The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen

by Shelley Munro

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

  She hesitated before resting her pale fingers on his coat sleeve so he barely discerned her touch.

  A soft exhalation escaped her, consternation flitting across her face before her lips tightened in 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 cottage we’re seeking.”

  Lucien intercepted the visual exchange 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 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 the sun, making the cluster of dilapidated cottages appear even worse. A scrawny black pup cowered behind an overturned bucket, growling ferociously once they’d strolled past. A muscle jerked in his 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 gazed at him, she pasted a bright smile on her face. Lucien’s irritation kicked up into anger. Was he so repulsive to her?

  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 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 stayed 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 willed himself past the anger so he could concentrate. Damn, he needed to see what was happening. His gut churned, telling him something wasn’t right, and he’d learned to trust his instincts. 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, 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. “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 home 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. The timing stunk. Just when things turned interesting, when he was about to learn something helpful. At least the woman had confirmed what he’d already guessed—Hawk had ensnared the entire village. Even though the fact was now established, frustration bubbled inside him. Because he was an unknown quantity to the villagers, they refused to speak with 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 at the end of his reins. The lad handed him over with clear relief. A good, hard gallop would sort out his mount, and settle his own disquiet.

  Lucien smoothed his hand down Oberon’s neck and murmured, 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. A startled shout burst from the stable lad as Lucien tried to control his mount. 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. Oberon gathered under him, and they sailed over, 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 resembled 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 splashed until it coated both he and Oberon.

  What the hell was wrong? Lucien leaned forward, and Oberon slowed. He eased back into the saddle. Oberon bucked, twisting and screwing his muscular body. Sweat lathered his glossy neck, each puff flaring 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 needed to take this action.

  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 t
he 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 in and interfered with his horse. 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 warily than any of the villagers. The more he pondered his wife, the more convinced he was that the insipid Englishwoman had secrets. The likelihood seemed high the secrets related to his enemy, Hawk. There was no other explanation.

  6 – An Innocent Adventure Turns Dangerous

  While Mary made small talk with Mistress Baker, Rosalind pretended to study the woman’s swollen leg. She ran her hands 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. 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. “Don’t suppose trying a new treatment would hurt none. Not that I’m saying you be right, Lady Hastings. But, 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 her special dish she kept for the purpose. “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. “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 expect you tomorrow or the next day.”

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

  “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 peek 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 the mud as she peered down the path. She pulled her boot free with a loud squelch. “And wet.”

  “Do you want to go back?” Mary asked.

  “No, I’m muddy now, and your appearance isn’t 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 way 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 rescued 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, my lady. 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.

  “Should we 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 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, pressing a trembling hand to her breast, willing her heart to return to normal speed. “Shall we carry on?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

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

  “My lady?”

  Rosalind patted her racing heart. “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. A tremulous breath eased her wariness a little more.

  “Mary, this must be 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 maid.

 
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 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 forged on to the Millers’ cottage. They might help her find Mary. According to Mistress Baker’s directions, it must be close. With one final scan of the path, she turned and hastened along 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. 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 on the path. “Stop shooting!”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “Over there,” a rough voice shouted.

  Dried leaves crunched beneath hurrying feet. Twigs snapped, and undergrowth rustled. Fear licked down her spine as she attempted to still her trembling limbs. Surely, the men hadn’t mistaken her for a deer?

  “Over there.”