“I don’t know no Hawk.”
His chest tensed under Rosalind’s touch. He lied.
“You know Hawk,” she murmured. “He’s the man who runs the smuggling ring. The men of St. Clare work for him. Did he shoot you?”
“No.” Harry’s reply was whisper soft as if he didn’t want to answer but couldn’t help it.
Rosalind pushed harder before Mrs. Green returned. “Tell me about Hawk.”
“He’ll kill me.” Harry’s terror raised guilt, but not enough to make her halt.
“He won’t know because I won’t tell. Can you describe him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me.” Rosalind placed her hands on Harry’s leg. The vision poured over her. The boy mightn’t tell her, but when she asked questions, he pictured Hawk. A moment’s sympathy stirred before she forced it away. She needed answers. Hawk was dangerous—to both her and Lucien.
“Is he big? Small? What color hair does he have?”
Harry groaned, trying to move away, but the fever from his leg had left him weak. Even though guilt surfaced, she maintained a firm grip.
“I don’t know what he looks like.”
“How do you know the man is Hawk?”
“He wears a mask.”
A mask? Her mind probed Harry’s thoughts. She saw a tall figure dressed in black, a cape swirling about him in the wind. Rosalind sought his face. Dark hair. Long, tied back with a black ribbon. Frustration made her want to weep. Harry wasn’t lying. Hawk wore a mask. He had no idea of the identity of the man under that mask.
A shadow moved in the far corner of the room. Rosalind jumped, her hand jerking off Harry’s leg.
The shadow separated from the wall. “Rosalind, what are you doing?”
“Lucien. What…what are you doing here?”
His eyes flashed impatience. “My question.”
“I’m treating Harry’s leg.” Bother, she hadn’t questioned the boy about Mary, but she’d wanted to ask about Hawk before someone like her husband arrived.
“That’s not what it sounded like.” Lucien’s voice held sharp disbelief.
“Then why are you asking?”
“So you could do a good job of incriminating yourself. Have you finished here?”
Rosalind folded her arms and gave a small mutinous huff. She tugged the blanket back over Harry’s leg. “You need to walk to regain your strength.”
Harry stared at them with huge frightened eyes.
Lucien took her arm, his grip firm. “Come, Rosalind.”
“I have other people to see.”
“Are they sick or are you going to interrogate them?”
Rosalind sniffed and didn’t bother replying. Drat the man. It was almost as if he could read her mind. She discarded any idea of evading him. “I’m treating the ill,” she said, her tone lofty. “I have a footman escorting me as you instructed, so you need not wait.”
Lucien bit back a grin, once again wondering why he’d dismissed his wife as a boring brown mouse. She had more determination than most men. But he knew she wasn’t going to treat the sick. The angle of her chin gave her away. She planned to question more of the villagers about Hawk.
He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “I’ve talked to Matthew already. I know you were the subject of another suspicious accident.”
“But—”
“We will discuss this at the castle.” After a nod at Harry, Lucien propelled his wife from the cottage. “I sent Matthew back to the castle,” he said, taking her medicine bag from her.
Rosalind stopped. An indignant frown creased her brow. “How am I meant to get back?”
“I will take you.” Lucien led her to the stables. Oberon whickered in greeting. He stood back to let Rosalind enter first.
“I’m not getting on that brute.” Rosalind backed up until she collided with Lucien’s chest.
“Yet I found you hiding in Oberon’s stall the other day.”
“That was…” she trailed off, caught in half-truths.
“You lied perchance?”
“I—”
“Come, Rosalind. There’s nothing to fear.”
“Have you checked under the saddle?” she asked, still stalling.
“I intend to do it right now.” Lucien led Oberon from the stall and undid the girth. He checked beneath the saddle and saddle blanket and refastened the girth again. After examining the reins and bridle, he tossed his wife up on the saddle and handed her medicine bag to her. Lucien swung up behind her and wrapped one arm around her waist.
“I’ll fall,” she protested, wriggling about uncomfortably.
“I won’t let you.” Lucien pulled her slight body close and used his knees to urge Oberon into a walk. Rosalind trembled, and he felt a moment’s misgiving. He still had bad news to impart.
“What if Lady Augusta sees me sitting on the horse like this? It’s…unseemly.”
He tightened his hold, drawing her close so she was almost sitting on his lap and signaled Oberon to increase his pace. “Close your eyes,” he murmured, looking down at her pale face. When her eyes snapped shut, he smiled.
The scent of flowers rose from her hair, and he wished they weren’t atop his horse. The need to kiss her was an ache in his soul. It wasn’t because he’d forgotten Francesca or that he no longer loved his first wife. She resided in his heart still, but to his surprise, he’d found there was room for Rosalind too.
The trip to the castle didn’t take long enough. In the courtyard, Lucien reluctantly released his wife. A stable lad appeared, and he gave Oberon into his care.
Rosalind was still limping so Lucien swept her into his arms, bag and all, and hustled up the flight of stairs.
“I can walk,” she protested.
His wife was predictable when it came to independence. “If I waited for you, I’d miss my next meal.”
Rosalind huffed, but Lucien could tell she wanted to laugh. He strode through the entranceway into the Great Hall. It was warmer inside and a welcome respite from the stiff breeze outside. A maid bustled about with a tray of drinks at the far end of the hall. His cousin Charles stood with Mansfield, Lady Sophia, and two young women. They looked familiar, but Lucien couldn’t recall their names.
“Good day.” Charles’s greeting held a note of surprise.
“Hastings. Lady Hastings,” Mansfield said. His languid gaze swept over Rosalind. “Anything wrong?”
“We’ve been to the village,” Lucien said. Instinct told him not to talk to his cousin and friend about Rosalind’s activities in the village. Rosalind wriggled, and he let her down but kept a steadying hand on her arm.
“Are you hurt, Lady Hastings?” Lady Sophia asked.
Lucien frowned at her honey-sweet tones. He’d already noticed the three young women whispering amongst themselves while he spoke to Charles and Mansfield. Not one of them could bear to gaze upon his face.
“A twinge in my knee,” Rosalind said.
“Did you fall?” Lady Sophia’s face held concern yet Lucien sensed the girl didn’t have a sympathetic bone in her body. “Your gown is grubby.”
Rosalind’s lips firmed, and Lucien noted her chin lifted in defiance. She opened her mouth, but he spoke first.
“We intend to retire to our chambers to rest until the evening meal.”
“We’re going for a stroll in the garden. It’s sheltered from the wind. Are you sure we can’t tempt you to join us?” one of the young women said, her mouth stretching into a moue of disappointment.
“It’s more fun with lots of people,” Lady Sophia said. “Are you sure you won’t come, Hastings? Lady Hastings could rest, so she is refreshed for tonight.”
Lucien decided it was time he put Lady Sophia in her place. Since the first, she’d made veiled comments about Rosalind. He hadn’t stuck up for his wife then, but he could do the right thing now. Rosalind was lady of the castle and had his full support.
“We will see you later.” Lucien scooped Rosalind off h
er feet with a suddenness that made her squeak. He chuckled as he strode away with her clasped in his arms, despite her muffled protests. “I have bad news,” he murmured.
Foreboding struck her face, and she ceased her struggles immediately. “Mary?”
The faint tremor in her voice brought his protective tendencies to the surface. He wished he didn’t have to tell her the grim truth but knew she’d settle for nothing less. “I’m afraid so. Wait until we reach my chamber. I’ll tell you everything then. We don’t know who might eavesdrop on our conversation.”
At his chamber door, Lucien used his shoulder to nudge it open. He deposited Rosalind on his bed and instantly, his arms seemed empty. An uncomfortable thought lodged in his mind—he was becoming used to seeing her in his bed.
“Tell me about Mary.” Rosalind’s eyes glittered with stark, vivid fear, and it tore at Lucien’s heart. He wanted to lie, to tell Rosalind her fears were premature, but he couldn’t leave her with hope Mary would return when there was none.
“She’s dead,” he said, his bluntness making him wince.
“How do you know? Are you sure it was Mary?” Tears throbbed in her voice and glittered in her pale blue eyes. Her hands fisted in her lap, and she looked like a broken doll. “It’s exactly six years since…since Mary started work…looking after me.”
Lucien was unsure of whether to make an offer to comfort her or not. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, feeling inadequate and useless. More questions would come, and he’d have to tell her the worst.
One tear overflowed and poured down her cheek. “Tell me everything.”
He sat on the bed beside her, pausing to marshal his thoughts. “I found Mary’s body near the North Tower.”
Rosalind grabbed him by the shoulders, startling Lucien with her strength and intensity. “Someone killed her?”
“I’m sorry.” He shrugged, understanding her pain but unable to do anything to make it stop. “I’ve organized two of the footmen to take her body to the housekeeper.”
“Are you sure it’s Mary?” Hope lurked in her eyes when she looked at him. Another tear overflowed, and the anguish on her face almost broke his heart.
“Yes.” Lucien reached for Rosalind’s hand. “She had a head injury and stab wounds in her chest.”
“I miss her so much.” She shuffled closer to him then as if she wasn’t certain he’d welcome her touch. Swallowing the constriction in his throat, he gathered her in his arms, holding her tight as her body shook with her grief.
“We’ll discover who did this,” he promised. “They will pay.”
Early the next morning, Rosalind slipped from the castle and followed the path leading to the garden.
Mary’s dead.
Her mind fought to accept the truth. With a heavy heart, she paid scant attention to her surroundings, aside from pulling her mantle close to ward off the morning chill. She lifted Noir from her pocket and set the kitten on the ground. He stalked a shadow, springing, and landing amid a small leafy plant. Dew sprayed in all directions, and Noir looked so comically startled Rosalind laughed out loud before stopping when she remembered Mary. The kitten sneezed, stuck his nose in the air and stalked ahead, looking wet and bedraggled.
Lucien had promised her they’d bury Mary in the plot on the grounds of Castle St. Clare. And he’d meant every word. Although he scowled often and his second nature was bossiness, he had a kind heart. Exactly the qualifications she required in the father of her children.
Rosalind’s hand slipped down to slide over her belly. How would it feel to carry Lucien’s child? Would she ever know?
A gunshot sounded in the distance. She froze like a fox scenting a hound. Another shot echoed. Rosalind let out a sigh of relief. The shots were on the other side of the castle. The men had discussed a hunting trip last night.
She continued her walk but paid more attention to her surroundings. A light mist was blowing in from the sea. Damp but still sparse, the mist let Rosalind see most of the garden but obscured the sea. The waves roared in the distance as they struck the cliff base, and in a nearby hedgerow, a thrush sang.
More rifle fire sounded, closer this time. Rosalind frowned. She knew too well how dangerous it was to walk in an area where the men were hunting.
She looked for her kitten. “Noir!” He’d been there a second ago. Sighing, she commenced a search. He wasn’t hiding behind the lavender bush or the unruly box hedge. “Noir, you little wretch. Where are you?” From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of black. Rosalind whirled about, snatching at the kitten before he disappeared again.
“Steady on there, Lady Hastings. I don’t think Hastings would like you grabbing my legs,” Mansfield said drolly.
“Oh!” The air hissed from her lungs, and hot color flooded her face. She froze in her kneeling position. “I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean…Oh!”
A second chuckle joined Mansfield’s laughter at her expense.
“Charles!” Rosalind said. The heat in her face intensified. “I brought my kitten out to the garden, and he’s disappeared. I only took my eyes off him for a second. When I saw the flash of color, I grabbed without thought. I’m so sorry.”
“No harm done,” Charles said. “Mansfield enjoyed the attention.”
“Of course I did.” Mansfield’s lips tipped upward in a grin.
Rosalind straightened to see that both men carried rifles over their shoulders. “Have you been hunting?”
Mansfield nodded. “We have.”
“No luck though, as you can tell. Cook had her heart set on rabbit pie for dinner,” Charles said.
“Is your kitten black, my lady?” Mansfield asked.
“Can you see him?” She squeezed her hands together, worry churning her stomach as she scanned the bushes. Although she wanted to find her kitten, she didn’t want either of the men to observe Noir too closely.
“There he is.” Mansfield moved with a speed that belied his size. “Got you.” He held the wriggling kitten in one hand, and Rosalind hurried to take charge of her pet. Mansfield handed the kitten over without comment.
“Thank you,” she murmured and thrust Noir in her pocket.
“You and Hastings seem to be on much better terms,” Charles said.
Rosalind’s head jerked up while inside she hugged the warmth from the acknowledgment close to her heart. It wasn’t just her imagination.
Mansfield smirked. “It’s true. I never imagined Hastings smiling again let alone him smiling at a woman. He’s not been the same since he arrived back at St. Clare.”
“It will be good to see children at the castle again,” Charles said. “We had fun when we were youngsters. Do you remember, Mansfield? The fishing. The hunting. Searching for the treasure and playing hide-and-seek.”
“We stole pies when Cook wasn’t looking.” Mansfield’s grin widened with the memories. He studied Rosalind closely. “You’re good for Hastings.”
Charles nodded. “We await the announcement with pleasure. It will take the pressure off us, won’t it, Mansfield?”
“You, maybe,” Mansfield growled. “But my mother is constantly harping at me to tie the knot.”
“Sounds like Aunt Augusta,” Charles said. “The sooner you and Lucien have children, the better.”
“We’re embarrassing her,” Mansfield observed.
They certainly were. “It’s not a seemly conversation.”
The two men were talking about her as if she were a broodmare. Rosalind shifted her weight from foot to foot and concentrated on a lavender bush a few feet away. It was a pity she hadn’t perfected her aunt’s technique of silencing unwanted comments.
“We’re not sorry, Rosalind,” Charles said, smiling. “We’re family. You have to put up with us.” He chuckled wickedly. “It’s good not being the one in the firing line. Besides, having children around would liven up the place.”
15 – A Revelation
Three nights later Rosalind smoothed the apple-green skirts of her newest gown, del
ivered from the local dressmaker. Mary would’ve loved this gown because she had a fondness for apples and apple pie. The memory of her recent loss sent an icy chill skittering across her skin. Her maid was at rest now, even though her murderer went unpunished.
Rosalind’s shoulders slumped, and she gulped hard. Lucien had stood at her side in the graveyard, clasping her hand and offering silent sympathy. A flash of loneliness gripped her. Lucien and the others had tendered their commiserations, but how could they understand? Mary hadn’t judged her because of her differences. A true companion, she’d championed Rosalind in times of need.
A clock chimed, jerking Rosalind back to the present. She made her way to the stairs that led to the floor below. St. Bridget’s nose, she hoped this dinner would run smoothly since Lady Sophia was in attendance. Rosalind had a sneaking suspicion Lady Augusta was matchmaking with Charles and Lady Sophia in her sights—an absurd notion on Lady Augusta’s part. The two barely spoke to each other because the girl spent more time ingratiating herself with Lucien. Jealousy speared Rosalind’s heart. Soon she’d take firm action to show Lady Sophia that Lucien was her husband and, as such, his loyalties belonged elsewhere.
As Rosalind approached the staircase, a muffled thud claimed her attention. She half turned, expecting to see a servant, but saw no one. Every single noise made her jump these days, which was silly considering the age of the castle and the way the timbered additions creaked. Not wanting to draw Lady Augusta’s censure for tardiness, she hastened her pace, stepping down onto the first step. Her foot caught on something, throwing her off balance. She toppled backward. Her hands clutched for the banister and missed. A scream sounded.
Hers.
Rosalind hit the stairs with a thud. Again, she grabbed for the railing. Again, she missed, grasping at air instead. She landed with a painful thump, rolled and snatched desperately. The solid wood beneath her hands wrenched free a moan of relief.
She grabbed the banister with every shred of strength and came to an arm-jarring halt. Her chest heaved as she regained her balance. When her breathing evened out, she flexed her leg. Pain darted from her ankle. She shifted her weight until at last, she sat safely on a stair. Only then did she ease her grip on the banister and search to see what she’d tripped over. A dark man-size shadow flickered along the pale wall beneath the candle sconce before jerking from sight, a whisper of a foreign sound accompanying the strange spectacle. A blur of black darted down the landing, pouncing on something out of her vision. Someone hissed, and a sharp feline mew of pain jolted her to action. Noir? Seconds later, her kitten raced into view and scuttled down the stairs to crawl onto her lap.
The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen Page 19