The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen

by Shelley Munro

Hawk? Fear shot through Lucien.

  “Nah! ’e wore a wig.”

  An argument ensued when they couldn’t agree. Lucien didn’t care. All he wanted was his wife. Rosalind.

  None of this was helping. “Which way is the King’s Head?”

  “It’s the other side of the village. On the road to Rye,” the man said. “Follow main road and take the second fork.”

  Before he could thank the man, he turned away. Lucien pushed his way back through the mass of bodies to collect his horse, using elbows, his greater bulk, and his scar when necessary. Rosalind wouldn’t approve. The notion brought a brief smile. “Thanks,” he said, flipping a coin at the man.

  The crowds thinned once Lucien moved away from the chaise, but the cheers and screeches of encouragement continued unabated. He swung up on Oberon and pressed his mount into a trot.

  “Hastings!”

  Lucien’s head snapped about at the sound of his name.

  Mansfield ambled toward him, threading through the crowd, a broad grin on his face. “What are you doing in Whittlebury?”

  Lucien was positive Lady Augusta had said an outing near Castle St. Clare. He glanced past Mansfield, but none of the faces were familiar. Were the rest of the party in Whittlebury too? The trepidation inside him eased a notch. “I came to check on supplies for the roof repairs. I thought you went on the excursion with Lady Sophia and her mother.”

  “Not me,” Mansfield replied. “Lady Radford is far too managing. If that’s what Lady Sophia will be like, I’m staying far away.” His eyes narrowed as he spotted something behind Lucien. “I say, is that the St. Clare chaise? What is it doing here? Was it stolen?”

  Lucien dismounted again. “That’s what I intend to find out. I’m on my way to the King’s Head. The man who left it there paid an urchin to deliver it to the King’s Head. Care to join me?”

  “Why not? I have plenty of time before my evening engagement. I’m fair parched. Could do with an ale. The King’s Head’s ale will no doubt taste much like the brew at the Swan.” Mansfield fell into step with him. “Still riding that brute of a horse,” he said, his eyes sliding over Oberon with careful appraisal. “Are you sure you won’t sell him?”

  Every time Mansfield saw him, he asked if Oberon was for sale. The discussion was an old, comfortable one, and Lucien relaxed. “If my horse is a brute, why do you want him?”

  “He has good lines,” Mansfield said. “He’ll produce a good crop of foals.”

  Lucien nodded, knowing it was nothing less than the truth.

  Mansfield slowed. “You could at least let me ride him and put him through his paces. Next time I’m at Castle St. Clare.” He turned into a narrow lane. “This is a shortcut. It comes out behind the King’s Head.”

  Mansfield stalked ahead, disappearing down the opening without looking back. A frown replaced Lucien’s good humor. The lane seemed dark. No telling who lurked down there. They weren’t in that much of a hurry. He hesitated, then shrugged and followed, leading Oberon behind. There were two, and no doubt Mansfield was armed.

  Holding his nose, Lucien stepped over the swollen remains of a dead cat, his black boots sinking into soft mud. The stench made his eyes water. Oberon balked, planting his hooves and refusing to move past the stinking corpse.

  Lucien stepped up to his mount’s side and stroked his quivering neck. “No time for nerves, boy. I need to find Rosalind. She was in that chaise today. Something is wrong. I feel it in my gut.”

  His soothing voice calmed the horse. Lucien grasped the reins and stepped over the cat again. Oberon danced, rolling his eyes, but Lucien continued to speak in a low voice, and his mount consented to step over the ripe carcass.

  Lucien turned his attention back to the dim-lit lane ahead. The devil take it. The alley was so dark Mansfield was no longer in sight. He slowed, his gaze sweeping the area in front. Oberon seemed to sense his apprehension. He snorted and pranced in nervous dancing steps, jerking the reins.

  “Steady, boy.” Lucien stepped forward, his ears straining for the slightest sound. Instinct screamed to take caution because danger lurked ahead. “Mansfield?” His voice was soft, not much louder than a whisper. Surely Mansfield wouldn’t walk off and leave him, not if they intended to drink together.

  The darkness of the alley lifted as they neared the end. Lucien squinted, scanning for danger. Nothing appeared untoward. Behind him, Oberon seemed calmer, and the tension seeped from Lucien’s shoulders. His mount had saved him more than once. When the bandits had attacked their party in France, it had been Oberon’s warning that had alerted him and prevented his certain death. But not soon enough to save Francesca too. Sorrow pierced his heart. She hadn’t deserved to die so young, and for that Hawk would pay.

  Lucien increased his pace, his thoughts switching to Rosalind. He refused to lose her too, not when he’d just found her.

  He hurried down the remaining few feet of the alley. Several kegs were stacked at the door of the building opposite. No doubt Mansfield was already inside, ordering a tankard for each of them. Lucien stepped from the alley. A blur of movement to his right made his head jerk in that direction.

  A dark figure swung at him with a club. His hand rose to block the blow. Too slow. Pain exploded in his head, and he slumped to the ground.

  Rosalind paced the boundaries of her prison, ignoring the faint throb of her ankle. Luxurious as far as prisons went, with an elegant four-poster bed and a highly polished walnut dresser, but she was confined against her will.

  She tried the door. Still locked. She marched to the single window overlooking the street below. It was a quiet back street used by those who lived in the area. A stout, locked bolt barred her exit through the window.

  She considered breaking the glass and shouting for help but discarded the idea because Mansfield had warned her against the action. He’d said no one would help her. He’d told them she was queer in the head. They’d likely run if she shouted at them, and he’d had the audacity to grin when he said it. None of them would believe he was holding her against her will.

  Rosalind grimaced down at her skirt, ripped during a tussle for freedom. The hem bore a coating of dried mud. Her hair had toppled down during her attempt to escape and, without a comb or mirror, it was impossible to restore to its former neatness. Oh, yes. She looked like a madwoman.

  The scrape of a key in the lock alerted her to a new arrival. Rosalind turned to the door, her heart pounding. Every muscle tensed as she prepared to seize any chance that came her way.

  The door opened, and Mansfield stepped inside. Confidence and good cheer radiated from him. His grin stretched from one side of his face to the other, and his excellent mood fueled her trepidation.

  Bad news for her.

  Mansfield turned the key and slipped it inside his jacket. He faced her, his gaze wandering the length of her body before returning in a leisurely manner to her face. “Comfortable, my dear? Anything I can get you?”

  Rosalind suppressed a shudder. The man looked at her as though she was a luscious piece of fruit tart. It made her very uncomfortable. “I would like to return to the castle.”

  “Ah, but you don’t enjoy living there. You told that red-haired maid of yours.”

  “It was you. You spied on me.”

  Mansfield shrugged, experiencing not a shred of guilt. “I watched over you, my dear. There’s a difference.”

  Rosalind’s gaze narrowed at his smug tone. “Did you murder Mary?” She closed the distance between them with two steps, her hands fisted. If he said yes, she’d scratch his eyes out. The idea of her friend suffering at the hands of this madman infuriated her. “What did you do to Mary?”

  His brows rose, and he moved back. “Such an outpouring of emotion is unbecoming, my dear. Control yourself.”

  “I am not your ‘dear.’ Did you murder Mary?” Rosalind grabbed two handfuls of his embroidered waistcoat and yanked hard. Anger pounded through her veins and, for the first time in her life, she was tempted to
injure rather than heal. “I knew she hadn’t run off with a lover. She wouldn’t leave without telling me. Did you kill her? Did you leave her in the tunnel?”

  Mansfield wrenched away, took several steps back and smoothed his crumpled apparel. “It was her fault. She shouldn’t have tried to escape.”

  “Why?” Fury vibrated through her body.

  Mansfield held out his right hand to examine his fingernails. “She objected to joining a harem.”

  “You intended to sell her? To that sultan friend of yours in Constantinople?” The shock tore at her insides before rage whipped her upright. Mary in a harem. No wonder she’d tried to escape. She glanced at him and froze, uneasy with his intense scrutiny. “What do you intend doing with me?” she asked in a faint voice. Surely he didn’t intend to marry her, as he’d indicated earlier? She was married to Lucien.

  “You in Abdul Musa’s harem?” He laughed with genuine amusement. “No, my dear. I don’t intend to present you to my old friend. I have other plans for you.” His gaze lingered on her lips and traveled across her breasts in a leisurely manner. His expression did little to halt her escalating panic.

  “I’d like to know.” A ripple of revulsion swept her body, and she fought the urge to hide behind the intricate Chinese screen in the corner of the room. Her chin shot up. “Tell me. Please.”

  “I told you. We will marry as soon as I’m sure you’re not bearing Hastings’s whelp. And in time, you’ll present me with an heir. Sooner rather than later, I hope.” His eyes glowed with a fanatical light. “Bedding you will be no hardship. Finally, I’ll get to touch your luscious breasts instead of merely looking. I’ll taste you. Rosalind, my dear, we’ll be good together.”

  He’d watched her, seen her unclothed. Distaste skittered across her skin. Uneasiness. “I’m married to Lucien. I love him.” The words burst from her, yet the minute she uttered them she accepted the truth. She loved her husband. Now if only she had the chance to tell him.

  Mansfield stiffened as if she’d struck him. Rage twisted his features into an ugly mask, and she regretted her outburst. She edged away unobtrusively.

  “None of this would have been necessary if you’d heeded the warnings I gave you of specters. You should have listened to your maid and left Castle St. Clare when you had the chance. She knew things weren’t right, that ghosts haunted your room. She saw me, you know, but instead of telling you, she confronted me. Ah, yes. I knew you’d be the key to my revenge.”

  Oh, Mary. “You? You crept into my room from the passage behind the wall.”

  “You were so brave,” he whispered, moving nearer to her. A flush suffused his face. His eyes glittered in a frightening manner. “No panic or hysterics when your hairbrush disappeared and reappeared. Strange noises didn’t spook you, and even when I crept into your room and shoved you from your bed, you didn’t dose yourself with laudanum or descend into madness. You made me proud—a woman worthy of the St. Clare family, a woman worthy of being my mate. It didn’t take me long to change my mind about you. I decided I’d keep you. You will be my wife. That other stupid bitch kept trying to kill you. She’s lucky my plans escalated, or I’d have taken care of her myself.”

  Rosalind stared, shocked into silence by his revelations. She squeezed against the wall when he advanced on her, his face red, his eyes glittering with passion and a hint of madness. The man belonged in Bedlam.

  “I’m afraid you sealed your fate when you entered Hastings’s bed. Once I’m sure you’re not bearing his child, you’ll marry me. I’m the oldest. You were meant to wed me, not my brother.”

  “Brother?”

  “Yes, brother.” His response held a note of impatience. He paced a tight circuit of the chamber before whirling to face her. “Hastings is my brother. Have you not noticed the similarities between us? Our features?”

  Rosalind didn’t have to pretend confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “My mother had an affair with St. Clare before she married. I was an eight-month baby,” he drawled.

  Rosalind’s mouth dropped open in pure shock. “But you were heir to Mansfield.”

  “Bah!” Mansfield scowled. “The man was a wastrel. He gambled away the family fortune. All we have are debts.” Hate burned in his eyes, strong enough for Rosalind to take a half step backward, her heart thudding with alarm. “I’m barely holding the estate together.”

  “So it’s you! You’re the one ransacking the castle for the treasure?”

  Mansfield laughed, but the sound held little humor. “The St. Clare treasure is long gone. If it ever existed. Charles believes in chasing dreams. Me, I prefer reality.” A heavy dose of sarcasm colored his voice. “Why would I bother to pursue myths when the St. Clare fortune is within my grasp? No, my dear. All I want is my due. St. Clare promised to marry my mother and reneged on the pledge. I want what’s due to my family.”

  “But none of this is Lucien’s fault,” Rosalind burst out. “Why are you set on destroying him? Why not St. Clare?” Fear slithered through her when she saw the barely controlled rage on his face. How could he right the wrongs of the past by committing more atrocities? An illegitimate child would never inherit.

  He laughed, the devious, gloating sound scraping across her raw nerves. “St. Clare. He suffers each time I visit the castle, but he knows he can’t stop me. Why the hell do you think he wanted you to marry Lucien? He wants grandchildren, heirs in my way. Fool, as if he could stop me now. He knows I’m biding my time. But I intend to avenge the honor blackened by St. Clare. For once Hastings will finish second.” The light of madness grew in his brown eyes, a feverish need for revenge.

  Rosalind tried to keep a healthy distance between them but continued to push for answers to her burning questions. “Why did you have Lucien’s wife killed? His unborn child? They had nothing to do with St. Clare.”

  “Ah, but you forget. Lucien was on his way home to England, and he was bringing a prospective heir. I never liked the way he disappeared in Naples. We left him for dead, but no one recovered his body. I suspected he was still alive, so I paid a local man to watch, to listen and any information he learned he sent to me. While Hastings remained hidden in Italy with no knowledge of who he was, there was no danger. I kept tabs on him when I was in Constantinople, and later when I returned to England, content to bide my time. My claim on the St. Clare fortune is stronger than Charles’s.” His chuckle held pure evil. “It killed St. Clare knowing Lucien was dead and I, as his eldest son, could claim everything whenever I chose.”

  “One flaw with your plan,” Rosalind said.

  “Yes?” he drawled.

  “Lucien is still alive.” Satisfaction oozed from her voice. Lucien’s presence was one of the many flaws in his plans. Mansfield made everything sound easy, very black and white, but Rosalind clung to hope. Lucien would come for her. And meanwhile, she’d grasp any opportunity to escape.

  A smug grin flickered across his face. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I met Lucien about an hour ago. It seems he came to Whittlebury to check on building supplies that failed to arrive.”

  “Lucien is here?” Hope surged inside Rosalind until his superior expression dashed her optimism.

  “Yes, I met up with Hastings earlier. I tricked him and knocked him unconscious, so if you’re counting on your husband racing to the rescue, you’re wasting your time.”

  Fury lashed her. She launched at Mansfield and punched him. The first blow hit his stomach and the second snapped back his jaw. Rosalind prepared to strike for a third time, but Mansfield captured her hand, his fingers a band around her wrist. Images poured into her head. A long narrow alley. Darkness. Mansfield hurrying ahead, hiding behind a corner and jumping Lucien.

  “If you’ve hurt him, I’ll never forgive you.” She struggled against his hold, determined not to give in to his demands. If he thought she’d follow his orders, then he didn’t know her at all.

  He subdued her by dragging her close to his body and surrounding her with iron-muscled
strength. Rosalind stopped fighting, relaxed, and the instant he loosened his hold she stomped on his foot.

  “Damn hellcat.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook until her head rattled. “I will enjoy taming you.” His brown eyes narrowed and appeared assessing.

  Rosalind tried desperately to block his licentious thoughts. They bombarded her like blows from a club—disgusting, despicable. Worst of all was the vision of her exchanging vows with him before a man of the cloth and offering her body to Mansfield.

  “No,” she cried. “You can’t make me marry you.”

  “By God, the rumors are true. You can read minds. You’ll prove useful in Paris, my dear.”

  She would never help him. Never. And she’d never stop fighting him. She’d seize any opportunity to escape. “Where’s Lucien? What have you done with him?”

  “He’s stashed in a safe place until I can have him removed.”

  Until he killed him.

  She hadn’t told Lucien she loved him. Over and over the thought echoed through her head. “I suppose you recruited Lady Sophia too.”

  Mansfield glowered at her. “I told you that woman works alone.”

  The man spoke the truth about Lady Sophia and seemed irritated by the accusation. Obviously, her assumption about them working together was a mistaken one.

  “Witch.”

  “I am not a witch.”

  “Not you. Lady Sophia. I wondered why you didn’t wear the clothes I left for you. She must have destroyed them. I knew she’d arranged to have you pushed over the cliff and of the stair incident. I would have stopped her if I’d known sooner. She always had her eye on Hastings, but St. Clare wanted you for his precious son.” Mansfield laughed. “I’m surprised Hastings’s scarred face hasn’t scared her off. The incentive of a title and position in society must mean more to her than perfection.” At the striking of a clock, Mansfield pulled the chamber key from a pocket inside his jacket. “I’ll arrange a tray. Eat well and get some sleep. We leave early in the morn.”

  Mansfield had left those gowns for her. Horrified, she stared at his back as he sauntered out the door. Remembering how excited she’d been when she’d found them, and how she’d enjoyed wearing the luxurious gowns, made nausea sweep through her belly.