The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen

by Shelley Munro

  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 despair disappeared from his face, replaced by gritty determination. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your thoughts didn’t appear pleasant.”

  His firm mouth twisted with annoyance. “It was nothing.”

  “There’s something strange happening at Castle St. Clare.” Rosalind was determined to persuade him the unusual occurrences weren’t the product of her overactive imagination. “What about your accident today? Have you discovered more?”

  The flicker of impatience that slid across his face made her teeth grit together. Those men had wanted her dead. She’d make him believe—if it was the last thing she did.

  “It’s time we returned to our guests.”

  Rosalind planted her hands on her hips, desperate for him to understand. “I’m watched all the time.”

  “Servants,” he drawled with distinct mockery. “The castle is full of them.”

  “Not in my room.” To her annoyance, her hands shook. Rosalind hid them behind her back. “I sense I’m being watched every time I’m alone in my room. And before we were married, I was—” She stopped midsentence. It wasn’t difficult to see Hastings had decided she bore an overactive imagination or, worse, she was trying to attract his attention by making up tales. She intercepted his sardonic look, and instantly her face burned with humiliation.

  “Come,” he said, clearly impatient. “Our guests await.” In a silent order to obey, he offered his arm to escort her back inside the castle.

  Both frustrated and irritated, Rosalind wanted to stomp her foot and shout at him for his foolishness. He should listen to her. But instead, she meekly accepted his escort. She’d have to discover another way and soon. Every instinct inside screamed that the escalating pranks would catch a victim before long.

  Hastings led her into the Chinese Drawing Room. “Would you like coffee or chocolate?”

  “Chocolate, thank you.” Her heart beat a little faster as their gazes met and held. Under his lazy appraisal, the deficiencies in her dress leaped out to taunt her.

  “Ah, Hastings. There you are. I’ve been looking for you.” Lady Sophia batted her eyelids at him. “Lady Hastings. How…ah…interesting you look. Would you like me to give you my seamstress’s card? Of course, she’s very expensive but worth every penny.” She smoothed white gloves over her form-fitting blue-and-white gown.

  Rosalind’s backbone straightened and a rude word popped into her head. She wished Lady Sophia would cease her prattle and stop rubbing her breasts against Hastings’s arm. Censure trembled at the tip of her tongue, ready to spill forth, but Hastings took a half step away from Lady Sophia before she could utter a word. The move brought him closer to her.

  “Would you like some new gowns?” Hastings’s voice sounded low and husky and sent a shower of tingles shooting through her body.

  Anticipation surged through her. Was it her imagination or was Hastings warming toward her? “I—”

  “I could come with you,” Lady Sophia butted in. “To help you select the perfect gowns to show off your…ah…coloring.” She turned to simper at Hastings’s chin and blinked while her mouth curved into an artful smile.

  It didn’t take much imagination for Rosalind to visualize the gowns she’d end up with if Lady Sophia had her way.

  Lady Pascoe thumped to a stop beside them and leaned on her walking cane. “Gel, do you have something wrong with your eyes?” she demanded, squinting at Lady Sophia.

  “No, there’s nothing wrong with my eyes,” Lady Sophia said, puzzled.

  “Then why do you keep blinkin’ ’em as if you had bugs inside?” As usual, Lady Pascoe hollered.

  Rosalind caught her bottom lip between her teeth, trying in vain not to laugh. Two young men standing across the room were not so charitable. Their raucous guffaws were contagious, and Rosalind’s gaze dropped to concentrate on an intricate Oriental urn.

  “Really,” Lady Sophia snapped.

  “And what do you think of your wife’s gown, Hastings? Shocking, ain’t it?”

  Lady Sophia simpered. “The color is atrocious.”

  “Humph! Wasn’t talking to you.” Lady Pascoe peered up at Hastings.

  Rosalind froze, her knees knocking together beneath the skirts of the puce dress as everyone in the Chinese parlor waited for his reply.

  Hastings slipped his arm around her waist and his mouth curled into an uncharacteristic smile. A sensuous smile that made Rosalind’s breath catch. “My wife has a pure heart.”

  The walking stick thumped on the floor. Lady Pascoe’s head bobbed under her powdered wig. “Prettily said, Hastings.”

  Several of the dinner guests readied to depart. Rosalind suppressed a yawn.

  “Go up to your chamber.” Hastings removed his arm from around her waist, leaving Rosalind bereft.

  “Good night.” Rosalind trudged to the door.

  She couldn’t prevent a glance over her shoulder at her husband, but he was already deep in discussion with Lady Sophia. Simpering ninny! The way she fluttered her eyelashes at Hastings and acted so superior about gowns and the latest fashion irritated her in the extreme. Of course, Lady Sophia thought she knew everything. Rosalind snorted. She wasn’t stupid. Lady Sophia wanted her husband or at least his title. Humph! Not if she had anything to do with the matter.

  Then there was Hastings. Rosalind glared at a graceful statue depicting Diana, the huntress. Stubborn man. He’d rejected her warnings to take care even though a child could read the situation with ease.

  Rosalind stepped inside her chamber and slammed the door shut. Her sight wasn’t necessary to divine the evil present at Castle St. Clare. It was there for any idiot to see, and if Hastings refused to listen, she’d investigate on her own.

  She turned a slow circle, scrutinizing each wall in the flickering candlelight as if she’d never seen it before. Almost immediately, a sense of disquiet inched down her body, as if an unseen person spied on her. Malicious, perhaps dangerous. Her palms grew clammy with tension, but she bit back her fear and forced herself to continue her investigation. Noir, her kitten, crawled out of his basket in the corner. He yawned and ambled over to wind around her shaky legs.

  Where was Mary? The candles were freshly lit so she couldn’t have been gone for long. Then Rosalind remembered that Mary had gone to meet one of the male servants. Rosalind coughed to clear the knot of apprehension in her throat. At this moment, she craved the sound of another voice and a friendly face. She crouched to scratch Noir behind the ears. Briefly, she considered summoning a maid on some pretext, only to reject the idea. This was something she must do on her own. She gave the kitten a final pat and stood.

  Forcing her jumpy nerves away, Rosalind marched to the closest wall to search for anything out of the ordinary. There must be a clue somewhere. She rapped on the wall. A dull thud sounded. Rosalind knocked harder and scraped a hunk of skin from her knuckles.

  “Ouch.” She sucked at the trickle of blood.

  On hearing her sound of distress, the kitten padded over and meowed for her to pick him up. With a giggle, she did as he demanded and he rewarded her with a noisy purr. The small half-drowned kitten she’d picked up off the beach was no longer recognizable. With his healthy appetite, Noir was growing at a rapid pace and getting into mischief.

  “Yes, getting into mischief,” she said, trying to keep her tone stern, but failing dismally when Noir licked her hand. “I’ve no idea how you escape from my chamber. Mary swears she shuts the door whenever she leaves.”

&
nbsp; The kitten meowed in answer.

  “Yes, you scare Mary.” She smoothed one hand over the kitten’s glossy black coat. “Mary thinks you’re a witch’s cat too, because of your extra toes, your yellow eyes, and your black coat. Luckily, I’ve kept the other maids from studying you too closely.”

  The wind wailed outside. Her candle flickered. In the distance, a shutter banged. Rosalind shivered. Another squall pelted the castle, blowing in from the sea without warning. The candle flame fluttered and died, plunging her chamber into darkness.

  “Bother.” After she’d been pushed from her bed, she’d slept with a candle lighting the room. Or trying to. The blessed things kept blowing out. A chill crawled along her arms, and a swooping, hollow sensation danced in her stomach. She stumbled to her bed and placed the kitten down out of harm’s way, every sense alert. The darkness seemed to pulse and reach for her like a living being. Whispers of evil slithered over her skin, leaving dozens of raised bumps.

  A creak drew her attention. Was that a footstep? She swallowed, each breath deafening to her ears. A soft rustle made her freeze. Was that the bed curtains? A footfall on the rug?

  Rosalind fumbled her way along the length of the four-poster bed to a walnut dresser. She groped for another candle. Fingers worked like thumbs as she struggled to light the taper.

  A loud squeak made her jump. Her head jerked. A breeze whispered against her cheek, and the candle blew out again. Rosalind smelled a whiff of the sea and something else… Tobacco?

  Noir’s distant meow galvanized her to action. She needed a candle lit. Now.

  “I’m not imagining things,” she said. “I’m not.”

  Her hand trembled as she struggled to produce light. Someone was inside the chamber with her. Another meow sounded as the flame on the candle flared to life. She held the candlestick aloft, every nerve in her body screaming to run. But she held fast. She intended to show Hastings that the specters at Castle St. Clare were not the product of an overactive imagination. There was mischief afoot and, no matter how terrified, she wanted to prove it.

  “Noir? Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” Rosalind crept about her chamber, searching for her pet. He was here somewhere. Right now, she craved contact with him to help steady her jangling nerves.

  She searched every corner, under her bed, and in her dressing room. Finally, she came to the only conclusion.

  Noir was no longer in the room even though she’d shut all the doors earlier.

  A plaintive meow attracted Lucien’s attention. He paused in the passage leading to his chamber. A black creature flitted under the oak table in an alcove. Rosalind’s kitten. A slow smile spread across his face as the kitten batted a dust mote along the ground. The kitten sidled closer and pounced. His whiskers twitched a second before a sneeze exploded.

  Lucien chuckled and scooped the kitten up in one hand, cradling it to his chest and smoothing his thumb over its furry head. A loud purr filled the silent passage.

  “Rosalind will miss you,” he murmured. The kitten rubbed his head against Lucien’s thumb, demanding the stroking recommence.

  Lucien strode down the silent passage to Rosalind’s chamber. It was adjacent to his, with a connecting door between the two rooms—a connecting door that remained shut. So much for Lord St. Clare’s hope to bounce a grandchild on his knee. Pain spiked through Lucien’s heart. His unborn child had died along with Francesca. He would never have another child.

  He pounded on the door. Footsteps sounded, and the door cracked open.

  “Hastings.” The gap between the door and the frame widened. “Hastings,” she repeated, her expression one of amazement and apprehension. Her right hand darted out to smooth her hair. She moistened her lips. “Ah, come in.”

  The delicate blush on her cheeks, visible even in candlelight, made him freeze. An internal alarm clanged, and his scar tightened as he grimaced. A tic started under one eye. “I’ve come to return your kitten.” He spoke harshly, unable to face the thoughts darting across the English mouse’s face. Inconceivable! That she’d think… His brows pinched together. Good God. The woman…the last thing he wanted was to bed the scrawny English mouse. “Here.” He thrust the kitten at her.

  “Don’t you want children?” she blurted, taking the kitten without touching him. Her cheeks glowed a fiery red, but she met his scowl unflinchingly.

  “No! I do not want children.”

  Judging by the pain on her face, he’d hurt her feelings. Unable to bear a sudden onslaught of guilt, Lucien retreated and reached the door in two steps. It clicked shut behind him, sounding abnormally loud. He winced. Hell’s teeth! All he’d done was act civilly, and straightaway she’d made assumptions. The English mouse and Lady Sophia both on the same night.

  Tension tightened his muscles while anger made him long to strike out—a wall, a man, anything to dispel the strain galloping through his body. His decision to keep a careful watch on his wife no longer seemed wise, not when his attentions made her jump to conclusions. Already, the woman featured too prominently in his thoughts.

  He shuddered and started for his room before changing both his mind and direction. If he retired for the night, he’d have trouble sleeping or, worse, have nightmares again. He might as well go to the cove and search for smuggler activity. Not all the men wore masks. He wanted to find an inconspicuous place to watch the unloading of a shipment. Hopefully, he’d recognize some of the locals who were involved and be able to work out the weakest link—the man he could break or bribe and receive straight answers about Hawk.

  The man had appeared mysteriously six months ago, from what he could gather. There must be someone who knew more. Lucien glanced out a nearby window. Thick cloud shrouded the sickle moon. The night appeared perfect for smugglers, and he was not about to pass up a chance to find the elusive Hawk.

  8 – Rosalind Gets Emotional

  “Ah, Lady Hastings. We meet again.”

  Rosalind’s head jerked up as a man’s voice cut into her turbulent thoughts. Mr. Soulden. Cousin Charles, she reminded herself.

  He sauntered toward her, a slim and fashionable figure in a white shirt, a heavily embroidered lavender waistcoat, and matching breeches, his wig a lighter hue of lavender. Quite the gentleman, he should have looked out of place amongst the wild, overgrown hedges and gardens but didn’t.

  Rosalind forced a return smile even though misery had become her friend since Hastings’s last firm rebuttal five nights ago. His blunt words continued to rattle around inside her head until she wanted to scream. Their underlying sentiment had sliced like a dagger, cutting wounds that went deep. Even now, days later, she wanted to crawl away and tend her injuries in private. She considered waving at Charles and continuing her walk but decided it wouldn’t do to upset the one person who had extended the hand of friendship since her arrival. Now that Mary had found someone, a man she spent her free time with, Rosalind was often alone.

  Lonely.

  The smile sat stiff and foreign on her lips—more a grimace than anything. It was the best she could manage. She inclined her head in greeting as Charles picked his way around a haphazard bed of purple and white petunias and stopped before her.

  “Cousin Charles,” she murmured.

  “Might I escort you on a turn about the garden?” The corners of his mouth quirked upward as if inviting her to share in a private joke. “It’s a glorious day.”

  Her grimace never faltered. “I’m afraid I’m wandering aimlessly, without real purpose.”

  His blond brows arched, and he indicated the drawing materials she held with a languid hand. “May I not help you find the perfect bloom to paint, the perfect pastoral scene?”

  His unfailing good spirits made guilt surface. And even though Rosalind preferred to mope alone, she made an effort. “I intend to paint the sea, not that I’m a gifted artist. It is something to do out of doors.”

  “I’ve noticed you try to avoid Aunt Augusta,” he said, his smile turning sly.

  “No, I don
’t!” The defensive note in her voice drew a frown. It was true. She avoided Lady Augusta as much as she shunned mice. In fact, if the truth be told, she’d prefer to face an unpredictable mouse.

  “Let me take your drawing materials for you.” Charles tucked her hand in the crook of his free arm and, by common consent, they wandered down an overgrown path that led to the far end of the formal part of the garden.

  “I am not avoiding Lady Augusta.” Rosalind broke the silence that had fallen between them. At least she’d done one thing right in her panic to leave the castle without seeing Lady Augusta. Her gloves were in place, protecting her hands against thorns and visions.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything.” He flashed a grin. “When Aunt Augusta gets in one of her moods, there’s no gainsaying her.”

  The irony in his tone jerked Rosalind from dark thoughts of her marriage. Lady Augusta was always in a mood. The woman was cranky and outright obnoxious. Nothing Rosalind did pleased her, which was why she’d escaped outside. “She never snaps at you.”

  “You didn’t hear her this morning.”

  Rosalind sighed. “Probably after she found me absent.”

  “No, she never mentioned you. I was in the firing line today. According to Aunt Augusta, I spend far too much time gadding around the countryside. I need to settle down with someone of her choice. Unfortunately, her choices don’t find favor with me. Last one giggled, and the one before had teeth that would better suit a horse.” He shuddered and patted Rosalind’s arm. “Go on, give me a smile. Don’t let Aunt Augusta wear you down.”

  His sympathetic words made tears build at the back of her eyes. Rosalind looked down at the gravel path, glad when it narrowed to the point where they could no longer walk side by side. She’d been a fool to decide marriage was the answer to her problems. Before, the dream of children and family was impossible, but now it was equally improbable because Hastings refused to acknowledge her. He was frequently absent from the castle. When present, he ignored her.