Lucien caught Mansfield with a heavy blow to the jaw. He stepped back and almost fell over her. She crawled out of range.
The smithy wasn’t present, but the fat woman from the inn had stayed to watch. The woman crept up behind Lucien with a heavy earthenware urn in her hands.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Scrambling to her feet, Rosalind rushed the woman, screeching at the top of her lungs. Lucien depended on her. He couldn’t handle both Mansfield and the woman at the same time.
She charged, her head butting the soft roundness of the woman’s stomach, throwing herself at her even though she was half the size. The air bled from the woman in a hoarse groan. Rosalind struck out with her elbows, using them as weapons.
“I’ll get you, little bitch,” the woman howled. She raised her hands above her head and smashed the urn down, aiming for Rosalind. The woman stumbled, and a rush of air whistled past Rosalind’s ear.
“Rosalind!” Urgency filled Lucien’s voice.
Something thudded. A groan sounded. A fist whizzed past her face. The fat woman staggered and dropped to the ground with an earth-shaking crash.
“Rosalind?” Impatient hands grabbed her, clutched her roughly and smoothed her hair from her face. “Are you all right? Where do you hurt? God, I told you to leave this to me. I’d wish you’d listen for once in your life!”
Her head hurt, her scalp smarted, and her ankle ached like the devil. Rosalind’s lips curled up in a lazy grin. “Good to see you too.”
A blur of movement behind Lucien caught her attention. “Behind you!”
A gunshot sounded. Blood bloomed on Lucien’s shirtsleeve. Rosalind screamed.
“My game, I believe.” Mansfield swayed behind Lucien, a smoking pistol in his right hand. Triumph blazed from his face. “My woman.”
He shoved Lucien away like pig swill and held out a hand to her. “Come, my dear. It is time for us to leave for Rye. The boat awaits. We’ll depart now and board early, ready for departure at full tide.”
“I think not, Mansfield. I hold the winning card.” Lucien indicated the group of men behind him, led by the smithy. “You can’t shoot all of them.”
“God, I should have had you killed in France,” Mansfield snarled. “They were meant to leave you for dead. You have the luck of the devil—more lives than a damn cat.”
Lucien’s face blanked of expression, and Rosalind bled inside for him. She knew how much he’d loved his wife.
“Why didn’t you? You killed my wife. My child.”
“I wanted you to suffer like I’d suffered when the woman I loved pledged to you. Besides, you had no idea who you were. I hoped you’d wander around France or return to Italy. If I’d known you’d travel to St. Clare, I’d have shot you myself.”
“Maybe you should have done a better job in Italy, then you would have been rid of me once and for all.”
Rosalind’s mouth dropped open. Both men were talking as if… Her gaze shot to Lucien’s face. He’d regained his memory! She was pleased for him. No matter how it might change her future, at least Lucien was past the struggle with his memory and the frustration of groping with the unknown.
“What do you want done with him, my lord?” The smithy approached Mansfield with wary respect.
“Tie him up and lock him in the cellar. The woman too. We’ll send them to the authorities once it’s light.”
After a brief struggle, the smithy restrained Mansfield. Lucien watched as they shoved him inside the cellar. Two of the men lifted the woman to her feet and dragged her, kicking and screaming, to the cellar as well.
“Rosalind?” Lucien held out his hand to help her up.
“You’ve got your memory back.”
Lucien studied his petite wife, in awe of her steadfast determination to save him despite the danger to herself. Her bravery eclipsed that of most men. “I have.” If Mansfield had harmed her or done anything untoward, he’d kill the man with his bare hands. “Did Mansfield do anything?” He hesitated, unable to voice his fears.
“I’m fine. He didn’t force himself on me, although he intended to later on, once we arrived in France.”
Relief filled Lucien first, then warmth swept his body followed by the desperate need to reassure himself she was in good health.
“I’m glad your memory has returned,” she said.
“Are you glad you’re married to George St. Clare, Viscount Hastings?” He didn’t want sympathy, but her answer mattered. He wanted a woman who’d meet him on equal terms, a woman who looked him straight in the face without a flinch.
She grinned and stepped close enough for Lucien to share the warmth coming from her skin, the scent of lavender and Rosalind.
“It’s Lucien I fell in love with,” she whispered. Her words shivered through him, making him wish they were alone in his chamber. Her chin lifted while her blue eyes glinted with determination. “I don’t believe there was a George anywhere in the equation.”
Despite the men milling around them, Lucien bent his head to kiss his bride. The moment their lips touched, Lucien knew he was home.
Really home.
20 – Home Again
The open carriage lurched and swayed over the uneven road. In the early dawn, the wind whistled in from the coast, bringing the invigorating tang of the sea.
Rosalind sat beside Lucien on the hard bench seat. With each successive rut in the road, she bounced hard enough to make her teeth rattle. She clutched the carriage sides, her body tense and uncomfortable. Yet, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Thank you for arranging for Annie to come to work at Castle St. Clare,” Rosalind said. “I felt guilty about locking her up and leaving her to face that horrid woman.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Tickell will be glad of the help.” Lucien urged the horses on, glancing around to check on Oberon, who trotted behind the carriage.
The castle appeared on the horizon. Squat and ugly, with glaring eyes, it looked like a nightmarish creature lying in wait for the unwary traveler.
She turned to smile at her husband, her heart lighter than it had for a long time. “We’re home.”
He transferred the reins to one hand and reached over to squeeze her knee. “So we are.” Satisfaction coated his voice. “Ugly, isn’t it?”
The carriage clattered past the crumbling gatehouse and the grimacing gargoyles. Rosalind regarded them fondly.
The sky darkened when they drove through the avenue of trees leading to the castle courtyard. “I must arrange for a man from the village to trim the trees,” Lucien remarked.
Rosalind recalled her initial arrival and the fright she and Mary had suffered. Her smile wavered as sorrow sliced deep. “Mansfield murdered Mary. She knew he was up to no good. She should have come to me instead of threatening him.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. We will remember her with fondness. She was a good friend to you.”
The carriage creaked to a halt. Lucien tossed the reins to a stable lad and walked around to help Rosalind alight. His muscles flexed as he lifted her, despite the bandage with which she’d bound his arm earlier. Thank goodness it had been nothing more than a scratch, Mansfield’s shot going wider than he’d intended.
Secure in his arms, Rosalind smiled at him and, when his intense gaze met hers, her pulse raced.
Her husband.
Charles sauntered from the Great Hall, a picture of elegance in dark gray breeches and a mauve waistcoat. “Rosalind! Lucien. Where have you been? Where’s Mansfield? We’ve searched the village and the castle high and low.”
“It’s been a long night, and the story is even longer. Rosalind and I are hungry. Can we discuss this in the breakfast room?”
Ten minutes later, they joined the earl and Charles at the table while Tickell plied them with buttered toast and saw their cups were full of chocolate and coffee. Rosalind bit the inside of her cheek to keep laughter at bay. The man’s ears were flapping so hard it was a wonder he didn’t take flight like a bird.
“We’re sorry we alarmed you.” Rosalind squeezed the elderly woman’s hand, touched at the concern she perceived during the quick contact. Lady Augusta rarely rose from her bed this early.
Lucien explained.
“Mansfield kidnapped you?” Charles’s voice held disbelief, despite the dried blood covering Lucien’s shirt.
Lady Augusta rapped her knife against her china plate. “I don’t believe it.”
“I do.” The earl sighed, looking older than his years. “It was because of me.”
Pity filled Rosalind along with sorrow for the angry young boy and the misguided adult who’d hurt him. “Yes. He’s a bitter man.”
“What nonsense are you babbling about, girl?” Lady Augusta snapped.
The earl sighed again. “Mansfield is my son.”
Tickell dropped a serving spoon. It clattered to the floor with a metallic clink. A choked sound came from Lady Augusta. Her face paled, and she slumped in her chair. “Say it isn’t true, St. Clare.”
“It’s true.” Lucien wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and dropped it on the table. He looked at his father, ignoring everyone else in the breakfast room. Rosalind’s hand crept under the table to clutch his and took comfort from his warmth. “I’ve regained my memory, Father. While I was in Italy, Mansfield blurted it out one night after we’d drunk several bottles of wine and brandy. I called him a liar. We fought. He left the inn with Charles and the others while I stayed. On my way home, I met with Mansfield and was attacked and left for dead.”
Tears filled the earl’s eyes as he stared at his son. His mouth worked, but no words emerged, so great was his emotion. It had Rosalind’s throat tightening, and even Lady Augusta surreptitiously wiped the moisture from her eyes.
Charles shot to his feet. “Mansfield was responsible for that? No, Mansfield is family. He wouldn’t do that.”
Lucien tensed, only relaxing when Rosalind squeezed his hand.
“Everything Lucien says is true. Mansfield kidnapped me,” Rosalind said. “He intended to kill Lucien and force me to marry him.”
Charles sank back to his chair, his face somber and concerned.
Lucien knew they were shocked. But there was yet more, and it was best they learned it all. “Mansfield led the smuggling ring in the village.”
“Mansfield was Hawk?” the earl asked. “Ah, that explains his absences. He skulked about as Hawk, letting us believe he was in London.”
Lucien gave an abrupt nod. “He found it a useful way to fill his pockets and keep tabs on the comings and goings at Castle St. Clare at the same time. He explored the old caves and came across the tunnels, so he used them to his advantage.”
“So he was responsible for the kitchen caving in,” Tickell said.
Rosalind spoke up. “From what he told me, his men were extending the passages underneath the castle so they could move their goods inland without fear of discovery. The old excise man retired six months ago, and his replacement is younger and more rigorous in carrying out his duties. The rumor in the village is of more excise men being employed to stamp out the illegal trading along the East Coast.”
“They’ll find it difficult,” Charles said. “The local aristocracy are the smugglers’ biggest customers. Even the vicar buys tea from them.”
“Mansfield is a fool,” Lady Augusta said. “We haven’t replaced all those servants yet. Good servants are difficult to find. The tunnels were probably an excuse. He was after the treasure.”
“No, Lady Augusta,” Rosalind said, much more politely than his aunt warranted. “Mansfield wasn’t looking for treasure. He told me it was Charles.”
Everyone turned to stare at Charles.
“You?” Lady Augusta barked.
Charles shuffled on his chair like a child being disciplined for wrongdoing. “Yes. I discovered several references in a diary I found tucked away in the library. The treasure exists. There’s even a map.”
“A map?” Lady Augusta sniffed. “Rubbish!”
“It is not rubbish, Aunt,” Charles said with quiet dignity.
“Then why haven’t you found the treasure? Why have you kept it a secret?”
Everyone continued to watch Charles. Ruddy color collected high on his cheekbones, and he obviously wished he was elsewhere. “A mouse has eaten part of the map,” he said.
“That doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell us,” Lady Augusta said, accusation snapping in her eyes.
“Because you treat me like an idiot,” Charles fired back. “Just as you are doing now.”
“Where is Mansfield?” the earl asked, butting in on his sister’s mumbling about stupid fools.
“He was locked in the cellar at the King’s Head in Whittlebury overnight,” Lucien said. “The magistrate moved him under guard to Dover, since the facilities are better there. He didn’t want Mansfield’s cohorts to overpower his jailors in Whittlebury to set him free. He’s to go on trial in Dover for kidnapping, attempted murder, and smuggling.”
“The magistrate probably buys brandy from Mansfield’s smugglers,” Charles muttered.
Even if this was the truth, the magistrate knew better than to free Mansfield. Lucien ignored the comment and turned to the earl.
His father made no pretense of eating, his plate lying untouched in front of him. He looked old and frail. “This is my fault. I was young and stupid, but I swear I never knew Mansfield was my child until Margery told me. By then, it was too late. I was married. Margery married soon after. Gerald didn’t know until later. We never spoke of it.” The earl’s faded blue eyes clouded as his mind drifted back to the past. “I never saw Margery or the boy until after Gerald died in the hunting accident. I tried to do my best for Mansfield, but he wanted more than I could give.”
Lucien felt a twinge of sympathy. His father hadn’t acted honorably, and now he suffered for it. “Father, Mansfield can’t hurt anyone now. Put it in the past where it belongs.”
The earl turned to him, his emotions still close to the surface. “I’ve waited a long time for you to call me Father. Glad you remembered.” He stood, and Tickell handed him a cane. “I’ll retire to my chamber.” He hobbled from the breakfast room. The cane tapped on the floor, highlighting his slow, pained progress.
Rosalind placed her eating utensils down. “I intend to retire to my chamber. Last night was a long one.”
“Would you like a maidservant to attend you, Lady Hastings?”
Lucien stood and moved behind Rosalind. “Send hot water for a bath, please, Tickell. I’ll attend my wife.”
Tickell barely blinked at the order. “Yes, my lord.”
“Scandalous,” Lady Augusta said. Charles laughed, and she nailed him with a dark glare. She gave a haughty sniff. “This treasure business is stuff and nonsense. A tale. There are no jewels. Tell me more about this map.”
Lucien took Rosalind’s arm. A sense of rightness accompanied the gesture. “It’s time for me to retire too,” he murmured next to her ear. “We’ll leave them to argue about the possibilities of treasure.”
Her blue eyes danced with silent humor. “Yesterday was tiring. I might sleep for two days.”
“Good morning,” Lucien said, nodding at his aunt and Charles. They strolled down the Long Gallery. Lucien saw the portraits with new eyes. His ancestors.
“It’s good to have family,” Rosalind remarked.
Lucien stared at her, amazed at her uncanny timing. “I was just thinking that. I know their names.”
“Yes.” She smiled gently, but her eyes were wary. “The villagers believe I’m a witch.”
“Rumors.”
“Yes, but like all rumors, there is an element of truth.” Although he knew of her gift, he hadn’t considered the tribulations involved on a day-to-day basis. “My ability to mind rea
d, for example. It doesn’t allow for much privacy, and that scares most people, especially if I speak out of turn and blab something I shouldn’t.”
Lucien halted beside a rusty suit of armor and stared at his wife. “Can you read my mind right now?”
“I could hazard a guess, but recall that I need to touch to get an accurate reading.” She peeked at her husband from beneath lowered lashes, suddenly craving physical contact with him.
His dark eyes danced, and a slow smile bloomed on his mouth. “I must remember not to touch you if I want to keep a secret.”
The tight grip around her heart loosened, but still, she wanted reassurance, to hear the words. “That’s it? That’s all you intend to say? Does my gift not frighten you? Appall you? It’s likely I’ll pass it on to our children.”
Frustration and bitterness shaded her tone.
“You’ll help our children, should they inherit your gift,” he said, knowing it was nothing less than the truth. “Do you read my thoughts all the time?”
“I can if I concentrate. When we were first married, it was more difficult, but now we…we…now it’s not.” The color in her cheeks deepened to a flattering pink, and her eyes lowered.
Since they’d made love. Lucien grinned as smug male pride filled him.
“I try to block your thoughts as much as possible because it’s like eavesdropping. It’s not a polite thing to do.”
“Except when you’re investigating strange goings-on at the castle,” Lucien said. “Then you endanger yourself by using the gift.” They paused outside Rosalind’s chamber for Lucien to push open the door.
“You’re making fun of me.”
Lucien stared down at her bowed head. While her gift wouldn’t make their marriage an easy one, their relationship would be passionate and loving. Of that, he was in no doubt. Rosalind might be tiny, but she was feisty. A vixen. He’d discovered he loved spirited women and this one in particular.
A maid looked up as they strolled into Rosalind’s chamber arm-in-arm.
“Leave us,” Lucien said, not removing his gaze from his wife. “Tell Tickell we’d like the bath sent to my chamber.”
The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen Page 28