The Spurned Viscountess Part 7

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."

"I saw only two men, but there may have been three. The trees and undergrowth were so thick it was difficult to tell."

"And what happened?" He'd see how deep she would dig herself in with lies.

"Mary and I were walking along the path, following Mistress Baker's directions to get to the Miller cottage. The directions she gave us took us through the forest." She gestured at the trees behind them. "I thought Mary was behind me, but she wasn't. I heard something cras.h.i.+ng through the undergrowth. A deer bounded across the path in front of me. The next minute the men arrived, and they started shooting."

"A deer? It sounds as if the men were hunting and you managed to get in the way."

Her chin jerked up. "The men were shooting at me. I heard them say so. And if they were hunting, why did they grab Mary?"

Lucien found himself staring in fascination. Her argument had brought a delicate color to her cheeks while her blue eyes had darkened. They flashed at him, leaving him in no doubt of her feelings. She was furious because he doubted her. He wondered if he were wrong. Perhaps she was innocent.

"It is my feeling," he said, scrutinizing her closely, "that someone wanted me dead. They hoped I'd lose control of Oberon and suffer a fall bad enough to kill me. What have you to say to that?"

"What have I-" She broke off to glare at him. "Come, Mary. I desire a bath." With that, she whirled away and stomped down the slight hill, her maid trailing her.

The maid was limping, Lucien saw as he resumed a slow walk after the two women. Had she lied? She appeared dirty and windblown, but no more so than after a vigorous walk. Then he recalled the absolute disgust when she'd realized he thought she'd made the whole story up, followed by sheer incredulity on her expressive face. Lucien's scar drew tight when he frowned, then slackened when his mouth eased into rueful humor. Ten minutes ago he'd been sure, but now he doubted his first instincts.

He ambled after the women into the village. This time the villagers appeared a mite friendlier, with the children swarming about the two women while the womenfolk bobbed brisk greetings as they went about their business.

When they walked past the public house, a stooped figure limped from the stables. His head was swathed in a grubby white bandage.

"Matthew." Rosalind darted forward before pulling up in consternation. "Whatever happened to you?"

"Aye," the maid chimed in. "We waited for you." She looked him up and down and drew back suddenly. "Have you been drinking?"

Lucien winced at her shrill screech. The footman did too, his hands creeping up to hold his head. A large rip ran the length of his green St. Clare livery, while mud and straw splattered his white stockings. Lucien's nose twitched when he stepped closer. Along with the pungent aroma of whisky, he smelled the distinct odor of stable manure.

"Have you been sitting in Nag's Head drinking?" the maid demanded again.

"Shush. Let the man speak." The English mouse stepped alongside the footman and touched him gently on the upper arm. A small gasp escaped his wife. Lucien sent her a curious glance. The color fled her face, leaving her cheeks pale. "I expect your head hurts, Matthew." She turned to Lucien. "Is there somewhere Matthew can sit down?"

Lucien snorted. Matthew wouldn't sit if he had his way. The footman had neglected his duties. He'd be lucky if he kept his job. "Explain," he said curtly. There were a few too many accidents for his liking. He glanced at Rosalind. Beads of blood on her jaw line snagged his attention. A scratch. Concern welled, taking him by surprise. Pus.h.i.+ng aside the unease, he concentrated on the footman. Lucien didn't want to feel anything for the English mouse.

"I was on my way to meet up with Lady Hastings, just like ye told me." He paused, saw the look on Lucien's face and wavered on his feet.

"Sit, man," Lucien snapped. "Before you fall."

The footman slumped against one of the wooden pillars at the entrance to the Nag's Head. "Took a short cut, I did, through the small alley that runs behind the stables. Someone hit me on the noggin. That's the last I remember."

Lucien studied the footman, weighing his words.

"Why do you smell like the bottom of a whisky barrel?" the red-haired maid asked.

Lucien bit back amus.e.m.e.nt. All he needed to do was stand and glower. The maid would ask the questions.

"Hush, Mary. Can't you see Matthew is in no condition for your questions? We need a wagon or cart to transport him to the castle."

"A cart?" Lucien said.

His wife drew herself up. "Can't you see he has a headache? Matthew is in no condition to walk."

Very well. Lucien's eyes narrowed at his wife's tone. He would organize a cart for the footman, but he had every intention of interrogating the man back at the castle.

Chapter Seven.

Rosalind hurried down the dimly lit pa.s.sageway, painfully aware she was very late for dinner. She glanced down at her puce-colored gown and the cream lace ruffles Mary had added at the last moment in an effort to improve the style. Not that she'd had much choice with the gown. Unbelievably, someone had entered her chamber whilst she was asleep and stolen every single item of clothing from her dressing room. The idea of someone watching her during an afternoon nap made her equally uncomfortable and angry. Yes, angry! Uneasiness a.s.sailed her every time she spent time in her chamber. It was like the weight of a stare constantly at her back, but now her apprehension was ten times worse. Someone had violated her privacy.

The chime of a clock made her hasten with an inelegant burst of speed. When she turned the corner, she paused to take a deep breath before sailing into the dining room with a pleasant smile fixed to her face.

"I'm sorry I'm so late," she apologized. Bother, she hadn't known they were having dinner guests. Why hadn't someone told her? Mary hadn't known either or she would have informed her.

The gentlemen stood, and Rosalind headed for the lone unoccupied seat. Of course, it was next to Lady Augusta.

Hastings stepped around the table and pulled out the chair for her. Rosalind couldn't help but notice the quick, cursory inspection he gave her gown. Inclining her head in thanks, she slid into her chair while Hastings returned to his seat at the far end of the table. Every muscle in her body tensed when Lady Sophia engaged Hastings in conversation, even though she avoided looking at his flawed face. He leaned closer, and one of Lady Sophia's delicate white hands fluttered out to touch him on the arm. Rosalind gritted her teeth. Why did that woman insist on flirting with her husband?

"What on earth are you wearing?" Lady Augusta asked.

"Looks like one of her maid's gowns," Lady Pascoe said.

Two bright red patches on her cheeks highlighted Lady Augusta's anger. "Are you trying to make the St. Clare family look as if they require funds from the poor-box? That's what the neighbors will think when they see the state of your gown." She spoke in an undertone but still managed to stress her displeasure.

Rosalind inhaled sharply, struggling to hold back the angry words fighting for release. She picked up the gla.s.s of wine one of the footmen poured for her. "Someone stole my clothes."

"Stole...Idiotic girl. Why would anyone want to steal your clothes? They are hardly the latest London fas.h.i.+ons."

"I have no idea." Rosalind's hand tightened around her winegla.s.s until her knuckles showed white.

Lady Pascoe guffawed loud enough to turn heads. "Stole your clothes," she screeched. "That's the best story I've heard in weeks! Hastings wouldn't buy you new ones, eh?" Chortling loudly, she slapped one hand on the wooden tabletop. "Congratulations! He's going to have to buy you some now."

"Elizabeth." Lady Augusta's displeasure cut her friend off mid-cackle. "This is a family matter. I do not wish the entire village to hear."

"Soup, my lady?"

Rosalind nodded at the footman. He deftly served the turtle soup, allowing her a few moments of peace. This was going to be another difficult dinner.

The moment the footman finished and moved on, Lady Augusta started again. "I found that witch's cat wandering outside my chamber. Your red-haired maid chased it about for fifteen minutes, disturbing my rest. I want the beast gone."

Rosalind's chin jerked up. "Hastings said I might keep it." Lady Augusta's frown didn't diminish, and she thought she'd better try appeas.e.m.e.nt plus an apology. "I'm sorry the kitten disturbed you. I'll make sure he stays in my chamber in future."

"See you do, or I'll order one of my footmen to drown the filthy beast."

Rosalind sighed, knowing it was best to hold her tongue. She applied her attention to the delicate green soup.

The minute the women left the gentlemen to their port and pipe smoking, Rosalind escaped to the garden. Lady Augusta saw her heading for the door, but Rosalind ignored her summons by pretending not to notice.

Outside in the garden it was blissfully peaceful. Exactly what she needed in order to think about all that had happened this day. The graveled path crunched under her shoes while a light breeze whistled through the garden, rustling leaves in a pleasant musical sound. She pa.s.sed the formal rose beds and kept walking until she reached a small paG.o.da overlooking the sea. At this time of night, all she could see was an inky blackness, but the swish of the waves was soothing. She sank onto a padded seat and let out a soft sigh.

"Why did I know I would find you out here on your own?"

Rosalind barely flinched at Hastings's question. On an inner level, she'd known they would meet out here. It was becoming a ritual of sorts, meeting in the garden after dinner.

"I was thinking about the day's events," she murmured, very aware of his scent, his closeness. "What did Matthew say?" In the soft light of the torches, Hastings's face expressed surprise. "I know you talked to him."

Hastings hesitated then sat beside her. His thigh touched hers for an instant before he inched away. "Someone hit him on the head. He says he saw the man's face but didn't recognize him."

Rosalind nodded. That was exactly what she'd read when she'd touched his arm. He hadn't lied. "Do you believe him?"

"The man has a lump the size of a goose egg on the back of his head. It's obvious he hit his head somehow. But he smelled like he'd bathed in whisky. He denies taking a drink. Why are you wearing that G.o.d-awful gown?" he asked, changing the subject with a suddenness that startled her.

"Because someone stole every gown from my chamber while I slept." Would he believe her?

"I heard Lady Pascoe's theory. Is she right?"

"No, she's not," Rosalind snapped, incensed he would think such a thing.

"Hmm."

Irritated, she leaped to her feet. "I wouldn't do something like that." Her cousin Miranda would, but the idea of Hastings thinking her capable of such childish schemes upset her. "There is something odd going on, Hastings. Today someone shot at me, Mary was tied up, Matthew was. .h.i.t on the head, and someone tried to kill you. And when I woke up this evening, I discovered someone had removed every single gown from my dressing room."

Hastings shrugged. "I'm sure there's a reasonable answer for everything that's occurred. You interrupted men hunting. And I'm not convinced Matthew is telling the truth."

He didn't believe that. Rosalind was convinced of it. If she were to read him, she was sure her theory would hold. She glanced at Hastings and found him staring out to sea. Using her sight was an obvious solution, but did she really want to know his thoughts? Did she want a reminder of how deeply he loved the woman he held inside his heart?

Rosalind nibbled on her bottom lip. Who was the woman? Where was she now? Something awful must have happened to her, or else Hastings would never have married her. But what? Rosalind crept closer to Hastings as she worked up her nerve. She took a deep breath and slowly reached for his forearm and the sliver of tanned skin below his jacket cuff. Without warning, Hastings turned to face her. Her hand hovered in midair before dropping to her side.

They stared at each other for a long time. Rosalind swallowed, a shudder of excitement streaking through her body. This close, she saw his scar in merciless detail. Yet she didn't notice the puckered, ruined flesh anymore. She saw Hastings.

The man.

His dark eyes bored into hers, trapping her helplessly in his gaze. Rosalind realized she wanted this man, her husband, to love her in the way he loved the dark-haired mystery woman. And if reading him with her sight helped her to learn him, she would touch him and open herself up to possible hurt because there was no other alternative.

This was the way forward to the future she envisioned for herself.

"What are you staring at?" He sounded defensive, and she automatically reached out in the hope of soothing him, her fingers colliding with the back of his hand.

The vision was more powerful with each touch. Crisp and clear, it was like being there. This time, she saw Hastings and the woman riding horses. They wore dusty clothes and maintained a slow pace so it was obviously a journey of some type. Two men rode with them, neither of them familiar to Rosalind.

Suddenly the vision changed. Hastings stood alone in the bow of a boat. Ahead of him, a chalky cliff jutted from the sea. The coast of England. Questions burned at her lips. She scanned his face. The raw and primitive grief on Hastings's face made her ache to comfort him. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hug him tight. She wanted to tell him all would be well. Feeling like a sneak, she jerked her hand from his warm skin.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, striving for a natural voice.

The glazed look of despair disappeared from his face, replaced by gritty determination. "What are you talking about?"

"Your thoughts didn't look pleasant."

His firm mouth twisted with annoyance. "It was nothing."