The Spurned Viscountess

by Shelley Munro

  The throb in her arms reminded her she needed to move. Now. Grimly, she continued the slow inch-by-inch crawl up the cliff face. From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of color.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  A shower of small pebbles rained down upon her. Dust clouded her vision. Squinting to protect her eyes, she peered anxiously up to the cliff path. No. She hadn’t been mistaken. There was the flash of color again.

  “Help!” she screamed. “Help! I’m down here.”

  Fragments fell from the cliff top. Clinging to the rocks, there was no hope of avoiding them. When a stone the size of her fist rolled over the edge and bounced twice before striking her on the shoulder, she stopped shouting. The nudge she’d felt in the middle of her back wasn’t fevered imagination. Someone wanted her to perish in the sea below.

  Rosalind fumbled for the next crevice in the rock face. She intended to lever herself up this cliff if it was the last thing she did. Her arms trembled, each breath sounded loud and gasping. Her gown clung to clammy skin. Another foothold. Scramble. Heave. The motions took on a sequence that she concentrated on fiercely.

  Her foot felt for the next. And found nothing. She lifted her leg higher, searching blindly for the next step. She found it. The distance to this one was greater than she’d attempted thus far. She strained, reaching higher for a handhold to take her closer to safety. Her toes found the indent in the rock. She crammed her foot in and pushed and dragged her body upward.

  The tiny fissure crumbled beneath the weight of her feet. A strangled gasp escaped. Without volition, her gaze dropped to the sea and the jagged rocks. Her feet fumbled for traction. She slipped again, her knee bashing against the rocks as she dangled above the hungry sea.

  “Oh, God,” she prayed. She didn’t want to die. She wanted to hold the babies she had once seen in a vision. Her babies. Lucien’s babies.

  A sob burst free. The pain in her knee was excruciating. A tear trickled down her face. Then suddenly, she found a break in the rock surface. With the weight taken off her arms, she slumped against the cold, damp rocks and looked up. It wasn’t far. She could do this. And grimly, she resumed her climb, chanting under her breath, trying to ignore the pain and fatigue plaguing her body.

  “I can do this. For Lucien. For our son.”

  The last foot was the hardest.

  “For our son,” she gasped, pushing away the persistent aching of her knee, and the wet, clammy feel of her gown. “I can do this.”

  With a last surge of energy, Rosalind pulled herself over the lip of the cliff and lay face down on the path, gasping for breath. Her fingers curled around a clump of grass as she savored the feel of solid ground beneath her body. The sun beat down on her head, somewhere a gull shrieked, and she heard the faint drone of a bee in the hedge on the other side of the path. The dust tickled her nose so she finally moved, struggling to sit up. She rubbed a grubby, scratched hand over her face, reveling in the fact she could. It was good to be alive.

  Rosalind pushed to her feet. Discomfort radiated from her right knee and when she tried to take a step, she almost fell.

  “St. Bridget’s ears,” she muttered, picking one of her uncle’s more colorful phrases. How was she going to get back to the castle?

  She tried another step, and found if she didn’t think too hard, she could manage. Just. She dragged her aching body toward the castle.

  As she staggered around an overgrown bush, she came to an abrupt halt. The wrench in her knee brought tears to her eyes.

  There were several people in the formal gardens that spread out from the more modern part of the castle. She squinted into the sun.

  “Hell’s teeth,” she cursed again, and this time it was even more heartfelt. Lady Sophia. The persistent throbbing in her knee forbade backtracking. Rosalind clenched her teeth, stuck her nose in the air, and hobbled forward.

  The animated chatter died. One by one, heads turned to stare in consternation, before the muffled whispers started.

  Rosalind felt her cheeks heat. She looked like a ragamuffin. Dirt covered her ugly brown skirts, and her underdress bore a rip the length of her arm. On the final part of her ascent, she’d lost one shoe. Oh, yes. It was no wonder everyone gawked. Pride lifted her chin as she continued her labored progress to the castle.

  Charles and Mansfield hurried up to her.

  “Rosalind? What happened?” Charles cried in horror.

  “I was p…” She trailed off, thinking better of her instinct to tell the truth. She’d tell Lucien, but she trusted him. She wasn’t so certain of others. “I fell,” she said.

  She heard Lady Sophia snicker and whisper to the lady beside her. Her cheeks flushed anew.

  “Are you all right?” Charles appeared anxious.

  “I’ll be fine once I get to my chamber.”

  “Let me assist you,” Mansfield said, and before she could answer, he swept her into his arms. “Open the doors for me, Charles.”

  Rosalind heard the renewed laughter and chatter as they entered the castle. “I can walk.”

  “Nonsense,” Charles said. “You look as white as the swans swimming in the pond over there. Let Mansfield carry you.” He paused to summon a servant. “Bring some warm water up to Lady Hastings’s chamber. And ask Tickell to summon Hastings.”

  “Thank you. I can walk the rest of the way.”

  Mansfield smiled. “And deprive me of my lovely burden? Lady Hastings, you are cruel. Charles, tell her to desist from her protests.”

  “But I’m dirtying your clothes,” Rosalind wailed, noting the patch of mud on his pristine powder blue breeches.

  “A badge of honor.” A dimple at the corner of his mouth winked as he fought a grin. The smile broke forth anyway.

  Rosalind sighed, but couldn’t resist his good-natured smile. The man was a serious flirt. That much was clear.

  “It’s no use trying to talk Mansfield out of his mission.” Charles followed them along the passage leading to Rosalind’s room. “He’s very stubborn.”

  “I’d noticed,” Rosalind said dryly. “I only hope we don’t meet with Lady Augusta.”

  No sooner had she uttered the words than a shriek of horror echoed down the Long Gallery. “What on earth are you doing? Put Lady Hastings down this instant.”

  “I warned you,” Rosalind said.

  Mansfield didn’t slacken his pace. “Charles will deal with Lady Gussie,” he said with a wicked smile.

  Rosalind found herself grinning back. Over Mansfield’s shoulder, she saw Charles speaking earnestly to Lady Augusta.

  Lady Augusta’s snort of disbelief exploded from the other end of the gallery.

  “Don’t worry about Lady Augusta. Her bark is ferocious but no one has died from her bite. Ah, Hastings,” Mansfield said. “Your wife has had a fall.”

  Rosalind bit back a yelp when his arms tightened. Then Mansfield set her gently on her feet.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Lucien said brusquely.

  A taut silence enveloped the group.

  Rosalind smiled, hoping to break the tension. “Thank you for coming to my rescue, Mansfield. Please thank Charles for me.”

  “What did Charles do to earn your gratitude?” Lucien demanded.

  Mansfield grinned. “Headed off Lady Augusta.”

  Lucien nodded abruptly. “Thanks.” He swept Rosalind off her feet and stepped along the passage until he reached his room. He shouldered the door open, then paused. “Mansfield, can you summon a maid?”

  He carried her over to his bed. “What happened?”

  Rosalind frowned, recalling her impressions before she spoke. “I went for a walk along the cliff path. Lucien, someone pushed me over the edge.”

  Lucien studied his wife carefully. She didn’t seem badly injured. “Where does it hurt most? Can you walk?”

  Rosalind slid off the edge of the bed and attempted to move. After hobbling one step, she pulled up. “My knee. I’ve injured my knee.”

  “Th
ere was a heavy dew this morning.”

  “Are you saying the fall was my imagination?”

  “Not at all,” Lucien said. “Too many strange things have happened lately. But why are you so certain someone pushed you? Did you see anyone behind you?”

  Rosalind limped back to his bed and sat beneath the colored dome depicting dancing cherubs. “No, I didn’t see anyone. It was more an impression.”

  “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d taken a footman with you.”

  Rosalind’s gasp was loud and punctuated with a glare.

  A maid knocked on the door and entered bearing an ewer of warm water. It was the maid who winked and smirked in the direction of his groin whenever she caught him on his own. For once, he was glad Rosalind was present.

  “Will that be all, Lord Hastings?” the maid asked, her voice low and sultry.

  “Yes, thank you,” Rosalind answered.

  The maid curtseyed and slid a knowing grin in his direction before sauntering from the room.

  Lucien settled the ewer on a small oak table and moved closer to Rosalind. “Lift your skirt and I’ll take a look at your knee.”

  She hesitated, then lifted the brown woolen skirts so he had a clear view of her grubby, ripped stockings.

  “These will need to come off.” Lucien unfastened her garter and peeled the once-white stocking down her leg to reveal an angry red gash on her knee. He prodded above the knee gently. “Does that hurt?”

  “A little,” Rosalind said. “I think it’s bruised. The rest of the cuts sting, but they should heal quickly.”

  At least she spared him tears and hysterical crying. Lucien appreciated that in a woman. He cleansed her knee with warm water and a soft cloth.

  “I have some salve in my room.” She started to move, but Lucien stayed her with one hand on her bare leg.

  “I’ll get it.” Lucien sprang to his feet, pleased to leave the room. Her perfume filled his senses, enticing him to haul her into his arms, while her quiet bravery, when she was clearly in pain, won his admiration.

  In Rosalind’s chamber, he came to a halt. He hadn’t asked her where she kept the salve. He hesitated before deciding to try the bag she toted to the village whenever she was treating the sick.

  The staff had restored Rosalind’s chamber to order, and Lucien noticed how few personal items she had in the room. There were no perfume pots and small glass jars. He wandered through to her dressing room during his search for her satchel. One dress hung on a rail. Made of coarse brown wool, it looked like servants’ attire to him. He frowned, remembering Francesca’s many gowns of silk and satin.

  Lucien finally found the bag sitting by Rosalind’s bed. The catch was open and the contents haphazardly arranged inside. He closed it and took the whole bag to let Rosalind find the salve.

  “You found my bag,” Rosalind said. “I wasn’t sure it would still be there.”

  “You need to order gowns,” Lucien said, his mind on the borrowed gown in her dressing room. As well as numerous gowns, Francesca had delighted in matching shawls, shoes and hats. Gloves too. He didn’t remember seeing a single hat in Rosalind’s chamber. “Summon the seamstress. She will come to you here.” He opened her satchel. The array of herbs took him by surprise. “Do you use all of these?”

  “Yes.”

  Dried twigs, tied together with a red ribbon, slid into a small groove inside the bag. Small jars filled with crushed leaves jostled for space with others containing pastes. All the jars bore neat labels.

  “Which jar do you require?”

  Rosalind pointed at one that held a white paste. “That should bring out the bruising.”

  He heard a sound behind him and turned his head. Noir slunk along the ground on his belly. His ears pricked, his compact body vibrated, ready to spring on his prey. Lucien smothered a chuckle. The tassels on his boots were in extreme danger.

  The kitten leaped. Lucien caught him midair. A loud hiss resulted. “Steady there,” he murmured. The kitten clawed at his jacket sleeve. “He’s a ferocious beast.”

  “He likes to play. Usually it’s the maids he terrorizes.”

  Lucien carefully disengaged the kitten’s claws. He stilled. His eyes narrowed and he glanced at Rosalind. She stared back, her face expressionless.

  “The kitten has extra toes.”

  Rosalind nodded.

  “The servants? Have they noticed?”

  Her chin edged upward. “I’m sure they have.”

  Witch’s cat. The knowledge shimmered in the air between them.

  “I’m keeping him. You’re not taking Noir away from me. He’s a baby. A harmless kitten.”

  “That’s why you found him washed up on the beach. Someone tossed him in the sea to drown.”

  “Lucien, he’s an animal with nothing magical about him.” Rosalind fought to contain her fears. Surely he wouldn’t take Noir from her? During her last trip down to the village, a young lad had skipped up to her and asked if she were a witch. His embarrassed mother had whisked him away, but she’d have to be blind not to notice fewer people were asking to see her.

  “What about rumors? God, Rosalind, they still talk of burning witches at the stake.”

  “I’m not a witch!” A sick feeling made her stomach sink. Was her gift to ruin life in St. Clare too?

  “I never said you were. All I’m saying is to take care. Keep Noir out of sight. Don’t give people fuel for their gossip.”

  Rosalind considered his words. “Are you saying I shouldn’t treat the people in the village if they are sick?”

  “Yes. If that’s what it takes to keep you safe.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Safe?

  That implied Lucien cared. Hope sprang to life like a flower blooming after a winter thaw.

  “I need you to show me where you found the entrance to the passage.”

  Rosalind stood and limped after Lucien. A jarring pain shot down her leg, but she ignored it to concentrate on Lucien. “I will explore the passage with you.”

  He made a tsking sound and scooped her up, carrying her next door to her room and dropping her lightly on the bed. “You couldn’t make it to your chamber on your own.”

  Her mouth tightened at the excuse to exclude her. The hope that had fanned to life inside her withered with intense frustration.

  “Stay here and rest.” His words were more like an order, no matter how politely he couched them. The calm face told her he expected her to follow his orders with no argument.

  Rosalind decided to choose a better time to make her case. “The passage entrance is behind the bureau. It’s part of the wall, and it’s a simple matter of moving it to open the passage. There’s a handle on the back to secure it shut when you leave via my chamber.”

  Lucien picked up her candle, lit it and followed her instructions. The bureau slid aside with a quiet groan. He ducked into the dark space revealed and vanished from sight.

  Frustration burned within Rosalind. She hobbled to the opening in her wall and stuck her head inside. Cautious footsteps slowly receded and she glimpsed a brief flickering of candlelight before it, too, disappeared from sight. If she were Miranda, she would have a full-out tantrum.

  Despite Lucien’s transparent doubt, someone had pushed her this morning. The sounds from the path above, the flash of color she’d glimpsed, and the tumble of rocks and stones that had rained down on her head replayed through her mind. A shudder worked down her body at the remembered horror, the helpless sense of dangling above the needle-sharp rocks. With a grumpy sigh, she tugged the bureau back into place in case one of the maids entered her chamber and sat back to wait for her husband’s return.

  ***

  Rest. Stay in bed for the morning.

  Rosalind snorted in a manner that would’ve made both her aunt and Lady Augusta scowl if they’d heard the derisive sound. She paced to the window and yanked back the shutters. Out at sea, a mist had formed. A chill settled around her heart, and she tucked her shawl aroun
d her shoulders. It did nothing to ward off the cold sense of isolation. Lucien had found no sign of Mary, and now he expected her to laze around and rest her knee for another day while he explored the rest of the passage, the part he hadn’t had time to reconnoiter the previous day.

  Part of her hoped he’d find Mary alive and perhaps a little worse for wear, but with each passing day, it became less likely. Lord, she hated to admit defeat. She must remain positive.

  She climbed onto her bed and almost immediately stood again. She wasn’t going to stay in her room like a well-behaved child. While Lucien investigated the passage, she’d go to the village and ask more questions about Mary. She’d touch people and eavesdrop on their thoughts and memories if necessary.

  Rosalind picked up her replacement hairbrush to tidy her hair, gripping it more tightly when a visible tremor shook her hand. Every day, she missed Mary’s cheerful presence, the desolation like a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach. Today was even worse. Six years to the day, Mary had officially started tending to Rosalind’s needs. No, she couldn’t loll around doing nothing, not when the memories of past days spent together threatened to overwhelm her with grief.

  They’d always cajoled her aunt’s cook into giving them a special meal to eat at their favorite spot on the bank of a small stream. Despite Mary’s dislike of the outdoors, most years they’d enjoyed Cook’s cakes to celebrate the special day. Her eyes misted as she recalled the fun they’d had together. She couldn’t just sit and do nothing, not today of all days. She refused.

  Rosalind rang for a servant. “I’d like to go to the village,” she said when the maid arrived. “Please have Tickell summon a footman to escort me. I will require a pony and cart.”

  The young maid curtseyed. “Yes, my lady.”

  Almost two hours later, Matthew helped her into the cart and handed an irritated Rosalind her bag of medicines. The pony fidgeted, pawing the ground, eager to leave the confines of the stable. Rosalind felt the same impatience and prayed they’d depart before Lady Augusta decided to summon her again.