The Spurned Viscountess

by Shelley Munro

  “Why did I know I would find you out here on your own?”

  Rosalind barely flinched at Hastings’s question. On an inner level, she’d known they would meet out here. It was becoming a ritual of sorts, meeting in the garden after dinner.

  “I was thinking about the day’s events,” she murmured, very aware of his scent, his closeness. “What did Matthew say?” In the soft light of the torches, Hastings’s face expressed surprise. “I know you talked to him.”

  Hastings hesitated then sat beside her. His thigh touched hers for an instant before he inched away. “Someone hit him on the head. He says he saw the man’s face but didn’t recognize him.”

  Rosalind nodded. That was exactly what she’d read when she’d touched his arm. He hadn’t lied. “Do you believe him?”

  “The man has a lump the size of a goose egg on the back of his head. It’s obvious he hit his head somehow. But he smelled like he’d bathed in whisky. He denies taking a drink. Why are you wearing that God-awful gown?” he asked, changing the subject with a suddenness that startled her.

  “Because someone stole every gown from my chamber while I slept.” Would he believe her?

  “I heard Lady Pascoe’s theory. Is she right?”

  “No, she’s not,” Rosalind snapped, incensed he would think such a thing.

  “Hmm.”

  Irritated, she leaped to her feet. “I wouldn’t do something like that.” Her cousin Miranda would, but the idea of Hastings thinking her capable of such childish schemes upset her. “There is something odd going on, Hastings. Today someone shot at me, Mary was tied up, Matthew was hit on the head, and someone tried to kill you. And when I woke up this evening, I discovered someone had removed every single gown from my dressing room.”

  Hastings shrugged. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable answer for everything that’s occurred. You interrupted men hunting. And I’m not convinced Matthew is telling the truth.”

  He didn’t believe that. Rosalind was convinced of it. If she were to read him, she was sure her theory would hold. She glanced at Hastings and found him staring out to sea. Using her sight was an obvious solution, but did she really want to know his thoughts? Did she want a reminder of how deeply he loved the woman he held inside his heart?

  Rosalind nibbled on her bottom lip. Who was the woman? Where was she now? Something awful must have happened to her, or else Hastings would never have married her. But what? Rosalind crept closer to Hastings as she worked up her nerve. She took a deep breath and slowly reached for his forearm and the sliver of tanned skin below his jacket cuff. Without warning, Hastings turned to face her. Her hand hovered in midair before dropping to her side.

  They stared at each other for a long time. Rosalind swallowed, a shudder of excitement streaking through her body. This close, she saw his scar in merciless detail. Yet she didn’t notice the puckered, ruined flesh anymore. She saw Hastings.

  The man.

  His dark eyes bored into hers, trapping her helplessly in his gaze. Rosalind realized she wanted this man, her husband, to love her in the way he loved the dark-haired mystery woman. And if reading him with her sight helped her to learn him, she would touch him and open herself up to possible hurt because there was no other alternative.

  This was the way forward to the future she envisioned for herself.

  “What are you staring at?” He sounded defensive, and she automatically reached out in the hope of soothing him, her fingers colliding with the back of his hand.

  The vision was more powerful with each touch. Crisp and clear, it was like being there. This time, she saw Hastings and the woman riding horses. They wore dusty clothes and maintained a slow pace so it was obviously a journey of some type. Two men rode with them, neither of them familiar to Rosalind.

  Suddenly the vision changed. Hastings stood alone in the bow of a boat. Ahead of him, a chalky cliff jutted from the sea. The coast of England. Questions burned at her lips. She scanned his face. The raw and primitive grief on Hastings’s face made her ache to comfort him. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hug him tight. She wanted to tell him all would be well. Feeling like a sneak, she jerked her hand from his warm skin.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, striving for a natural voice.

  The glazed look of despair disappeared from his face, replaced by gritty determination. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your thoughts didn’t look pleasant.”

  His firm mouth twisted with annoyance. “It was nothing.”

  “There’s something strange happening at Castle St. Clare.” Rosalind was determined to persuade him the unusual occurrences weren’t the product of her overactive imagination. “What about your accident today? Have you discovered more?”

  The flicker of impatience that slid across his face made her teeth grit together. Those men had wanted her dead. She would make him believe—if it was the last thing she did.

  “It’s time we returned to our guests.”

  Rosalind planted her hands on her hips, desperate for him to understand. “I’m watched all the time.”

  “Servants,” he drawled with distinct mockery. “The castle is full of them.”

  “Not in my room.” To her annoyance, her hands shook. Rosalind promptly hid them behind her back. “I feel as though I’m being watched every time I’m alone in my room. And before we were married, I was—” She stopped midsentence. It wasn’t difficult to see that Hastings thought she was imagining things or, worse, trying to attract his attention by making up tales. She intercepted his sardonic look and instantly her face burned with humiliation.

  “Come,” he said, clearly impatient. “Our guests await.” In a silent order to obey, he offered his arm to escort her back inside the castle.

  Both frustrated and irritated, Rosalind wanted to stomp her foot and shout at him for his foolishness. He should listen to her. But instead, she meekly accepted his escort. She’d have to think of another way and soon. Every instinct inside screamed that the escalating pranks would catch a victim before long.

  Hastings led her into the Chinese Drawing Room. “Would you like coffee or chocolate?”

  “Chocolate, thank you.” Her heart beat a little faster as their gazes met and held. Under his lazy appraisal, the deficiencies in her dress leaped out to taunt her.

  “Ah, Hastings. There you are. I’ve been looking for you.” Lady Sophia batted her eyelids at him. “Lady Hastings. How…ah…interesting you look. Would you like me to give you my seamstress’s card? Of course, she’s very expensive but worth every penny, I think.” She smoothed white gloves over her form-fitting blue-and-white gown.

  Rosalind’s backbone straightened and a rude word popped into her head. She wished Lady Sophia would cease her prattle and stop rubbing her breasts against Hastings’s arm. Censuring words trembled at the tip of her tongue, ready to spill forth, but Hastings took a half step away from Lady Sophia before she could utter them. The move brought him closer to her.

  “Would you like some new gowns?” Hastings’s voice sounded low and husky and sent a shower of tingles shooting through her body.

  Anticipation surged through her. Was it her imagination or was Hastings warming toward her? “I—”

  “I could come with you,” Lady Sophia butted in. “To help you select the perfect gowns to show off your…ah…coloring.” She turned to simper at Hastings’s chin and blinked rapidly while her mouth curved into an artful smile.

  It didn’t take much imagination for Rosalind to visualize the type of gowns she’d end up with if Lady Sophia had her way.

  Lady Pascoe thumped to a stop beside them and leaned heavily on her walking cane. “Gel, do you have something wrong with your eyes?” she demanded, squinting at Lady Sophia.

  “No, there’s nothing wrong with my eyes,” Lady Sophia said, puzzled.

  “Then why do you keep blinkin’ ’em as if you had bugs inside?” As usual, Lady Pascoe hollered.

  Rosalind caught her bottom lip betwe
en her teeth, trying in vain not to laugh. Two young men standing across the room were not so charitable. Their loud raucous guffaws were contagious, and Rosalind’s gaze dropped to concentrate on an intricate Oriental urn.

  “Really,” Lady Sophia snapped.

  “And what do you think of your wife’s gown, Hastings? Shocking, ain’t it?”

  Lady Sophia simpered. “The color is atrocious.”

  “Humph! Wasn’t talking to you.” Lady Pascoe peered up at Hastings, waiting for his answer.

  Rosalind froze, her knees knocking together beneath the skirts of the puce dress as everyone in the Chinese parlor collectively waited for his reply.

  Hastings slipped his arm around her waist and his mouth curled into an uncharacteristic smile. A sensuous smile that made Rosalind’s breath catch. “My wife has a pure heart.”

  The walking stick thumped on the floor. Lady Pascoe’s head bobbed under her powdered wig. “Prettily said, Hastings.”

  Several of the dinner guests readied to depart. Rosalind suppressed a yawn.

  “Go up to your chamber.” Hastings removed his arm from around her waist, leaving Rosalind bereft.

  “Good night.” Rosalind turned and slowly walked to the door.

  She couldn’t prevent a glance over her shoulder at her husband, but he was already deep in discussion with Lady Sophia. Simpering ninny! The way she fluttered her eyelashes at Hastings and acted so superior about gowns and the latest fashion irritated her in the extreme. Of course, Lady Sophia thought she knew everything. Rosalind snorted. She wasn’t stupid. Lady Sophia wanted her husband or at least his title. Humph! Not if she had anything to do with the matter.

  Then there was Hastings. Rosalind glared at a graceful statue depicting Diana, the huntress. Stubborn man. He’d rejected her warnings to take care even though a child could read the situation with ease.

  Rosalind stepped inside her chamber and slammed the door shut. Her sight wasn’t necessary to divine the evil present at Castle St. Clare. It was there for any idiot to see, and if Hastings refused to listen, she’d investigate on her own.

  She turned a slow circle, scrutinizing each wall in the flickering candlelight as if she’d never seen it before. Almost immediately, a sense of disquiet inched down her body, as if an unseen person spied on her. Malicious, perhaps dangerous. Her palms grew clammy with tension, but she bit back her fear and forced herself to continue her investigation. Noir, her kitten, crawled out of his basket in the corner. He yawned widely and ambled over to wind around her shaky legs.

  Where was Mary? The candles were freshly lit so she couldn’t have been gone for long. Then Rosalind remembered that Mary had gone to meet one of the male servants. Rosalind coughed to clear the knot of apprehension in her throat. At this very moment, she craved the sound of another voice and a friendly face. She crouched to scratch Noir behind the ears. Briefly, she considered summoning a maid on some pretext, only to reject the idea. This was something she must do on her own. She gave the kitten a final pat and stood.

  Forcing her jumpy nerves away, Rosalind marched to the closest wall to search for anything out of the ordinary. There must be a clue somewhere. She rapped her knuckles on the wall. A dull thud sounded. Rosalind knocked harder and scraped a hunk of skin from her knuckles.

  “Ouch.” She sucked at the trickle of blood.

  On hearing her sound of distress, the kitten padded over and meowed for her to pick him up. Laughing softly, she did as he demanded and he rewarded her with a noisy purr. The small half-drowned kitten she’d picked up off the beach was no longer recognizable. With his healthy appetite, Noir was growing at a rapid pace and getting into mischief.

  “Yes, getting into mischief,” she said, trying to keep her tone stern, but failing dismally when Noir licked her hand. “I’ve no idea how you escape from my chamber. Mary swears the door is shut when she leaves.”

  The kitten meowed in answer.

  “Yes, I think Mary is frightened of you.” She smoothed one hand over the kitten’s glossy black coat. “Mary thinks you’re a witch’s cat too, because of your extra toes, your yellow eyes and your black coat. Luckily, I’ve managed to keep the other maids from studying you too closely.”

  The wind wailed outside. Her candle flickered. In the distance, a shutter banged. Rosalind shivered. Another quick squall pelted the castle, blowing in from the sea without warning. The candle flame fluttered and died, plunging her chamber into darkness.

  “Bother.” After she’d been pushed from her bed, she’d taken to sleeping with a candle lighting the room. Or trying to. The blessed things kept blowing out. A chill crawled along her arms and a swooping, hollow sensation danced in her stomach. She stumbled to her bed and placed the kitten down out of harm’s way, every sense alert. The darkness seemed to pulse and reach for her like a living being. Whispers of evil slithered over her skin, leaving dozens of raised bumps.

  A creak drew a loud gasp. Was that a footstep? She swallowed, each breath sounding deafening to her ears. A soft rustle made her freeze. Was that the bed curtains? A footfall on the rug?

  Rosalind fumbled her way along the length of the four-poster bed to a walnut dresser. She groped for another candle. Fingers worked like thumbs as she struggled to light the taper.

  A loud squeak made her jump. Her head jerked. A breeze whispered against her cheek, and the candle blew out again. Rosalind smelled a whiff of the sea and something else…Tobacco?

  Noir’s distant meow galvanized her to action. She needed a candle lit. Now.

  “I’m not imagining things,” she said. “I’m not.”

  Her hand trembled as she struggled to produce light. Someone was inside the chamber with her. Another meow sounded as the flame on the candle finally flared to life. She held the candlestick aloft, every nerve in her body screaming to run. But she held fast. She intended to show Hastings that the specters at Castle St. Clare were not the product of an overactive imagination. There was mischief afoot and, no matter how terrified, she wanted to prove it.

  “Noir? Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” Rosalind crept about her chamber, searching for her pet. He was here somewhere. Right now, she craved contact with him to help steady her jangling nerves.

  She searched every corner, under her bed, and in her dressing room. Finally, she came to the only possible conclusion.

  Noir was no longer in the room even though she’d shut all the doors earlier.

  ***

  A plaintive meow attracted Lucien’s attention. He paused in the passage leading to his chamber. A black creature flitted under the oak table in an alcove. Rosalind’s kitten. A slow smile spread across his face as the kitten batted a dust mote along the ground. The kitten sidled closer and pounced. His whiskers twitched a second before a sneeze exploded.

  Lucien chuckled and scooped the kitten up in one hand, cradling it to his chest and smoothing his thumb over its furry head. A loud purr filled the silent passage.

  “I think Rosalind might miss you,” he murmured. The kitten rubbed his head against Lucien’s thumb, silently demanding the stroking recommence.

  Lucien strode down the silent passage to Rosalind’s chamber. It was adjacent to his, with a connecting door between the two rooms—a connecting door that remained firmly shut. So much for Lord St. Clare’s hope to bounce a grandchild on his knee. Pain spiked through Lucien’s heart. His unborn child had died along with Francesca. He would never have another child.

  He pounded on the door. Footsteps sounded and the door cracked open.

  “Hastings.” The gap between the door and the frame widened abruptly. “Hastings,” she repeated, her expression one of amazement and apprehension. Her right hand darted out to smooth her hair. She moistened her lips. “Ah, come in.”

  The delicate blush on her cheeks, visible even in candlelight, made him freeze. An internal alarm clanged and his scar tightened as he grimaced. A tick started under one eye. “I’ve come to return your kitten.” He spoke harshly, unable to believe the thoughts darti
ng across the English mouse’s face. Inconceivable! That she’d think…His brows pinched together. Good God. The woman…the last thing he wanted was to bed the scrawny English mouse. “Here.” He thrust the kitten at her.

  “Don’t you want children?” she blurted out, taking the kitten without touching him. Her cheeks glowed a fiery red but she met his scowl unflinchingly.

  “No! I do not want children.”

  Judging by the pained look on her face, he’d hurt her feelings. Unable to bear a sudden onslaught of guilt, Lucien retreated and reached the door in two steps. It clicked shut behind him, sounding abnormally loud. He winced. Hell’s teeth! All he’d done was act civilly, and straightaway she’d made assumptions. The English mouse and Lady Sophia both in the same night.

  Tension tightened his muscles while anger made him long to strike out—a wall, a man, anything to dispel the strain galloping through his body. His decision to keep a careful watch on his wife no longer seemed wise, not when his attentions made her jump to conclusions. Already, the woman featured too prominently in his thoughts.

  He shuddered and started for his room before abruptly changing both his mind and direction. If he retired for the night, he’d have trouble sleeping or, worse, have nightmares again. He might as well go to the cove and search for smuggler activity. Not all the men wore masks. He wanted to find an inconspicuous place to watch the unloading of a shipment. Hopefully he’d recognize some of the locals who were involved and be able to work out the weakest link—the man he could break or bribe and receive some straight answers about Hawk.

  The man had appeared mysteriously six months ago, from what he could gather. There must be someone who knew more. Lucien glanced out a nearby window. Thick cloud shrouded the sickle moon. The night appeared perfect for smugglers, and he was not about to pass up a chance to find the elusive Hawk.