The Spurned Viscountess (7 page)

“There’s no need.” Innocent blue eyes peered at him, soft and limpid as the Bacci fishponds.

No, the idea of the English mouse in collusion with Hawk was ridiculous. With all that’d happened and his impatience to settle the matter, his imagination was working overtime, grasping at straws.

“Judson, where does Mistress Baker live?”

Judson scratched his head and sniffed. “In the street with the open drain. It’s the cottage with the good roof.”

Lucien nodded, remembering the stench distinctly. The grain of mistrust blossomed into full-fledged suspicion when Rosalind opened her mouth again, probably to protest. Why would she refuse his offer of aid if she had nothing to hide?

“This way.” He offered his arm. He didn’t intend to take no as an answer. “Judson, order the supplies we discussed. Tell the rest of the men we start work tomorrow.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Lucien nodded at Judson then turned to the woman. “Come.”

Rosalind stood her ground. “I’m sure you are busy. Mary and I will find Mistress Baker.”

Lucien’s first instinct was to not let her out of his sight, but she’d hardly lead him to Hawk if he hovered like a broody hen. He hesitated. Perhaps it was best to back off and watch from a distance. Give the woman enough space to incriminate herself…if she were truly guilty. Maybe it was his presence that disturbed her.

“I will escort you to the door and return to the castle.” The look of relief on her face made him want to curse out loud. “This way.”

She glanced at his arm and hesitated before resting her pale fingers on his coat sleeve so lightly he barely felt her touch.

A soft gasp escaped her, a look of consternation flitting across her face before her lips tightened in an expression of pain. She refused to meet his gaze, but that shouldn’t have surprised him. Most people were uncomfortable gazing upon his ruined face.

“What is it?” Every survival instinct he possessed jumped to full alert.

“Nothing of import. Ah, Mary,” the woman said when her servant appeared. “Hastings knows the direction of the cottage we’re seeking.”

Lucien intercepted the look that passed between the two women. Yes, they were both part of a deception. It made him even more determined to discover what they were hiding.

“This way.” Emotion made his voice gruff. He stepped over a muddy puddle, guiding his viscountess around it. She clutched his arm hesitantly, as if he’d bite. And the ginger-haired servant was no better, sending wary glances when she thought he wouldn’t notice.

Clouds obscured the last weak rays of sun, making the cluster of poorly maintained cottages appear even more dilapidated. A scrawny black pup cowered behind an overturned bucket, growling ferociously once they were safely past. A muscle ticked in his tightly held jaw, and he was more determined than ever to improve the lot of the villagers.

As they progressed down the rutted track, Rosalind did her best to disengage from his touch. The pained expression remained, although each time she looked at him she pasted a bright smile on her face. Lucien’s irritation kicked up into anger. The woman thought he was so repulsive she couldn’t look him straight in the face.

At Mistress Baker’s cottage, Lucien rapped on the bowed door before standing aside. “I’ll arrange for Matthew to meet you here. Don’t set out for the castle without him.”

The obvious relief on her face made his anger burn stronger and he battled the inclination to shake the English mouse until the truth spilled from her pale pink lips. Without another word, he wheeled about and strode away before he gave in to the urge to throttle her.

When Lucien reached a narrow lane running between the Nag’s Head public house and the hostelry stables, he paused. A young boy stared, but when he noticed Lucien watching him, he raced away. Satisfied no one else observed him, Lucien slid from sight, hurried to the end of the lane and circled back to the rear of Mistress Baker’s cottage.

Damn, he stuck out like a boil on a man’s arse lurking out here. One glance out the window and they’d catch him. He hovered, weighing the risks, and finally decided to stay put. He inched closer, hugging the walls of the mud and wood cottage. The soft murmur of feminine voices filtered through to him, only one word in two audible. He scowled, frustrated, tired and plain irritated with the situation.

He sucked in a deep breath and willed himself past the anger so he could concentrate. Damn, he needed to see what was happening. His gut churned relentlessly, telling him something wasn’t quite right and he’d learned to trust his instincts. Shaking his head, he edged closer to a small hole in the cottage wall.

The woman’s soft voice sounded much closer now. “Show me where your leg hurts, Mistress Baker.”

Lucien watched his wife bend over a large woman lying on a pallet. The maid stood with her back to the window, partially blocking his view.

“By the joint or right in the bone?” His wife glanced at her maid and once again, they seemed to communicate silently.

The maid surged forward and clasped the sick woman’s hands in hers. “Tell me about your family. You have children?”

The sick woman groaned but rallied. “Aye. Four. ’Twas six but we lost two to the plague that passed through three year ago.”

Sympathy flickered on the maid’s face. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Aye,” the woman said. “And I might lose more if Hawk doesn’t leave off flashing ’is coin.”

Every muscle in Lucien’s body tensed as he strained to listen, to withhold his shout of jubilation.

“Hawk?” his wife murmured. “I’ve heard of this man but haven’t met him yet.”

Lucien detected nothing more than casual interest.

Mistress Baker exhaled loudly. “Probably won’t. Keeps to hisself. Head of the smugglers hereabouts. Don’t stand for no nonsense. He has all the people involved. Safer that way so no one’ll bleat to the authorities, not that we would, given the coin ’e pays. Time’s tough right now and ’e keeps us bellies full.”

“Does the man live in the village?” his wife asked.

“No one knows ’is face. Wears a mask, ’e does. Even when ’e ’elps unload.” Alarm crossed her face without warning, and Mistress Baker clutched at Rosalind’s arm. “Here I be gossiping to you ’bout smugglers. Comes of being on me own too much. Best not ask questions. If yer meant to know, you’ll be told. Safer that way.”

The soft scuff of boot against stone came from behind. Lucien leaped away from the cottage to the dilapidated building next door and pretended to inspect the structure for soundness. Without acknowledging his watcher, he moved along the alley, examining the buildings. At the end, he casually turned. There was no one in sight but he sensed the watchful surveillance.

Lucien cursed under his breath. The timing stunk. Just when things turned interesting, when he thought he was about to learn something helpful. At least the woman had confirmed what he’d already guessed—the entire village was ensnared with Hawk. Even though the fact was now confirmed, frustration bubbled inside him. Because he was an unknown quantity to the villagers, they refused to talk to him.

But they’d talked to the woman…

Aggravated, but realizing he would learn little else today, he strode to the stables and called for Oberon. When the blacksmith’s son led him out to the yard, his mount danced nervously at the end of his reins. The lad handed him over with clear relief. A good, hard gallop would sort out his mount, and hopefully settle his own disquiet.

Lucien smoothed his hand down Oberon’s neck and murmured quietly, but his horse refused to settle. He snorted, tossing his head and rolling his eyes. His glossy black ears flicked back until they lay flat against his head. Lucien swung up into the saddle. Oberon snorted again and reared. Lucien heard the startled shout of the stable lad but had his hands full trying to control his horse. Oberon’s front legs hit the ground, then, without pausing, he bolted. The wind whistled past Lucien’s ears, tearing locks of hair from his queue. Hedges became a green blur as he struggled to control his mount.

“Whoa, damn it!” Lucien tightened his grip on the reins and pulled back using brute strength. Oberon took no notice.

Lucien steered him at a hedge, hoping it would slow their breakneck speed. He felt Oberon gather under him and they sailed over the hedge, barely slowing their pace. He hauled back on the reins. If anything, his actions stirred Oberon to greater speed. His mount emitted a frantic whinny that sounded uncannily like a scream. Bucking and rearing, he tried to throw Lucien. When that failed, Oberon galloped headlong down a narrow twisting track. They hurtled into the forest. Overhanging branches tore at Lucien’s clothes, smacked his face, gouged his limbs. Mud splattered up until it coated both he and Oberon.

What the hell was wrong? Lucien leaned forward and instantly Oberon slowed. He eased back into the saddle. Oberon immediately bucked, twisting and screwing his muscular body. Sweat lathered his glossy neck, each breath roaring from his nostrils like a fabled fire-breathing dragon. A branch overhanging the path almost dislodged Lucien.

“Damn it!” He eased his weight off the saddle again. Oberon slowed, confirming Lucien’s suspicions. Keeping his weight forward, Lucien tightened the reins. Oberon obeyed, and Lucien cursed. Someone had interfered with his mount while he’d conducted his tour of the village.

Lucien slowed Oberon until he halted by a large oak, his sides heaving from the mad gallop. Lucien dismounted and undid the cinch with quick, angry movements. A trickle of blood ran from under the saddle blanket. He must be closing in on Hawk, if that bastard felt the need to take action like this.

A sharp thorn almost as long as his little finger protruded from the saddle blanket. On closer inspection, he found three more. Yanking them free, he tossed them to the forest floor where they would do no further harm. The thorns had gouged into his horse’s flesh, but he had been the target rather than his mount. A few days’ rest and Oberon’s wound would heal. Lucien replaced the saddle and tightened the girth enough to keep the saddle on, but no more. He gathered the reins and commenced the long walk back to the castle, seething at Hawk’s effrontery.

Many of the villagers worked with the smugglers, but did they work only when the boats came in from France, or did they act for Hawk in all things? And who had done the dirty deed? Lucien grimaced. He’d made it easy for them, allowing the blacksmith’s son to take his horse to the stable. Was the blacksmith’s son the culprit? Hell, anyone could have sneaked into the stables and interfered with his mount. They’d all acted as though he was unwelcome; all were equally suspicious. All had refused to meet his gaze, even the English mouse.

She’d behaved more suspiciously than any of the villagers. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that the insipid Englishwoman had secrets. The likelihood seemed high the secrets were related to his enemy, Hawk. There was no other explanation.

While Mary made small talk with Mistress Baker, Rosalind pretended to study the woman’s swollen leg. She ran her hands slowly but steadily down the reddened limb and concentrated on the place inside her mind that helped her heal others. A picture formed, and with it the answers to help Mistress Baker.

“How long has your leg been like this?” she asked, wanting to appear as if she was unsure of the problem.

“Nigh on six months now,” Mistress Baker said.

“Did you have a fall?”

“Aye, ’twas in blackberry season. Right clumsy, I be at times. Fell headlong into a bush. I healed up right enough, apart from this leg that flares up now and then.”

Rosalind nodded. “I suspect there’s still a thorn embedded in your leg, causing the problem.”

“No! Couldn’t be. I’ve had a poisonous wound before and ’twern’t nothin’ like this.”

Unsurprised at the woman’s denials but sure in her own mind, Rosalind nodded again. “Would you allow me to try a treatment?”

“I’ve tried everything.” Mistress Baker’s jowls wobbled as she bobbed her head briskly. “Don’t suppose trying a new treatment would hurt none. Not that I’m saying you be right, Lady Hastings. But as I see it, can’t be much worse off than I be now.”

Rosalind shared a quiet smile with Mary before turning to open her treatment bag. Her hands hovered over various herbs before she selected several and ground them to a paste in a special dish she kept in her bag. “Mix this powder with water and smooth it over your leg. Right here.” Rosalind touched a bright red spot with a gentle finger. She studied Mistress Baker for a short time, then reached into her bag again and pulled out a small bottle. “You might try taking this medicine too.”

“I don’t know ’bout no medicine,” Mistress Baker said.

Rosalind understood the problem immediately. “I make it with honey. Try it, you’ll be surprised at how pleasant it tastes.” Mistress Baker remained doubtful, but Rosalind pressed the medicine on her. “I’ll visit you tomorrow if I can, or failing that, expect me the day after.” Rosalind glanced at the discolored limb. If something didn’t happen soon, the woman would lose her leg. She’d seen it happen before. “Mary, perhaps we should ask Mistress Baker for clear directions to the Miller family.”

Mistress Baker chuckled. “Got lost, did ye?”

“We’ll learn our way around soon enough,” Mary said. “The village is not large.”

“Aye, right enough.” Mistress Baker nodded sagely. “I’ll look for you tomorrow or the next day.”

Rosalind and Mary left after receiving detailed directions to the Millers’ cottage.

“I thought Matthew was meant to wait for us,” Mary said, searching for the hefty footman in his distinctive livery.

Rosalind glanced down the rutted lane that ran between the rows of cottages. “The Miller cottage isn’t far. I’m sure Matthew is resourceful enough to find us.”

“But my lord said—”

“Let me worry about Hastings,” Rosalind said, ignoring the twinge of guilt at breaking a promise. She hurried Mary past the stable. A weathered sign swung drunkenly over the porch of the public house next door. Up close, the sign bore the image of a horse’s head, and it creaked with each gust of wind. Raucous laughter spilled from an open bay window.

“What ’ave we ’ere, then?” a man hollered out the window. “Pretty chicks like you shouldn’t be walking alone.”

A second man joined his friend, and Mary grabbed Rosalind forcibly by the elbow. “Miss, this not be the place to stand and gawp.”

Rosalind allowed Mary to drag her away but continued to look over her shoulder. “I’ve never been in a public house before. Have you?”

“Yes, miss. I mean, my lady. I have. And it’s not the place for the likes of you.”

Rosalind frowned. The interesting places weren’t proper. It wasn’t fair. One day she’d march right inside…

Mary slowed when they reached a stone gateway on the outskirts of the village. “This must be the shortcut Mistress Baker mentioned.”

“There’s the dead oak. The path looks overgrown.” Rosalind’s boots sank into mud as she peered down the path. She pulled her boot from the mud with a loud squelch. “And wet.”

“Do you want to go back?” Mary asked.

“No, I’m muddy now and you don’t look much better. We might as well keep going.”

The path twisted and turned, taking them deep into a copse of beech and oak. The leafy canopy blocked the light, making navigating the path even more treacherous. Rosalind pushed on, wincing when icy water from a puddle splashed over the top of one boot.

They walked for another ten minutes before Rosalind paused to rescue her skirts from the clutches of a prickly bush. “I’m not sure this is the right way. Mistress Baker said we needed to follow the path for five minutes. I didn’t see the fork in the path she mentioned. Did you?”

“No, miss. I don’t like it here. Have you noticed there be no birds singing? And it’s getting darker.”

Rosalind frowned. She’d noticed but had decided it was mere imagination. They stared at each other wordlessly.

“Do you think we should return?” There was a distinct wobble in Mary’s voice, and her fear spread to Rosalind. Every nerve in her body screamed, urging flight.

“It can’t be much farther,” Rosalind whispered. Somehow, their surroundings warranted a hushed undertone. She swallowed as she tugged her hat free from a low-hanging branch.

Mary glanced over her shoulder. “If you’re sure…”

No, she wasn’t sure at all. Perhaps it hadn’t been wise to ignore Hastings’s orders to take an escort.

The snap of a dry twig made them both jump.

Mary emitted a soft squeak. “What was that?”

“How should I know?” Rosalind’s skin suddenly prickled with alarm. Another crack sounded and a red deer burst from the undergrowth. It seemed as panicked as they and crashed into the bushes a few feet from them before disappearing.

“A deer,” Rosalind said weakly, pressing a trembling hand to her breast, willing her heart to return to normal speed. “Shall we carry on?”

“Yes, miss.”

They set off again, traveling through the murky light. The sharp crack of a branch made her heart jump up her throat again. Rosalind stilled.

“Miss?”

Rosalind let out a burst of breath. “Probably another deer.” She forged ahead, despite the jangle of her nerves. The trees thinned, letting in more light, and with the improved vision, she experienced a rise in courage. She caught a flash of white as a bird flitted from one tree to another. Another tremulous breath eased her wariness a little more.

“Look, Mary. I do believe that is the fork in the path Mistress Baker spoke of.” She hurried toward it, desperate to leave the inhospitable forest. “I’m right. It is. There’s the marker stone. Mary?” Rosalind turned to smile at her friend.

She wasn’t there.

“Mary?” Rosalind peered down the path, but Mary was nowhere in sight. A chill crawled along Rosalind’s spine. “Mary!” A muscle ticked at the corner of her mouth. She stood indecisively in the middle of the path and fervently wished she’d listened to Hastings. She hated to admit to the fact, but it seemed he had the right of it. It wasn’t safe to wander without an escort.

Rosalind’s stomach clenched hard as she fought her rising panic. She retraced her steps. “Mary? Where are you?” The fruitless hunt stoked her fear. Where was her maid? The small hairs at the back of her neck stirred, and her skin grew clammy beneath her gown and cloak as she searched the path and undergrowth. “Mary?” There was no reply. Somehow, her maid had disappeared into thin air, and now she didn’t know what to do. “Mary?”

Her mind reeled. She couldn’t stand dithering for the rest of the day. Finally, after much internal debate, she decided to forge on to the Millers’ cottage. They might help her find Mary. According to Mistress Baker’s directions, it must be close. With one final, searching look down the path, she turned and hastened down the right fork, dread nipping her heels. Anxiety increased her speed until she was running, heedless of the mud and water splashing her gown, the branches and twigs that scratched her face and tugged at her cloak and hat.

On the path in front of her, she saw a flash of brown. Another deer, she thought. Masculine shouts filled the air and a gun fired.

Rosalind halted in shock.

Another gunshot exploded through the silence. Bark flew from a beech tree right next to her. A third shot reverberated through the trees, and her hat went flying off her head.

“Don’t shoot!” she screamed, crouching down on the path. “Stop shooting!”

There was silence for a brief moment.

“Over there,” a low, rough voice shouted.

She heard the crunch of dried leaves, the snap of small twigs, and the rustle of the undergrowth. She swallowed, trying to still her trembling limbs. Surely, the men hadn’t mistaken her for a deer?

“Over there.”

The sound of running footsteps crashing through the undergrowth came toward her instead of retreating. Without thinking, Rosalind scrambled behind a bush and burrowed into the midst of another until they hid her from sight.

“I can’t see her.”

“Where did she go?”

Rigid with terror, Rosalind huddled beneath the bush, scarcely daring to breathe. They weren’t hunting deer; they were hunting her.

Rosalind heard the thud of footsteps on the path nearby. A branch dug into her hip, but she was afraid to move in case the men discovered her hiding place.

“She must have gone down the fork in the path.”

Through the screen of green leaves, Rosalind saw a patch of brown cloth. A man passed so close, she smelled his pungent body odor and heard the rasp of his breathing.

“Don’t think we ’it ’er,” he said. “Least ways, there’s no blood.”

“No matter,” the second man replied. “Good fright will do the job. Our man weren’t particular.”

The men’s voices faded, and Rosalind remained crouched until her legs screamed in protest. Cautiously, she stood, searching for danger. The only route of escape was the path back through the forest, and she must hurry before the men backtracked in search of her. She sped along the path, traveling with a minimum of noise. She glanced over her shoulder, terrified the men would sight her and give chase.

“Miss, there you are! I’ve been looking for you.”

“Arghh!”

“Miss Rosalind!” Mary’s arms wrapped around her neck in a stranglehold, squeezing her so tight, Rosalind could hardly draw breath. “I’m so pleased to see you,” Mary sobbed. “Where have you been? I got a stone in my boot and stopped to take it out, and by the time I had my boot back on, I couldn’t see you. I was trying to catch up when someone stuffed a bag over my head and tied up my hands and feet and—”

“Mary,” Rosalind whispered, her tone urgent. The men might appear at any moment. “We haven’t time for discussion. Make haste. There are men searching for me. Mary!” When her maid stared blankly, Rosalind shook her. “Please, we must leave. Now!” She wrenched Mary’s hands from her neck and peered intently at her tear-stained face. “Listen to me. The men have guns. They shot at me.”

Mary’s face appeared the color of milk, and Rosalind realized she hadn’t registered a single word. She snapped her fingers and, when that failed, slapped Mary across the face.

“Ow! What did you do that for? Luckily,” she continued, a stubborn set to her mouth, “I managed to wriggle free of the ropes.”

Rosalind grabbed her forearm and propelled her down the path in the direction of St. Clare village. “Hurry!”

“My head hurts.”

“Worry about that later. I tell you, they were shooting at me. They meant to kill me. I hate to think what will happen if they catch us.”

“I be too young to die.”

“Exactly!” At last, she was getting through. “Make haste.”

A branch hit Rosalind across the face, hard enough to make her eyes water. Each breath rasped through her lungs until a sharp pain jabbed at her side. Hurry! Hurry! Their footfalls sounded horrendously loud in the silent forest. The mud sucked at her feet. She slipped and staggered through a particularly swampy part of the path but her speed barely slackened. After a brief glance to make sure Mary was following, she increased the pace even more.

They burst from the edge of the forest onto the road. The view down the hill to the village of St. Clare looked so normal, Rosalind blinked. She paused, sucking in great drafts of air. Beside her, Mary wheezed, turning alarmingly red in the face.

They both heard the hoof beats at the same time. Alarm shot across Mary’s face while Rosalind braced to run.

“Who is it?” Mary’s voice wobbled, and she sounded as if she might burst into tears again.

“How should I know?” Rosalind knew it wouldn’t take much to push her maid into hysterics. Mary was such an idiot at times. Brave and bawdy one moment, while the next she was a sniveling ninny.

“What are we going to do?”

Rosalind rolled her eyes. Hiding sounded good to her. Before she could make good on the thought, a man leading a horse came into sight.

“It be Hastings!” Mary said.

Hastings stopped dead when he saw them. It wasn’t difficult for Rosalind to imagine what they looked like. She dragged a hand through her frizzy hair and for a moment regretted the loss of her hat.

“Where is your footman?” he demanded.

“How should I know?” Rosalind asked. “In the village, I suppose.”

“I told you not to go anywhere without an escort.” Hastings’s words sounded as if he forced them between his teeth.

Rosalind took a good, hard look at him and stepped back. Although he didn’t take the same care his cousin Charles did with his apparel, he usually looked presentable. Today mud splattered his black breeches, he had a scratch across his cheek that stopped just short of his scar, and several dried leaves clung to his black hair. “What happened to you?”

“Someone meddled with my horse,” he gritted out.

Rosalind froze mid-step. “I was shot at, and someone grabbed Mary and tied her up.”

“I told you it wasn’t safe to wander the estate without an escort. I’ll escort you back to the castle.” Lucien scowled. Someone had shot at her? It sounded like a fine story she’d concocted to placate him. “Tell me about these men who shot at you.”