The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen

by Shelley Munro

  Charles closed one eye in a wink and offered his arm. “Lady Sophia, allow me to escort you.”

  “Nicely done,” Mansfield said for her hearing only.

  “Thank you.” Rosalind focused on blocking Mansfield and wished she’d scooped up her gloves before her departure. Mary wouldn’t have let her attend a social gathering without her gloves. The memory of Mary’s scolding shored up her mental wall even as tears misted her eyes. “How far do we need to walk?” she asked, conscious of the need to appear normal, especially with rumors of witchcraft flying around the village. The last thing she needed was more attention.

  Mansfield stopped and turned to study her face. “You’re pale. How is your ankle?” He frowned in concern. “Should I carry you? You resemble my sister when— I say! You’re not increasing, are you?”

  Indignation burst from her. “Neither you nor Charles has any right to ask such a personal thing. When Lucien and I have happy news to impart, we will tell you.”

  His face froze before he smiled. “I’m sorry. You’re right. My only excuse is that Charles, Hastings, and I are more brothers than friends. Hastings is the first to wed, and it changes things between us.”

  His thoughts jumped in agitation, and she caught a flash of jealousy before she calmed herself enough to block again.

  “Will you wed soon?” She hid her surge of amusement. They were still like young boys at heart. Charles had told her Lucien and Mansfield were very competitive. Obviously, Mansfield still bore the cutthroat streak and allowed envy to creep into his thoughts. A human reaction, and one she’d experienced with her cousin.

  His mouth twisted. “My mother wants me to wed.”

  “But?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “It usually is.” Rosalind smiled, in charity with his reply. When Miranda had refused to entertain marriage with Lucien, the obligation had fallen to her. Family politics were always complicated and fraught with danger.

  The path narrowed, and Mansfield ushered Rosalind in front of him. The need to block dissolved when she released his arm. A relief. Blocking for extended periods always caused her head to ache.

  Up ahead, the path widened into a clearing. Surrounded by trees, the grassy area reminded Rosalind of an island in the middle of the sea.

  “Lady Hastings,” Lady Radford called. “Would you help Sophia set out the tables and chairs while I direct the servants with the food? I want them to take particular care with the cherry tarts, so they don’t spoil. Perhaps if you finish before me, you can direct them to set out the meats and pies. Have them spread a cloth to cover the food until we’re ready to eat. Mansfield, there are more people to come. Perhaps you could wait and guide them to the clearing?”

  Both Mansfield and Charles strode off with alacrity. Rosalind dithered, not wanting to go anywhere near Lady Sophia, not when her temper strained so close to the surface, but there would be no gainsaying Lady Radford. Steel cloaked the woman’s softly voiced words. When Lady Radford’s brows drew together, Rosalind nodded acquiescence and strolled over to Lady Sophia.

  “I don’t need your help,” Lady Sophia whispered in an aggressive tone when Rosalind joined her. She stuck her nose into the air and turned her back in a pointed snub. “Gerald, set the tables there and there. Place the chairs and blankets beneath the tree on the bank of the stream. Are you still here?” she demanded.

  Irritation flashed through Rosalind. She’d done nothing to incur Lady Sophia’s wrath. Nothing. Yet, the woman had treated her like an imposter from the moment of their first meeting.

  “Well?” Lady Sophia snapped.

  Rosalind wasn’t sure if she intended the remark for her or the servants. The servants weren’t certain either and cast uneasy glances at Lady Sophia before her glare had them rushing to carry out her instructions.

  Rosalind stepped closer. She grabbed Lady Sophia’s forearm and grasped it tightly. Lady Sophia’s thoughts came through loud and clear, bombarding her with their viciousness. The woman wanted Lucien, and she intended to get him, by fair means or foul, even if his scarred face disgusted her.

  Colorless sparrow. She is nothing.

  Right! That was it. She didn’t need to listen to her insulting thoughts.

  “Lucien is mine,” Rosalind said in a low undertone, letting go of Lady Sophia’s arm to break the connection. Anger throbbed between them. “Lucien is my husband and will remain mine no matter what accidents you arrange for me.”

  “You’re a witch,” Lady Sophia said.

  “I notice you do not deny anything.” Rosalind scanned the clearing to see if any of the servants or newly arrived guests were watching them. To her relief, the servants were engaged in setting out the tables and food while most of the men studied the stream, searching for trout. The women clustered around Lady Radford, their chatter and laughter ringing through the clearing. She turned her attention back to Lady Sophia. “I know you paid a maid to frighten me away.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The surge of color to Sophia’s cheeks told her the truth. “She’s admitted ruining my clothes and causing me to fall down the stairs.”

  Lady Sophia narrowed her eyes, a smile of triumph curving her lips. “You can’t prove it.”

  “Ah, but I can. Beth has confessed. She said you paid her to frighten me. She’s willing to swear to it. Did you tell her about the secret passage?” The maid hadn’t confessed, of course. Not yet, but that wouldn’t stop Rosalind from wringing the truth from Lady Sophia. “And the men you paid to shoot at Mary and me while we were out walking will also confess. Did you pay a footman or a stable lad to shove me over the cliff, to place wasps under the pony’s harness? Admit it. I know you paid the maid. She told me.” Rosalind grabbed Lady Sophia’s hand, hoping to gain more information to prove her perfidy. Lady Sophia wrenched away before she could read a thing.

  “What tunnels? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, Hastings won’t believe you. As soon as he’s free of your clutches, he’ll marry me.”

  Yet Lady Sophia couldn’t even look at Lucien’s face. This was all because she desired a title. “That’s not what he said last night in our chamber.” Rosalind couldn’t help the trace of smugness. She relived the sensual caress of his callused hand when he touched her bare shoulder, her breasts, and savored the truth. Lucien loved her—his wife. She knew it even if he wasn’t aware of the fact.

  “He won’t have anything to do with you when he learns you’re a witch.”

  Rosalind snorted. “If I was a witch, I’d make a wart grow on the tip of your nose. He’s heard the nonsense rumors.”

  “But everyone says you’re a witch.” Lady Sophia sounded bewildered and unsure.

  “Because that’s what you’ve told them. You’re jealous. You see yourself as the lady of St. Clare.” The sour expression on Lady Sophia’s face told her she was right, and she pushed her advantage. “You will never, ever be in that position.”

  “You don’t even share a bed with Hastings,” Lady Sophia said.

  “Are you sure about that?” Rosalind allowed a smirk of triumph to form on her lips.

  Lady Sophia’s gaze snapped to Rosalind’s. Indecisiveness played across her features. “You’re lying.”

  “Our private relationship is none of your business. But I’ll tell you this. Lucien and I are husband and wife—in every way.”

  The color bleached from Lady Sophia’s face. “That’s not true.”

  “It won’t be long before we have a child.” Rosalind knew she was being petty, forcing the truth down Lady Sophia’s throat, but the woman deserved it for her treachery. “Stay away from Hastings, or I’ll press charges. The local magistrate will take a dim view of the matter. The scandal will ruin your reputation.” Without another word, Rosalind turned away and sauntered over to the servants unpacking food from large cane baskets.

  Charles strolled across the clearing to join her. “What was that all about?”

 
“A private discussion,” Rosalind said.

  “About Hastings?”

  “Go and fish or something.” Rosalind’s lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile. “I must supervise the servants before Lady Radford takes me to task.”

  In truth, the servants didn’t require instruction. They were efficient, well trained, and almost finished with their tasks. Instead, Rosalind used the time to ponder her situation. She wondered if Lady Sophia would heed her warnings. A child would cement her claim on Lucien.

  Lady Radford clapped her hands together and raised her voice. “We’ll walk to the folly on the other side of the copse before we break our fast.”

  Enthusiasm greeted her suggestion, and most of the guests drifted down the narrow track in pairs.

  Since she was still favoring her ankle a little, Rosalind found a pleasant spot on the bank of the stream and sat to mull over everything that had happened to her and Lucien. She’d read Lady Sophia easily. The other woman hadn’t known about the tunnels. Her surprise had been evident. Puzzlement furrowed Rosalind’s forehead as she pondered the matter. Was it possible there were two villains? Was Lucien right in suspecting Hawk? She was unsure, but she needed to discover answers for Lucien somehow. It was the only way they’d find a measure of peace.

  The time passed agreeably, and Rosalind rose to pluck a bouquet of wildflowers for Lady Augusta. Soon men and women arrived back from their invigorating walk. Charles and Mansfield sought her out, Lady Sophia winging a scowl at her when she noticed the two men had left her bevy of suitors.

  Charles noticed. “She hates you.”

  Lady Radford interrupted with an announcement. “Please let the servants know what you’d like to eat.”

  They broke into groups, taking seats at the tables spaced around the clearing or sprawling out on blankets. Servants bustled about, and a jovial mood ensued with gay laughter and repartee. A sudden shout broke into the joviality. Like everyone else, Rosalind turned to see who dared interrupt one of Lady Radford’s rustic outings.

  “What’s the meaning of this interruption?” Lady Radford’s steely tones cut through the burst of conversation.

  The footman’s face was red from exertion, his chest rising and falling as he wheezed for air. “It’s Mansfield’s sister. Took a fall from her horse. They’re asking for Mansfield.”

  Charles jumped to his feet. “We’ll go now.”

  “Of course.” Rosalind rose. “I’m skilled with healing. I might be able to help.”

  “Surely you don’t have to leave, Charles? You promised to tell us about the freak show at Bartholomew Fair.” Lady Sophia fluttered her eyelashes at Charles, her lips shaped in a moue of disappointment. “We were looking forward to hearing about the wolf lady.”

  Mansfield stayed a protest by agreeing. “It’s all right, Charles. You stay, but Lady Hastings, my mother isn’t very good with blood or injuries. If you wouldn’t mind attending my sister at the manor, I’d be much obliged.”

  “Rosalind, you go with Mansfield. Take the chaise,” Charles said to his friend. “I’ll ride your bay back to the castle.”

  Rosalind nodded, turning to Mansfield. “Of course. I’ll do everything I can to aid your sister.”

  Before Rosalind knew it, she was in the chaise with Mansfield and on the way to Mansfield manor.

  Mansfield touched her forearm to draw her attention. “You’re very quiet. Did our hurried trip back to the chaise harm your ankle again?”

  “No, it’s fine now. Not a twinge,” Rosalind said with a smile. “How old is your sister?”

  “It will probably be Charlotte who has fallen. She is twelve and too bold for her own good.” Mansfield’s hand tightened momentarily, digging into her flesh, searing it with heat. A flash of jealousy pierced her mental blocks, a splash of bright red and green swirling together in a mass, the jagged emotions battering her defenses.

  Luckily, the burst faded the instant he broke the contact to concentrate on directing the horses. She bit back her distress, relief hitting when she no longer needed to block. Something was bothering Mansfield. Excitement filled his thoughts, along with anger and envy. Strange—most people didn’t assault her mind like that. Perhaps he was more concerned about his sister than he acknowledged?

  He clicked between his teeth, urging the horses on with his signal. They were both quiet for a time, the rhythmic swish of the wheels almost putting her to sleep. The sharp jolt of the chaise hitting a pothole jerked her awake, and she grabbed the edge of the seat to right herself. Her gaze focused on an ornate gateway as they clattered past.

  “Isn’t that the turning to your manor?”

  The excitement in his mind blazed on his face then. “We’re not going to the manor, Rosalind.” Mansfield urged the team into a gallop. The wind whistled past them, and her blue silk hat sailed away before she could save it.

  “But I thought your sister was at the manor.” She didn’t have to pretend her confusion.

  The wind snatched away her words as he took a hairpin corner at an impossible speed. She clutched the edge of the seat and held on for grim death. It was too late now to wish she’d listened to Lucien and stayed at the castle.

  “Rosalind? Rosalind! Where are you?” Lucien stomped from her chamber into his. Both were empty. He eyed the unoccupied rooms with misgiving before storming down the stairs in search of Lady Augusta, a maid or anyone who would know of his wife’s location. He found his aunt in the Blue Parlor.

  “Aunt Augusta, have you seen Rosalind?”

  Lady Augusta looked up from her needlework. “She went on an excursion with Charles and Mansfield. They mentioned the beech copse and Lady Radford’s cherry tarts. No cause for alarm, surely?”

  She should be all right with Charles and Mansfield, yet his gut churned. He wanted her at his side. Safe. He shouldn’t have left her this morning without talking to her, but he’d suffered from second and third thoughts. It had taken him time to sort through them to the important issues, to gather the nerve to take his second chance, just as Francesca had made him promise.

  “Stop behaving like a mooncalf, boy. Do something useful. Rosalind will be back later this afternoon. Go. I want peace, and I won’t have tranquility with you standing there glowering.”

  “I need to check the progress of the roofing in the village.”

  Lady Augusta rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Then what are you waiting for, Hastings?”

  “Indeed. Your servant, ma’am.” Lucien bowed and strode through the Great Hall and out into the courtyard. Sunshine blinded him for an instant. He took comfort from the fact Rosalind wasn’t walking by herself. Charles and Mansfield would keep her safe.

  Needing action to soothe his agitation, Lucien walked to the stables instead of sending for a stable lad to collect Oberon.

  The head groom spied him coming. “Did yer want the black saddled, my lord?”

  “Yes, please, Bishop.”

  The groom gestured at two of the stable boys. They disappeared, returning five minutes later with a dancing Oberon.

  “Full of oats, he is, my lord. Even after the run this morning.”

  Lucien nodded, taking the reins from the stable boy. He swung up into the saddle, reining his mount in. His mind kept returning to Rosalind.

  “Anything wrong, my lord?”

  Lucien forced a smile, which widened when he noticed the man focused on a point just above his head. He was becoming so used to Rosalind’s lack of reaction, he’d almost forgotten his disfigured face.

  “Nothing,” he said. “How long ago did Lady Hastings leave? Did they take the carriage?”

  “They took the chaise. About three hours ago, my lord.”

  Lucien dipped his head in acknowledgment and urged Oberon forward. There was nothing to worry about, but still, his instincts churned, warning him of the danger in letting Rosalind out of his sight. He pressed Oberon into a gallop. The sooner he arrived at the village and completed his mission, the sooner he could return to Rosalind.r />
  “Where are we going?” Rosalind scanned Mansfield’s hard visage, not liking the unease rippling up her spine. Something wasn’t right. “Why are you driving so fast? I know you’re worried about your sister, but surely it would be better if we arrived in one piece?”

  Working on instinct, she stretched out a trembling hand, steeling herself to touch Mansfield. She’d pretend to grab him for balance because she had to read his mind, learn what was going on and why they were traveling at breakneck speed.

  At first, she saw nothing, her instinctive block holding. Then the fog clouding his thoughts lifted, leaving a clear picture.

  A man stood on the deck of a sailing ship, his hands gripping the wheel. Waves crashed over the bow as it plowed through the water. Dark hair blew in the wind, while the man balanced with ease, his head thrown back in laughter—almost daring Mother Nature to do her worst.

  Rosalind frowned in confusion. That didn’t help much. “Tell me! Where are we going?”

  “There’s been a change of plans.”

  She jerked her hand away. “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my sister.”

  “What? But…you’re kidnapping me? Why? Are you in league with Lady Sophia?” Questions poured from her in a desire to understand. Everything was as clear as the blanket fogs that crept in from the sea to surround Castle St. Clare.

  “We’re going on a journey.”

  Rosalind didn’t like his answer, disquiet stirring to greater depths, making her heart punch against her ribs. She had to do something. She couldn’t sit here and let him steal her away. Think. Mansfield’s memory of a boat must mean something. “Are you a smuggler?”

  A teasing smile tugged at his lips. “Surely you know better than that, Rosalind.”

  She glanced at him and knew, without touching or reading his thoughts.

  Hawk.

  Frantically, Rosalind searched for a weapon, even as she recalled Hawk’s dark hair. Perhaps a wig? Could Mansfield really be Hawk? The chaise was traveling too fast for her to jump. “Lucien will come after me,” she shouted above the rattle of the equipage and the thunder of horses’ hooves.