The Second Seduction
Page 34
e men backed from the alley. “Is there
a cellar man, or does Hamlin look after his own cellars?”
Th
e men edged away until she could see only the one
large, dark silhouette.
“Hamlin.” Th
e man’s voice shook, but Rosalind wasn’t
sure if it was her or Hamlin the men feared most. She wanted
to demand more answers but the echoing thud of footsteps
told her the cowards were fl eeing. She made a click of disgust
at the back of her throat. Two men twice her size, intimidated
by her. Fancy.
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Rosalind exited the far end of the lane and scanned
the road. Light spilled from the King’s Head and custom-
ers overfl owed from inside onto the street. Her light-colored
gown stood out like a beacon. Wind whistled down the road,
tearing at her hair, plucking at her skirt. Rosalind yanked
her hair away from her face and melted into the shadows of
the buildings. A baker. A drapery. A blacksmith’s forge. Th
e
King’s Head took up the rest of the street.
When Rosalind reached the smithy, she turned down
the alley that ran between it and the drapery. A stench made
her nostrils fl are. Th
e further she crept into the alley, the
worse the smell became. Her eyes watered. Her stomach
fl ipped in protest, but Rosalind kept moving. She needed to
fi nd a rear entrance to the public house before Justin discov-
ered her absence.
Th
e overhang from the roof obliterated every scrap of
illumination. Rosalind heard a disgusting squelch coming
from beneath her shoes. Swallowing her rising bile, she has-
tened her pace. Cautious steps sounded behind her, ratchet-
ing up both fear and her vivid imagination. Rosalind ran.
Her gown caught on something sharp. She yanked. Th
e rip of
fabric sounded before she wrenched free. Rosalind burst from
the alley, her breaths coming in wheezy pants.
“Who’s there?” a man’s voice growled. Low and husky, it
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did nothing to slow her galloping heart.
She froze, trying to decide if it was friend or foe.
A dog’s growl sounded, mean and threatening.
“Don’t let him hurt me,” Rosalind blurted. “Someone’s
chasing me.”
“Show yerself.” Th
e blunt voice sounded as frightening as
the dog’s warning rumble.
Rosalind clutched at her skirts and crept out into the
light. Off to her right, a huge man restrained a black dog by
its collar. His large biceps and muscular shoulders told Ro-
salind that she’d run into the blacksmith. But, friend or foe?
She halted close enough that he could see her, yet far enough
away that she had time to attempt to run if he meant harm.
“Sit,” he ordered the dog.
Th
e dog sat, but didn’t take its eyes off Rosalind. Neither
did the blacksmith.
“Lass, what are you doing out at this time of night? ‘Tis
not safe. A wee bit of a thing like you. Th
e men from the
King’s Head will eat you for dinner and spit out yer bones.”
Rosalind eyed him cautiously. “I think my husband
is imprisoned at the King’s Head.” Tense, she studied his
reaction. If he showed the slightest malice or moved closer,
she’d run.
He scratched at his sparse gray hair. “Aye. Strange goin’s
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on there. I try to stay out of it, mind, but a man gets curious.”
Rosalind moved closer. “Could you tell me where they’d
keep a man imprisoned?”
“Cellars out back.” He nudged his head to the right.
“Along there. Maybe upstairs.”
“Th
ank you.” Rosalind edged past the dog, heading
toward the public house.
“I know you,” the smithy said. “You be that witch from
St. Clare.”
“I’m not a witch,” Rosalind protested weakly. Lady
Helena and her malicious gossip had spread rumors faster
and further than Rosalind liked.
Th
e man eyed her closely. “You have healing powers.”
Rosalind acquiesced with a bob of her head.
“Aye.” He nodded as if pleased he’d recognized her.
“Th
ought as much. You be the one that saved my sister’s child
when she ate poison berries. Th
ought she’d die, we did. Right
grateful we are. I’ll come with you.”
Th
e man looked like a mountain. He’d attract attention
she could ill aff ord. Still, she was touched at his off er. “Th
ank
you, but I will be fi ne.”
He hesitated. “If yer sure. Tell you what. If you need aid,
summon me. Th
ere be plenty urchins about keen to earn coin.”
Rosalind nodded. At last, a man who wasn’t terrifi ed of
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her gift. “Th
ank you. I’ll do that.”
She left the smithy and tiptoed through the shadows.
Light glowed from the public house, spreading out and dis-
persing the shadows so there was nowhere to hide. With her
luck, someone would appear the moment she left hiding.
Still, she couldn’t hover here till morning because by then her
absence would be noted.
For long seconds, she dithered. Th
en, she took a deep
breath and ran to the door at the rear of the public house,
climbing two steps that led onto a porch. She grasped the
handle and tugged. It was locked. Frantically, she looked for
a key. Stupid, she thought when her search remained fruitless.
Th
e key wouldn’t be in plain sight — more likely in some-
one’s pocket. Cocking her head, she listened, her ear close
to the door. It sounded as though this entrance led directly
into the main taphouse. Lucien was hardly likely to be in
there. Frowning, Rosalind slid from the shelter of the porch
and glanced further along the building. A small, dilapidated
building, attached to the main part, caught her attention.
Th
e door looked almost new. Rosalind glanced both left and
right to make sure all was clear before running across.
“Lucien,” she called in a low undertone. She gave the
door a tentative knock with the back of her hand. “Are you
in there?”
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“Rosalind?” Shock and disbelief coated his voice.
He was there! Relief made tears well in her eyes. She
opened her mouth to speak, but he spoke fi rst.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
Rosalind’s eyes narrowed. He might be her husband, but
he was also an ungrateful lout.
“Rosalind, are you there?”
“Of course I’m here.” After she freed her husband, she’d
smack him over the head with a sharp object. Th
at would
knock sense into his addled brain. “I’m g
oing to get you out.
Do you know where the key is?”
“Rosalind, listen. Leave me. Go and fi nd help. Summon
Charles, no, not him — the magistrate, but whatever you do,
keep away from Justin. He’s dangerous.”
“I know he’s dangerous,” Rosalind snapped. “He kid-
napped me. Th
e man’s not only dangerous he’s deranged.
And a smuggler. He murdered Mary. Lucien, he’s the one
you’ve been searching for. Justin is Hawk.”
“Hawk? Th
e bastard. Rosalind!” Lucien roared. His voice
carried a distinct edge this time. “For once in your life, do as
you’re told. Go summon help.”
Rosalind sighed. Unfortunately without the key, she
wouldn’t have a chance of setting him free. Th
e door was
made of stout English oak. “All right,” she conceded. She’d
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go for help, but intended to return.
She ran back in the direction she’d come from, uncaring
if she was seen. Help was closer to hand than Charles. Time
to call in that favor after all. Perhaps she should send for the
magistrate as well.
It sounded as though she made a lot of noise as she raced
to the smithy. Yet, no one challenged her. A light shone from
beneath the closed rear door of the blacksmith’s premises.
Her fi sts pummeled the door. “Smithy!”
“ ’old yer horses. I’m coming. Aye,” the giant man said,
his voice a low rumble as he unlocked the door. “It’s you.”
Rosalind met his fearsome gaze without a fl inch. “I’ve
found my husband. Please, I need your help.”
Th
e man stepped back inside. Rosalind’s jaw sagged. He
wasn’t going to help? But, he returned, a gun in his hands.
Rosalind stared at the menacing weapon, and opened her
mouth to protest.
“Where is he? Th
e cellar?”
Rosalind snapped her mouth shut. He was right. A gun
might prove necessary. She nodded. “Yes, if the small build-
ing to the side of the King’s Head is the cellar.”
“Stay here,” the smithy ordered, stuffi
ng the gun out of
sight beneath his grubby coat.
Her chin shot up. She was not staying put. And, she was
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sick of men telling her they’d take care of her. She moved
forward, then stopped when the smithy gazed at her. Finally,
she nodded. “He’s in the room over there. Th
e door’s locked.”
She’d wait just inside the door until he left, and follow.
Unhurried and heavy footsteps sounded. Rosalind
strained to hear, her heart thumping against her ribs. When
she could no longer hear his footsteps, she slipped from the
smithy’s premises and followed.
At the corner of the public house, she paused. Th
e smithy
was at the door and judging by the sounds, he was trying to
break the lock. She sidled closer, but just as she was about
to announce her presence, a man exited the rear door of the
public house. Tall. Familiar.
Justin.
Rosalind pressed against the wall in an eff ort to hide.
When he rounded the small porch, he’d see the smithy at the
locked door. Justin paused, glancing over his shoulder. Fear
blossomed inside Rosalind. If he saw her or the smithy, the
escape attempt would be over before it started. And, she’d
end up in France before they discovered her missing. Rosa-
lind knew everyone at St. Clare would assume she and Lucien
were together. Th
e cowardly part of her wanted to close her
eyes and pretend none of this was happening. Except, if she
did that, Justin would grab her before she could run.
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While she was wondering what to do, Justin relaxed and
ambled down the steps, continuing on his way, and passed
her. Do something! her mind screamed.
Rosalind stepped from hiding and swaggered into the
light.
“My lord! Th
e woman’s escaped.”
Rosalind whirled about. It was the overweight woman
who had come to her room with dinner. Where the devil had
she come from? Rosalind tried to blend into the shadows,
making herself small and unobtrusive.
Justin’s savage curse colored the air.
“Th
ere she is!” the woman cried.
“Where?” Justin demanded, his voice curt.
“Over there.”
Rosalind bounded away like a startled hare. No longer
sticking to the shadows, she hoisted her skirt and sprinted
to the smithy’s shop, away from Lucien. Hopefully, Justin
would give chase.
“Rosalind, sweetheart. Don’t run. You won’t get away.”
Amusement fi lled Justin’s voice, inciting anger in Rosalind.
Sweetheart, indeed!
Th
e fat woman’s screeches receded, and all Rosalind
could hear were her own ragged pants.
Footsteps thundered behind her. Rosalind glanced over
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her shoulder in a panic. Justin’s longer legs made a mock-
ery of the race. He splashed through puddles, his footsteps
sounding louder and louder. Rosalind glanced over her shoul-
der again. Justin was much closer than she’d thought. He’d
almost caught her.
Rosalind’s legs trembled. Her heart thudded. Blood
roared through her head. Th
en, she stumbled in a rut on the
road, and Justin seized her. He grabbed her shoulder and
hauled her around.
His breathing had barely changed, but his eyes glowed
from the thrill of the chase. He grinned crookedly. “You’re
not going to do this the easy way, are you, sweetheart?”
“I am not your sweetheart.” Her chest heaved as she
gasped for air. Rosalind froze when she noted his masculine
interest. She folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t look at
me like that.”
His grin never wavered, and it was that confi dence that
sent a sliver of fear racing down her backbone. “You’re mine.”
He trailed one fi nger down her cheek. “Perhaps I should have
pushed the matter earlier,” he mused. “So you’d believe it as
much as me.”
Rosalind swallowed the bloom of panic. Where was
Lucien? Th
e smithy? Help would arrive soon. All she needed
to do was delay Justin. Between them they would outsmart
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Justin and quash his tentacle-like hold on the St. Clare family
and village.
“Poaching, Justin.” Lucien stepped from the shadows.
“Th
at always was your style. You always were a spoilt child want-
ing the toys Charles and I had. I see nothing has changed.”
“Damn it! How did you . . .? Never mind.” He pulled
a gun from beneath his greatcoat, brandishing it with the
ease of one familiar with fi rearms. “Rosalind, behind me, if
; you please.”
She didn’t please at all. Her chin lifted in defi ance. He’d
have to shoot her fi rst, and she didn’t think he’d do that. Th
e
smithy had managed to free Lucien. She scanned the area but
couldn’t see the man. Had he gone for help?
“Rosalind.” Justin’s voice held sharpness and a trace of
something that sounded suspiciously like panic.
He hadn’t expected her to gainsay him. Good. She
glanced at Lucien, silently seeking direction. His face ap-
peared drawn. Pale. Dried blood smeared one side of his
face, giving him a grotesque look. Concern for her husband
creased her brow.
“Rosalind, behind me now or I’ll shoot.” Justin gestured
at Lucien with the gun, and she understood the silent threat.
He intended to shoot Lucien, not her.
“I didn’t think shooting was your style either,” Lucien
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drawled. “In my experience, I’ve found you prefer skulking
in the shadows. Th
e secretive approach. Cowardly. Or, you
pay someone else to do your dirty work.” Although his voice
barely rose, his words struck Justin like whiplash. Justin’s face
darkened with anger.
“Shut up. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have to work
in the darkness. Move. Over there where I can see you. Easy.
Don’t give me an excuse to shoot. I’m happy to make Rosa-
lind a widow.”
He was going to kill Lucien this time. No matter what
he said to the contrary. Th
e determined look on his face told
her the truth.
Rosalind glanced at Lucien again, but his gaze remained
fi xed on Justin. Frustration made her jaw tighten. She was
capable of helping. Why didn’t Lucien do something?
Justin made a small sound of impatience. “Rosalind, for
the last time. Behind me. Now.”
Oh. Good idea, she thought. She edged behind Justin so
she was out of his range of sight. His silk frockcoat glinted
in the soft light that poured from an open window above
them. Raucous laughter and loud voices fl oated down to her.
A private dining room, she decided, none of the occupants
interested in the drama unfolding below.
Her attention returned to Justin. His stance was tense,
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as if he waited for Lucien to make a move so he could shoot.
Gentlemen’s fair play to the end. At his cuff s, Rosalind saw
delicate silver embroidery. No doubt his vest bore the same
design. An elaborate wig covered his head, snowy white with
fresh powder. Rosalind grimaced. Justin had dressed the cox-