed through the kitchen. The rumbling increased. Copper pots and stoneware thumped to the ground. Iron pans clattered across the floor before rattling to a noisy halt on the flagstones. The stack of logs by the fire toppled over.

  “Lord save us!” a maid screeched.

  Another maid prayed loudly. A footman tripped over a log and cursed.

  Tickell shouted for quiet. His hand lashed out, striking the nearest maid across the face. Her piercing screech subsided into noisy weeping.

  Rosalind grabbed Billy’s upper arm. “Run outside. Wait in the garden and don’t come back.”

  Billy stood but hesitated. Impatient, Rosalind shoved him in the middle of the back. “Hurry, Billy.”

  The floor shook again, and the flagstones lifted like a pot of bubbling stew. The beef roasting on the spit toppled into the fire. The meat hissed. A shower of hot embers shot onto the hearth.

  Dust and smoke filled the air, obscuring vision, making her eyes water. Another piercing scream rent the air. Rosalind watched a maid disappear. Her scream echoed for a long time after she vanished through a hole in the floor.

  “Tickell!” Rosalind grabbed a sturdy table and inched toward the butler. “What’s happening?”

  The floor shifted, sending Tickell lurching. An iron hook tumbled from the table where a maid had left it, striking him on the head. Blood gushed from his temple. At Rosalind’s shout, he glanced up, his face full of dazed confusion.