The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen

by Shelley Munro

  Oberon.

  Of all the stalls, she’d picked the one belonging to Hastings’s black devil horse.

  “Whoa, boy,” she whispered, her knees trembling as she squashed against the wooden wall of the stall. To her relief, the horse went back to his bucket of oats.

  “And ’bout the other matter?”

  “Hastings?”

  Rosalind froze like a pond in winter. Hastings?

  “I hear he’s returned.”

  “Aye. Hawk had me set someone to follow him, but they lost him on the way to Dover. I’ve no idea where he went or what he did while he was gone. Hawk will have my hide for this.”

  “’Ere now. Right interesting that. What if ’e were the one organizing the tunneling under the kitchens. Did Hawk think of that?”

  Questions sprang to her lips, questions she wanted to demand of the two men. Was Hastings responsible for the tunnels? Was it possible?

  “Hastings is the treasure hunter, you mean?”

  “Could well be. Why don’t you mention the possibility to Hawk? Might ease his anger.”

  To Rosalind’s frustration, it sounded as though the two men had stopped right outside Oberon’s stall. It was impossible for her to open the door, even a fraction. If the men were linked to Hawk, they were dangerous.

  “Watch out. Someone’s coming. Damn, it’s Hastings come to see to his ’orse. Big black brute. You’d better leave before ’e sees you and asks questions.”

  Hastings! Rosalind swallowed a groan. He’d be heading straight to Oberon’s stall, and he’d find her cowering inside. Then he’d expect explanations. Before she was anywhere near prepared, footsteps sounded right outside. Oberon fidgeted, tossing his head. Rosalind tried to melt into the wall, her heart drumming while she eyed the beast.

  “Good afternoon, my lord.”

  When Hastings stepped into the stall and saw her, the other man would know she’d eavesdropped on his conversation.

  “Will you be taking your ’orse out? Do you want me to summon a stable lad to saddle up for you?”

  “No, I’ll do it,” Hastings said. “The lads are helping up in the castle.”

  “I can do it for you. I was going to ’ead up to the castle.” Rosalind sensed the man’s hesitation.

  “You go ahead.”

  “Right you are, my lord.”

  Rosalind screwed up her face as she heard Hastings whistle to Oberon through the door. The black whickered in return. What was she going to say? She imagined Hastings standing on the other side of the door. Excitement shot through her veins, despite her predicament.

  The hinge creaked when the door opened. Rosalind watched with a combination of trepidation and anticipation. The gap widened to reveal Hastings’s shiny black boots, his mud-splattered stockings, and breeches. Her eyes rose to his gray shirt and black jacket. Her mouth dried, her pulse pounding with expectancy, excitement. She swallowed and lifted her gaze to loose black hair and his…mouth. Finally, she met his astonished eyes.

  Speak. Quick before he asks what you are doing here. Distract. Attack. Something. Anything.

  “You’re back,” she cried and planted a kiss on his beguiling 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 into 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, 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 enjoyment. And that, decided Rosalind, was a good thing.

  “I’ve only been gone for a week,” Hastings said.

  Rosalind half expected him to thrust her away and demand to know what she was doing with his horse. But he didn’t. A perplexed furrow appeared between his eyes. She fought to maintain an agreeable expression as her gaze drifted back to his lips. This kissing business was disappointing. Somehow, she’d expected something more.

  “Did I do something wrong when I kissed you?” Rosalind screwed up her nose, searching his face for enlightenment.

  If anything, he seemed more confounded.

  “Do I need more practice? Perhaps if I try again I can do better.” She leaned toward her husband, her lips pursed. A child that looked like Hastings would please her very much.

  Hastings’s hands shot out to grab her forearms. “What are you doing? This talk of 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 Mansfield to teach me?” Lucien stared at his wife in disbelief. She wanted to practice. His chest tightened inside as though someone had bound him with stout ropes. The idea of her kissing another man made a muscle near his scar twitch. “Keep away from Charles and Mansfield. You’re married to me.”

  “But you don’t kiss me. You’re not a husband.” Her blue eyes narrowed and, in that instant, she reminded him of Francesca again. Stubborn and determined. Focused.

  Lucien hauled the English mouse close and planted his lips on hers, reacting to the provocation before he’d talked himself out of it.

  She stood on tiptoes, straining to meet him halfway. 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 flower flowed over him. Her hands burrowed inside his jacket and around his waist, and she relaxed until her body imprinted against him. Danger, his mind shouted, but his body had other ideas.

  Lucien groaned at her innocent contact with his lower body. Without volition, his tongue traced along the soft fullness of her bottom lip. She gasped, and his tongue slipped inside to taste oranges and cloves. Her hands glided up his chest, past his thundering heart to twine around his neck. The touch of warm, feminine hands reminded him he’d intended to kiss her once. Chastely. Drawing deep for strength, he pulled away for his sanity.

  Damn the mouse and the way she wriggled beneath his skin and made him feel alive. He’d spent the time away from her wondering. And worrying. She still insisted someone was stalking her and intended her harm. With all that had happened, he was starting to give credence to her conclusions. The whispers during his visit to Dover confirmed the danger shadowing 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 offered to three of his regulars to scare the lady of St. Clare. Lucien had taken that to mean Rosalind. After further questioning, he’d learned the men had failed to reappear. Lucien wondered if they were the hunters who’d shot at Rosalind and her maid. They could still be in the area, which meant Rosalind must stay at the castle for her safety.

  He studied the petite lady he’d married. She wasn’t the spoiled aloof woman he’d assumed on their first 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 smoothing one hand over her tangled curls. “There, I’ve kissed you. Tell me why you’re in Oberon’s stall.”

  “I…I was looking for my kitten.”

  The high color on her cheeks told him she lied. “Come, Rosalind. You can do better than that. The truth now.”

  “I was eavesdropping,” she acknowledged without a trace of guilt.

  Lucien didn’t like her confession. Hawk had ears everywhere, many of them willing to slit a throat for a few measly gold coins. The men he’d learned about in Dover could be Hawk’s allies. He wished she’d listen to reason. He’d hate to have another woman’s death on his conscience. “Why?”

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was looking for you. I wanted to know if you’d returned home.”

  “Why?”

  She smiled. “It’s lon
ely without you.”

  Every instinct inside Lucien leaped to attention. He scrutinized her face, sensing an untruth again. He had spent little time with her. 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.”

  The image unfurled a grin, and the attached emotion irritated him. He meant to keep this woman at a distance, but somehow she crept 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. Maybe Mary is trapped in one, which is why she hasn’t returned.”

  Lucien grabbed her shoulders and shook her lightly. “Tell me you’re not searching for more.”

  “I have to find Mary. She wouldn’t run off. Besides, someone is using a passage to gain access to my chamber.” Her chin jutted up in a gesture Lucien was all too familiar with. “Do you think the locals are right and treasure is buried beneath the North Tower? Or perhaps the part that’s covered with ivy contains hidden riches.”

  There was no point forbidding her to search. If he’d learned anything during their short marriage, it was of her unwavering determination, but he had a duty to keep her protected.

  “You stay away from the North Tower. It’s dangerous.” Lucien took her arm and hustled her from the stall. “Tell me what you’ve been doing while I’ve been in Dover.” Immediate tension froze her face. He caught a fleeting expression of guilt. “Have you visited the village?” he asked in a low growl.

  Rosalind avoided his gaze and studied her feet. “I was searching for Mary.”

  She hadn’t taken an escort. Her guilty face told him the truth.

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

  Her head shot up. Blue eyes flashed with a hint of temper, and it intrigued him. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me.”

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

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

  “The castle isn’t safe either,” she pointed out. “Mary’s still missing. Servants have died.”

  The chit was blaming him! “I know people have 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 assume he was doing? Going to a social gathering with the neighbors? “I’ll take care of everything.”

  “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 offered 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 stable yard and under the castle portcullis. He clasped her hand in a firm grasp, giving Rosalind little option but to walk 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. “It’s different.”

  “Humph!” Her mouth flattened, and her face turned an alarming shade of red.

  That line of argument had never worked with Francesca either. “You have something to say?”

  “No,” she snapped. “Nothing you’d want to hear, stubborn lout,” she added.

  He suppressed amusement at the insult. Danger. Now there was the rub. Rosalind knew nothing but the tip of the rotten stench enclosing both St. Clare castle and village. And he wasn’t about to share the horrors with her. Bad enough for him to suffer the consequences. “Tell me of the progress in the kitchens. I understand you ordered work to begin on new kitchens.”

  “The old one was disgraceful,” Rosalind said. “It’s no wonder the food served is inedible.”

  Lucien noticed the firming of her chin, the narrowing of her eyes and the unswerving resolve. The devil made him prod. “Lady Augusta tells me your plans are a shocking waste of money. Money the St. Clare family can ill afford.”

  “Perhaps I know the location of the treasure.”

  A fleeting memory flashed through his mind. Lucien came to an abrupt halt, trying not to concentrate too hard or force the memory. Children. A cave…then nothing. His curse rang through the air, heartfelt and colorful.

  “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. Frustration and self-preservation made him refuse to discuss his lost memories. People treated him differently when they realized, looking for signs of madness with each furtive glance.

  “Is it the treasure?”

  Lucien’s head whipped about to stare at her in consternation. 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 spun by Charles’s father before he died. He was a gifted storyteller. He made it all sound so exciting. He…” Lucien trailed off with astonishment. The memories had arrived without prompting. He’d just known instead of having to forcibly drag them from the fog inside his head. He 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 force the memories that haunt you. You’ll make your head hurt. Tell me more about the tales your uncle told.”

  “I don’t remember.” Disappointment beat at him. Damn it! Why couldn’t he remember the important things? Childhood memories were a waste of time.

  They entered the Great Hall. Muffled thumping echoed through the castle, a reminder of the needless deaths of the servants.

  “Have you tried to discover where the passage goes?”

  Lucien turned to study his wife. Her face held an innocent inquiry, yet she’d voiced the very thing he’d mused over. “You will not search for treasure,” he stated.

  “I’ve already started. I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open while I search for Mary.”

  Lucien bit his tongue when he wanted to shake sense into the woman. No matter how many times he issued orders, she went her own pigheaded way. “Do you want me to lock you in your room?”

  “At the risk of repeating myself, I’ve been shot at and thumped over the head. And it was only luck that saved me from falling through the kitchen floor.”

  “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 refuse to obey my instructions to take a footman with you, you leave me with no alternative.”

  Her wounded expression 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 of the attack on him and Francesca. Not noteworthy until the captain 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 a seaman who’d sailed with the Gallant on a previous voyage. Bitter at his unfair dismissal, the man had grasped the opportunity to earn coins and gain revenge. He’d heard the men discuss a man ca
lled Hawk and how he was paying them handsomely.

  Yes, it was only a matter of time, and he’d have Hawk. Along with explanations unclear to him right now—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 in your chamber.”

  “I understood your words. It was the meaning I didn’t fathom.”

  “You’re in danger too. The villagers are talking.”

  “There’s no point arguing. Come, Lady Augusta waits for you in the Chinese Drawing Room.” He didn’t have time for this.

  Rosalind wanted to screech in a tantrum of Miranda proportions. He refused to acknowledge the danger to himself while he ordered her about like a servant. Who’d watch his back? There’d be no dark-haired sons or daughters for her if her husband died.

  A resolute determination crept to the surface, undaunted by Hastings’s threats. There was too much of her future at stake here. If he refused to take safety concerns into account, then she’d act as guard and escort.

  Hastings ushered her to the Chinese Drawing Room and paused before entering. Rosalind grimaced at the closed door separating them from Lady Augusta’s wrath. “Can’t you pretend you couldn’t find me?”

  Hastings’s chuckle held definite satisfaction. It was obvious he intended to keep her busy waiting on Lady Augusta so she wouldn’t have time to disobey his edicts. He pushed the door open and stood aside for her to enter. Lady Augusta sat in an upright chair, her head lowered in sleep.

  “Where are you going now?” The man was in danger, whether he believed it or not.

  “I need to check on the roofing and rebuilding in the village.”

  “We shouldn’t wake Lady Augusta,” Rosalind said. “She needs her rest.”

  At that moment, Lady Augusta stirred. Her head whipped up, her eyes alert. “What took you so long? I summoned you an hour ago.”

  Hastings edged toward the door and disappeared.

  “I have just returned from the village,” Rosalind said. “I came as soon as I realized you needed me.”

  “Humph! I need more of your tonic.”

  “You said it didn’t help.”