The Spurned Viscountess

by Shelley Munro

  “Move! The excise men be coming!”

  Rosalind experienced Harry’s panic, and she shuddered, drawn into his terror. The soldiers mustn’t catch him. The tales of torture in the prisons made him run blindly after the other men. He staggered under the load of bulky silk he carried. Mustn’t leave it. Mam needs money. Must get to safety. Hawk will dock my share. Heavy. Arms hurt. Keep going. The cave. There be the cave. Safe. Bit farther. Keep going, Harry.

  “Stop right there, you thieving bastards! In the name of the king! Stop!”

  Harry ignored the bellowed order and kept running. A gunshot rang out. Frank faltered beside him. The cask of brandy Frank carried smashed on the rocky ground. Harry turned, but blank eyes stared back. Frank was dead.

  “Run, lad. Frank’s done for. Save yer own skin.”

  More gunshots. It was dark, so dark Harry couldn’t see the path, but he kept running, his lungs wheezing like the blacksmith’s bellows. Another shot. Pungent gunpowder. Wind whistled past his ear. Something hit a rock right by his leg. Then his leg collapsed under him. He staggered, the bundle of silk toppled, but he grabbed it before it rolled away.

  “Don’t stop, lad. You’re almost safe.”

  Pain. God, his leg hurt so bad.

  “Lad, let me help you.” The man appeared in the mouth of the cave. A black cloak billowed in the breeze.

  “I got my load,” Harry muttered. “Hawk will pay me.”

  “Yes, lad. You’ll get your portion.” The man helped Harry stagger to his feet.

  “Hawk,” he gasped, seeing the black mask that went with the cloak.

  “Let’s get you to safety and we’ll see about digging that bullet out. We need you better so you can watch Hastings and the castle. You! Fire at the excise men if they come too close to the cave. Give the rest a chance to get to safety through the labyrinth. Half an hour should do it.”

  “You’ll pay?” Harry demanded.

  Hawk chuckled and ruffled his hair. “Yes, lad. You do a good job. You’ll get the money you deserve.”

  “Will Harry get better? My lady?” A sharp tug on her scarlet mantle pulled her from the horror. She swallowed, the taste of blood in her mouth and the stench of gunpowder still strong.

  “Will Harry get well?”

  “I’ll do my best for him,” she said, skirting the question. Hawk was paying Harry to spy on Hastings. And probably others too.

  Rosalind finished winding the bandage around the cleansed wound and tied a knot so the soft linen cloth she’d brought with her would stay fastened.

  “Billy, were other men wounded at the same time as Harry?”

  “Aye. Yer to stop by the smithy afore you leave for the castle,” Billy said. “The blacksmith’s son carries a bullet in his gut.”

  Rosalind nodded. “I’ll stop there on my way home.” Perhaps she would learn more of the man Hawk during her search for Mary.

  Everything she’d learned so far indicated his wish to harm Hastings. A selfish thought surfaced, making her brow knit in worry.

  There would be no babies if Hastings died.

  His strong and rigid profile and dark, windblown hair filled her mind. Tall, healthy and vigorous now, but if Hawk had his way he’d be dead. The fearful images built in her mind. A tremor shook her hands as she refastened her medicine bag. No! She wouldn’t let Hawk murder her husband.

  Her dream of a secure future depended on it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rosalind crept toward the stables, searching for a glimpse of Hastings’s black. She didn’t know which stall belonged to Oberon, but the sudden crack of a hoof striking a stable wall, followed swiftly by a stable boy’s shout, reassured her Hastings had arrived home. She’d worried about his safety during his absence and a tiny part of her—a niggling voice at the back of her mind—had pestered her with the notion he mightn’t return at all. Thankfully, she could now cast that particular concern aside and concentrate on the happenings at Castle St. Clare and her search for Mary. Since treating Harry two days ago, she’d heard nothing but speculation about lost treasure.

  Her lips made a moue of irritation. Every time she’d questioned a man or woman, she’d heard the same thing. “No. Haven’t seen your maid. They find treasure in Castle St. Clare, then?” Despite persistent queries, no one knew anything about Mary’s disappearance and that worried her. She hadn’t picked up thoughts of Mary when she’d touched people either. An ache started behind her eyes, and she forced herself to concentrate on other things. Tears wouldn’t help her find Mary.

  Eavesdropping via her sight had confirmed Hawk’s ruthless determination and the villagers’ contradictory feelings for the smuggler. They feared him yet relied on his generosity to survive. Like a double-edged sword, this bestowed great power on the man.

  “The next shipment from France will land tomorrow night. You’re to pass the word to the others.”

  Rosalind froze. Thank goodness none of the stable lads were present to witness her behavior. The voices were coming from behind her in the tack room, which meant she’d need to hide in the stable—possibly in one of the stalls.

  “Does Hawk need all of us?”

  “Aye, ’tis a full load. Two boats. Wait. Roberts? You finished in there, boy? They need help in the castle.”

  A stable boy exited the end stall closest to the tack room. Rosalind flattened herself against the wall, praying he didn’t look in her direction.

  “Go on with you, boy.”

  The stable boy thumped past, allowing Rosalind to relax until the voices moved closer.

  Bother. Rosalind glanced at the stable stalls again and swallowed. She’d have to hide in there whether she liked it or not. She edged up to the closest. The horse inside moved restlessly, the straw rustling.

  “Come into the stables. Less chance anyone overhearing in there. All the lads are helping in the kitchen.”

  With trepidation spiking her pulse, Rosalind tugged open the stall and slid inside, pulling the door to behind her. The distinctive smell of animal made her nose quiver. A horse’s snort brought a soft gasp. Her eyes widened while her heart thudded anxiously.

  Oberon.

  Of all the stalls to choose, she’d picked the one belonging to Hastings’s black devil horse.

  “Whoa, boy,” she whispered, her knees trembling as she squashed against the wooden wall of the stall. To her relief, the horse went back to his bucket of oats.

  “And ’bout the other matter?”

  “Hastings?”

  Rosalind froze like a pond in winter. Hastings?

  “I hear he’s returned.”

  “Aye. Hawk had me set someone to follow him, but they lost him on the way to Dover. I’ve no idea where he went or what he did while he was gone. Hawk is going to have my hide for this.”

  “’Ere now. Right interesting that. What if ’e were the one organizing the tunneling under the kitchens. Did Hawk think of that?”

  Questions sprang to her lips, questions she wanted to demand of the two men. Was Hastings responsible for the tunnels? Was it possible?

  “Hastings is the treasure hunter, you mean?”

  “Could well be. Why don’t you mention the possibility to Hawk? Might ease his anger.”

  To Rosalind’s frustration, it sounded as though the two men had stopped right outside Oberon’s stall. It was impossible for her to open the door, even a fraction. If the men were linked to Hawk, they were dangerous.

  “Watch out. Someone’s coming. Damn, it’s Hastings come to see to his ’orse. Big black brute. You’d better leave before ’e sees you and starts asking questions.”

  Hastings! Rosalind swallowed a groan. He’d be heading straight to Oberon’s stall, and the first thing he’d find would be her cowering inside. Then he’d want explanations. Before she was anywhere near prepared, footsteps sounded outside the stall. Oberon fidgeted, tossing his head, snorting. Rosalind tried to melt into the wall, her heart drumming while she eyed the beast.

  “Good afternoon, m
y lord.”

  When Hastings stepped into the stall and saw her, the other man would know she’d eavesdropped on his conversation.

  “Will you be taking your ’orse out? Do you want me to summon a stable lad to saddle up for you?”

  “No, I’ll do it,” Hastings said. “The lads are all helping up in the castle.”

  “I can do it for you, if you want. I was going to ’ead up to the castle as well.” Rosalind sensed the man’s hesitation.

  “You go ahead.”

  “Right you are, my lord.”

  Rosalind screwed up her face in a frown as she heard Hastings whistle to Oberon through the door. The black whickered softly in return. What was she going to say? What was she going to do? She imagined Hastings standing on the other side of the door. Excitement shot through her veins, despite her predicament.

  The hinge creaked when the door opened. Rosalind watched with a combination of trepidation and anticipation. The gap widened to reveal Hastings’s shiny black boots, his mud-splattered stockings and breeches. Her eyes rose to his gray shirt and black jacket. Her mouth dried, her pulse pounding with expectancy, excitement. She swallowed and lifted her gaze to loose black hair and his…mouth. Finally, she met his astonished eyes.

  Speak, she thought frantically. Quick before he asks what you are doing here. Distract. Attack. Something. Anything.

  “You’re back,” she cried and planted a kiss on his beguiling lips.

  He tensed. In shock or astonishment, Rosalind wasn’t sure but ceased to care. His lips were as soft as a baby’s skin. Her hands curled into his shoulders and she leaned into him, enjoying the play of hard muscles and the earthy masculine scent of him.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded finally, pulling away enough to glare at her.

  “I’m pleased to see you.” A stupid half-wit would sense his bewilderment. But along with confusion lay shocked enjoyment. And that, decided Rosalind, was a good thing.

  “I’ve only been gone for a week,” Hastings said.

  Rosalind half expected him to thrust her away and demand to know what she was doing with his horse. But he didn’t. A perplexed furrow appeared between his eyes. She fought to maintain an agreeable expression as her gaze drifted back to his lips. This kissing business was a little disappointing. Somehow, she’d expected something more.

  “Did I do something wrong when I kissed you?” Rosalind screwed up her nose, searching his face for enlightenment.

  If anything, he seemed more confounded.

  “Do I need more practice? Perhaps if I try again I can do better.” She leaned toward her husband with her lips pursed. A child that looked like Hastings would please her very much.

  Hastings’s hands shot out to grab her forearms. “What are you doing? This talk of kissing—it’s not proper.”

  “You sound like my aunt.” Rosalind tossed her head. “If I’m not allowed to kiss you, then how do I learn? Should I ask Charles, or perhaps Mansfield, to teach me?” Lucien stared at his wife in disbelief. She wanted to practice kissing. His chest felt tight inside as though someone had bound him with stout ropes. The idea of her kissing another man made a muscle near his scar twitch. “Keep away from Charles and Mansfield. You’re married to me.”

  “But you don’t kiss me. You’re not a husband.” Her blue eyes narrowed and, in that instant, she reminded him of Francesca again. Stubborn and determined. Focused.

  Lucien hauled the English mouse close and planted his lips on hers, reacting to the provocation before he’d thought the matter through.

  She stood on tiptoes, straining to meet him halfway. Soft lips, untutored lips, trembled beneath the onslaught. It was her innocence that made him gentle the kiss, to sip and savor where seconds before he’d demanded. Lavender and the scent of another flower flowed over him. Her hands burrowed inside his jacket and around his waist, and she relaxed, sinking against him until he felt her breasts, her body imprinting against him. Danger, his mind shouted, but his body had other ideas.

  Lucien groaned at her innocent contact with his lower body. Without volition, his tongue traced along the soft fullness of her bottom lip. She gasped, and his tongue slipped inside to taste oranges and cloves. Her hands glided up his chest, past his thundering heart to twine around his neck. The touch of warm feminine hands reminded him he’d intended to kiss her once. Chastely. Drawing deep for strength, he pulled away, breathing hard.

  Damn the mouse and the way she wriggled beneath his skin and made him feel. He’d spent the time away from her thinking, wondering. And worrying. She still insisted someone was stalking her and intended her harm. With all that had happened, he was starting to believe her. The whispers during his visit to Dover confirmed the danger shadowing those who lived in Castle St. Clare. He’d stopped at the Fox and Hounds down on the waterfront for refreshment, and the innkeeper had told him of money offered to three of his regulars to scare the lady of St. Clare. Lucien had taken that to mean Rosalind. After further questioning, he’d learned the men had failed to reappear. Lucien wondered if they were the hunters who’d shot at Rosalind and her maid. They could still be in the area, which meant Rosalind must stay at the castle for her safety.

  He studied the petite blonde he’d married. She wasn’t the spoiled aloof woman he’d assumed on their first meeting.

  She whimpered, pressing against him urgently. His head dipped to brush her lips with his while his mind sorted through the possibilities.

  “Easy,” he whispered, breaking off their kiss and smoothing one hand over her tangled curls. “There, I’ve kissed you. Tell me why you’re in Oberon’s stall.”

  “I…I was looking for my kitten.”

  The high color on her cheeks told him she lied. “Come, Rosalind. You can do better than that. The truth now.”

  “I was eavesdropping,” she acknowledged without a trace of guilt.

  Lucien didn’t like her confession. Hawk had ears everywhere, many of them willing to slit a throat for a few measly gold coins. The men he’d learned about in Dover could be Hawk’s allies. He wished she’d listen to reason. He’d hate to have another woman’s death on his conscience. “Why?”

  “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was looking for you. I wanted to know if you’d returned home.”

  “Why?”

  She smiled. “It’s lonely without you.”

  Every instinct inside Lucien leaped to attention. He scrutinized her face, sensing an untruth again. He hadn’t spent much time with her. In fact, he kept trying to push her away. What was she hiding? “Lady Augusta seeks your company.”

  “Humph. She wants a handy body to sharpen her tongue on.”

  The image unfurled a grin and the attached emotion irritated him. He meant to keep this woman at a distance, but somehow she managed to creep past every one of his defenses.

  “You’ve heard about the kitchen caving in?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Yes.”

  “One tunnel beneath the castle probably means there are others. Maybe Mary is trapped in one, which is why she hasn’t returned.”

  Lucien grabbed her shoulders and shook her lightly. “Tell me you’re not searching for more.”

  “I have to find Mary. She wouldn’t just run off. Besides, someone is using a passage to gain access to my chamber.” Her chin jutted up in a gesture Lucien was all too familiar with. “Do you think the locals are right and treasure is buried beneath the North Tower? Or perhaps the part that’s covered with ivy contains hidden riches.”

  There was no point forbidding her to search. If he’d learned anything during their short marriage, it was of her unwavering determination, but he had a duty to keep her protected.

  “You stay away from the North Tower. It’s dangerous.” Lucien took her arm and hustled her from the stall. “Tell me what you’ve been doing while I’ve been in Dover.” Immediate tension froze her face. He caught a fleeting expression of guilt. “Have you visited the village?” he asked in a low growl.

  Rosal
ind avoided his gaze and studied her feet. “I was searching for Mary.”

  She hadn’t taken an escort. Her guilty face told him the truth.

  “I can make sure you don’t leave the castle again.”

  Her head shot up. Blue eyes flashed with a hint of temper and it intrigued him. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me.”

  “But the village people rely on me to treat the sick.”

  “They won’t have anyone to rely on if you’re dead.”

  “The castle isn’t safe either,” she pointed out. “Mary’s still missing. Servants have died.”

  The blonde chit was blaming him! “I know people have died. Do you think I’m happy about it?”

  “No, I’m saying you should take action so there’s no repeat.”

  Her gaze challenged him, and Lucien’s temper soared. What the devil did she think he was doing? Going to a social gathering with the neighbors? “I’ll take care of everything.”

  “You must put an end to the rumors of treasure.”

  “Madam, cease your prattling on matters you have no knowledge of. We will return to the castle.” He offered his arm and glared when she was slow to obey. Finally, she laid her hand on his arm, her distaste of touching him clear. Strange, she hadn’t minded kissing him. She had initiated the kiss and now she was treating him like a clump of nettles. “Come. Lady Augusta requires your attendance.”

  His temper pricked, Lucien strode from the stable yard and under the castle portcullis. He clasped her hand in a firm grasp, giving Rosalind little option but to walk with him.

  “You don’t take a guard with you when you leave the castle.”

  Speechless for a moment, Lucien wondered how to get through to her. Although the woman was a nuisance, he had to admit he liked her determination. “I’m a man,” he said finally. “It’s different.”

  “Humph!” Her mouth flattened and her face turned an alarming shade of red.

  That line of argument had never worked with Francesca either. “You have something to say?”

  “Nothing,” she snapped. “Nothing you’d want to hear, stubborn lout,” she added in a low mutter he wasn’t supposed to hear.