The Spurned Viscountess (3 page)

“It was the wind. There are no ghosts in this castle.” Rosalind swung her legs over the edge of the bed and slithered down until her feet touched the ground. Mary had a terrible penchant for gossip. Treasure! Rosalind didn’t believe the stories of ghosts and treasure for a moment. “I suppose I’d better get ready.”

“I can’t find your hairbrush. Have you seen it?”

“It will be here somewhere.” Rosalind smothered a yawn.

Her wedding day. Fear danced down her spine as she slid her arms into the robe Mary held for her. She’d be glad when the ceremony was over and she was safely married.

“Are you still worrying about the marriage bed?”

Rosalind grimaced. “I am now. Thank you for reminding me.” As if she didn’t have enough to worry about. Her betrothed hated her and now it seemed he was a smuggler. Add the mysteries of the marriage bed her aunt had described in most confusing terms, then yes, she had plenty to worry on.

For years she’d looked forward to this day. Yet, now her wedding day was upon her, she felt like a lamb being driven to Smithfield’s market for slaughter.

***

The dainty Englishwoman looked as if she might faint. She appeared so fragile that if a gust of wind picked up, she’d take flight. There wasn’t much to her that Lucien could see, apart from her eyes. Her big blue eyes reminded him of the lakes near his home in Italy.

Lucien frowned and concentrated on the drone of the vicar. How much more would he deem fit to say? He wished the whole procedure was over so his life would return to normal, as normal as it could be without Francesca. No more dinner parties. No more dinner guests. He needed peace and privacy to investigate. His hands fisted at his sides, his muscles tense. The Englishman who’d sent men to murder them during their journey from Italy to St. Clare had a name, and he wanted it.

He wanted to know why.

An edgy agitation assailed him when he thought of his wife. Francesca. His tight jaw relaxed as he recalled her laugh, her love of life. The way she’d loved him, and the way she showed her love. His loins tightened and he stirred restlessly, remembering too late she was gone.

Murdered.

And he was no closer to finding the person responsible for the despicable deed.

The vicar cleared his throat, and Lucien snapped to attention. When the vicar repeated the words, Lucien swallowed before uttering a reply. Damn it! How could he pledge to this woman when he hated the very idea? Frustration warred with necessity. How could he not? As long as everyone assumed he was Viscount Hastings, he was trapped into this marriage. For without his cover here at Castle St. Clare, he had no hope of finding the elusive Hawk, his main suspect in Francesca’s murder.

A loud cough echoed in the chapel. The vicar’s eyes beseeched Lucien to act. Behind him, feet shuffled, skirts rustled. He closed his eyes briefly and acknowledged the question in a clear, firm voice. “I do.”

Minutes later, it was over.

Lucien was married to the colorless woman at his side.

***

Rosalind huddled under the covers, the flowered damask hangings drawn about the bed creating a private haven, while she considered the length of time that had elapsed since she’d retired. It seemed ages since Mary had helped her change from her bridal finery into her nightgown. When would her husband appear?

A series of assorted creaks and thumps sounded in the passage outside her room. Settling noises, she assured herself. The foreign sounds were nothing unusual at all. The scurry of tiny feet across the floor made Rosalind bolt upright.
Not mice!
She detested the gray rodents.

A door squeaked, and Rosalind stiffened. He had arrived at last. She strained to hear footsteps, her heart thumping with both anticipation and fear of the unknown. She heard a soft sound that might have been a footstep, then nothing. Possibly the fine Persian carpet muted further sounds. Her heart thumped so noisily she thought Hastings would hear it. A deep, hurried breath did little to ease her anxiety.

Finally, tired of the strain, she called out, “Hello?” The distinct wobble in her voice brought a frown. She sounded frightened and that wouldn’t do at all. Experience with her gift had taught her that no matter what the situation, a brave façade worked wonders. “Is someone there?”

There was no reply, but every one of her senses shrieked of a presence in her chamber. She chewed on her bottom lip and wondered how to proceed. Instinct told her if Hastings was in her chamber, he’d answer her greeting and not skulk like…like a mouse.

Rosalind slid toward the join in the damask hangings. With one hand, she inched the curtains apart and peered intently into the darkness.

To her intense frustration, the locked shutters made her room black as chimney soot. Yet she knew someone was inside the room with her. Listening attentively for the slightest sound, she slid one leg over the edge of the bed. The salty tang of the sea was normal if the windows were open, but not the sweet whiff of tobacco. She half stood before a sound behind her made fear surge.

She whirled about, her leg tangling with the bedcovers. A sharp nudge in the middle of her back propelled her forward again. Empty air met her frantic hands. Her head clipped the corner of the four-poster bed, then collided with the unforgiving floor. Pinpricks of pain stabbed her temples.

In the distance, a clock chimed the hour. The floorboards creaked behind her.

Footsteps.
Rosalind struggled to lift her head, to focus. Dizziness made the room whirl. She whimpered softly, then surrendered to the dark.

***

“Miss! Miss Rosalind!”

The high, sharp tones pierced Rosalind’s stupor. Vigorous shaking did the rest, bringing her to full wakefulness.

“Stop shaking me,” she protested. “Before you do some damage.”

“What happened, Miss Rosalind?”

Rosalind paused to think, but there was a yawning hole in her memory. She had no idea how she came to be on the floor. She struggled to a sitting position.

Mary hastened to help. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“I don’t think so.” White-hot pain sliced through her head. A grimace twisted her lips. She remembered the wedding and the celebration afterward. She recalled waiting for Hastings. Then…

Then nothing.

She clambered to her feet and wobbled slightly before Mary grabbed her and aided her to a chair.

“My head hurts,” she said, trying not to dwell on her husband’s failure to appear. Her mind refused to cooperate and she frowned. She hadn’t done anything wrong, had she?

“Let me see.” Mary’s hands moved over her head. When she touched the side of her head, above her ear, Rosalind winced. “You have a lump on your head, Miss Rosalind. Would you like a headache powder? There’s no need for you to go down to breakfast. Not this morn.”

The knowing look on Mary’s face made Rosalind squirm. Did she suspect Hastings hadn’t consummated the marriage? All the more reason to break her fast with the others. And pretend this marriage was normal.

The hour appeared advanced. She would explore the gardens, the castle and acquaint herself with her new home. She experienced a gamut of perplexing emotions as her mind returned to her absent husband. Maybe she’d summon the courage to corner Hastings and demand answers.

“I feel better now, Mary. I’d enjoy a walk after breakfast.”

“Too much fresh air is not good for a body.” Mary folded her arms across her ample bosom.

“Rubbish. I enjoy walking. I’ve wanted to explore the beach ever since I arrived.”

“Stay away from the sea water. You’ll take a chill, especially after falling from bed and hitting your head.”

Rosalind’s eyes narrowed. “I did not fall out of bed. You make me sound like a child.” A whisper of a memory flitted through her mind, and she seized it. One hand crept to test a painful spot in the middle of her back. Yes! Someone had pushed her. She was sure of it.

“How did you come to be on the floor, if you didn’t fall from your bed?”

She doubted Mary would believe her. “Can you help me dress now, please?”

“Only if you eat first. I’ll bring hot chocolate and spice cakes before I help you dress.” Mary yanked back the bed covers and patted the bed. “Back into bed with you.”

Rosalind’s mouth firmed, but she climbed back into bed as instructed. The minute Mary left, she clambered back out and ignored the throb in her head to dress. After a brisk wash, she chose a dark blue open robe with a matching petticoat, pulled on shoes, and tugged a cloak from her wooden chest.

Halfway to the door, Rosalind realized she’d neglected to tidy her hair. She spun back to her dresser and snatched up her hairbrush.

“Ouch,” she muttered, then stilled. Her hairbrush. It hadn’t been there when she went to bed.

The back of her neck prickled. She whirled about, her gaze piercing every corner. The shutters were open now. Light streamed into the room, highlighting the feminine fripperies, the jewel-colored tapestries of Diana the huntress, and the Persian carpet. She exhaled sharply. It was the knock on her head—definitely the knock on her head, that and an overactive imagination. There was no one present in the chamber except her.

She grabbed her gloves and left, heading down a lengthy corridor and turning right at the end. She navigated her way by counting doorways. As she hurried to the breakfast room, her shoes rapped on the wooden floors, echoing noisily. Portraits of long-forgotten ancestors frowned down from the walls. She shot an uneasy glance over her shoulder.

No, she was alone, yet her disquiet persisted.

Ridiculous, she thought, and slowed, determined to prove there was nothing to be frightened of. There were no ghosts or specters with clanking chains and eerie wails, and although she’d heard mice, she’d yet to see one.

She studied a tarnished old suit of armor standing against the wall and scanned the portrait of a woman who looked uncannily like Lady Augusta.

A cough rattled noisily in a throat behind her, and Rosalind almost parted company with her shoes. She spun, her hand trembling at her breast, icy fear galloping through her veins until she focused and recognized the earl.

“Rosalind, child. What are you doing skulking in the passage?”

“Ah…” Did he know about her failure with her husband? Heat suffused her cheeks and, unable to bear pity or sympathy, she rushed into speech. “Good morning. I wanted to explore.”

“Plenty of time for that later.” The earl offered his arm. “I expect you would like breakfast.”

“Yes.” Rosalind doubted food would sit easily in her stomach but refrained from mentioning it because she didn’t want to raise embarrassing questions.

“In you go.” The earl propelled her toward the breakfast room. “I need to speak with my secretary for a moment.”

At the doorway, her steps faltered. The only other occupant was Hastings. She hesitated, her bravado from earlier vanishing as she studied the man she’d married the day before. He was huge. He towered over the earl and made her feel small and insignificant.

She couldn’t stay out here all day. He was her husband. Determined to show poise, Rosalind forced herself to step inside the breakfast room. She had questions to ask. Had he entered her room earlier? Had he pushed her from her bed? Did he wish her ill?

She stepped closer. “Good morning.”

Hastings’s face was expressionless, his glance indifferent. Rosalind’s confidence plunged as every one of her questions tangled together like a ball of twine. A flicker of anxiety pierced her as she stared helplessly at her husband who wasn’t a husband. Where did she start?

He’d tied his long hair back this morning, accentuating his dark eyes, his unfashionable tan and scar. His one glance sliced right through her, sensitizing her body and making her aware of the way her stays laced across her breasts. A pain in her chest reminded her to breathe. She wished he’d say something. Anything.

But his face remained impassive and his gaze swept her from head to foot. He stood and turned, the light streaming into the breakfast room highlighting his scar with merciless attention to the jagged detail. He prowled to the chair at the far end of the table and pulled it out. One brow arched as he indicated silently she should sit.

Rosalind walked toward him with caution. For an instant, her mind screamed to run, but she continued her approach until she stood before him.

He seated her with brisk efficiency, but didn’t speak or touch her in any way. Her throat clogged with a knot of apprehension, the humiliation of his spurning. She swallowed rapidly and sucked in a deep breath. His sandalwood scent and a more subtle masculine note made her insides jolt with uneasy awareness. This was her husband.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her questions whirring through her mind at breakneck speed. Now if only she could find the courage to state them out loud without fear of mangling her words. She cleared her throat. “I—”

Hastings nodded, a hurried impersonal nod of farewell, and strode from the room without a word.

Rosalind’s mouth dropped open. She stared after him, a sharp pain jabbing her heart. Tears pricked at her eyes, and her headache returned with vengeance.

Hastings was her husband, but he acted as though he hated her.

Rosalind poured chocolate into a dainty porcelain cup and stared at the swirls in the dark liquid. A sigh that was almost a sob escaped. The sound seemed to hang in the breakfast room before it faded to nothing. She bit her bottom lip; she swallowed. Steam drifted off the chocolate. She reached out to pick up her cup, but her hand shook so badly she gave up. Instead, she stared in the direction Hastings had disappeared.

Alone.

She’d never felt so isolated in all her life, not even when her grandmother had died. Nothing had prepared her for this situation. Nothing.

She swiped away a bothersome tear with the back of her hand. When the slap-slap of footsteps heralded an arrival, she snatched up a napkin and rapidly dabbed her eyes. Then she reached for her chocolate and hoped she wouldn’t spill it.

“There you be, miss.” Exasperation colored Mary’s terse words. “I’ve searched everywhere for you. There be too many rooms in this pile of stones.”

“I decided to come down for breakfast.” Rosalind fixed her attention on her chocolate again, feeling the full weight of Mary’s disapproval.
Don’t cry.
She stared so hard her eyes ached. Thank goodness it was Mary and not the earl or Charles—or even worse, Lady Augusta. Maybe Mary wouldn’t notice the tears and interrogate her, because she had no intention of discussing her marriage. Her feelings for Hastings were personal. Private.

Mary stomped up to the table and planted her hands firmly on her rounded hips. “You be acting like a child. You might have told me before I hiked to the kitchens and back.”

Rosalind’s mouth firmed, but she admitted to her poor behavior. It was only right. “I’m sorry, Mary. Would you like to go for a walk?” It was an apology, but a double-edged one. Mary hated walking.

Her maid huffed. “I’ll fetch your cloak. It be cold outdoors.”

“You’re coming with me?”

“I don’t like this pile of stones.” Mary glanced over her shoulder as if she expected someone to leap out at her. “A body be much safer outdoors.”

Rosalind gaped. Her maid habitually wore a grin while her eyes sparkled with life. This doom and gloom was an uncharacteristic change. Mary departed before she could form a question, leaving her alone with her puzzlement. At the first opportunity she’d ask Mary what she meant.

Five minutes later, wrapped warmly against the biting wind, they walked past the crumbling North Tower. Ivy covered the part still standing, the green leaves a bright contrast to the weathered gray stone.

Rosalind slowed. “Have you heard anything about the tower?”

“Aye.” Mary grabbed Rosalind’s arm and forced her to walk faster. She darted a glance over her shoulder and made the sign of a cross with her free hand. “It be haunted.”

Doubt made Rosalind frown again, but curiosity overcame her. “By whom?”

“A St. Clare ancestor. Lady Margaret. They say her betrothed ran off with another. Went mad, she did. Retired to the North Tower and never came out.”

“Hmmm.”

“The maids have heard her. They say her screams foretell bad luck. Of a death to come.” Mary shifted uneasily. “She screamed last night.”

Rosalind studied the decaying tower for a brief moment then jerked her gaze away. There were enough strange noises and unexplained happenings at Castle St. Clare without letting Mary fill her head with more nonsense. “Make haste, Mary. I want to leave before Lady Augusta catches me.”

“This be a fearsome place,” Mary declared, seeming to read her mind and sense her disquiet. “Ghosts, strange noises and the sort.”

They walked through the gate and Rosalind glanced up. The spikes of the portcullis glinted, dangerous and as deadly as the day of their installation. She shuddered at the thought of the spikes piercing her skin, spearing through body and crushing limbs, and hastened her steps to a path that ran along the cliff.

Mary was right about one thing. There was something strange about Castle St. Clare. And Hastings seemed right in the thick of the mystery. A flicker of apprehension swept through her, leaving a nasty taste in her mouth. He looked sinister at times, especially if the sun caught his face at the right angle, but surely he didn’t mean her harm? A breath clogged her throat. No, she refused to believe it.

But someone had skulked in her chamber this morning. Someone had pushed her from bed. Someone intended to harm her…

The path tapered, becoming too narrow for both of them to walk abreast. Rosalind strode ahead, in a most unladylike manner, trying to outdistance her turbulent thoughts.

“Miss Rosalind, slow down.
Please.
” Mary’s plaintive gasp, interspersed with wheezy pants, made her slow. One glimpse of her maid’s red cheeks and the guilt was instantaneous.

“Oh, Mary. I’m sorry. How thoughtless of me. I’m bad company today, I fear.”

“Probably the knock on your noggin this morning.”

Rosalind wanted to smile. Mary’s motivation was clear. She intended to save Rosalind from herself no matter the consequences. “Are you recovered enough to continue walking?”

Mary groaned and rolled her eyes. “Yes, miss. As long as you don’t turn our walk into a race.”

They continued along the cliff top, but at a much slower pace. Rosalind led the way, navigating a collapsed stone wall that littered the path, skirting the lethal branches of a thorny hedge until she came to an open space in the undergrowth. They could turn toward a copse of trees to their right or continue along the cliff path. They’d walked far enough that Castle St. Clare was no longer visible, obscured by trees, the hedge and a jutting outcrop of pale limestone. She smiled, feeling happy for the first time since she’d woken on the floor this morning.

The view of the sea stretched as far as the eye could see, and it was as beautiful as her grandmother had described. Shades of blue and green and gray with frothy white tops on the waves made her itch to paint the scene. Not that her talents would do the panorama justice. Rosalind paused to look down. The sea churned and tossed, waves crashing to shore and thrashing against the base of the cliff in a thunderous finale. She turned to beam at Mary. “Look, it’s beautiful.”

“It’s cold.” Mary stopped beside Rosalind and huddled into her woolen cloak. She stared off into the distance then grinned cheekily. “Viscount Hastings, he’s coming this way. Probably to meet you.”

Rosalind whirled in the direction Mary indicated, the wind whipping her curls across her face. She brushed an errant lock from her eyes and watched Hastings approach on horseback, her heart lurching with sudden alarm.

“I will return to the castle on my own,” Mary said.

“No!” Rosalind grabbed Mary’s forearm. “Don’t leave me.”

Mary’s ginger brows shot up. “But he’s your husband.”

“No, I…”

Mary’s grin brought a hot flush to her face.

The thud of hooves made them both turn. Hastings towered over them, moving as one with his mount. Mary sketched a brief curtsey while Rosalind merely stared up at her husband, her stomach fluttering with nerves. Her gaze danced across his face, taking in his scar before moving up to meet his eyes. The mocking cynicism and underlying pain wrenched her gaze away. It took a few brief seconds to focus, to look back at the man she was married to, but by then the damage had occurred. An indifferent mask covered his emotions.

The black horse skittered at the raucous cry of a seagull. Hastings held the animal firmly in check with a quiet word and a soothing pat on its glossy neck. He treated his horse with more consideration than her. The fact rankled.

He turned his attention to her again. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Rosalind glanced about for Mary, but saw only a flash of brown as Mary disappeared down the path toward the castle. The traitor. Make no mistake, she would have words with her later.

The horse shifted again, jerking her attention back to the man sitting atop the beast, reminding her of his edict. His highhandedness. “Why?”

“The cliff top is unstable in places. It’s dangerous.”

He’d spoken directly to her! Rosalind sniffed. “I want to walk on the beach.” Bother. Now she sounded like a sulky child.

Hastings frowned, but he stared out to sea instead of looking at her. “You shouldn’t be alone, especially down in the cove.”

“I wasn’t,” Rosalind snapped. He couldn’t bear to look her in the face. Hands curled to fists at her side, she burned to spit out angry words—words to wound as he’d wounded her. For an even-tempered person, she was finding it difficult to remain calm. Why wouldn’t he look at her? She knew she was no beauty, not like her cousin, Miranda, but she was by no means ugly or ill formed.

Counseling patience and feminine serenity, Rosalind silently counted to five. It wouldn’t hurt her to try for politeness, especially if her attempt broke the strained, chilly atmosphere between them. “Thank you for warning me of the danger. I’ll make sure I keep well back from the edge.”

There. He’d warned her, and she’d acknowledged the danger. That should be an end of it. Rosalind stepped off the path to give horse and rider room to move away. When they remained, she edged past, determined to continue her exploring. She was used to walking her uncle’s estate. No harm would befall her out here. At the thought of danger, her hand crept up to finger the bump on her head. Inside Castle St. Clare, however, was another matter.

Lucien frowned at the English mouse sauntering away. His wife, he corrected himself. Oberon shifted uneasily beneath him, and he absently soothed his mount. The firm set of her mouth told him she was hell-bent on going down to the cove. And that was dangerous—too dangerous. Only last night, he’d witnessed smugglers landing cargo in the cove.

He cursed under his breath. God knows what the smugglers had hidden in the caves that ran inland from the cove. They wouldn’t take kindly to people nosing about if they used the caves for storage. He frowned, not happy with the smuggler situation but knowing that many of the villagers relied on the income to make ends meet. They would suffer if he stamped his authority on the situation, and he couldn’t allow that. Until he had alternative methods of raising funds, the smugglers stayed. With the support they received from the local aristocracy, he’d have a battle to remove them anyway.

There was no choice.

He didn’t want to escort her.

His gaze skittered down her back to the feminine sway of her hips, the flash of a stocking-clad ankle.

Cursing inwardly, he leaped off Oberon and hurried after the woman, leading his horse behind him. “Wait!” He grabbed her upper arm with his free hand and spun her around to face him.

Her chin jerked up and her pale blue eyes dared him to exert further force. “I’ll be careful, you can be sure. I don’t require watching like a child.” She enunciated carefully. Precisely. Her brows shot up, and she directed her gaze to his hand.

“I’ll show you the path down to the beach.” Lucien released her and paused, shocked. That was not what he’d meant to say. He’d meant to order her to return home. “It’s not safe to wander on your own here. Take a footman next time or one of the stable lads.”

“I’m used to wandering the estate at home. At will.”

“This is your home now.” Lucien narrowed his eyes, and the scar on his cheek pulled as his facial muscles tensed. Francesca would have laughed and made him laugh in return until she got her own way. Pain lanced through his mind, pulsated in the region of his heart. “You will obey. Take a footman on your outings or you’ll stay at the castle.”

The woman glared at him. Her light eyes darkened with an inner fire that underlined the stubbornness of her chin. Under her cloak, he saw the subtle rise and fall of her breasts. When he realized where he was looking, he stiffened. He jerked his gaze to her face and clenched his jaw while he waited for her decision. “Well?” he demanded, not bothering to hide his irritation.

Their eyes met and held in a silent duel, but finally she gave him a grudging nod. “I’ll take a footman.”

Lucien let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Despite her compliance, he sensed she wanted to tell him to go to the devil. His mouth twisted. Hell, she was too late. He was already there.

“Come.” He gestured for her to precede him down the path and made a clicking sound to urge Oberon to walk on behind him.

They picked their way down the debris-strewn path, an uneasy silence between them. Lucien’s thoughts drifted to Francesca.

His search for Hawk was taking longer than he’d envisaged. Each whisper from the village of St. Clare made hope surge, but the man was proving wily and managed to slip through his fingers. The man remained one step ahead all the time. Lucien let out a frustrated sigh.

Without warning, the woman stopped in the middle of the track and turned to face him. “Why don’t you like me? What have I done to deserve such dislike? You didn’t even come to my room last night.”

Lucien felt his mouth drop. He picked it up so rapidly his teeth clicked together. He was her husband. How dare she question him? Only one other woman had ever pushed him this way…

He reined in his temper and waited for the tight sensation in his chest to dissipate.

“I know you don’t like me. You can hardly deny it.”

Lucien snorted. If she thought marriages took place for anything other than necessity, she was a fool. “Like” was not an essential ingredient where marriage was concerned. The woman glared at him again. And the way her hands fisted, he was sure her fingernails were digging painfully into her flesh.

“You didn’t let me finish,” she snapped, her eyes turning the same deep, unfathomable blue they had earlier. “Can’t we try to be friends?”

A cynical laugh escaped before Lucien could censor his reaction.

He had loved before.

And lost.

But that didn’t mean he owed his new wife an explanation. “As you wish.” He offered a curt bow. As much as he desired her gone, he couldn’t avoid the woman. It would be best for everyone if they at least appeared civil during their interactions.

“It can’t be that dangerous down in the cove,” the woman said without warning. “Someone else is down there.”

Lucien jolted to full attention. He scanned the seashore to no avail. “Where?”