The Spurned Viscountess

by Shelley Munro

  “She died.” His face appeared carved with pain. “It was my fault.”

  Without thought, Rosalind reached to comfort him. She grabbed his waist and fell against his chest so he had to catch her. Impressions bombarded her. It was as if the dam had burst, releasing slivers of the past. Emotions, both heartfelt and painful, rushed through her mind like towering waves during a storm. Tumultuous. Powerful. She gasped, struggling to turn thoughts to words.

  “Why?” She grimaced against his shirt at the totally inadequate response. Lucien blamed himself for the death. Yet she knew her husband to be a caring man, one who worked tirelessly in the village, a man who took the time to play with the village children.

  “Francesca died.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault,” Rosalind said, her voice firm and sure.

  “For a long time after Francesca and I married, I remembered nothing of my past. Then fragments returned, but they made no sense. Francesca and I discussed it, and she persuaded me we should travel to England and search for answers. She was expecting a child. I told her traveling would be dangerous, but she was insistent. I agreed because I couldn’t bear to be apart from her. We traveled by boat, then by land. Bandits attacked us late one night.” Lucien faltered, his voice layered with torment.

  Rosalind pressed her cheek to his chest. His body was tight. Tense. It was wrong to push for details when it was obvious he was in pain, but she needed to know.

  “What happened?” she whispered, pressing her body even closer, offering comfort in the only way she knew.

  “Francesca…she was shot.” He swallowed audibly. “She died in my arms.”

  Tears of sympathy built at the back of her eyes. Poor Lucien, losing his wife and child that way. “Were the bandits caught?”

  The question tossed Lucien firmly back in the past, back to the night he’d lost Francesca. The fear. Anger. The pain he’d felt at the moment he realized Francesca was gone. The gnawing desperation for revenge…

  “I’d give anything to bathe in warm, scented water,” Francesca had said with a heartfelt sigh. “My bones ache from the journey today.”

  Concern crinkled Lucien’s brow. He studied Francesca’s pale, travel-stained face and felt instant guilt. “I knew we should have stopped at that last inn. Cara, you should have said something.”

  “Pooh, it was only midday,” Francesca scoffed, making light of the extra miles they’d traveled. But Lucien noticed how her hands crept up to massage the small of her back. “We are only two days from the coast,” she continued. “It didn’t make sense to halt early. Besides, we’ve stopped now.”

  Lucien glanced around the rough camp they’d made in a clearing. It wasn’t the ideal situation for Francesca and their unborn child. Several bushes provided shelter from the prevailing wind, and their camp was far enough off the track to escape the attention of passing travelers. A small fire was burning within a circle of rocks. The two men who’d journeyed with them from the Bacci estate had gathered together leaves and grasses for bedding, and now that darkness had fallen, one was turning a rabbit on a spit over the fire. The scent of the roast meat made Lucien’s stomach grumble in protest. It seemed a long time since their last meal.

  Although the need to fill the holes in his memory was strong and nagged at him, Francesca and his unborn child were more important. “Come, cara. Let me rub your back.”

  Francesca’s rich laugh rang out. “Stop worrying! I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.”

  The distinct clip-clop of a horse’s hooves halted their discussion, and they both turned. Lucien picked up his flintlock pistol and held it at the ready as three men rode into their campsite.

  Oberon whinnied, pawing the ground in agitation. Lucien stiffened when he noticed the way their hats were tugged low over their faces. They traveled light with no luggage. He snatched up his sword in his free hand and edged back, out of the light of the fire, gesturing silently for Francesca to do the same.

  “Signor, they’re armed!” one of their men shouted. He seized his musket and held it at the ready.

  “Bandits,” Francesca cried, grabbing a saddlebag and ducking for cover behind a leafy thicket not far from where they stood.

  One of the horsemen cursed. A shot reverberated through the clearing, the acrid scent of gunpowder filling the air. Another followed an instant later. Both servants fell to the ground and remained there, unmoving. Obscured by the smoke of the gunpowder, Lucien darted behind the thicket, dread filling him until he located Francesca.

  “Run,” he ordered his wife. God, how were they going to get out of this? Nothing must happen to Francesca. “Hide in the trees while I distract them.”

  “No!” Francesca pulled a primed pistol from her saddlebag. She peeked cautiously around the undergrowth. “I won’t leave you. There aren’t meant to be bandits here. We checked!”

  From experience, Lucien knew it was pointless to argue with Francesca. “Keep low,” he said tersely. “Your white blouse catches the light.”

  “Told ya we should have crept up on them,” one of the horsemen snarled. “Hawk will have our skins if we don’t carry out his orders.”

  The familiar accent tickled at Lucien’s memory. It wasn’t Italian or French.

  “English,” Francesca whispered. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  Who the hell was Hawk? Lucien tensed, his heart pumping fear and anger through his veins.

  “Can you hear them?” Francesca asked.

  The uneasiness in her voice echoed his apprehension. Nothing about this situation seemed right. His stomach cinched tight, and he listened intently before shaking his head. “Wait there,” he murmured. “I’ll see if I can pick at least one of them off.” Lucien knew they were there…waiting. The tension stretched tighter within him. Damn it, he couldn’t even hear the horses. He moved cautiously, trying to nail their positions.

  A shot rang out. An instant later pain flooded his shoulder. He fell.

  “Lucien!” Francesca screamed.

  Lucien scrambled to his feet, fighting the lethargy creeping through his body. Only a flesh wound. He pressed the heel of his hand to the wound and searched for the sword he’d dropped. He’d need it once he’d fired the shot in his pistol.

  “There!” one of the horsemen cried. “There she is.”

  Lucien’s head jerked up. He saw a flash of white. A musket fired. Francesca screamed and dropped to the ground.

  “Got ’er,” a man said in clear satisfaction.

  “Someone’s coming,” another said.

  Galloping hooves told of their rapid departure.

  Lucien staggered over to Francesca. Panic like he’d never known roared through him. “Francesca? Francesca!”

  He dragged her close, cradling her in his arms, searching frantically to find the source of the wound. The blouse ripped easily to reveal a gaping hole. She breathed in quick, shallow gasps, and Lucien heard a rattle deep in her chest. No! A chill raced up his spine with each labored breath Francesca took.

  “Lucien.” Her hands gripped him painfully. Her dark eyes glittered in the scant light cast by the fire.

  “Yes, cara.” Lucien had to lean closer to hear. The blood kept rushing from the bullet hole in her chest. He had to stop it. He ignored the burning in his shoulder to press down on the wound site. Her pained groan tore at him. He must stop the bleeding. He must.

  “Promise me. Go to England. Find St. Clare. Promise.”

  “Don’t talk, cara. Save your strength. Let me tend your wound and stop the bleeding.”

  “Too late,” Francesca gasped. “Promise.”

  “Don’t leave me, damn it. I’m nothing without you. I love you, Francesca.”

  “Go to St. Clare.”

  “Yes, cara. But you will come with me. We’ll go together as we planned, to find my memories.”

  “I’m going to die,” Francesca whispered painfully.

  “No!” Horror screamed through his mind. He shuddered. He’d spoken the
truth. Francesca made him whole. She’d saved him, giving him a name and her heart, and he loved her for it.

  “You will find someone. Promise me you will find another to love.”

  Another terrible rattle from deep inside her chest made him want to sob. “Never,” he said, his tone fierce.

  “Yes. Love…you.” Every ounce of fight faded from her body. The life seeped from her beautiful eyes as he watched.

  She was gone.

  “No!” Lucien screamed. “No!” He shook Francesca fiercely, but it was too late. He cradled her close, burying his nose in her silky hair while the grief encompassed him.

  “Hello, the camp!”

  Lucien stiffened but didn’t look up.

  “I say, are you all right? We heard gunfire.”

  Lucien heard the jangle of the horses’ harness, the low murmurs of several men. Footsteps ambled closer, and he sensed a man crouch beside him. He couldn’t speak. Tears and anguish clogged his throat, making it difficult to breathe. Francesca was gone, and he didn’t want to go on.

  “Wilson, hold my horse,” a calm voice said. “Let me look at her.”

  Lucien loosened his grip a fraction and glanced up. Tears filled his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. “She’s dead. Francesca’s gone.”

  “Do you know who did it?” another voice asked.

  Lucien swallowed, the sound audible. Painful. “No.”

  “You’re bleeding too,” the man with the calm voice said. “Let Wilson hold Francesca while I take a look at your shoulder.”

  Lucien blinked. He couldn’t feel his shoulder. He’d forgotten about it. The reminder brought an arrow of pain that increased when he moved. The throb helped him focus, cleared his thoughts. Hate bloomed along with the need for revenge. A man called Hawk had ordered the attack, and the man hailed from England. He would find this man. Yes, he would search out Hawk and make him pay dearly.

  “Lucien.” A hand grasped his forearm. “Lucien!” Rosalind’s voice intruded into his memories. “I asked you if the bandits were caught.”

  Lucien shook his head in an effort to clear his mind, the pain still deep and soul wrenching. He coughed to move the lump in his throat. “They disappeared almost as soon as they attacked. Before Francesca died, she made me promise to come to England, to search for my past. She felt it was important I found the answers we were searching for. Besides,” he said harshly, “the bandits who attacked us were English. Someone knew we were on our way to England and intended to stop us.”

  “English!” Rosalind gasped, springing away from Lucien and staring at him in consternation. “How do you know they were English? Couldn’t they have been French?”

  His look held disdain. “They spoke in English, with English accents. I’d say that was comprehensive proof. I have a name, Rosalind. An English name.”

  “But why would English bandits attack you? What name?”

  “Hawk.”

  Everyone in the village feared Hawk. Lucien didn’t want to run foul of him. “Be careful of Hawk,” Rosalind said. “He’s dangerous.”

  Lucien’s jaw worked, then he grabbed her by the arm and wrenched her about so her face was in the light. “What do you know of Hawk?”

  Rosalind stared at him, horror spreading through her body like poison. If she told him the truth, he’d have her locked away. Just as her uncle and aunt had threatened when she tried to tell them the Duke they were maneuvering toward Miranda had no intention of marriage.

  “Answer me, damn it.” He punctuated his words with shakes vigorous enough to make her head snap back and her teeth click together.

  “I don’t know anything about a man called Hawk.” When he eased his grip, she wrenched away.

  “Where did you hear his name?”

  “I hear things when I’m treating the villagers. The people, your people, are frightened of him.”

  “And that’s all?” Suspicion shaded his voice.

  Rosalind ached to tell the truth but couldn’t. She just couldn’t. “That’s all. He’s dangerous. Brutal. I think he runs the smugglers’ ring.”

  “I’ve heard rumors.” Lucien stalked the length of the room and back. “I want you to tell me if you hear anything while you’re in the village. But don’t ask questions. If I find you’ve put yourself in danger…” He trailed off, but his meaning was clear.

  It was obvious Lucien intended to wreak revenge on the man, Hawk. What about the danger he placed himself in? She hadn’t gone to all this trouble to find a husband only to lose him. Her hands screwed up the fabric of the shirt she wore, then smoothed it down her legs. “What about the danger to you? You shouldn’t work alone. I can help you.”

  “Keep your pert nose out of my affairs. If you don’t, I’ll lock you in your room and place a guard outside.”

  Rosalind’s eyes narrowed. So he’d threatened before. Then she scanned his hard, unyielding face and knew this time, he meant every word. She’d go mad locked away in her room. “All right,” she acquiesced. But behind her back, her fingers were crossed and, according to her cousin, Miranda, that negated a fib.

  Rosalind meant to do everything in her power to keep her husband safe.

  “Get back into bed,” he growled.

  “What about you?”

  “Never mind me. I’ll blow the candle out as soon as you’re in bed.”

  Rosalind had no alternative but to obey. Feeling wretched and a failure as a wife, she slid beneath the sheets and lay in stiff silence while Lucien extinguished the candles. She heard the soft whisper of his footfalls, the click of a door, and knew he was gone.

  A tear trickled down her cheek. She was hopeless at attracting a man. She wiped the tear away with the linen sheet and stilled. The linens smelled of Lucien, of green meadows and the outdoors. She sniffed, suddenly feeling better. At least she was sleeping in Lucien’s room, in his bed. That was progress.

  ***

  Rosalind woke late, which was little surprise, given the hour when she’d finally fallen asleep. She threw back the covers and wandered through the connecting door into her own chamber.

  “Good morning, my lady.” Beth, the maid, glanced at Rosalind. A smirk spread across her face as she scanned Rosalind’s bare legs. “Had a good night, then?”

  Rosalind gasped, feeling her face heat. She tugged at the bottom of Lucien’s shirt. “Thank you for cleaning my room.”

  A sly look slid across Beth’s face. “Lord Hastings asked me to clean it for you.”

  The maid was baiting her and, despite a desire to throttle her, Rosalind nodded briefly and began a search for clothes. Bother. When she saw Lucien again, she was going to demand he take action. This wasn’t right! These mischievous pranks wouldn’t have happened if Mary was here. Lucien wasn’t doing much to help her find Mary either. That would change too.

  Ten minutes later, she sighed and looked down at her mismatched outfit. She couldn’t wait to hear Lady Augusta’s opinion about the way her brown open robe clashed with the yellow petticoat. She looked like a bumblebee.

  Rosalind slowed as she approached the Blue Drawing Room. Perhaps she’d try to creep from the castle before Lady Augusta emerged from her room. She held her breath when she tiptoed past, only letting it out when she exited the Great Hall and stepped into the early morning sunshine. She turned down the overgrown path that meandered along the cliff top. A lively breeze tugged her hair. A small white gull glided and swooped over the bay, drawing a laugh from her when it dived at another, causing a flurry of indignant squawks and flapping wings.

  Dew soaked the bottom of her cloak but she carried on, navigating the slippery path with care. The day was far too lovely to spend indoors, dwelling on Lucien and the elusive Hawk.

  The thought of Hawk brought a frown. She needed to learn more about the man, and that meant talking to the villagers. Gaining their trust had taken time, but she needed to push harder. Her frown deepened. Unfortunately, the blacksmith’s wife seemed suspicious of the way she treated her patients. Yeste
rday when she’d stopped by the bakery shop to buy a treat for Billy and Harry, Rosalind had interrupted a whispered conversation. The whispers had resumed as soon as she left to check on Harry and change his dressings.

  Harry and Billy’s mother gave her grudging admittance when she visited, but Rosalind was positive the woman bore suspicions about her too. Mary had always distracted the patients Rosalind treated to reduce the chance of someone discovering her gift. Not that Mary’s presence had helped once Miranda and Thomas spread rumors of witchcraft. Her cousin hadn’t appreciated Thomas’s interest in her and had grabbed the opportunity to besmirch her reputation. After that everyone in Stow-on-the-Wold had called Rosalind a witch.

  “Mary, I wish I knew where you were,” she whispered. “I miss you.” Tears blurred her vision as she halted at the edge of the path and stared out to sea.

  The rustle of clothing behind her made her start, but before she could turn, Rosalind felt a shove in the middle of her back. Her boots skidded on the wet grass. She screamed. Her arms flapped for balance, but she couldn’t prevent herself from tumbling down the slope.

  Terror clogged her throat as she clawed for purchase. Twisting her body, she grabbed at jutting rocks, scraping skin from her hands. Small fragments of rock slid from under her feet, rattling as they rolled down the cliff. Another rock. She grasped and clung. Hell and damnation. It hurt. She drew a sobbing breath deep into her lungs. Waves crashed against the cliff base far below. Sea spray filled the air. Don’t look down.

  She looked down and snuffled. Panic struck a fierce blow. Her arms ached…throbbed from gripping the out-hanging rock. Drops of blood dripped from her right hand.

  Rosalind dragged her gaze from the razor-sharp rocks and surging waves below that seemed to beckon her. She looked up. She hadn’t fallen far, but even so, the climb to the top was daunting.

  Her feet probed for nooks and crevices in the rocks to use as steps. Gingerly, she eased her weight upward, trying to hoist her ugly brown skirts out of the way so she didn’t tangle her legs. Another rock. She needed to find a ledge strong enough to hold her weight. Sweat coated her forehead, dripping down her face. The moisture itched and tickled. She craved a means to scratch the irritant, to wipe her face clean. She laughed, and the sound held an edge of hysteria.