The Second Seduction

by Shelley Munro

  leapt from the bed and seized the girl by the forearm, hold-

  ing her easily. Apart from emitting a small squeak, the girl

  didn’t cry out. She stood stiff and trembling, tears fi lling her

  eyes. Rosalind experienced the full spectrum of her distress.

  Annie’s frenzied thoughts and fears slid stealthily into her

  mind. Guilt bloomed afresh, and Rosalind made a silent vow

  to come to the girl’s aid once life settled. But for now, she’d

  have to take advantage of the girl in the same way everyone

  else did. Annie was her only means of escape.

  “Don’t hurt me. Don’t put a spell on me.” Th

  e girl shiv-

  ered so much Rosalind felt like a bully. Th

  e stream of pan-

  icked thoughts coming from Annie didn’t help.

  “If you let me go, I’ll help you,” Rosalind said. She

  pushed Annie down on the bed and stood over her.

  Annie shook her head from side to side, her wide pan-

  icked eyes stirring Rosalind’s guilt anew. “She’ll kill me.”

  Rosalind grabbed for the large key but the girl refused

  to yield it. “If you don’t give me that key, I’ll make warts

  grow on your nose, your mouth, your hands. Your sweetheart

  won’t want you. You’ll be ugly. No one will want you.”

  Th

  e girl edged away, tears streaming down her face.

  “I’ll turn William Harrow into a frog,” Rosalind warned

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  the terrifi ed girl. “Give me the key. You don’t want William

  to suff er, do you? You wouldn’t want William to know he

  suff ered misfortune because of you.”

  Annie’s terrifi ed gasp fi lled the room. She cowered even

  further away, her panic clear. Annie swallowed, fi nally fi nd-

  ing her voice. “How did ye know his name?”

  “I’m a witch,” Rosalind muttered, glancing at the door.

  Th

  is was taking too long. Justin might arrive at any moment.

  Or, the old woman, and then she’d lose everything.

  Rosalind sprang suddenly, grabbed the girl’s hand, and

  pried the key loose. With the key in her possession, she crept

  to the door and slid it open to peer out into the passage out-

  side. When she saw there was no one to witness her escape,

  she slipped out as quick and fl uid as morning mist. She

  locked the door and pocketed the key. Deep sobs penetrated

  the barrier and Rosalind knew the pitiful sound would haunt

  her in weeks to come.

  Th

  e moon shone through the window high above him,

  the light hitting him in the face. Lucien’s eyelids fl ickered

  before he jammed them shut. Pain, sharp and intense, knifed

  through his head, the moon’s glow aggravating the steady

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  throb. He heard a groan. His groan. Nausea rocked his gut,

  yet his mind impelled him to move.

  Lucien lurched to his feet, and a moan squeezed past his

  clenched teeth. Th

  ere wasn’t any part of his body that didn’t

  hurt. He sucked in a slow, cautious breath, then another. One

  thought crystallized in his hazy mind and stuck there.

  Rosalind. Where the hell was she?

  He gripped a sturdy pillar for balance while he took stock

  of his surroundings. Despite the lack of light, he noted the

  old wooden casks, in various states of repair, stacked beneath

  the lone window. A scuttle of feet told him he had rats or

  mice for company. Lucien let go of the pillar and wobbled on

  his feet, unsteady for an instant. He staggered before righting

  himself with the help of a wall. Dust rose with each move he

  made, tickling his nose and teasing a sneeze loose. Th

  e sound

  reverberated in the dark, cavernous prison, sending renewed

  pain surging through his aching head. He frowned, having

  no idea where he was. Lucien listened carefully, trying to

  fi x his location. Apart from the steady drip of water and the

  rustle of rodents, he heard nothing that would aid him. Pre-

  sumably, the casks indicated the King’s Head. Odd that he

  couldn’t hear the drunken gaiety of patrons. Lucien fumbled

  his way along the wall, searching for a door. He blundered

  into a cobweb and sneezed twice before he located the exit.

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  “Rosalind,” he whispered, picturing her blond beauty in

  his mind’s eye. He’d give almost anything to hold her right

  this moment. He had to fi nd his English mouse.

  Lucien thought back, examining his memory for clues.

  He’d led Oberon through the lane, despite his misgivings.

  Someone had struck him when he’d exited on to the main

  thoroughfare. Lucien hoped Oberon was safe. Had Justin hit

  him? Lucien scowled, trying to make sense of his jumbled

  thoughts. No, the other man had gone ahead to order the

  drinks. Lucien discarded the idea of treachery, but his mind

  kept circling back. If the motive was robbery, he’d still be

  lying in the lane. Th

  e fact that he was incarcerated in this

  dark hole appeared more sinister than mere robbery.

  One hand reached up to investigate the knot at the back

  of his head. Blood came away on his fi ngers. His father always

  said St. Clare’s had hard heads. And, several pub brawls when

  he was younger had proved it. Lucien’s teeth clamped together

  as he rode another wave of pain. What the hell had Justin hit

  him with?

  Justin.

  Lucien froze. His father . . .

  A hazy memory surfaced, shimmering through his throb-

  bing brain. As usual, he tried to seize the fl eeting thought

  before it disappeared into the mist. Instead of escaping, the

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  memory solidifi ed and he eagerly grasped it.

  Lucien concentrated as another emerged.

  And another.

  Memories poured into his mind like after dinner port

  splashed into a glass. It was as if a barrier in his mind had

  broken, allowing the memories to fl ow free.

  He remembered his past.

  All of it.

  Lucien stumbled against the door and attempted to

  open it. He stepped back and ran at the door with his shoul-

  der. A sharp throb of pain burned the length of his arm.

  Cold pierced his damp jacket and breeches, pebbling goose

  bumps over his arms and legs. But elation surged as memo-

  ries piled one on top of the other. One particular memory

  hit him hard.

  Betrayal.

  A friend’s betrayal.

  Justin’s betrayal.

  Lucien remembered the night in Naples. Lucien remem-

  bered his friend walking up to him on the deserted street in

  the early hours of the morning.

  “Justin.” Lucien swayed, the worse for local wine. His

  shirt and jacket reeked of the woman’s cheap perfume and

  sex, but he felt loose and limber after the spectacular ride she’d

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  given him. “Th

  ought you went back to our rooms,” Lucien

  murmured. Damn, he wi
shed Justin would stand still. His

  friend kept splitting into two men. Two friends angry with

  him. Wouldn’t do at all. “Sorry ‘bout ‘fore,” he slurred.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” Justin muttered, ignoring the apology.

  “I’m gonna win our bet.” Lucien’s small step turned into

  a stagger, but he righted himself before he hit the ground.

  “Whoa! Ground’s moving. Tonight was number ten.”

  “I don’t care about our stupid bet. You’re drunk.” Justin

  sneered, glancing past Lucien instead of looking him straight

  in the eye. “Th

  ink I can forgive your insults to my mother?

  To me? I am the rightful St. Clare heir, and by damned, I’m

  going to claim my place.”

  Befuddled, Lucien stared at his enraged friend in con-

  fusion. Brother, he thought, still shocked and astonished by

  the revelation. He’d never suspected a thing. A foreign sound

  behind drew Lucien’s attention. He spun around. Th

  ree men

  with clubs and knives stood behind him.

  “Robbers! Draw your gun!” Lucien cried to Justin. He

  darted a quick glance at Justine and blinked. His friend stood

  unmoving, his expression disinterested. Bland.

  Th

  e fi rst blow caught him on the shoulder, numbing his

  right arm. His gun dropped to the ground. A knife fl ashed

  out, slicing the length of his face. Blood gushed from the

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  wound, shrouding his sight.

  “Make it look like a robbery,” Justin instructed tersely.

  “But, make sure he dies.”

  Lucien was dimly aware of Justin leaving.

  “Th

  ere be someone coming,” one man muttered in warning.

  Th

  ey dragged him to a dark alley, kicking and beating

  him savagely until he lost consciousness. Lucien shook him-

  self from the black fog of the past. He’d been drunk.

  Vulnerable.

  Justin had acted as decoy while his paid men had come

  up behind him with knives and bludgeons, striking him re-

  peatedly, leaving him for dead. By God, Justin had abused his

  trust and now he’d captured him again. But Rosalind — did

  Justin have Rosalind? Worry seared him at the thought of

  Rosalind in Justin’s clutches. He’d endangered Rosalind by

  marrying and bedding her. Th

  e possibility of an heir between

  Justin and the title had pushed him over the edge. And where

  was Charles? Was his cousin part of the scheming?

  Fury propelled him away from the wall. Lucien stalked

  the boundaries of his confi nes, ignoring the dull ache in his

  head as he searched for a way out.

  He stumbled over a barrel. With his mind functioning

  more clearly, he smelled the stale scent of dried hops, of beer.

  An unused cellar. But where, if not the King’s Head? And,

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  how the devil was he going to get out? He paused, listening

  carefully for a sound, any sound to alert him to the presence

  of another.

  He heard nothing, apart from the continuing rustling of

  rodents. Frustration rippled through him. He tested the door

  with his shoulder for the second time. Although old, it was

  stout and built to last.

  Lucien sank to the fl oor, his back resting against the cold

  wall. He’d have to wait until someone came, then overpower

  them. It was his only hope.

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  XIX

  Shouts and cheers from the public rooms increased in

  intensity as Rosalind crept down the stairs. Th

  e stench

  of smoke and beer, boiled cabbage, and unwashed bodies

  assaulted her nostrils. Raucous laughter spilled through a

  partially open door, masking the creak of the wooden stairs

  under her feet. Rosalind caught fl ashes of movement and

  faces — a barmaid carrying tankards, a group of rough labor-

  ers, two well-dressed men. She realized Justin was probably

  inside the taproom and hurriedly continued down the last

  two stairs instead of gawking.

  Fear of discovery made her heart pound and her limbs

  tremble, but she forced herself to keep going, to hurry. Th

  ere

  would be only one chance. She mustn’t falter.

  Th

  e door that led to the taproom burst fully open and a

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  couple staggered out. Th

  e man kicked the door shut and the

  couple fell against the wall. His hands swept under his part-

  ner’s full, frothy skirts, displaying white thighs to Rosalind’s

  incredulous eyes. As she watched, the man fumbled with his

  trousers. She pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back her

  cry of shock. Th

  ey were going to do it right in front of her.

  At least the door leading to the tavern was shut now. Th

  e

  couple were so engrossed in each other that escape was but

  a few steps away. Rosalind ducked her head, letting locks of

  hair fall across her face. She scuttled past the couple, trying

  to ignore the animal grunts of lust.

  Rosalind tugged at the side door that led to the small

  street off the main thoroughfare. Her hand, moist and sweaty,

  skidded across the latch. Her teeth clamped down on her lip

  as she glanced over her shoulder. She wiped her palms across

  her skirt, took a deep breath, and tried again. Th

  is time the

  latch slid smoothly under her grasp. She opened the door and

  slid through, closing it with a snap.

  After scanning for danger, Rosalind shot away from the

  King’s Head. Somewhere to hide, and she needed a plan.

  Quickly, before Justin discovered she’d escaped. She ran, lift-

  ing her skirts so she didn’t trip.

  Once clear of the King’s Head, she ducked into a narrow

  alley. Her chest heaved and she gasped for breath.

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  Lucien.

  Good grief. She wasn’t thinking too clearly. Lucien was

  probably incarcerated at the King’s Head too. Fool. She’d

  have to go back. She’d have to search for him.

  Or, fi nd someone who knew. Th

  e thought slid into her

  mind. She swallowed. She’d have to use her gift again, per-

  haps intimidate another with stories of witchcraft.

  Rumors would fl y about St. Clare, and now Whittle-

  bury, like mythical witches on broomsticks. People would

  point and jeer, if they didn’t try to burn her fi rst. All hope

  of a normal life with Lucien seemed far away. Saving Lucien

  would eff ectively spell doom for her hopes of a secure future.

  Rosalind dithered, trying to decide on a course of action

  — help Lucien or seek aid from someone else. It was so late

  she had no idea who to turn to for help. Not that she knew

  anyone in Whittlebury.

  “Hello, dearie.” A fi lthy hand grasped her arm while an-

  other pinched her bottom. “Fancy company?”

  Rosalind started. Panic pumped through her veins before

  she regained control. She straightened and glared down her

  nose. �
��Let me go.” Act like a weakling and you become weak.

  A victim.

  “Hoity-toity! Too good for a tumble with us.”

  Rosalind narrowed her eyes on the drunken men. “Do

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  you know who I am?” As she spoke, she opened her mind,

  letting one of the men’s thoughts wash through her. For the

  second time today, she embraced her gift and shoved away

  the consequences. Too bad if people discovered her diff er-

  ences. Lucien’s life depended on her fi nding help. She loved

  him and could never live with the knowledge she hadn’t tried

  to save him.

  Aha! “Prudence won’t mind?” she asked, quirking one

  eyebrow at the man holding her captive.

  Th

  e man jerked from her touch. Even in the dim light,

  she saw his face pale. But his friend laughed.

  “What are you laughing about?” Rosalind glowered at the

  other man who still groped her backside with one wandering

  hand. “Your woman will cut your balls off if she catches you

  with your hands on another.”

  Th

  e man removed his hands so quickly Rosalind fell

  against the cold mud walls of a building. She’d only repeated

  his thoughts, but her cheeks felt fi ery hot because of the

  coarse language she’d repeated.

  “Yer a witch,” he snarled, but his strong tone confl icted

  with his stance. Shock was clear on his round face.

  Intimidate. Yes. Rosalind stalked the closest man. Twice

  as wide and a foot taller, he backed away as if plague pustules

  covered her face. Rosalind suppressed a grin as heady power

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  rushed through her, lending strength and resolve.

  Both men cringed away. “Don’t put no spells on us. We

  won’t tell anyone we seen you,” the bum fondler pleaded.

  What he meant was he valued his home comforts. He

  didn’t want his woman to fi nd out. “Th

  e King’s Head. Tell

  me about the public house. Where are the cellars? Below or

  out the back of the building?” Rosalind eyed the men expec-

  tantly. When they stared at her in mute silence, she took one

  threatening step forward. “Who runs the public house?”

  “Hamlin,” the hulk blurted. “Th

  e building be old. Two

  buildings joined together.”

  “Cellars?” Rosalind demanded.

  “Rooms out the back.”

  “Th

  ere be cellars below,” the fondler added.

  Rosalind nodded. Th