The Spurned Viscountess (5 page)

“Careful! You’ll slide over the edge.” Hastings reached over and with one effortless move heaved her to safety. “If you’re sure you’re uninjured, we should carry on.” He jerked his head in the direction of the sun. “The noon hour approaches.”

Rosalind took one look at his determined face and nodded hastily. “I’m fine,” she said, even though it was a lie. Her heart beat in a frantic tattoo and she couldn’t get the wretched picture of him out of her mind. The half-naked him…with the sheen of sweat coating his muscles.

Before he could remonstrate further, Rosalind plunged down the path at a breakneck speed, trying to outdistance her turbulent thoughts. Aunt Elizabeth would be mortified if she could read her thoughts or see her unladylike flight. Not that Rosalind was happy about the situation herself. It was difficult enough facing her husband without her mind conjuring visions of him naked.

Lucien shook his head, befuddled by the woman’s behavior. She’d looked at him like…like…He shuddered inwardly, feeling a lick of answering heat before he thrust it aside.

That was the way Francesca used to look at him, as if she wanted to eat him for her next meal.

He glowered at her rapidly departing figure. “A trick of the light.”

This feeling, this jump of heat and awareness, was his body’s reaction to her proximity. Any woman would have caused the same sensation. After all, he hadn’t had a woman since Francesca. He hadn’t wanted to.

Touching the woman had been a mistake. A big mistake, but she’d hurt herself so he excused his slip from grace.

Lucien tugged Oberon down the last steep portion of the path before it flattened to sandy beach. With childlike glee, the woman tugged off her gloves and bent to pick up handfuls of sand. The sand slid through her fingers, small, shiny fragments catching the sun as they fell. A soft laugh of pure joy drifted on the breeze. How long had it been since he’d laughed in a carefree way? He knew the answer without even thinking.

Ten months to the day.

He hadn’t laughed since Francesca’s murder and hadn’t wanted to. Anguish clogged his throat. His resolve hardened. Enough. Time to focus on the task at hand. Find Francesca’s murderer, bring him to justice, then make the trip back to Naples.

Once revenge was his, he’d return home.

The woman darted forward and scooped up a glistening white shell. A few seconds later, she changed direction and pounced on another one. She splashed into the sea, heedless of the water wetting her boots, to wash her treasures. Holding them up to the light, she studied them carefully and slid them into the depths of her voluminous cloak, then darted off again.

Lucien sighed and followed, leading Oberon behind him. Without warning, he sensed someone watching them. He glanced at the woman but her attention was on a pile of flotsam washed up by the tide. His eyes narrowed as he casually searched the top of the cliff where the path ran. Nothing. Yet his gut screamed at him to tread cautiously. He scanned the beach but could discern nothing out of place. Still, the hairs at the back of his neck prickled. He slowed, having learned to trust his instincts.

Up ahead on the expanse of sand exposed by the retreating tide, he saw footprints. More footprints than one man would have reasonably made while collecting seaweed.

Oberon snorted, sensing his watchful concern. Lucien frowned while splitting his attention between the woman and the rest of the cove. The nagging feeling that wouldn’t go away suddenly bloomed into a concrete thought. He’d watched smugglers landing their prize last night at high tide. At the time, the sea had covered most of the sand, yet this morning several sets of footprints were clearly discernible. It looked as though they led to the network of caves he’d discovered at the far end of the cove. Which meant this cove was definitely not a safe place for the woman to walk alone. Even one of the burly footmen Lady Augusta employed would be little deterrent against a smuggler’s gang intent on mischief. Although he hadn’t heard rumors that this group was prone to violence, the excise men ran an ongoing bloody battle with smuggling gangs farther down the East Sussex coast.

The woman meandered up the beach, and Lucien made a clicking sound to Oberon to hurry him up. It was best if he kept a close eye on her. Hopefully, she would soon tire of wet boots and sand clinging to her fair skin.

The length of the cove later, she was still skipping along, pouncing on each new pile of washed-up debris with childish delight. A grudging smile tugged his lips, only dying when he had to follow her back to the other end of the cove. Shaking his head with rising impatience, he strode forward. “It’s time to go.”

At the same time, the woman turned to him. The look on her face was grim, her mouth pursed tight in annoyance. “Look what I’ve found.” She thrust a scruffy black thing at him. “Look!”

Before he was able to offer an opinion or even discover what had raised her ire, she clutched the mass of black to her chest.

“Look at what?”

Her mouth smoothed out, like a flower blossoming, and turned up into a ravishing smile of delight. Lucien blinked at the suddenness of her mood change.

“It’s alive. I’m taking it home with me.” Her blue eyes deepened in color about the same time her dainty chin tilted upward in the small act of stubbornness he was coming to recognize. Some sort of creature, he deduced, but he had no idea of its identity since she clutched it protectively to her bosom.

“What is alive?” Annoyance simmered through him. Did she think he was some sort of unthinking monster? Then he answered the question himself. Of course she did.

Only monsters looked like him.

“It’s a cat. A kitten. We should return to the castle. I need my herbal remedies.” That chin of hers was still pointing upward in determined defiance, imperious despite her small stature.

Lucien sighed, more than ready to leave the cove and not about to offer an argument to the contrary. He bent from the waist in a stiff bow. “After you, my lady.”

The look of surprise that flickered across her face almost made him smile. Perhaps he was learning how to manage the woman. A rusty-sounding chuckle escaped at the thought. He sobered immediately, arching one brow in silent enquiry when she remained rooted to the spot, gaping at him.

“Do you want to walk up the path in front of Oberon?” Lucien had noticed her reticence when it came to his mount. Despite her obvious liking for the kitten, she wasn’t a lover of horseflesh.

“Thank you.” The words were stiff and a little ungracious as she swept past with her nose in the air.

Lucien grinned, the action feeling foreign and awkward. The woman looked as prickly as the hedgehog he’d surprised during his midnight rambling last night. And he’d discovered something. To make sure she kept her distance, all he needed was Oberon at his side.

The walk back to Castle St. Clare took half the time the outward journey had. The woman marched briskly up the path in front of him, clutching the kitten protectively and not attempting a word of chatter. She crooned to the creature but, apart from that, they undertook the journey in silence. In the outer courtyard they parted ways. Lucien led Oberon to the stables, and the woman disappeared inside the castle.

Lucien paused. She hadn’t cast him a second look. Not one. Oberon nudged him in the back and, with an impatient snort, sent him lurching forward.

“All right.” Lucien pushed the woman to the back of his mind and smoothed a hand over his mount’s withers. The woman was of no importance anyway.

***

Tickell, the St. Clare butler, opened the heavy oak door a second before Rosalind grasped the head of the brass lion knocker. She smiled her thanks and rushed past, eager to get to her chamber.

“Where have you been?”

The stern feminine screech echoed through the Great Hall and stopped Rosalind dead. A log resettled in the grate, sending a shower of sparks sailing upward into the chimney. She used the brief distraction to take a deep breath before turning slowly to face Lady Augusta. One look at Lady Augusta’s pinched face told her she was in for a tongue-lashing, no matter what excuse she offered.

Forcing her mouth to curve into a polite smile, she said, “I’ve been for a walk, my lady.”

Lady Augusta stared down her long nose, her gaze imperious. “A walk? I expected you here.” The elderly woman swished her fan through the air in a manner that made Rosalind’s knuckles tingle. “A household this size does not run by itself.”

Nothing like starting off wrong-footed. She hadn’t realized Lady Augusta wanted to oversee her in the household duties. That wasn’t the impression the elderly woman had given yesterday. Rosalind sighed inwardly and wondered how to proceed. She’d have to apologize. The kitten stirred in her hands and let out a weak mew. “I’m sorry—”

“What have you there?” Lady Augusta thrust her face closer and let out a hiss. “A cat! It looks diseased. Remove it at once. I won’t have it in my castle. Filthy beast.”

A nervous tremor raced down her body, but instinct told her if she let Lady Augusta win this round, she was doomed. Determined to hold fast, she straightened and prepared for battle. The kitten depended on her.

The wooden door at their backs burst open. A flurry of breeze stirred the tapestries on the far wall before Tickell closed the door after Hastings. The fire hissed with renewed life, sending up a sullen plume of smoke.

“Aunt.” He inclined his head in a respectful nod.

“Tell her to remove that vermin from my castle,” Lady Augusta demanded, her voice high and querulous. “It’s unlucky to have a black cat indoors. Witch’s beast!” she ended with a hiss.

Rosalind backed up at the vehement tone but kept her gaze on Lady Augusta. The elderly woman quivered with anger, the ribbons on her bonnet rattling and echoing the sentiment.

“Take the cat to your room and keep it there,” Hastings said without looking directly at her.

Lady Augusta swelled with indignation. “But—”

“Go, Rosalind.”

She hurried off before Lady Augusta changed Hastings’s mind. But she couldn’t resist a quick look over her shoulder before she left. Hastings was watching her. She felt a strange warmth inside as she ducked through the door and out of his sight.

He’d called her by her given name.

Perhaps there was hope for the future after all.

Rosalind dashed down the same dimly lit passageway she’d walked this morning. A smile flitted across her mouth as she skipped to the end of the corridor. Not only had Hastings called her by name, but he’d taken her side against Lady Augusta. She stroked a finger across the kitten’s head and felt her smile widen. Both things were hopeful signs.

At a second fork in the corridor, she hesitated before turning left. More portraits of long-forgotten ancestors filled the walls, interspaced with alcoves holding marble busts. Slowing her steps, she turned a slow circle. None of the portraits looked familiar. Had she walked this way this morning? When she looked back in the direction she had come from, she noted footprints on the floor. Her footprints. She turned again and frowned at the lack of footprints. This wasn’t the way she’d walked this morning.

“Bother.” She’d have to turn back and try the other way. Castle St. Clare, she was learning, consisted of a multitude of rooms. Some belonged to centuries earlier while others, such as the ones the family used for entertaining guests, were recent additions. Trying to navigate the place was like exploring a maze.

Rosalind turned left again and entered a cavern-like room with a soaring ceiling. Wicked knives decorated the walls while a ray of light from an arrow slit highlighted a display of tarnished shields.

Another room she didn’t recognize from this morning. She studied a rusty set of armor. A battle-axe hung on the wall alongside the armor.

When the kitten stirred, Rosalind stepped toward the open door at the far end of the room. From a second arrow slit, she caught a glimpse of the sea. The grayish-blue water stretched as far as she could see. In that moment, she decided to find the entrance to one of the towers. The climb to the top would surely be worth the effort. The views would be magnificent.

She stared out another arrow slit. The steady drip-drip of water sounded continuously, and a sudden blast of cold air made her shiver. The kitten quivered in her arms, reminding Rosalind of the need to hurry. She spun and headed to the door at the far end of the armory room. A whooshing followed by a loud thump made her start, a small cry of surprise escaping. The battle-axe now lay on the floor, right where she had stood but a few minutes ago.

Swallowing hastily to force her heart back to its rightful place, she stared up at the place on the wall where the axe had hung. The wooden hook hung at a drunken angle. A shudder swept down her body as she realized how close she’d come to injury.

The same ill-at-ease sensation—as if someone was spying on her—made the area between her shoulder blades itch insistently. Rosalind whirled, her gaze searching the room. Nothing seemed out of place. Her nervous laugh echoed back to her. Imagination. No doubt the hook was old and perhaps unstable. It was merely bad luck.

Shaking off the uneasy feeling as nonsense, Rosalind increased her pace and burst into another unfamiliar passage, her shoes clattering on the stone floor.

A lone sconce lit the way, creating unwelcoming shadows and dark corners. Rosalind drew in a lungful of the musty air. The uneasy feeling persisted. Gooseflesh sprang up on her arms and legs. She glanced over her shoulder again and moved faster. Anxiety of the like she’d never felt before threatened to overwhelm her. Almost running now, she plowed into an obstacle.

A scream tore from her throat when she realized another person was clutching her arms. “Let me go!”

“Rosalind.” The insistent voice pierced her panic, cutting through her whimper of fear. “Lady Hastings!” This time a shake accompanied her name.

Her eyes focused on the man standing in front of her. She smelled his shaving soap and the faint tang of the sea on his clothes along with smoke from a recently smoked pipe, sucked in a deep breath and finally found her voice. “Mr. Soulden.”

Charles Soulden’s hands dropped to his sides. Concern shimmered in his blue eyes as he stepped away. “Lady Hastings. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I…I wasn’t expecting anyone. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” she murmured, feeling heat scorch her cheeks. “It is I who must apologize.”

Charles Soulden sketched a bow and smiled with boyish charm. “No harm done.” He stepped past Rosalind as if to leave.

“Wait!” Rosalind had no idea where she was. He couldn’t leave her here. Lost. Not that she wanted to admit that the floor plan of the castle disoriented her.

His blond brows rose toward his wig. “May I help you in some way?”

Rosalind glanced down at the kitten in her hands. “Ah…which way…?”

A grin twitched at the corners of his mouth. “It does take time to learn how to navigate the castle.”

In his cream breeches and jacket, he looked like a golden angel. All that was missing was a pair of wings.