The Spurned Viscountess

by Shelley Munro

  Bother. Questioning him had stirred his temper so much she felt as if she was adrift on rough seas, but one thing became crystal clear. Mansfield and Hawk were one and the same. She was in big trouble.

  “Don’t fight me,” Mansfield murmured next to her ear.

  “Whatcha want, mister?”

  The images dissolved in her mind, the urchin’s interruption giving her breathing space. The man was mad. He…he…Words failed her. Of course, she’d seen like images of naked women in other men’s minds. Lustful thoughts, but to see herself naked brought a surge of fear.

  Mansfield plucked a coin from his pocket. “Stay with my horses and take them to the King’s Head when the road is cleared. I’ll give you another coin when you get there.”

  The urchin rubbed his sleeve across his runny nose, his gaze following the glint of the gold coin in Mansfield’s hand. Finally, he nodded. Mansfield tossed the coin; the boy caught it, inspected it closely and clamped it between his teeth. Satisfied, he nodded again. “King’s ’ead.”

  Mansfield dragged her against his chest. “As soon as you can.” He smoothed a possessive hand over her head, keeping her close and under his control.

  Rosalind forced back panic when another vision of her unclothed body appeared in his mind. Her mind slammed shut, but to no avail. As always, in times of stress, she was unable to block, and Mansfield’s licentious thoughts pushed through the flimsy screen.

  “You can’t do this. I’m married to Lucien,” she said, her shock spilling out into her words.

  Mansfield’s grip tightened on her upper arm. With one hand, he forced her head up so she had to look at him. “The rumors, are they true?”

  Rosalind wrenched her gaze from his intense brown eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Look at me.”

  Reluctant to look at him, she only followed his order after a long pause. His brown eyes held intelligence, cunning and a shrewdness that warned her to tread warily.

  “Are you a witch?”

  “Of course not.” Scorn filled her retort.

  His eyes narrowed and he smirked. The grin sent a shaft of alarm dancing down her spine, but she refused to look away. The vision slid into her mind with clandestine stealth, there before she knew it. A couple in bed. Naked. Before she even viewed the faces of the couple, all rational thought screamed to take care. Do not react.

  “Why are we going to the King’s Head?” She affected a casual air by thinking of a hot, sunny summer day—an excursion with Miranda and her cousin’s friends to the river bordering her uncle’s estate.

  “This holdup has made us late. We’ll miss the tide. The landlord at the King’s Head is a friend. We will stay there overnight and resume our journey in the morning.”

  At least the delay gave her more time to escape. Once Mansfield had her aboard a ship, her chances of flight were nil.

  Gray clouds skittered across the sky. A stiff breeze plucked at the black cloak Mansfield had insisted she wear. Rosalind shivered despite the warmth of the thick wool. It was late enough in the afternoon for people to remark on their disappearance. She imagined the gossip and Lucien’s reaction to her absence.

  An icy coldness gathered in the pit of her stomach. Lucien would believe in her innocence.

  He had to.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Oberon trotted down the village street, lazily swishing his tail, while Lucien eyed the progress of the repairs. Much slower than he’d hoped. He slid from Oberon’s back and, leading his mount, walked the length of the rutted road, studying the work still required. One of the builders rounded the corner of a run-down cottage awaiting refurbishment.

  Lucien hailed him. “Thomas, what’s the holdup?”

  The man glanced at his scarred face and looked hastily away. “Supplier in the next village let us down. The load of timber never arrived.”

  “Has anyone checked with the supplier?” Lucien pretended he didn’t notice the man’s reaction.

  Thomas shook his head. “We kept thinking the cart would arrive. I’ll send someone now.”

  “I’ll go,” Lucien said. “Unless you need me here.”

  “There’s nowt more to do until the timber arrives.”

  Lucien mounted up and let Oberon have his head. They sped along a narrow country lane, spooking a pheasant from the thicket. Oberon snorted and faltered, but Lucien urged him on, past the startled bird. The sky had darkened since he’d left the castle, the sun had faded, and now large drops of rain splattered the track. After a dry spell, they needed the rain but not now, when the roofing was still under way.

  Lucien leaned his weight forward and patted Oberon’s glossy black neck. “Let’s make this a fast trip, boy.”

  Three-quarters of an hour later, after taking every shortcut he knew, they trotted down the main road of Whittlebury. Lucien frowned at the size of the mob thronging the streets. He knew it was market day on a Wednesday, but the crowds usually dispersed by midday. Carts laden with bales of straw and turnips jostled with carriages, men on horseback and pedestrians. A wooden cage full of roosters and hens on a handcart added to the din with their cackling and crowing. Traffic through the main thoroughfare had slowed to a crawl and tempers appeared frayed.

  “Move along!” the driver of a dangerously overloaded cart hollered. His whip snaked out, arcing over his horses with a sharp whistle.

  “’Ere! Watch where you’re cracking that whip,” another man roared.

  The driver ignored the man, and his cart shot into a gap, the wheels squeaking in protest, while his load of straw teetered, perilously unstable.

  Lucien urged Oberon onward.

  “Look at ’is face,” a woman shouted to her companion.

  The companion crossed herself and edged away from Lucien as if he suffered from the plague. “’Tis the mark of the devil.”

  Lucien pretended he hadn’t heard, but the words stung nonetheless. They made him think of Rosalind and how protective she acted when people stared. She’d have taken the women to task for their rudeness. The strength of his need to see her, to steal a kiss and haul her into his bed again, took him by surprise. Impatient to complete his task, Lucien drew Oberon to a halt and dismounted, deciding to lead his horse. Progress along the packed street was slow and frustrating, so he ducked through the narrow lane that ran parallel to the main street.

  That, too, was crammed with pedestrians. Oberon took exception to the crowd, tossing his head and dancing at Lucien’s side.

  “Steady.” Lucien nodded at an elderly man who hobbled toward him with the aid of a stout stick. “What’s the problem? Why is the street blocked?”

  “Cart o’turned. An’ some fancy nob left ’is ’orse an’ chaise and blocked the road. Right mess, it is.”

  “How far down?” Lucien asked. “Do I need to keep on this lane or is the road clear now?”

  “Should be clear now. Damn fool nob. Think they can do what they like.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Lucien inclined his head in a sign of respect.

  A rusty chuckle emerged. “I ain’t no sir, but I’ll take yer thanks right enough.” He bobbed his head and resumed his laborious journey, the tapping of his stick echoing in the lane as he departed.

  Lucien turned back onto the main road and came to such a sudden halt Oberon nudged him in the back. The scar on his cheek tingled. That wasn’t just some fancy nob’s coach. That was the St. Clare chaise. What the devil was it doing in Whittlebury? And where the hell was Rosalind? Anxiety for his wife warred with fear. She was meant to be safe with Charles and Mansfield, eating Lady Radford’s famous cherry tarts and drinking lemon barley water. Where were Charles and Mansfield?

  “Hold my horse.” Lucien thrust the reins at a startled man and elbowed his way through the cheering crowd surrounding the chaise.

  “’Ere, stop pushing. I got money on this ’ere fight.” A man glared at Lucien but hastily turned away when he saw his scarred visage.

  The advantage gi
ven by his height allowed Lucien to see the two urchins more clearly than most. It should have been an uneven match, with one much bigger than the other, but the smaller child appeared determined. Fists swung wildly. Feet kicked out. Elbows dug. Fingers gouged. The crowd cheered each landed blow, shouting encouragement to both boys.

  “Get him, Jamie, boy! I have my money on you!” a woman shrieked.

  “What’s the fight about?” Lucien demanded of the man nearest him.

  “They be fighting over taking the chaise to King’s Head. Nob said he’d give the boy a gold coin.”

  “One man?” Lucien said, his tone sharp. That didn’t make sense unless someone had stolen the chaise.

  “Aye. Big, he was.”

  A sharp screech from the larger urchin claimed the man’s attention. Lucien wanted to shake him and demand answers. He grabbed the man by the shoulder. “What did he look like?”

  “Big, I said. A nob dressed in fancy clothes.”

  Lucien turned away in frustration to question a woman holding a small girl by the hand. The child took one look at his face and burst into noisy tears. Hell’s teeth! Lucien aimed for a reassuring smile, but the child wailed even louder and buried her face in her mother’s woolen skirts.

  “Did you see the man who drove the chaise?” Lucien attempted to keep his building frustration from his voice, despite wanting to holler at the stupid people who judged by appearances. Damn it, he was more than a scar. He was a man. He battled for calm, inhaling deeply. “Please, ma’am. Did you see the man?”

  The woman gave an abrupt shake of her head and stepped away, her face frozen in an expression of distaste.

  In that moment, Lucien realized people at Castle St. Clare didn’t react to his scar as much as when he’d first returned. Most of them treated him as the heir despite his surly moods and ruined face. He tucked the thought away for later and resumed his questioning. Instinct suggested something was very wrong. He must find Rosalind.

  “He was big,” a bulky man said.

  “Flashed ’is blunt around,” another commented.

  “What color was his hair?” Lucien asked, striving for patience.

  “Black.”

  Hawk? Fear shot through Lucien.

  “Nah! ’e wore wig.”

  An argument ensued when they couldn’t agree. Lucien dragged in a slow breath. He didn’t really care. All he wanted was his wife. Rosalind.

  None of this was helping. “Which way is the King’s Head?”

  “It’s the other side of the village. On the road to Rye,” the man said. “Follow main road and take the second fork.”

  Before he could thank the man, he turned away. Lucien pushed his way back through the mass of bodies to collect his horse, using elbows, his greater bulk and his scar when necessary. Rosalind wouldn’t approve. The notion brought a brief smile. “Thanks,” he said, flipping a coin at the man.

  The crowds thinned once Lucien moved away from the chaise, but the cheers and screeches of encouragement continued unabated. He swung up on Oberon and pressed his mount into a trot.

  “Hastings!”

  Lucien’s head snapped about at the sound of his name.

  Mansfield ambled toward him, threading through the crowd, a broad grin on his face. “What are you doing in Whittlebury?”

  Lucien was positive Lady Augusta had said an outing near Castle St. Clare. He glanced past Mansfield, but none of the faces were familiar. Were the rest of the party in Whittlebury too? The trepidation inside eased a notch. “I came to check on supplies for the roof repairs. I thought you went on the excursion with Lady Sophia and her mother.”

  “Not me,” Mansfield replied. “Lady Radford is far too managing. They say to look at the mother. If that’s what Lady Sophia will be like, I’m staying far away.” His eyes narrowed as he spotted something behind Lucien. “I say, is that the St. Clare chaise? What is it doing here? Was it stolen?”

  Lucien dismounted again. “That’s what I intend to find out. I’m on my way to the King’s Head. The man who left it there paid an urchin to deliver it to the King’s Head. Care to join me?”

  “Why not? I have plenty of time before my evening engagement. I’m fair parched. Could do with an ale. The King’s Head’s ale will no doubt taste much like the brew at the Swan.” Mansfield fell into step with him. “Still riding that brute of a horse,” he said, his eyes sliding over Oberon with careful appraisal. “Are you sure you won’t sell him to me?”

  Every time Mansfield saw him, he asked if Oberon was for sale. The discussion was an old, comfortable one, and Lucien felt the beginnings of a smile surface. “If my horse is a brute, why do you want him?”

  “He has good lines,” Mansfield said. “I think he’d produce a good crop of foals.”

  Lucien nodded, knowing it was nothing less than the truth.

  Mansfield slowed. “You could at least let me ride him and put him through his paces. Next time I’m at Castle St. Clare.” He turned into a narrow lane. “This is a shortcut. It comes out behind the King’s Head.”

  Mansfield stalked ahead, disappearing down the opening without looking back. A frown replaced Lucien’s good humor. The lane seemed dark. No telling who lurked down there. They weren’t in that much of a hurry. He hesitated, then shrugged and followed, leading Oberon behind. There were two of them, and no doubt Mansfield was armed.

  Holding his nose, Lucien stepped over the swollen remains of a dead cat, his black boots sinking into soft mud. The stench made his eyes water. Oberon balked, planting his hooves firmly and refusing to move past the smelly corpse.

  Lucien stepped up to his mount’s side and stroked his quivering neck. “No time for nerves, boy. I need to find Rosalind. She was in that chaise today. Something is wrong. I feel it in my gut.”

  His soothing voice calmed the horse. Lucien grasped the reins firmly and stepped over the cat again. Oberon danced, rolling his eyes, but Lucien continued to speak in a low voice, and his mount finally consented to step over the ripe carcass.

  Lucien turned his attention back to the dim-lit lane ahead. The devil take it. The lane was so dark Mansfield was no longer in sight. He slowed, his gaze sweeping the area in front. Oberon seemed to sense his apprehension. He snorted and pranced in nervous dancing steps, jerking the reins.

  “Steady, boy.” Lucien stepped forward, his ears straining for the slightest sound. Instinct screamed to take caution because danger lurked ahead. “Mansfield?” His voice was soft, not much louder than a whisper. Surely Mansfield wouldn’t walk off and leave him, not if they intended to drink together.

  The darkness of the alley lifted as they neared the end. Lucien squinted, scanning for danger. Nothing appeared untoward. Behind him, Oberon seemed calmer and the tension seeped from Lucien’s shoulders. His mount had saved him more than once. When the bandits had attacked their party in France, it had been Oberon’s warning that had alerted him and saved him from certain death. But not soon enough to save Francesca too. Sorrow pierced his heart when he thought of his first wife. She hadn’t deserved to die so young, and for that Hawk would pay.

  Lucien increased his pace, his thoughts switching to Rosalind. He refused to lose her too, not when he’d just found her.

  He hurried down the remaining few feet of the alley. Several kegs were stacked at the door of the building opposite. No doubt Mansfield was already inside, ordering a tankard for each of them. Lucien stepped from the alley. A blur of movement to his right made his head jerk in that direction.

  A dark figure swung at him with a club. His hand rose to block the blow. Too slow. Pain exploded in his head and he slumped to the ground.

  ***

  Rosalind paced the boundaries of her prison, ignoring the faint throb of her ankle. Luxurious as far as prisons went, with an elegant four-poster bed and a highly polished walnut dresser, but she was confined against her will.

  She tried the door. Still locked. She marched to the single window overlooking the street below. It was a quiet back street
used mainly by those who lived in the area. A stout, locked bolt barred her exit by way of the window. She considered breaking the glass and shouting for help but discarded the idea because Mansfield had warned her against the action. He’d said no one would help her. He’d told them she was queer in the head. They’d likely run if she shouted at them, and he’d had the audacity to grin when he said it. None of them would believe he was holding her against her will. Rosalind grimaced down at her skirt, ripped during a tussle for freedom. The hem bore a coating of dried mud. Her hair had toppled down during her attempt to escape and, without a comb or mirror, it was impossible to restore to its former neatness. Oh, yes. She looked like a madwoman.

  The scrape of a key in the lock alerted her to a new arrival. Rosalind turned to the door, her heart pounding. Every muscle tensed as she prepared to seize any chance that came her way.

  The door opened, and Mansfield stepped inside. Confidence and good cheer radiated from him. His grin stretched from one side of his face to the other, giving rise to a sinking feeling in her stomach.

  Bad news for her.

  Mansfield turned the key and slipped it inside his jacket. He faced her, his gaze wandering the length of her body before returning in a leisurely manner to her face. “Comfortable, my dear? Anything I can get you?”

  Rosalind suppressed a shudder. The man looked at her as though she was a luscious piece of fruit tart. It made her very uncomfortable. “I would like to return to the castle.”

  “Ah, but you don’t like living there. I’ve heard you tell that red-haired maid of yours.”

  “It was you. You spied on me.”

  Mansfield shrugged, clearly experiencing not a shred of guilt. “I watched over you, my dear. There’s a difference.”