The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen

by Shelley Munro

  Rosalind slid off the edge of the bed and attempted to move. After hobbling one step, she pulled up. “My knee. I’ve injured my knee.”

  “There was a heavy dew this morning.”

  “Are you saying the fall was my imagination?”

  “Not at all,” Lucien said. “Too many strange things have happened lately. But why are you so certain someone pushed you? Did you see anyone behind you?”

  Rosalind limped back to his bed and sat beneath the colored dome depicting dancing cherubs. “No, I saw no one. It was more an impression.”

  “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d taken a footman with you.”

  Rosalind’s huff was loud and punctuated with a glare.

  A maid knocked on the door and entered bearing an ewer of warm water. It was the maid who winked and smirked in the direction of his groin whenever she caught him on his own. For once, he was glad Rosalind was present.

  “Will that be all, Lord Hastings?” the maid asked, her voice sultry.

  “Yes, thank you,” Rosalind answered.

  The maid curtsied and slid a knowing grin in his direction before sauntering from the room.

  Lucien settled the ewer on a small oak table and moved closer to Rosalind. “Lift your skirt, and I’ll take a look at your knee.”

  She hesitated, then raised the brown woolen skirts, so he had a clear view of her grubby, ripped stockings.

  “These will need to come off.” Lucien unfastened her garter and peeled the once-white stocking down her leg to reveal an angry red gash. He prodded the knee gently. “Does that hurt?”

  “A little,” Rosalind said. “It’s bruised. The rest of the cuts sting, but they should heal quickly.”

  At least she spared him tears and hysterical crying. Lucien appreciated that in a woman. He cleansed her knee with warm water and a soft cloth.

  “I have salve in my room.” She started to move, but Lucien stayed her with one hand on her bare leg.

  “I’ll get it.” Lucien sprang to his feet, pleased to leave the room. Her perfume filled his senses, enticing him to haul her into his arms, while her quiet bravery, when she was in pain, won his admiration.

  In Rosalind’s chamber, he came to a halt. He hadn’t asked her where she kept the salve. He hesitated before deciding to try the bag she toted to the village whenever she was treating the sick.

  The staff had restored Rosalind’s chamber to order, and Lucien noticed how few personal items she had in the room. There were no perfume pots and small glass jars. He wandered through to her dressing room during his search for her satchel. One dress hung on a rail. Made of coarse brown wool, it looked like servants’ attire to him. He frowned, remembering Francesca’s many gowns of silk and satin.

  Lucien located the bag sitting by Rosalind’s bed. The catch was open and the contents haphazardly arranged inside. He closed it and took the whole thing to let Rosalind find the salve.

  “You found my bag,” Rosalind said. “I wasn’t sure it would still be there.”

  “You need to order gowns,” Lucien said, his mind on the borrowed gown in her dressing room. As well as numerous gowns, Francesca had delighted in matching shawls, shoes and hats. Gloves too. He didn’t remember seeing a single hat in Rosalind’s chamber. “Summon the seamstress. She will come to you here.” He opened her satchel. The array of herbs took him by surprise. “Do you use all of these?”

  “Yes.”

  Dried twigs, tied together with a red ribbon, slid into a small groove inside the bag. Little jars filled with crushed leaves jostled for space with others containing pastes. Each bore a neat label.

  “Which jar do you require?”

  Rosalind pointed at one that held a white paste. “That should bring out the bruising.”

  A growl came from behind him, and he turned his head. Noir slunk along the ground on his belly. His ears pricked, his compact body vibrated, ready to spring on his prey. Lucien smothered a chuckle. The tassels on his boots were in extreme danger.

  The kitten leaped. Lucien caught him midair. A loud hiss resulted. “Steady there,” he murmured. The kitten clawed at his jacket sleeve. “He’s a ferocious beast.”

  “He likes to play. Usually, it’s the maids he terrorizes.”

  Lucien disengaged the kitten’s claws. His eyes narrowed, and he glanced at Rosalind. She stared back, her face expressionless.

  “The kitten has extra toes.”

  She nodded.

  “The servants? Have they noticed?”

  Her chin edged upward. “I’m sure they have.”

  Witch’s cat. The knowledge shimmered in the air between them.

  “I’m keeping him. You’re not taking Noir away from me. He’s a baby. A harmless kitten.”

  “That’s why you found him washed up on the beach. Someone tossed him in the sea to drown.”

  “Lucien, he’s an animal with nothing magical about him.” Rosalind fought to contain her fears. Surely he wouldn’t take Noir from her? During her last trip to the village, a young lad had skipped up to her and asked if she were a witch. His embarrassed mother had whisked him away, but she’d have to be blind not to notice fewer people were asking to see her.

  “What about rumors? God, Rosalind, they still talk of burning witches at the stake.”

  “I’m not a witch!” A sick sensation made her stomach sink. Was her gift to ruin life in St. Clare too?

  “I never said you were. All I’m saying is to take care. Keep Noir out of sight. Don’t give people fuel for their gossip.”

  Rosalind considered his words. “Are you saying I shouldn’t treat the people in the village if they are sick?”

  “Yes. If that’s what it takes to keep you safe.”

  14 – Lucien Becomes Bossy

  Safe?

  That implied Lucien cared. Hope sprang to life like a flower blooming after a winter thaw.

  “I need you to show me where you found the entrance to the passage.”

  Rosalind stood and limped after Lucien. A jarring pain shot down her leg, but she ignored it to concentrate on her husband. “I will explore the passage with you.”

  He made a tsking sound and scooped her up, carrying her next door to her room and dropping her on the bed. “You couldn’t make it to your chamber on your own.”

  Her mouth tightened at the excuse to exclude her. The hope that had fanned to life inside her withered with intense frustration.

  “Stay here and rest.” His words were an order, no matter how he couched them. The calm face told her he expected her to follow his commands with no argument.

  Rosalind decided to choose a better time to make her case. “The passage entrance is behind the bureau. It’s part of the wall, and it’s a simple matter of moving it to open the passage. There’s a handle on the back to secure it shut when you leave via my chamber.”

  Lucien picked up her candle, lit it and followed her instructions. The bureau slid aside with a quiet groan. He ducked into the deep space revealed and vanished from sight.

  Frustration burned within Rosalind. She hobbled to the opening in her wall and stuck her head inside. Cautious footsteps receded, and she glimpsed a brief flickering of candlelight before it, too, disappeared from sight. If she were Miranda, she would have a full-out tantrum.

  Despite Lucien’s transparent doubt, someone had pushed her this morning. The sounds from the path above, the flash of color she’d glimpsed, and the tumble of rocks and stones that had rained down on her head replayed through her mind. A shudder worked down her body at the remembered horror, the helpless sense of dangling above the needle-sharp rocks. With a grumpy sigh, she tugged the bureau back into place in case a maid entered her chamber and sat back to wait for her husband’s return.

  Rest. Stay in bed for the morning.

  Rosalind snorted in a manner that would’ve made both her aunt and Lady Augusta scowl if they’d witnessed the derisive sound. She paced to the window and yanked back the shutters. Out at sea, a mist had formed. A chill sett
led around her heart, and she tucked her shawl around her shoulders. It did nothing to ward off the cold sense of isolation. Lucien had found no sign of Mary, and now he expected her to laze around and rest her knee for another day while he explored the rest of the passage, the part he hadn’t had time to reconnoiter the previous day.

  Part of her hoped he’d find Mary alive and perhaps a little worse for wear, but with each passing day, it became less likely. Lord, she hated to admit defeat. She must remain positive.

  She climbed onto her bed and almost immediately stood again. She refused to stay in her room like a well-behaved child. While Lucien investigated the passage, she’d go to the village and ask more questions about Mary. She’d touch people and eavesdrop on their thoughts and memories if necessary.

  Rosalind picked up her replacement hairbrush to tidy her hair, gripping it more tightly when a visible tremor shook her hand. Every day, she missed Mary’s cheerful presence, the desolation a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach. Today was even worse. Six years to the day, Mary had officially started tending to Rosalind’s needs. No, she couldn’t loll around doing nothing, not when the memories of past days spent together threatened to overwhelm her with grief.

  They’d always cajoled her aunt’s cook into giving them a special meal to eat at their favorite spot on the bank of a small stream. Despite Mary’s dislike of the outdoors, most years they’d enjoyed Cook’s cakes to celebrate the special day. Her eyes misted as she recalled the fun they’d had together. She couldn’t sit and do nothing, not today of all days.

  Rosalind rang for a servant. “I’d like to go to the village,” she said when the maid arrived. “Please have Tickell summon a footman to escort me. I will require a pony and cart.”

  The young maid curtseyed. “Yes, my lady.”

  Almost two hours later, Matthew helped her into the cart and handed an irritated Rosalind her bag of medicines. The pony fidgeted, pawing the ground, eager to leave the confines of the stable. Rosalind suffered the same impatience and prayed they’d depart before Lady Augusta summoned her again.

  Once the footman swung up beside her and flicked the reins, the black pony took off at a fast trot. His pace barely slackened as they approached the avenue of trees after exiting the castle forecourt.

  Rosalind seized her bag when it started to slide from the cart. She shoved it under her feet and gripped the edge of the cart until the color bled from her knuckles. “Do we need to go so fast?” she shouted above the creaking cart, the pounding of the pony’s hooves on the dusty road, and the footman’s curses.

  “Whoa!” Matthew yelled, hauling back on the reins.

  The cart shot into the avenue. Sunlight faded to dark, forbidding black. Branches whipped across her face and torso.

  “What’s wrong?” Rosalind shrieked.

  “Whoa! Whoa! I don’t know, my lady!” Matthew leaned back, pulling with all his strength.

  “Turn the pony up the steep path, the one at the exit of the avenue,” she ordered.

  “Aye. That should slow him.” Grimly, the footman sawed on the reins, trying to turn the pony’s head.

  Rosalind feared they’d whisk past the turnoff, but at the last second, the pony grudgingly swerved. The cart hit a hole in the road. Rosalind screamed and slid against the footman. Her bag flew from her grasp, flying off the cart, hitting the ground with a thud.

  “Hang on, my lady! The brute is slowing.”

  As the slope increased, the pony reduced speed. When he halted, his coat was white with foamy sweat. His sleek sides heaved as he sucked for breath.

  The footman leaped nimbly from the cart, holding the pony firmly to prevent flight. “Are you all right, my lady?”

  “I’m fine.” With the footman’s help, Rosalind clambered from the cart.

  The footman scratched his head. “I’ve never known old Sambo to take a start like that.”

  “Check his harness,” Rosalind directed in a terse voice.

  “Righto, my lady.”

  Rosalind limped back to where her bag lay on the ground. She opened it, expecting the worst. The pungent scent of dried herbs was strong. Her eyes watered. She wiped them and restored her medicines to order. Only two jars were broken. It could have been worse.

  “My lady.” The footman waved with excitement. “Come and see what I’ve discovered.”

  Rosalind hurried to his side as fast as her throbbing knee allowed.

  “Poor Sambo was stung. Look!” The footman peeled back the harness. Sambo danced uneasily, rolling his eyes and snorting. The footman held him steady.

  Rosalind bit back her shock on spotting several wasps trapped under the leather strap. Some of the insects were still alive. “No, don’t pick them up with your bare hand. They’ll sting. I have gloves. Let me.”

  She brushed the insects away rather than picking them up. Some fell to the ground dead while others flew away once released. “Who harnessed up?”

  “I don’t know, my lady, but I intend to find out. If this were a joke, it’s not funny. We could have been killed.”

  The footman’s face echoed her anger. An accident was probably the desired outcome. They’d been lucky. She pushed aside her uneasiness for practical considerations. “Is Sambo all right?”

  “I won’t hitch up the harness again, but we can manage right enough if I lead him. It’s not far to the village.”

  “Thank you, Matthew.”

  They arrived at the village without further mishap. The usual assortment of children, dogs, and chickens greeted them on arrival. Matthew helped her down from the cart.

  Billy shoved his way to the front of the crowd. “I’ll carry the lady’s bag.”

  “Thank you, Billy. How is your brother?”

  “He swore today,” Billy said.

  Rosalind bit back a smile. “That must mean he’s on the mend.” Against all her predictions, the boy’s injuries had responded well to treatment. Billy’s brother was the perfect person to question.

  The chickens and dogs soon lost interest in her, but the children tagged along behind. One small girl with plaits and a missing front tooth tugged on her hand.

  Rosalind slowed her steps to smile down at her. “Good day.”

  “Are you the witch lady?” she asked.

  Rosalind came to an abrupt halt. She gulped at the shooting pain in her knee but didn’t take her gaze off the girl. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Of course she’s not a witch,” Billy declared.

  “Who said I was a witch?” Rosalind demanded, drawing herself upright.

  Fright flashed across the girl’s face. She cowered as if she expected Rosalind to strike her. “The ladies were talking.”

  “When? Have you heard the same thing, Billy?”

  He hesitated before nodding. “Aye. There has been talk.”

  “Today?”

  “Are you going to burn?” the little girl whispered.

  Rosalind flinched. “Who told you that?” She looked askance at Matthew.

  He gave a clipped nod. “Rumors, my lady.”

  “No, I’m not a witch. I’m the same as you.” Nonetheless, apprehension laced her forced smile. “Billy, let’s see how Harry is getting along.”

  Rosalind and Billy left the small group of children to continue with skipping rope and their game of tag.

  “Witches are evil,” Billy said without warning. “They keep frogs and cats for pets and ride a broomstick.”

  Grim amusement fought with horror. Lucien had been right. The rumors were flying as fast as the fabled broomsticks. She considered the visits she’d made to the sick, the treatments she’d given, and the reactions of the people. She’d been so careful. She knew she had, especially after her experience in Stow-on-the-Wold. How had the rumors started? Who’d started them?

  Billy led Rosalind inside the small cottage. Harry lay on a pallet in front of the fire. Smoke filled the single room, making her eyes water. Billy’s mother stood at the fireside, stirring the contents of an iro
n cooking pot. On their entrance, her head jerked up. Her eyes widened, and her spoon dropped from shaky fingers. Liquid splashed from the pot into the fire with a loud sizzle.

  “Good day, Mrs. Green,” Rosalind said, smiling despite the other woman’s reaction.

  “Billy, where have you been?”

  “With my friends.” He cast a quick glance at Rosalind. “Lady Hastings has come to see Harry.”

  Mrs. Green glanced at Harry. Her face softened for an instant, but the tenderness had disappeared by the time she gave her attention to Rosalind. Her expression and the whispered chant indicated she believed the rumors swirling around the village.

  Rosalind held the woman’s gaze, refusing to show guilt or uneasiness in any form. She wished Mary were here. Her maid would stick up for her and give the woman the sharp end of her tongue. Sorrow pierced her then—a gloomy foreboding. Swallowing rapidly, she forced aside the lump of terror blocking her throat. “Is now a good time for me to check Harry’s wound?”

  Mrs. Green hesitated. “Since yer here,” she said. “I have to go. Billy, show the lady out when she’s ready to leave.”

  Billy nodded, and Mrs. Green hastened from the cottage, her lips moving in silent voice. The woman was probably murmuring superstitious chants under her breath, so Rosalind did nothing to her precious son. It was obvious Harry was the favorite.

  Rosalind smiled at Billy. “Why don’t you go back and play with your friends? Harry and I will be fine.” Best if Billy didn’t witness her interrogation of his brother.

  “No,” Harry croaked. “Don’t go.”

  The boy hadn’t uttered a word the whole time, but Rosalind was aware of Harry’s wide, anxious eyes. The rumors of witchcraft had reached him too.

  “Billy,” Rosalind said.

  After another stern admonishment, Billy left. Rosalind tugged back the blanket covering Harry’s skinny chest. The boy’s hands trembled. She smiled, hoping to reassure him. “Let’s see how your leg is coming along. Have you tried walking?”

  Biting his lip, he shook his head.

  “You didn’t tell me how you were shot. Did Hawk shoot you?” She knew he hadn’t because she’d read him earlier in his delirious state, but she hoped he’d offer her more information.