The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen

by Shelley Munro

  “Tickell, go outside into the garden. Take Cook with you.” Rosalind grabbed a sobbing Cook and shoved her at Tickell. “Go.” Her words were a sharp order, and the butler obeyed without hesitation.

  The rumbling ceased. A nerve-wrenching groan from one of the remaining maids sounded to her right. Rosalind edged closer to the gaping hole that had appeared in the kitchen floor. When the dust cleared, she saw the sparkling blue of the ocean.

  Rosalind patted the maid on the shoulder, intending to comfort her. Instead, she relived the maid’s memories of her friends toppling into the hole. Horrified, she wrenched her hand away. Her breathing sounded harsh as the fearful image replayed in her mind.

  Fretful cries and hysterical sobs galvanized her to action. “Are you hurt?” she demanded of the nearest maid.

  “No, my lady.”

  “Find Lord St. Clare or Mr. Soulden. Tell them I need their help.”

  The maid sniffed and wiped a hand across her tear-stained cheek. “Yes, my lady.”

  Rosalind rushed to the side of the scullery boy, who lay on the floor, his skinny legs protruding from under a butcher’s slab. She felt for his pulse and swallowed. The poor child was dead. She moved on to the next. This time, a tiny, unsteady pulse beat.

  Lord St. Clare burst into the kitchen. “Rosalind, child. What has happened?”

  Charles followed a few seconds later. “What’s wrong? I couldn’t make sense of the maid’s blathering. She said the bottom had fallen out of England.”

  Rosalind attempted a smile, but the sally wasn’t enough to overshadow her shock. “Not England. Castle St. Clare. The floor has collapsed, and a maid has fallen through. We need help. Some of the servants are badly injured. We must move them in case more of the floor disintegrates.”

  “Rosalind, child, let Charles and I deal with this. You go outside with the rest of the servants.”

  “No. I can help. I’m skilled in healing. You need me here.”

  “She’s right.” Charles assisted a pale, shocked servant to her side. The girl’s arm hung at an unnatural angle. “This girl is hurt. Where’s Tickell?”

  “He’s injured. I sent him outside with Cook.”

  The earl’s face paled in shock. “Good God, Charles. Look.”

  Charles edged toward the yawning hole. Rosalind inched forward too, even though gazing down the crevice made her dizzy. The chocolate inside her stomach swirled in agitation, but awed horror propelled her to stare. Far below, wicked rocks glistened with the sea spray. A briny tang filled her nostrils. The lifeless body of a maid floated in the water, hitting against the razor-sharp rocks with each fresh surge of the tide. Another body—the footman’s—draped over an out-hanging rock.

  Rosalind squeezed her eyes shut. The sick sensation in her belly intensified. It could have easily been her down there.

  Charles glanced over his shoulder. “Rosalind, we will need help. Summon the stable lads and send a servant to bring Mansfield. He knows the coastline well. It may be easier to climb up rather than risk dropping ropes down.”

  The meal that night was a simple one. Rosalind gazed down at her plate and wondered how the others could eat. All those poor servants.

  “Summon Tickell,” Lady Augusta said, after slurping the last spoonful of game soup from her bowl.

  “Tickell is ill,” Rosalind said. “I sent him to his quarters to rest.”

  “But I want more soup.”

  St. Clare sighed, looking tired. “Augusta, let the servants be. They have lost friends today.”

  Rosalind laid down her spoon and stood. She stepped past Charles, their guest Mansfield, and St. Clare at the head of the table.

  “Where are you going?” Lady Augusta demanded. “We haven’t finished our meal.”

  “You wanted more soup.” Rosalind reached for the tureen sitting near Lady Augusta’s right hand. “One spoon or two?”

  Charles chuckled. Mansfield grinned, but Lady Augusta let out a screech of horror. “Put that down,” she snapped.

  Rosalind filled Lady Augusta’s soup bowl despite the woman’s consternation. “Anyone else?”

  “I’ll have some, child,” St. Clare said. “Augusta, stop your snarling. The child is right. The servants who are unharmed have enough to do at present.”

  With the soup served, Rosalind slipped back into her chair. One thing preyed on her mind. Mary had burbled of the treasure but had mentioned no tunnels running beneath Castle St. Clare. “Did you know of the tunnels beneath the kitchen? Have they always been there?” Her voice wobbled a fraction as she pictured her missing maid. If only she’d return. Even her chiding would be welcome at this point.

  St. Clare stared at his soup. “There have always been rumors handed down through the family of tunnels and lost treasure. I searched as a young lad, as did these two scamps along with Hastings when they were younger. None of us found a hint of a secret passage. I believed the stories of the lost St. Clare treasure were just that—rumors.”

  “You didn’t find any concealed passages when you were looking?” Rosalind scrutinized their reactions.

  Charles shrugged. “Not a thing.”

  “We found the priest’s hole,” Mansfield said.

  “That’s right,” Charles said. “I’d forgotten about that.”

  Lady Augusta chuckled. “I remember how disappointed you were when you found it led nowhere.”

  Doubt and a hint of suspicion rose in Rosalind. How could none of the family be aware of the labyrinth beneath the castle? She peered at each of the men. Was one of them responsible for the cave-in? “Someone knows about the passages. The digging is fresh. Our servants died because someone ordered the tunnels extended.”

  “Rubbish,” Lady Augusta said.

  “I think,” Rosalind continued undaunted, “that someone accepts the rumors, and they’re searching for the St. Clare treasure. What are we going to do about it?”

  Three days later, all those injured in the kitchen tragedy were resting and no longer required her presence. Rosalind hurried into the outer garden, her bag of medicines tucked over her arm. She’d discovered a shortcut to the village earlier in the week and intended to visit Billy and his family and search for Mary. After a swift glance over her shoulder, she quickened her pace, almost running in her haste to escape.

  At least Hastings wasn’t here, demanding she take an escort.

  “Going somewhere, Lady Hastings?”

  Rosalind bit back a squeal of fright, but a tiny squeak emerged anyway. Heat filled her cheeks as she pulled her nose away from Mansfield’s snowy white shirt. “Sorry, I didn’t see you.” She took a rapid step back and saw Charles was with him.

  “Deep in thought, were you?” Mansfield tapped his pipe on a tree trunk to knock the ash from the bowl before tucking it away in a pocket. “Perhaps thinking of your husband and his return?”

  “Of course not,” she said so quickly that Mansfield grinned.

  Charles inspected his cuff and brushed a speck of dust from the blond lace. “You shouldn’t try to fib to Mansfield. He has oodles of younger sisters, you know.” He looked up from his handiwork, amusement in his twinkling eyes.

  “I am going to the village to search for Mary.” Her shoulders stiffened as she waited for one man to reproach her for wasting her time. No matter what they said, she intended to hunt for her maid.

  “You should take a footman with you,” Charles said.

  “The footmen are busy with kitchen repairs. They have enough to do without me adding to their workload.”

  “Rosalind’s right,” Mansfield said. “She won’t come to any harm down in the village. My sisters go all the time.”

  Charles frowned but added no further protests. Rosalind fled before he demanded she remain at the castle. “I’m going straight there and back.” She waved and set off without looking over her shoulder.

  Ten minutes later, she spied Billy and some other children collecting wood on the outskirts of the village.

  “I’m sorry
I wasn’t able to come earlier.”

  The boy shrugged. “You couldn’t, lady. The servants needed you.”

  “How is your brother?”

  “Sick. He’s worse.”

  He led her along the busy village street, skirting two wagons and, to Rosalind’s silent approval, a row of tethered horses. The scent of freshly baked bread filled the air long before they reached the baker’s shop. Billy looked longingly at the loaves of bread cooling in the window, but instead of stopping, he turned down a concealed lane behind the baker’s shop. They walked for a further five minutes, dodging muddy holes and puddles of water, passing a pile of stinky rubbish. The stench clogged her nostrils and made her stomach roil. The cottages became increasingly dilapidated, and Rosalind began to understand why Billy appeared so grubby.

  “This is where I live.” He came to a halt beside the last leaning cottage in the row. He opened the door, and Rosalind followed him inside.

  The reek of rotting flesh was the first thing to hit her after her eyes adjusted to the dim light. A groan and the rustle of bedding had her stumbling toward the occupant of the pallet bed.

  Her patient didn’t seem much older than Billy. A well-mended sheet tangled in his legs as he tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position.

  “Good day.” She set her medicine bag on the floor, stripped off her gloves and laid her hand across her patient’s forehead. The boy’s flesh scorched her hand. He moaned scarcely aware of her presence. She tugged the sheet away from his legs. “Billy, how long has your brother been like this?”

  “Since Tuesday.”

  Almost four days. His leg was red and swollen in the dim light. Probably shiny too, but it was difficult to see with the wound covered.

  “Can you make Harry well?” Billy asked.

  Rosalind heard hope in the boy’s voice. She wanted to lie, to say all would be well. “I’m not sure, Billy. I’ll do the best I can for him. First, we need to boil water to cleanse the wound.” A quick glance confirmed there was no fresh water available. “Could you fetch a bucket of water for me?”

  “Aye.” Billy collected the bucket and left without another word.

  She unwound the blood-streaked bandage. Harry winced, letting out a pained whimper.

  “There now, I’ll try not to hurt you.”

  The lad’s eyes popped open. “Mother?”

  “Shh. Lie still.” Rosalind peeled the back the bandage. The putrid stench suggested the likelihood of the boy’s recovery was remote. Not that she’d stop trying to cure him.

  In her mind, she went through the steps her grandmother had shown her many years ago. She glanced at his face. His eyes had closed again, and he’d drifted into unconsciousness. Probably the best thing. Billy had said they’d removed the bullet, but it was possible a foreign substance remained embedded in the wound.

  As she opened her bag and pulled out a sharp dagger, she wondered how the boy had become injured. She glanced over her shoulder, listening for Billy’s return, but sensed nothing except Harry’s ragged breathing. She placed her hands on his forehead. At first, there was nothing, then a full-blown scene exploded inside her head.

  Rosalind jerked her hand away. But the colors, the smells, and the bloody gore of the scene filled her mind. Bright red blood, screaming men, panicked horses. The pungent scent of gunpowder hung on the air along with smoke from a fire. Sweat. More blood. Harry’s horror screamed through her mind, his white-hot pain bringing tears to her eyes.

  A clatter, followed by footsteps, jerked Rosalind back to the present. Her breasts heaved while she rode out the pain shooting through her tense body. Calm, she reminded herself. Calm.

  Billy placed a bucket of steaming water by the pallet. “The baker gave me some hot water, just off the fire, my lady.”

  “Thank you.” Rosalind pulled a length of clean cloth from her bag and dipped it in the water. She worked deftly by instinct, cleansing the boy’s wound, intent on the image returning to her mind.

  “Move! The excisemen be coming!”

  Rosalind experienced Harry’s panic, and she shuddered, drawn into his terror. The soldiers mustn’t catch him. The tales of torture in the prisons made him run blindly after the other men. He staggered under the load of bulky silk he carried. Mustn’t leave it. Mam needs money. Must get to safety. Hawk will dock my share. Heavy. Arms hurt. Keep going. The cave. There be the cave. Safe. Bit farther. Keep going, Harry.

  “Stop right there, you thieving bastards! In the name of the king! Stop!”

  Harry ignored the bellowed order and kept running. A gunshot rang out. Frank faltered beside him. The cask of brandy Frank carried smashed on the rocky ground. Harry turned, but blank eyes stared back. Frank was dead.

  “Run, lad. Frank’s done for. Save yer own skin.”

  More gunshots. It was dark, so dark Harry couldn’t see the path, but he kept running, his lungs wheezing like the blacksmith’s bellows. Another shot. Pungent gunpowder. Wind whistled past his ear. Something hit a rock right by his leg. Then his leg collapsed under him. He staggered, the bundle of silk toppled, but he righted his load.

  “Don’t stop, lad. You’re almost safe.”

  Pain. God, his leg hurt so bad.

  “Lad, let me help you.” The man appeared in the cave’s mouth. A black cloak billowed in the breeze.

  “I got my load,” Harry muttered. “Hawk will pay me.”

  “Yes, lad. You’ll get your portion.” The man helped Harry stagger to his feet.

  “Hawk,” he hesitated, seeing the black mask that went with the cloak.

  “Let’s get you to safety, and we’ll see about digging that bullet out. We need you better so you can watch Hastings and the castle. You! Fire at the excise men if they come too close to the cave. Give the rest a chance to get to safety through the labyrinth. Half an hour should do it.”

  “You’ll pay?” Harry demanded.

  Hawk chuckled and ruffled his hair. “Yes, lad. You do a good job. You’ll get the money you deserve.”

  “Will Harry get better? My lady?” A sharp tug on her scarlet mantle pulled her from the horror. She swallowed, the taste of blood in her mouth and the stench of gunpowder still strong.

  “Will Harry get well?”

  “I’ll do my best for him,” she said, skirting the question. Hawk was paying Harry to spy on Hastings. And probably others too.

  Rosalind finished winding the bandage around the cleansed wound and tied a knot so the soft linen cloth she’d brought with her would stay fastened.

  “Billy, were other men wounded at the same time as Harry?”

  “Aye. Yer to stop by the smithy afore you leave for the castle,” Billy said. “The blacksmith’s son carries a bullet in his gut.”

  Rosalind nodded. “I’ll stop there on my way home.” Perhaps she’d learn more of the man Hawk during her search for Mary.

  Everything she’d learned so far indicated his wish to harm Hastings. A selfish thought surfaced, making her brow knit in worry.

  There would be no babies if Hastings died.

  His strong and rigid profile and dark, windblown hair filled her mind. Tall, healthy and vigorous now, but if Hawk had his way, he’d be dead. The fearful images built in her mind. A tremor shook her hands as she refastened her medicine bag. No! She wouldn’t let Hawk murder her husband.

  Her dream of a secure future depended on it.

  11 – The First Kiss

  Rosalind crept toward the stables, searching for a glimpse of Hastings’s black. She didn’t know which stall belonged to Oberon, but the sudden crack of a hoof striking a stable wall followed swiftly by a stable boy’s shout, reassured her Hastings had arrived home. She’d worried about his safety during his absence and a tiny part of her—a niggling voice at the back of her mind—had pestered her with the notion he mightn’t return at all. Thankfully, she could now cast that particular concern aside and concentrate on the happenings at Castle St. Clare and her search for Mary. Since treating Harry two days a
go, she’d overheard a lot of speculation about lost treasure.

  Her lips made a moue of irritation. Every time she’d questioned a man or woman, they’d told her the same thing.

  “No. Haven’t seen your maid. They find treasure in Castle St. Clare, then?”

  Despite persistent queries, no one knew anything about Mary’s disappearance, and that worried her. She hadn’t picked up thoughts of Mary when she’d touched people either. An ache started behind her eyes, and she forced herself to concentrate on other things. Tears wouldn’t help her find Mary.

  Eavesdropping via her sight had confirmed Hawk’s ruthless determination and the villagers’ contradictory feelings for the smuggler. They feared him yet relied on his generosity to survive. Like a double-edged sword, this bestowed great power on the man.

  “The next shipment from France will land tomorrow night. You’re to pass the word.”

  Rosalind froze. Thank goodness none of the stable lads were present to witness her behavior. The voices were coming from behind her in the tack room, which meant she’d need to hide in the stable—in one of the stalls.

  “Does Hawk need all of us?”

  “Aye, ’tis a full load. Two boats. Wait. Roberts? You finished in there, boy? They need help in the castle.”

  A stable boy exited the end stall closest to the tack room. Rosalind flattened herself against the wall, praying he didn’t spot her.

  “Go on with you, boy.”

  The stable boy thumped past, allowing Rosalind to relax until the voices moved closer.

  Bother. Rosalind glanced at the stable stalls again and swallowed. She’d have to hide in there whether she liked it or not. She edged up to the closest. The horse inside stirred, the straw rustling.

  “Come into the stables. Less chance anyone overhearing in there. All the lads are helping in the kitchen.”

  With trepidation spiking her pulse, Rosalind tugged open the stall and slid inside, pulling the door to behind her. The distinctive smell of animal made her nose quiver. A horse’s snort brought a gasp. She licked her lips while her pulsed raced at her discovery.