The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen

by Shelley Munro

  An edge of danger tinged Mansfield’s laugh. “I’m counting on it.” He slowed the team for easy conversation, but not enough for her to escape.

  Rosalind glared. The man wanted to gloat. It was obvious by the triumph shining in his eyes. She wouldn’t ask. No, for Lucien’s sake, she needed to learn the truth. She must ask questions. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this? What have I done to you?”

  “Nothing, it’s your husband,” he drawled with distinct mockery.

  “But Lucien is your friend. You said yourself the three of you are like brothers.”

  Mansfield snorted. “Shows what you know.”

  They took the corner at an alarming speed, almost tilting on two wheels, and Rosalind bit back a scream. “Do we have to drive so fast? You won’t achieve anything if you kill us both.”

  “Full of advice, aren’t you?” he sneered, but he reduced the speed of the horses to a canter.

  “At least tell me where we’re going.”

  “Rye.”

  “Rye?”

  He grinned, his face full of excitement. “You, my dear, are going to France with me. Imagine—walking the avenues in Paris arm-in-arm.”

  “I don’t want to go to Paris. I’m married to Lucien. Why would I leave with you?”

  His good humor dissipated. “I’ll treat you well, better than Hastings ever will. I’ve seen the way he’s ignored you. He’s no better than a monster. Hell, he looks like a monster with that scar. I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

  “What do you mean, when you had the chance?” Rosalind bit her bottom lip, wondering if he would grab the opportunity to boast. Please tell me. She hated touching him and attempting to read his thoughts again. “What did you do?”

  “Rather clever of me. Our tutor and Charles were rushing about Naples trying to find Hastings. I pretended to go along with the search and fed them false leads.”

  Rosalind frowned in genuine bewilderment. “I suppose it was you who organized the attack on Lucien and his wife. But why? Why did you try to kill him?”

  “He has everything. It was always so easy for him.” His mouth twisted, a flash of avarice distorting his handsome features. “Hastings should have died that night. The idiots bungled the job.”

  Anguish for the suffering Mansfield had caused Lucien tightened around her heart like a fist. “I don’t understand. There has to be more. Why do you hate Lucien so much? Why do you want him dead?”

  “He contracted a betrothal with the woman I loved. Edwina swore she loved me, but she accepted his offer. After Hastings’s disappearance, she married a man three times her age. She’s suffering for her perfidy now.” His chuckle of amusement held pure spite. “Hastings has more luck than one man deserves, but he’ll suffer this time.”

  Jealousy? This was all about envy and hurt feelings? Because of a shallow woman? “Why are you so resentful of him?”

  “I’m sick of your questions. Shut up, or I’ll gag you.”

  The lazy indulgence had faded from his voice, replaced by determination. He meant his threat. Rosalind closed her mouth and concentrated instead on a means of escape. Once again, she considered jumping from the moving chaise, but she rejected the idea. She’d have to wait until they reached a town or passed another carriage. All she’d need to do was scream for aid. She slid a glance at Mansfield. That was…unless he had a pistol?

  A loud squeal rent the air. Rosalind’s head jerked up. A horse and cart approached from the opposite direction. A lone man walked behind the cart. It carried sacks of grain, and the wheels squeaked a protest with each turn.

  “Don’t,” Mansfield warned, frightening her with his grim resolution. “I’ll shoot the man if I have to.”

  Part of her was shocked, but she shouldn’t have been after intercepting Mansfield’s writhing emotions. “You’d shoot an innocent man? For no reason at all?”

  “I have a lot at stake. One more life won’t make any difference.”

  Rosalind pressed her lips together, stricken with grief for Mary. No doubt Mansfield was involved in her death too. Her attempt to escape would wait until they arrived at their destination then. She wanted no one else to die because of her actions.

  They passed the cart, the driver bowing his head in greeting.

  “Good girl,” Mansfield said. The team was breathing hard, their coats white with lather. He slowed them to a walk. “We’ll change horses in the next village. If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss tonight’s tide.”

  Rosalind gave a clipped nod while she tried to plan her escape. She refused to let her dream end this way, or let Lucien suffer the loss of a second wife.

  Another carriage approached.

  “Put my cloak on and cover your head,” Mansfield ordered. “Do it. Now.”

  “Or you’ll shoot the driver and passengers.” Fury quivered in her voice and tense posture. “You can’t shoot everyone, Mansfield.”

  “Put on the cloak.” The words were like a whiplash.

  He meant it. Rosalind reached for the black cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. She jerked the hood over her head.

  “Cover your face,” he snapped.

  Rosalind obeyed because she had no other option. Inwardly, she fumed. While she didn’t understand the why, Mansfield would not get away with this. She knew Lucien would come for her, and she intended to do her bit. She was no helpless ninny.

  Whittlebury was larger than St. Clare. Rosalind had yet to visit the village, but Lady Augusta’s friend Lady Pascoe lived hereabouts. Carriages, carts and a herd of cows filled the busy road. The chaise eased to a crawl, slow enough for her to leap off. Mansfield cracked the whip. The horses stirred as his hand whisked out to cover her knee, his fingers digging into her flesh.

  “Don’t even consider jumping. Move it,” he roared at the cart driver in front.

  The driver of the cart turned to spit on the ground. “Keep yer shirt on. Ain’t goin’ nowhere in a hurry.”

  Up ahead, Rosalind saw the problem. Market day. A cartload of fruit had overturned and blocked half of the road. Urchins snatched up red apples, darting in front of horses and vehicles with scant regard for safety. The driver shouted abuse and threatened bodily harm if they touched his produce. Everyone ignored him.

  Rosalind edged away from Mansfield. With the number of people around, she might have a chance of escape. He wouldn’t shoot her, not in front of witnesses.

  “Hold.” Mansfield grabbed her forearm with a force she knew would leave a bruise. “We’ll walk from here.”

  “To Rye?”

  “Don’t be obtuse. Slide over. I’ll get down and help you from this side of the chaise.”

  With the hope of an escape stifled, Rosalind sought a way to stay in the crowd, where it was safer. “You can’t leave the horses here.”

  Mansfield snapped his fingers at a passing urchin. “Boy, come here.”

  The urchin took a cautious step in Mansfield’s direction. Clear suspicion lined his grubby face.

  “Do you want to earn a coin or not?” Mansfield demanded.

  “Aye.” The urchin approached with a streetwise wariness that tore at Rosalind’s heart.

  “Rosalind.” With command implicit in his voice, she knew she’d have to obey.

  The chaise lurched when Mansfield jumped off, landing like her kitten, light on his feet. The expectation of her obedience showed in the confident tilt of his chin. Grudgingly, she slid across the seat to Mansfield. Think. Escape was imperative, but how?

  “Quit stalling,” Mansfield snarled in a fierce undertone. “Don’t make me force the issue.”

  She moved closer, unable to prevent a cringe when he seized her by the waist. He swept her off the chaise and dragged her close. Too close. His sandalwood scent enveloped her but, instead of enticing her as Lucien’s did, it made her stomach roil. Like Noir pouncing from behind a bush, his wicked intentions sprang into her mind. Rosalind’s sharp gasp held disbelief. Distress. Numb, she tried to pull away, to br
eak the contact between them, but his thoughts jumped in agitation. Pictures flickered through his mind so rapidly she had difficulty keeping up.

  Bother. Questioning him had stirred his temper, but one thing became crystal clear. Mansfield and Hawk were one and the same. She was in big trouble.

  “Don’t fight me,” Mansfield murmured next to her ear.

  “Whatcha want, mister?”

  The images dissolved in her mind, the urchin’s interruption giving her space. The man was mad. He…he… Words failed her. Of course, she’d seen like images of naked women in other men’s minds. Lustful thoughts, but to see herself naked brought a surge of fear.

  Mansfield plucked a coin from his pocket. “Stay with my horses and take them to the King’s Head when the road is cleared. I’ll give you another coin when you get there.”

  The urchin rubbed his sleeve across his runny nose, his gaze following the glint of the gold coin in Mansfield’s hand. Finally, he nodded. Mansfield tossed the coin; the boy caught it, inspected it and clamped it between his teeth. Satisfied, he nodded again. “King’s ’ead.”

  Mansfield dragged her against his chest. “As soon as you can.” He smoothed a possessive hand over her head, keeping her close and under his control.

  Rosalind forced back panic when another vision of her unclothed body appeared in his mind. Her mind slammed shut but to no avail. As always, in times of stress, she could not block, and Mansfield’s licentious thoughts pushed through the flimsy screen.

  “You can’t do this. I’m married to Lucien,” she said, her shock spilling out into her words.

  Mansfield’s grip tightened on her upper arm. With one hand, he forced her head up, so she met his gaze. “The rumors, are they true?”

  Rosalind wrenched her gaze from his intense brown eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Look at me.”

  Reluctant, she only followed his order after a long pause. His brown eyes held intelligence, cunning, and shrewdness that warned her to tread warily.

  “Are you a witch?”

  “Of course not.” Scorn filled her retort.

  His eyes narrowed, and he smirked. The grin sent a shaft of alarm dancing down her spine. A vision slid into her mind with clandestine stealth, there before she knew it. A couple in bed. Naked. Before she even viewed the faces of the couple, all rational thought screamed to take care. Do not react.

  “Why are we going to the King’s Head?” She affected a casual air by imagining a hot, sunny summer day—an excursion with Miranda and her cousin’s friends to the river bordering her uncle’s estate.

  “This holdup has made us late. We’ll miss the tide. The landlord at the King’s Head is a friend. We will stay there overnight and resume our journey in the morning.”

  At least the delay gave her more time to escape. Once Mansfield had her aboard a ship, her chances of flight were nil.

  Gray clouds skittered across the sky. A stiff breeze plucked at the black cloak Mansfield had insisted she wear. Rosalind shivered despite the warmth of the thick wool. It was late enough in the afternoon for people to remark on their disappearance. She imagined the gossip and Lucien’s reaction to her absence.

  An icy coldness gathered in the pit of her stomach. Lucien would believe in her innocence.

  He had to.

  18 – A Pretty Pickle

  Oberon trotted down the village street, lazily swishing his tail, while Lucien eyed the progress of the repairs. Much slower than he’d hoped. He slid from Oberon’s back and, leading his mount, walked the length of the rutted road, studying the work still required. A builder rounded the corner of a rundown cottage awaiting refurbishment.

  Lucien hailed him. “Thomas, what’s the holdup?”

  The man glanced at his scarred face and averted his eyes. “Supplier in the next village let us down. The load of timber never arrived.”

  “Has anyone checked with the supplier?” Lucien pretended he didn’t notice the man’s reaction.

  Thomas shook his head. “I’ll send someone now.”

  “I’ll go,” Lucien said. “Unless you need me here.”

  “There’s nowt more to do until the timber arrives.”

  Lucien mounted up and let Oberon have his head. They sped along a narrow country lane, spooking a pheasant from the thicket. Oberon snorted and faltered, but Lucien urged him on, past the startled bird. The sky had darkened since he’d left the castle, the sun had faded, and now large drops of rain splattered the track. After a dry spell, they needed the rain but not now, when the roofing was still underway.

  Lucien leaned his weight forward and patted Oberon’s glossy black neck. “Let’s make this a fast trip, boy.”

  Three-quarters of an hour later, after taking every shortcut he knew, they trotted down the main road of Whittlebury. Lucien frowned at the size of the mob thronging the streets. He knew it was market day on a Wednesday, but the crowds dispersed by midday. Carts laden with bales of straw and turnips jostled with carriages, men on horseback and pedestrians. A wooden cage full of roosters and hens on a handcart added to the din with their cackling and crowing. Traffic through the main thoroughfare had slowed to a crawl and tempers appeared frayed.

  “Move along!” the driver of an overloaded cart hollered. His whip snaked out, arcing over his horses with a sharp whistle.

  “’Ere! Watch where you’re cracking that whip,” another man roared.

  The driver ignored the man, and his cart shot into a gap, the wheels squeaking in protest, while his load of straw teetered, perilously unstable.

  Lucien urged Oberon onward.

  “Look at ’is face,” a woman shouted to her companion.

  The companion crossed herself and edged away from Lucien as if he suffered from the plague. “’Tis the mark of the devil.”

  Lucien pretended he hadn’t heard, but the words stung. They made him think of Rosalind and how protective she acted when people stared. She’d have taken the women to task for their rudeness. The strength of his need to see her, to steal a kiss and haul her into his bed again, took him by surprise. Impatient to complete his task, Lucien drew Oberon to a halt and dismounted, deciding to lead his horse. Progress along the packed street was slow and frustrating, so he ducked through the narrow lane that ran parallel to the main road.

  That, too, was crammed with pedestrians. Oberon took exception to the crowd, tossing his head and dancing at Lucien’s side.

  “Steady.” Lucien nodded at an elderly man who hobbled toward him with the aid of a stout stick. “What’s the problem? Why is the street blocked?”

  “Cart o’turned. An’ some fancy nob left ’is ’orse an’ chaise and blocked the road. Right mess, it is.”

  “How far down?” Lucien asked. “Do I need to keep on this lane or is the road clear now?”

  “Should be clear now. Damn fool nob. Think they can do what they like.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Lucien inclined his head in a sign of respect.

  A rusty chuckle emerged. “I ain’t no sir, but I’ll take yer thanks right enough.” He bobbed his head and resumed his laborious journey, the tapping of his stick echoing in the lane as he departed.

  Lucien turned back onto the main road and came to such a sudden halt Oberon nudged him in the back. The scar on his cheek tingled. That wasn’t just some fancy nob’s coach. That was the St. Clare chaise. What the devil was it doing in Whittlebury? And where the hell was Rosalind? Anxiety for his wife warred with fear. She was safe with Charles and Mansfield, eating Lady Radford’s famous cherry tarts and drinking lemon barley water. Where were Charles and Mansfield?

  “Hold my horse.” Lucien thrust the reins at a startled man and elbowed his way through the cheering crowd surrounding the chaise.

  “’Ere, stop pushing. I got money on this ’ere fight.” A man glared at Lucien but turned away when he saw his scarred visage.

  The advantage given by his height allowed Lucien to see the two urchins more clearly than most. It sh
ould have been an uneven match, with one much bigger than the other, but the smaller child appeared determined. Fists swung. Feet kicked out. Elbows dug. Fingers gouged. The crowd cheered each landed blow, shouting encouragement to both boys.

  “Get him, Jamie, boy! I have my money on you!” a woman shrieked.

  “What’s the fight about?” Lucien demanded of the man nearest him.

  “They be fighting over taking the chaise to King’s Head. Nob said he’d give the boy a gold coin.”

  “One man?” Lucien said, his tone sharp. That made little sense unless someone had stolen the chaise.

  “Aye. Big, he was.”

  A sharp screech from the larger urchin claimed the man’s attention. Lucien wanted to shake him and demand answers. He grabbed the man by the shoulder. “I need his description.”

  “Big, I said. A nob dressed in fancy clothes.”

  Lucien turned away in frustration to question a woman holding a small girl by the hand. On seeing him, the child burst into noisy tears. Hell’s teeth! Lucien aimed for a reassuring smile, but the child wailed even louder and buried her face in her mother’s woolen skirts.

  “Did you see the man who drove the chaise?” Lucien attempted to keep his building frustration from his voice, despite wanting to holler at the stupid people who judged by appearances. Damn it, he was more than a scar. He was a man. He battled for calm, inhaling deeply. “Please, ma’am. Did you see the man?”

  The woman gave an abrupt shake of her head and stepped away, her face frozen in an expression of distaste.

  In that moment, Lucien realized people at Castle St. Clare didn’t react to his scar as much as when he’d first returned. Most of them treated him as the heir despite his surly moods and ruined face. He tucked the thought away for later and resumed his questioning. Instinct suggested something was wrong. He must find Rosalind.

  “He was big,” a bulky man said.

  “Flashed ’is blunt around,” another commented.

  “What color was his hair?” Lucien asked, striving for patience.

  “Black.”