His head lowered, and she froze. Smiling, he drew in the warm womanly scent of her. Then his lips covered hers, and he drank in her huff of surprise as his hand curved behind her head to draw her closer. Just one taste while they let their silent watcher draw his or her own conclusions. But one taste only fed his growing hunger. One more kiss, and then he’d stop.
“Cuz, don’t you know they have bedrooms for that sort of thing?” Warm amusement colored Charles’s voice.
Lucien loosened his hold on Rosalind. Blood thrummed through his veins. He hadn’t felt so alive for months, and the realization galled him. He took a step back before he allowed himself to glance at Rosalind. Even though she’d managed an impassive face, he sensed the yearning, the need to take the kiss a step further. He forced himself to picture Francesca and focus on his plans to find her killer before returning to his estates in Italy.
“Am I interrupting?” Charles cocked a brow and puffed on his pipe, sending a cloud of smoke into the air.
Irritation and a dose of self-recrimination bubbled inside Lucien. Of course he was, and Charles knew it. Lucien bit back a curse, knowing he should thank his cousin for interrupting what would’ve been an irretrievable step. Still, damned odd that Charles had appeared at that exact moment, especially since his chambers were in the opposite wing.
Lucien picked up his candle and shone it in Charles’s direction. “What are you doing here?”
Charles glanced at Rosalind and hesitated.
“Well?”
“I’ve been…visiting,” Charles said in a low voice.
“Visiting whom?” Rosalind piped up.
Lucien’s anger abated as he smothered a laugh. Charles had come from the direction of the servants’ quarters and no doubt a warm bed. A simple explanation.
Lucien took pity on him. “Charles is friendly with some of the servants. Sometimes they play cards or the dice.”
“Oh,” Rosalind said.
“What are you doing up so late?” Charles asked.
“We couldn’t sleep so we went for a walk in the gardens.” He curled an arm around Rosalind’s waist and drew her against his side, taking care to keep her from Charles’s full scrutiny. Touching her felt natural. Right. Remember Francesca, he told himself with a surge of panic. He pictured her face easily enough, but the approval on her smiling face threw him.
“I’ll bid you good night then.” With a bow, Charles sauntered away.
“Was he suspicious?” Rosalind whispered.
Lucien looked down at her intent face. So, she’d thought Charles’s explanation strange too. The woman was astute and persistent. And a menace to his mission. “I’m not sure,” he drawled. “The servants’ rooms are in the direction he came from.”
“But you don’t know for sure. We should check in the morning. Ask a few questions.”
She was right. But he didn’t see Charles as a killer. The man seemed foppish with his love of lace and cosmetics. “Come,” he said. “It’s late. I’ll escort you to your chamber.”
“But don’t you wish to explore the passage?”
“Not now. In the morning.”
She accepted his arm and nodded. “That makes sense. I can’t wait to see where it leads.”
Lucien halted to nail her with a glare. “It’s too dangerous for you. I’ll do the exploring.” Imagining her wandering alone made his blood run cold. He’d stake his life the passage connected with the smugglers’ tunnels at the beach and perhaps the North Tower. It was the only thing that made sense. All the booty he’d discovered during his explorations had disappeared between one visit and his next. He knew for a fact the contraband didn’t leave via sea or along the beach. That left only one alternative.
“That’s not fair. I discovered the passage.”
Now was not the time to argue. He took Rosalind’s arm and propelled her to her chamber. Get rid of her. Investigate now, before the smugglers discover someone has breached the passage. A snort escaped. Hell, who was he trying to fool? Each minute spent with Rosalind was a test of willpower. One taste of her lips left him craving more.
At Rosalind’s chamber, he opened the door and stood back for her to enter.
“I don’t believe it,” she muttered.
Lucien followed her gaze. The room and its contents were in a shambles. Her belongings covered the floor, the bedding ripped from the bed, the sheets shredded as if someone had thrown a tantrum.
Rosalind stomped inside her room. She rotated to face him, her face a mask of fury. “This is the second time tonight. That’s why I never returned with the salve for your face. The maids and I spent almost two hours clearing the mess.” She screwed up her face and, alarmed, Lucien wondered if she would cry. “The only gown I own is the one I wore tonight. All the others were shredded.” She swiped a hand over her face.
Damn. She might cry. What was he going to do with a weepy female?
“Where am I going to sleep?” she demanded with a sniff. “It’s so late, I can’t ring for a maid again.”
“You can sleep in my room.” Lucien stilled as he registered his words. He’d said them without forethought, but he could hardly take them back now.
“In your room?”
“Yes,” he said gruffly. He headed for the connecting door, holding the candle to light the way while he unlocked it. Rosalind in his chamber was a bad idea. On the threshold, he hesitated. She didn’t notice his diffidence as she surveyed his private rooms.
“What will I sleep in?” she asked.
His mind groped for an acceptable answer. “One of my shirts?” he suggested.
Her smile made his heart beat a little faster.
Lucien shook himself mentally and crossed the Persian carpet to the door of his dressing room. Minutes later, he produced a white linen shirt. He paused in consternation. Rosalind was eyeing his bed with fascination. A tinge of amusement filled him even as he jerked away his gaze. Wait until she notices the cavorting nymphs.
“Where will you sleep?”
“There’s a couch in my dressing room.”
Before he could speak, Rosalind darted into the dressing room. “You can’t sleep on that. The mattress is as hard as an oak tree.”
Lucien sighed. She was going to be difficult.
“Your bed is big enough for two.”
Did she have to point that out?
A plaintive meow sounded from the other side of the connecting door, saving him from a reply.
“It’s Noir,” Rosalind said.
Lucien grabbed the chance to escape, if only for a few minutes. “I’ll get him.” He walked through the connecting door, spied the kitten by Rosalind’s bed, and played chase for several minutes. Finally, he cornered the kitten and returned to his bedroom at a much slower pace. Share the bed. He wasn’t ready for this. Not at all.
Visions raced through his head without warning, visions that had little to do with sleeping. He paused, shocked at his thoughts. “Hell’s teeth,” he muttered.
He set the kitten down on the floor. When had his opinion shifted? The change had been subtle and sneaked up on him. He might be attracted to her, but that didn’t mean he had to follow his inclinations.
“I changed in your dressing room.” Rosalind walked to the bed without the slightest bit of hesitation, her legs bare to his gaze.
And he looked. He couldn’t help it. His blood roared through his veins, his heart stuttering before resuming a rapid tattoo. Hands itched to touch her generous curves.
Her legs were long and slender for such a tiny thing. She perched on the edge of his bed and unbound her hair. Pale golden locks fell over her shoulders one by one, glinting in the light of the second candle she’d lit while he was away.
“Which side should I sleep on?” Her voice sounded matter-of-fact as if they’d done this a thousand times before.
Lucien grimaced, still hesitating while Rosalind finished loosening her hair and pulled back the covers. His gaze fastened on her legs and never moved until they d
isappeared under the covers.
“Shall I blow the candle out?”
Lucien cleared his throat. “No, I’ll take it to the dressing room with me.”
“You are coming back?” She patted the space on the feather mattress beside her. “There’s plenty of room for both of us.”
13 – Clifftop Drama And Witches
How long until morning?
Lucien tugged at the neck of his linen shirt, trying to ease the tightness as he stared at the English mouse in bemusement. Like a hangman’s noose, he decided with a flash of black humor.
“Well?”
She was pushy and oblivious to fear. Lucien still couldn’t get past the fact his scarred face did nothing to scare her off. Most women turned away when they spied his damaged cheek. Even men averted their gaze, but not his English mouse.
The weight of a stare told him she was watching him. Again. Slowly, he turned. Her lips looked soft and pink in the candlelight. The taste of her mouth simmered in his memory.
“You need sleep,” he murmured, still eyeing her lips and tempted to act on his urges. “You’ll rest better if I sleep in the dressing room.” With that decided, he stepped toward his dressing room.
He couldn’t leave! She wouldn’t let him. Not when she was so close to finding out what went on between a man and wife in their bedroom. She tossed back the covers and jumped off the bed. He was not sleeping in the dressing room.
Rosalind seized his arm and planted her feet on the floor like an anchor. Her hand connected with the warm, smooth skin of his wrist.
“Don’t go.”
Images formed, and she let them flow. She embraced them and was pleasantly surprised. Instead of the face of the woman, she saw her own. Rosalind closed her eyes, concentrating hard, savoring the vision. Her heart sang at the victory, although it was a small one.
“You don’t know what you’re asking of me.” Lucien sounded tortured. A tinge of shame surfaced, but not enough to halt the fight for her marriage. Not enough to stop her determination to jolt Lucien from his lonely corner. She was alone too. They needed each other. Her hand dropped from his arm. “You’re my husband.”
“I’m not a good one.” Lucien turned to her. His face blazed with passion, with pain. “I was married before.” His voice caught, and she saw his throat work.
From her visions, she knew of the other woman, but hearing him talk of his wife made her seem more real and a threat. A spurt of jealousy raced through Rosalind, but not enough to kill her thirst for knowledge freely given. “What happened?”
“She died.” His face appeared carved with pain. “It was my fault.”
Without hesitation, Rosalind reached to comfort him. She grabbed his waist and fell against his chest, so he had to catch her. Impressions bombarded her. It was as if the dam had burst, releasing slivers of the past. Emotions, both heartfelt and painful, rushed through her mind like towering waves during a storm. Tumultuous. Powerful. She struggled to turn thoughts into words.
“Why?” She grimaced against his shirt at the inadequate response. Lucien blamed himself for the death. Yet she knew her husband to be a caring man, one who worked tirelessly in the village, a man who took the time to play with the village children.
“Francesca died.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault,” Rosalind said, her voice firm and sure.
“For a long time after Francesca and I married, I remembered nothing of my past. Then fragments returned, but they made no sense. Francesca and I discussed it, and she persuaded me we should travel to England and search for answers. She was expecting a child. I told her traveling would be dangerous, but she was insistent. I agreed because I couldn’t bear to be apart from her. We traveled by boat, then by land. Bandits attacked us late one night.” Lucien faltered, his voice layered with torment.
Rosalind pressed her cheek to his chest. His body was tight. Tense. It was wrong to push for details when it was obvious he was in pain, but she needed to know.
“What happened?” she whispered, pressing her body even closer, offering comfort in the only way she knew.
“Francesca…she was shot.” He swallowed hard. “She died in my arms.”
Tears of sympathy built at the back of her eyes. Poor Lucien, losing his wife and child that way. “Were the bandits caught?”
The question tossed Lucien back in the past, back to the night he’d lost Francesca. The fear. Anger. The pain he’d suffered at the moment he realized Francesca was gone. The gnawing desperation for revenge…
“I’d give anything to bathe in warm, scented water,” Francesca had said with a heartfelt sigh. “My bones ache from the journey today.”
Concern crinkled Lucien’s brow. He studied Francesca’s pale, travel-stained face and instant guilt pummeled him. “I knew we should have stopped at that last inn. Cara, you should have said something.”
“Pooh, it was only midday,” Francesca scoffed, making light of the extra miles they’d traveled. But Lucien noticed how her hands crept up to massage the small of her back. “We are only two days from the coast,” she continued. “It didn’t make sense to halt early. Besides, we’ve stopped now.”
Lucien glanced around the rough camp they’d made in a clearing. It wasn’t the ideal situation for Francesca and their unborn child. Several bushes provided shelter from the prevailing wind, and their camp was far enough off the track to escape the attention of passing travelers. A fire was burning within a circle of rocks. The two men who’d journeyed with them from the Bacci estate had gathered together leaves and grasses for bedding, and now that darkness had fallen, one was turning a rabbit on a spit over the fire. The scent of the roast meat made Lucien’s stomach grumble in protest. It seemed a long time since their last meal.
Although the need to fill the holes in his memory was strong and nagged at him, Francesca and his unborn child were more important. “Come, cara. Let me rub your back.”
Francesca’s rich laugh rang out. “Stop worrying! I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.”
The distinct clip-clop of a horse’s hooves halted their discussion, and they both turned. Lucien picked up his flintlock pistol and held it at the ready as three men rode into their campsite.
Oberon whinnied, pawing the ground in agitation. Lucien stiffened when he noticed the way their hats were tugged low over their faces. They traveled light with no luggage. He snatched up his sword in his free hand and edged back, out of the light of the fire, gesturing for Francesca to do the same.
“Signor, they’re armed!” one of their men shouted. He seized his musket and held it at the ready.
“Bandits,” Francesca cried, grabbing a saddlebag and ducking for cover behind a leafy thicket near to where they stood.
One horseman cursed. A shot reverberated through the clearing, the acrid scent of gunpowder filling the air. Another followed an instant later. Both servants fell to the ground and remained there, unmoving. Obscured by the smoke of the gunpowder, Lucien darted behind the thicket, dread filling him until he located Francesca.
“Run,” he ordered his wife. Nothing must happen to Francesca. “Hide in the trees while I distract them.”
“No!” Francesca pulled a primed pistol from her saddlebag. She peeked around the undergrowth. “I won’t leave you. This area is bandit free. We checked!”
From experience, Lucien knew it was pointless to argue with Francesca. “Keep low,” he ordered. “Your white blouse catches the light.”
“Told ya we should have crept up on them,” one of the horsemen snarled. “Hawk will have our skins if we don’t carry out his orders.”
The familiar accent tickled at Lucien’s memory. It wasn’t Italian or French.
“English,” Francesca whispered. “That makes no sense.”
Who the hell was Hawk? Lucien tensed, his heart pumping fear and anger through his veins.
“Can you hear them?” Francesca asked.
The uneasiness in her voice echoed his apprehension. Nothing
about this situation struck him as right. His stomach cinched tight, and he listened intently before shaking his head.
“Wait there,” he murmured. “I’ll see if I can pick at least one off.” Lucien knew they were there…waiting. The tension stretched tighter within him. Damn it, he couldn’t even locate the horses. He moved cautiously, trying to nail their positions.
A shot rang out. An instant later pain flooded his shoulder. He fell.
“Lucien!” Francesca screamed.
Lucien scrambled to his feet, fighting the lethargy creeping through his body. Only a flesh wound. He pressed the heel of his hand to the injury and searched for the sword he’d dropped. He’d need it once he’d fired the shot in his pistol.
“There!” a horseman cried. “There she is.”
Lucien’s head jerked up. He saw a flash of white. A musket fired. Francesca screamed and dropped to the ground.
“Got ’er,” a man said in satisfaction.
“Someone’s coming,” another said.
Galloping hooves told of their rapid departure.
Lucien staggered over to Francesca. Panic, like he’d never known, roared through him. “Francesca? Francesca!”
He dragged her close, cradling her in his arms, searching frantically to find the source of the blood. The blouse ripped to reveal a gaping hole, and terror filled Lucien on hearing a rattle deep in her chest. No! A chill raced up his spine with each labored breath Francesca took.
“Lucien.” Her hands gripped him painfully. Her dark eyes glittered in the scant light cast by the fire.
“Yes, cara.” Lucien leaned closer. The blood kept rushing from the bullet hole in her chest. He had to stop it. He ignored the burning in his shoulder to press down on the wound site. Her pained groan tore at him. He must stop the bleeding. He must.
“Promise me. Go to England. Find St. Clare. Promise.”
“Don’t talk, cara. Save your strength. Let me tend your wound and stop the bleeding.”
The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen Page 16