The Spurned Viscountess Part 17

"Too late," Francesca gasped. "Promise."

"Don't leave me, d.a.m.n it. I'm nothing without you. I love you, Francesca."

"Go to St. Clare."

"Yes, cara. cara. But you will come with me. We'll go together as we planned, to find my memories." But you will come with me. We'll go together as we planned, to find my memories."

"I'm going to die," Francesca whispered painfully.

"No!" Horror screamed through his mind. He shuddered. He'd spoken the truth. Francesca made him whole. She'd saved him, giving him a name and her heart, and he loved her for it.

"You will find someone. Promise me you will find another to love."

Another terrible rattle from deep inside her chest made him want to sob. "Never," he said, his tone fierce.

"Yes. Love...you." Every ounce of fight faded from her body. The life seeped from her beautiful eyes as he watched.

She was gone.

"No!" Lucien screamed. "No!" He shook Francesca fiercely, but it was too late. He cradled her close, burying his nose in her silky hair while the grief encompa.s.sed him.

"h.e.l.lo, the camp!"

Lucien stiffened but didn't look up.

"I say, are you all right? We heard gunfire."

Lucien heard the jangle of the horses' harness, the low murmurs of several men. Footsteps ambled closer, and he sensed a man crouch beside him. He couldn't speak. Tears and anguish clogged his throat, making it difficult to breathe. Francesca was gone, and he didn't want to go on.

"Wilson, hold my horse," a calm voice said. "Let me look at her."

Lucien loosened his grip a fraction and glanced up. Tears filled his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. "She's dead. Francesca's gone."

"Do you know who did it?" another voice asked.

Lucien swallowed, the sound audible. Painful. "No."

"You're bleeding too," the man with the calm voice said. "Let Wilson hold Francesca while I take a look at your shoulder."

Lucien blinked. He couldn't feel his shoulder. He'd forgotten about it. The reminder brought an arrow of pain that increased when he moved. The throb helped him focus, cleared his thoughts. Hate bloomed along with the need for revenge. A man called Hawk had ordered the attack, and the man hailed from England. He would find this man. Yes, he would search out Hawk and make him pay dearly.

"Lucien." A hand grasped his forearm. "Lucien!" Rosalind's voice intruded into his memories. "I asked you if the bandits were caught."

Lucien shook his head in an effort to clear his mind, the pain still deep and soul wrenching. He coughed to move the lump in his throat. "They disappeared almost as soon as they attacked. Before Francesca died, she made me promise to come to England, to search for my past. She felt it was important I found the answers we were searching for. Besides," he said harshly, "the bandits who attacked us were English. Someone knew we were on our way to England and intended to stop us."

"Englis.h.!.+" Rosalind gasped, springing away from Lucien and staring at him in consternation. "How do you know they were English? Couldn't they have been French?"

His look held disdain. "They spoke in English, with English accents. I'd say that was comprehensive proof. I have a name, Rosalind. An English name."

"But why would English bandits attack you? What name?"

"Hawk."

Everyone in the village feared Hawk. Lucien didn't want to run foul of him. "Be careful of Hawk," Rosalind said. "He's dangerous."

Lucien's jaw worked, then he grabbed her by the arm and wrenched her about so her face was in the light. "What do you know of Hawk?"

Rosalind stared at him, horror spreading through her body like poison. If she told him the truth, he'd have her locked away. Just as her uncle and aunt had threatened when she tried to tell them the Duke they were maneuvering toward Miranda had no intention of marriage.

"Answer me, d.a.m.n it." He punctuated his words with shakes vigorous enough to make her head snap back and her teeth click together.

"I don't know anything about a man called Hawk." When he eased his grip, she wrenched away.

"Where did you hear his name?"

"I hear things when I'm treating the villagers. The people, your people, your people, are frightened of him." are frightened of him."

"And that's all?" Suspicion shaded his voice.

Rosalind ached to tell the truth but couldn't. She just couldn't. "That's all. He's dangerous. Brutal. I think he runs the smugglers' ring."

"I've heard rumors." Lucien stalked the length of the room and back. "I want you to tell me if you hear anything while you're in the village. But don't ask questions. If I find you've put yourself in danger..." He trailed off, but his meaning was clear.

It was obvious Lucien intended to wreak revenge on the man, Hawk. What about the danger he placed himself in? She hadn't gone to all this trouble to find a husband only to lose him. Her hands screwed up the fabric of the s.h.i.+rt she wore, then smoothed it down her legs. "What about the danger to you? You shouldn't work alone. I can help you."

"Keep your pert nose out of my affairs. If you don't, I'll lock you in your room and place a guard outside."

Rosalind's eyes narrowed. So he'd threatened before. Then she scanned his hard, unyielding face and knew this time, he meant every word. She'd go mad locked away in her room. "All right," she acquiesced. But behind her back, her fingers were crossed and, according to her cousin, Miranda, that negated a fib.

Rosalind meant to do everything in her power to keep her husband safe.

"Get back into bed," he growled.

"What about you?"

"Never mind me. I'll blow the candle out as soon as you're in bed."

Rosalind had no alternative but to obey. Feeling wretched and a failure as a wife, she slid beneath the sheets and lay in stiff silence while Lucien extinguished the candles. She heard the soft whisper of his footfalls, the click of a door, and knew he was gone.

A tear trickled down her cheek. She was hopeless at attracting a man. She wiped the tear away with the linen sheet and stilled. The linens smelled of Lucien, of green meadows and the outdoors. She sniffed, suddenly feeling better. At least she was sleeping in Lucien's room, in his bed. That was progress.

Rosalind woke late, which was little surprise, given the hour when she'd finally fallen asleep. She threw back the covers and wandered through the connecting door into her own chamber.

"Good morning, my lady." Beth, the maid, glanced at Rosalind. A smirk spread across her face as she scanned Rosalind's bare legs. "Had a good night, then?"

Rosalind gasped, feeling her face heat. She tugged at the bottom of Lucien's s.h.i.+rt. "Thank you for cleaning my room."

A sly look slid across Beth's face. "Lord Hastings asked me to clean it for you."

The maid was baiting her and, despite a desire to throttle her, Rosalind nodded briefly and began a search for clothes. Bother. When she saw Lucien again, she was going to demand he take action. This wasn't right! These mischievous pranks wouldn't have happened if Mary was here. Lucien wasn't doing much to help her find Mary either. That would change too.

Ten minutes later, she sighed and looked down at her mismatched outfit. She couldn't wait to hear Lady Augusta's opinion about the way her brown open robe clashed with the yellow petticoat. She looked like a b.u.mblebee.

Rosalind slowed as she approached the Blue Drawing Room. Perhaps she'd try to creep from the castle before Lady Augusta emerged from her room. She held her breath when she tiptoed past, only letting it out when she exited the Great Hall and stepped into the early morning suns.h.i.+ne. She turned down the overgrown path that meandered along the cliff top. A lively breeze tugged her hair. A small white gull glided and swooped over the bay, drawing a laugh from her when it dived at another, causing a flurry of indignant squawks and flapping wings.

Dew soaked the bottom of her cloak but she carried on, navigating the slippery path with care. The day was far too lovely to spend indoors, dwelling on Lucien and the elusive Hawk.

The thought of Hawk brought a frown. She needed to learn more about the man, and that meant talking to the villagers. Gaining their trust had taken time, but she needed to push harder. Her frown deepened. Unfortunately, the blacksmith's wife seemed suspicious of the way she treated her patients. Yesterday when she'd stopped by the bakery shop to buy a treat for Billy and Harry, Rosalind had interrupted a whispered conversation. The whispers had resumed as soon as she left to check on Harry and change his dressings.

Harry and Billy's mother gave her grudging admittance when she visited, but Rosalind was positive the woman bore suspicions about her too. Mary had always distracted the patients Rosalind treated to reduce the chance of someone discovering her gift. Not that Mary's presence had helped once Miranda and Thomas spread rumors of witchcraft. Her cousin hadn't appreciated Thomas's interest in her and had grabbed the opportunity to besmirch her reputation. After that everyone in Stow-on-the-Wold had called Rosalind a witch.

"Mary, I wish I knew where you were," she whispered. "I miss you." Tears blurred her vision as she halted at the edge of the path and stared out to sea.

The rustle of clothing behind her made her start, but before she could turn, Rosalind felt a shove in the middle of her back. Her boots skidded on the wet gra.s.s. She screamed. Her arms flapped for balance, but she couldn't prevent herself from tumbling down the slope.

Terror clogged her throat as she clawed for purchase. Twisting her body, she grabbed at jutting rocks, sc.r.a.ping skin from her hands. Small fragments of rock slid from under her feet, rattling as they rolled down the cliff. Another rock. She grasped and clung. h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation. It hurt. She drew a sobbing breath deep into her lungs. Waves crashed against the cliff base far below. Sea spray filled the air. Don't look down. Don't look down.

She looked down and snuffled. Panic struck a fierce blow. Her arms ached...throbbed from gripping the out-hanging rock. Drops of blood dripped from her right hand.

Rosalind dragged her gaze from the razor-sharp rocks and surging waves below that seemed to beckon her. She looked up. She hadn't fallen far, but even so, the climb to the top was daunting.

Her feet probed for nooks and crevices in the rocks to use as steps. Gingerly, she eased her weight upward, trying to hoist her ugly brown skirts out of the way so she didn't tangle her legs. Another rock. She needed to find a ledge strong enough to hold her weight. Sweat coated her forehead, dripping down her face. The moisture itched and tickled. She craved a means to scratch the irritant, to wipe her face clean. She laughed, and the sound held an edge of hysteria.

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.

"h.e.l.lo? 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 bas.h.i.+ng against the rocks as she dangled above the hungry sea.

"Oh, G.o.d," 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 gra.s.s 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.

"h.e.l.l'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 m.u.f.fled whispers started.

Rosalind felt her cheeks heat. She looked like a ragam.u.f.fin. 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 a.s.sist 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 pa.s.sage leading to Rosalind's room. "He's very stubborn."