After scanning for danger, Rosalind shot away from the King’s Head. Somewhere to hide. A plan. Quickly, before Mansfield discovered she’d escaped. She ran, lifting her skirts, so she didn’t trip.
Once clear of the King’s Head, she ducked into a narrow alley. Her chest heaved as she struggled for composure.
Lucien.
Good grief. She wasn’t thinking clearly. Mansfield had probably incarcerated Lucien at the King’s Head too, if he hadn’t killed him already. Fool. She’d have to go back and search for him.
Or find someone who knew of his location. She swallowed. She’d have to use her gift again, perhaps intimidate another person with stories of witchcraft.
Rumors would fly about St. Clare, and now Whittlebury, like mythical witches on broomsticks. People would point and jeer, if they didn’t burn her first. All hope of a normal life with Lucien seemed far away. Saving Lucien would spell doom for her hopes of a secure future. Rosalind dithered, trying to decide on a course of action—help Lucien or seek aid from someone else. It was so late she had no idea who to turn to for help.
“Good day, dearie.” A filthy hand grasped her arm while another pinched her bottom. “Fancy company?”
Rosalind started. Panic pumped through her veins before she regained control. She straightened and glared down her nose at the leering men. “Let me go.” Act like a weakling, and you become weak.
“Hoity-toity! Too good for a tumble with us.”
Rosalind scowled. “Do you know who I am?”
As she spoke, she opened her mind, letting one of the men’s thoughts wash through her. For the second time today, she embraced her gift and shoved away the consequences. Too bad if people discovered her differences. Lucien’s life depended on her finding help. She loved him and could never live with the knowledge she hadn’t tried her best to save him.
Aha! “Prudence won’t mind?” she asked, quirking one eyebrow at the man holding her captive.
The man jerked from her touch. Even in the poor light, she saw his face pale. But his friend laughed.
“What are you laughing about?” Rosalind glowered at the other man who still groped her backside with one wandering hand. “Your woman will cut your balls off if she catches you with your hands on another.”
The man removed his hands so quickly, Rosalind fell against the cold mud walls of a building. She’d only repeated his thoughts, but her cheeks felt fiery hot because of the coarse language she’d used.
“Yer a witch,” he snarled, but his strong tone conflicted with his stance. Shock showed clearly on his round face.
Intimidate. Yes. Rosalind stalked the closest man. Twice as wide and a foot taller, he backed away as if plague pustules covered her face. She suppressed a grin as heady power rushed through her, lending strength and resolve.
Both men cringed. “Don’t put no spells on us. We won’t tell anyone we seen you,” the bum fondler pleaded.
What he meant was he valued his home comforts. He didn’t want his woman to discover his roving eye. “The King’s Head. Tell me about the public house. Where are the cellars? Below or out the back of the building?” Rosalind eyed the men. When they stared at her in mute silence, she took one threatening step toward them. “Who runs the public house?”
“Digby,” the hulk blurted. “The building be old. Two buildings joined.”
“Cellars?” Rosalind demanded.
“Rooms out the back.”
“There be cellars below,” the fondler added.
Rosalind nodded. The men backed from the alley. “Is there a cellar man or does Digby look after his own?”
The men edged away until she could see only the one dark silhouette.
“Digby.” The man’s voice shook, but Rosalind wasn’t sure if it was her or Digby the men feared most. She wanted to demand more answers, but the echoing thud of footsteps told her the cowards were fleeing. She made a click of disgust at the back of her throat. Two men twice her size, intimidated by her. Fancy that.
Rosalind exited the far end of the lane and scanned the road. Light spilled from the King’s Head, and customers overflowed from inside onto the street. Her light-colored gown stood out like a beacon. Wind whistled down the road, tearing her hair, plucking at her skirt. She yanked her hair away from her face and melted into the shadows of the buildings. A baker. A drapery. A blacksmith’s forge. The King’s Head took up the rest of the street.
When Rosalind reached the smithy, she turned down the alley running between it and the drapery. A stench made her nostrils flare. The farther she crept into the lane, the worse the smell became. Her eyes watered. Her stomach flipped in protest, but Rosalind kept moving. She needed to find a rear entrance to the public house before Mansfield discovered her absence.
The overhang from the roof obliterated every scrap of illumination. A disgusting squelch came from beneath her shoes. Swallowing her rising bile, she hastened her pace. Cautious steps sounded behind her, ratcheting up both fear and her vivid imagination. Rosalind ran. Her gown caught on something sharp. She yanked. The rip of fabric sounded before she wrenched free. Rosalind burst from the alley, panic lending her speed.
“Who’s there?” A man’s voice, low and husky, did nothing to slow her galloping fear.
She froze, trying to decide if he was friend or foe.
A dog’s growl sounded, mean and threatening.
“Don’t let him hurt me,” Rosalind begged. “Someone’s chasing me.”
“Show yerself.” The blunt voice sounded as frightening as the dog’s warning rumble.
Rosalind clutched her skirts and crept into the light. Off to her right, a huge man restrained a black dog by its collar. His massive biceps and muscular shoulders told her she’d run into the blacksmith. But friend or foe? She halted close enough for him to see her, but far enough away for her to run if he meant harm.
“Sit,” he ordered the dog.
The dog sat but didn’t take its eyes off Rosalind. Neither did the blacksmith.
“Lass, what are you doing out at this time of night? ’Tis not safe. A wee bit of a thing like you. The men from the King’s Head will eat you for dinner and spit out yer bones.”
Rosalind eyed him cautiously. “My husband is imprisoned at the King’s Head.” Tense, she studied his reaction. If he showed the slightest malice, she’d make a run for it.
He scratched at his sparse gray hair. “Aye. Strange goin’ on there. I try to stay out of it, mind, but a man gets curious.”
Rosalind edged closer. “Could you tell me where they’d keep a man imprisoned?”
“Cellars out back.” He nudged his head to the right. “Along there. Maybe upstairs.”
“Thank you.” Rosalind edged past the dog, heading toward the public house.
“I know you,” the smithy said. “You be the witch from St. Clare.”
“I’m not a witch,” Rosalind protested. Lady Sophia and her malicious gossip had spread rumors faster and farther than Rosalind liked.
The man frowned. “You have healing powers.”
Rosalind acquiesced with a bob of her head.
“Aye.” He nodded as if pleased he’d recognized her. “Thought as much. You be the one who saved my sister’s child when she ate poison berries. Thought she’d die, we did. Right grateful we are. I’ll come with you.”
The man looked like a mountain. He’d attract attention she could ill afford. Still, she was touched at his offer. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”
He hesitated. “If yer sure. Tell you what. If you need aid, summon me. There be plenty urchins about keen to earn coin.”
At last a man who wasn’t terrified of her gift. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”
She left the smithy and tiptoed through the shadows. Light glowed from the public house, spreading out and dispersing the shadows, so there was nowhere to hide. With her luck, someone would appear the moment she left hiding. Still, she couldn’t hover here till morning because they’d notice her absence by then.
/> For long seconds, she dithered. Then she ran to the door at the rear of the public house, climbing the two steps that led into a porch. She grasped the handle and tugged. It was locked. Cocking her head, she listened, her ear close to the door. It sounded as though this entrance led into the main taproom. They’d hardly stash Lucien there. Frowning, Rosalind slid from the shelter of the porch and glanced farther along the building. A small, dilapidated structure, attached to the main part, caught her attention. The door looked almost new. Rosalind glanced both left and right, running across to investigate.
“Lucien,” she called in a low undertone. She gave the door a tentative knock with the back of her hand. “Are you in there?”
“Rosalind?” Shock and disbelief coated his voice.
He was there! Relief made tears well in her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but he spoke first.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
Rosalind’s eyes narrowed. He might be her husband, but he was also an ungrateful lout.
“Rosalind, are you there?”
“Of course I’m here.” After she freed her husband, she’d smack him over the head with a sharp object. That would knock sense into his addled brain. “I’m going to get you out. Do you know where the key is?”
“Listen. Leave me. Find help. Summon Charles, no, not him—the magistrate, but whatever you do, keep away from Mansfield. He’s dangerous.”
“I know,” Rosalind snapped. “He kidnapped me. The man’s not only dangerous, he’s deranged and a smuggler. He murdered Mary. He’s the one you’ve been searching for. Mansfield is Hawk.”
“Hawk? The bastard. Rosalind!” Lucien roared. His voice carried a distinct edge this time. “For once in your life, do as you’re told. Summon help.”
Rosalind sighed. Unfortunately, without the key, she wouldn’t have a chance of setting him free. The door consisted of strong English oak. “All right.” She’d go for help but intended to return.
She ran back in the direction she’d come from, uncaring if anyone spotted her. Help was closer to hand than Charles. It was time to call in that favor.
It sounded as though she made a lot of noise as she raced to the smithy. Yet no one challenged her. A light shone from beneath the closed rear door of the blacksmith’s premises. Her fists pummeled the door. “Smithy!”
“’Old yer horses. I’m coming. Aye,” the giant man said, his voice a low rumble as he unlocked the door. “It’s you.”
Rosalind met his fearsome gaze without a flinch. “I’ve found my husband. Please, I need your help.”
The man stepped back inside. Rosalind’s jaw sagged. He wasn’t going to help? But then he returned, a rifle in his hands. Rosalind stared at the menacing weapon and opened her mouth to protest.
“Where is he? The cellar?”
Rosalind snapped her mouth shut. He was right. A weapon might prove necessary. She nodded. “Yes, if the small building to the side of the King’s Head is the cellar.”
“Stay here,” the smithy ordered, stuffing the gun out of sight beneath his grubby coat.
Her chin shot up. She was not staying put. And she was sick of men telling her they’d take care of her. She stepped forward and halted when the smithy gazed at her. Finally, she nodded. “He’s in the room over there. The door’s locked.” She’d wait just inside the door until he left.
Unhurried and heavy footsteps sounded. Rosalind strained for every sound, her heart thumping against her ribs. When she could no longer discern his presence, she slipped from the smithy’s premises and followed.
At the corner of the public house, she paused. The smithy was at the door and, judging by the sounds, he was trying to break the lock. She sidled closer, but just as she was about to announce her presence, a man exited the rear door of the public house. Tall and familiar.
Mansfield.
Rosalind pressed against the wall to hide. When he rounded the small porch, he’d see the smithy at the locked door. Mansfield paused, glancing over his shoulder. Dread blossomed inside Rosalind. If he saw her or the smithy, the escape attempt would be over before it started, and she’d end up in France before they discovered her missing. Everyone at St. Clare would assume she and Lucien were together. The cowardly part of her wanted to close her eyes and pretend none of this was happening. Except, if she did that, Mansfield would grab her before she could escape.
While she dithered over what to do, Mansfield ambled down the steps, continuing on his way and passing her. Do something! her mind screamed.
“My lord! The woman’s escaped.”
Rosalind whirled around. It was the overweight woman who’d come to her room with dinner. Where the devil had she come from? Rosalind tried to blend into the shadows, making herself small and unobtrusive.
Mansfield’s savage curse colored the air.
“There she is!” the woman cried.
“Where?” Mansfield demanded, his voice curt.
“Over there.”
Rosalind bounded away like a startled rabbit. No longer sticking to the shadows, she hoisted her skirts and sprinted to the smithy’s forge, away from Lucien. Hopefully, Mansfield would give chase.
“Rosalind, sweetheart. Don’t run. You won’t get away.” Amusement filled Mansfield’s voice, inciting anger in her. Rosalind, sweetheart, indeed!
The fat woman’s screeches receded, and all Rosalind could hear were her own ragged pants.
Footsteps thundered behind her. Rosalind glanced over her shoulder, panicking now because Mansfield’s longer legs made a mockery of the race. He splashed through puddles, his footsteps sounding louder and louder. She shot another glance over her shoulder. Mansfield was much closer than she’d thought. He’d almost caught her.
Rosalind’s legs trembled. Her ankle throbbed. Blood roared through her head. Then she stumbled in a rut on the road, and Mansfield seized her. He grabbed her shoulder and hauled her around. An elaborate wig covered his head, snowy white with fresh powder. His silk frockcoat glinted in the soft light pouring from an open window above them. Raucous laughter and loud voices floated down to her. A private dining room, she decided. None of the occupants would be interested in the drama unfolding below.
His breathing had barely changed, but his eyes glowed from the thrill of the chase. He grinned crookedly. “You refuse to do this the easy way, don’t you, sweetheart?”
“I am not your sweetheart.” Her chest heaved. Noting his masculine interest, she folded her arms. “Don’t look at me like that.”
His grin never wavered, and it was his confidence that sent a sliver of alarm racing down her spine. “You’re mine.” He trailed one finger down her cheek. “Perhaps I should have pushed the matter earlier. So you’d believe it as much as me.”
Rosalind swallowed the bloom of panic. Where was Lucien? The smithy? Help would arrive soon. All she needed to do was delay Mansfield. Between them, they would outsmart Mansfield and quash his tentacle-like hold on the St. Clare family and village. “I’m not, and will never be, yours.”
Temper clouded his face, and he shook her.
“Poaching, Mansfield?” Lucien stepped from the shadows. “That always was your style. You were a spoiled child wanting the toys Charles and I had. I see nothing has changed.”
“Damn it! How did you escape? Never mind.” He pulled a pistol from beneath his coat, aiming it at Lucien. “Rosalind, behind me, if you please.”
She didn’t please at all. Her chin lifted in defiance. He’d have to shoot her first, and she doubted he’d do that. The smithy had freed Lucien. She scanned the area but couldn’t see the man. Had he gone for help?
“Rosalind.” Both men spoke at once. Lucien brooked no refusal. Mansfield’s voice held sharpness and a trace of something suspiciously like panic.
He hadn’t expected her to gainsay him. Good. She glanced at Lucien, seeking direction. His face appeared drawn. Pale. Dried blood smeared one side of his face, giving him a grotesque appearance. Concern for her husband creased her brow
.
“Rosalind, stand aside now, or I’ll shoot.” Mansfield gestured at Lucien with the gun, and she understood the silent threat. He intended to shoot Lucien, not her.
“I didn’t think shooting was your style either,” Lucien drawled. “In my experience, you prefer skulking in the shadows. The secretive and cowardly approach or you pay someone else to do your dirty work.”
“Shut up.” Although his voice barely rose, Mansfield’s face darkened with anger. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have to work in the darkness. Move, over there where I can see you. Don’t give me an excuse to shoot. I’m happy to make Rosalind a widow.”
He would kill Lucien this time, no matter what he said to the contrary. The determination on his face told her the truth.
Rosalind glanced at Lucien again, but his gaze remained fixed on Mansfield. Frustration made her jaw tighten. She could help. Why didn’t Lucien do something?
Mansfield made a small sound of impatience. “Rosalind, for the last time, move. Now.”
Oh, good idea. She edged behind Mansfield so she was out of his sight.
“Rosalind, I want you where I can see you.” He never took his gaze from Lucien. “Rosalind?”
Rosalind leaped on Mansfield’s back, clinging like holly on the North Tower. Her hands seized his wig. She twisted it so the powder sprayed in all directions and the hair hung in his face, obscuring his vision. Mansfield’s elbow jerked upward, catching her a glancing blow on the side of the head. She saw stars and slid from his back.
A gun discharged. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. A hand fisted in her hair, tugging painfully hard.
“Get up now.” Mansfield’s voice held fury, no longer the charming rogue.
It felt as if he were ripping her hair out by the roots. Tears smarted her eyes. Waves of agony pounded through her head. A groan sounded, then the explosive crunch of a fist smacking against bone. The firm grip on her hair loosened, bringing with it pained relief.
Rosalind wiped the back of her hand over her eyes and looked up. Lucien and Mansfield were trading punch for punch. What had happened to the smithy? Had Lucien sent him for help?
The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen Page 27