“Thank you.” Rosalind edged past the dog, heading toward the public house.
“I know you,” the smithy said. “You be the witch from St. Clare.”
“I’m not a witch,” Rosalind protested weakly. Lady Sophia and her malicious gossip had spread rumors faster and farther than Rosalind liked.
The man eyed her closely. “You have healing powers.”
Rosalind acquiesced with a bob of her head.
“Aye.” He nodded as if pleased he’d recognized her. “Thought as much. You be the one who saved my sister’s child when she ate poison berries. Thought she’d die, we did. Right grateful we are. I’ll come with you.”
The man looked like a mountain. He’d attract attention she could ill afford. Still, she was touched at his offer. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”
He hesitated. “If yer sure. Tell you what. If you need aid, summon me. There be plenty urchins about keen to earn coin.”
At last a man who wasn’t terrified of her gift. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”
She left the smithy and tiptoed through the shadows. Light glowed from the public house, spreading out and dispersing the shadows so there was nowhere to hide. With her luck, someone would appear the moment she left hiding. Still, she couldn’t hover here till morning because they’d notice her absence by then.
For long seconds, she dithered. Then she took a deep breath and ran to the door at the rear of the public house, climbing the two steps that led into a porch. She grasped the handle and tugged. It was locked. Cocking her head, she listened, her ear close to the door. It sounded as though this entrance led directly into the main taproom. They’d hardly stash Lucien there. Frowning, Rosalind slid from the shelter of the porch and glanced farther along the building. A small, dilapidated structure, attached to the main part, caught her attention. The door looked almost new. Rosalind glanced both left and right, running across to investigate.
“Lucien,” she called in a low undertone. She gave the door a tentative knock with the back of her hand. “Are you in there?”
“Rosalind?” Shock and disbelief coated his voice.
He was there! Relief made tears well in her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but he spoke first.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
Rosalind’s eyes narrowed. He might be her husband, but he was also an ungrateful lout.
“Rosalind, are you there?”
“Of course I’m here.” After she freed her husband, she’d smack him over the head with a sharp object. That would knock sense into his addled brain. “I’m going to get you out. Do you know where the key is?”
“Listen. Leave me. Go and find help. Summon Charles, no, not him—the magistrate, but whatever you do, keep away from Mansfield. He’s dangerous.”
“I know he’s dangerous,” Rosalind snapped. “He kidnapped me. The man’s not only dangerous, he’s deranged and a smuggler. He murdered Mary. He’s the one you’ve been searching for. Mansfield is Hawk.”
“Hawk? The bastard. Rosalind!” Lucien roared. His voice carried a distinct edge this time. “For once in your life, do as you’re told. Go and summon help.”
Rosalind sighed. Unfortunately, without the key, she wouldn’t have a chance of setting him free. The door was made of strong English oak. “All right.” She’d go for help but intended to return.
She ran back in the direction she’d come from, uncaring if she was seen. Help was closer to hand than Charles. It was time to call in that favor after all.
It sounded as though she made a lot of noise as she raced to the smithy. Yet no one challenged her. A light shone from beneath the closed rear door of the blacksmith’s premises. Her fists pummeled the door. “Smithy!”
“’Old yer horses. I’m coming. Aye,” the giant man said, his voice a low rumble as he unlocked the door. “It’s you.”
Rosalind met his fearsome gaze without a flinch. “I’ve found my husband. Please, I need your help.”
The man stepped back inside. Rosalind’s jaw sagged. He wasn’t going to help? But then he returned, a rifle in his hands. Rosalind stared at the menacing weapon and opened her mouth to protest.
“Where is he? The cellar?”
Rosalind snapped her mouth shut. He was right. A weapon might prove necessary. She nodded. “Yes, if the small building to the side of the King’s Head is the cellar.”
“Stay here,” the smithy ordered, stuffing the gun out of sight beneath his grubby coat.
Her chin shot up. She was not staying put. And she was sick of men telling her they’d take care of her. She stepped forward and halted when the smithy gazed at her. Finally, she nodded. “He’s in the room over there. The door’s locked.” She’d wait just inside the door until he left.
Unhurried and heavy footsteps sounded. Rosalind strained to hear, her heart thumping against her ribs. When she could no longer hear his footsteps, she slipped from the smithy’s premises and followed.
At the corner of the public house, she paused. The smithy was at the door and, judging by the sounds, he was trying to break the lock. She sidled closer, but just as she was about to announce her presence, a man exited the rear door of the public house. Tall and familiar.
Mansfield.
Rosalind pressed against the wall in an effort to hide. When he rounded the small porch, he’d see the smithy at the locked door. Mansfield paused, glancing over his shoulder. Fear blossomed inside Rosalind. If he saw her or the smithy, the escape attempt would be over before it started, and she’d end up in France before they discovered her missing. Everyone at St. Clare would assume she and Lucien were together. The cowardly part of her wanted to close her eyes and pretend none of this was happening. Except, if she did that, Mansfield would grab her before she could escape.
While she dithered over what to do, Mansfield ambled down the steps, continuing on his way and passing her. Do something! her mind screamed.
“My lord! The woman’s escaped.”
Rosalind whirled around. It was the overweight woman who’d come to her room with dinner. Where the devil had she come from? Rosalind tried to blend into the shadows, making herself small and unobtrusive.
Mansfield’s savage curse colored the air.
“There she is!” the woman cried.
“Where?” Mansfield demanded, his voice curt.
“Over there.”
Rosalind bounded away like a startled rabbit. No longer sticking to the shadows, she hoisted her skirt and sprinted to the smithy’s forge, away from Lucien. Hopefully, Mansfield would give chase.
“Rosalind, sweetheart. Don’t run. You won’t get away.” Amusement filled Mansfield’s voice, inciting anger in her. Rosalind, sweetheart, indeed!
The fat woman’s screeches receded, and all Rosalind could hear were her own ragged pants.
Footsteps thundered behind her. Rosalind glanced over her shoulder, panicking now because Mansfield’s longer legs made a mockery of the race. He splashed through puddles, his footsteps sounding louder and louder. She shot another glance over her shoulder. Mansfield was much closer than she’d thought. He’d almost caught her.
Rosalind’s legs trembled. Her ankle throbbed. Blood roared through her head. Then she stumbled in a rut on the road, and Mansfield seized her. He grabbed her shoulder and hauled her around. An elaborate wig covered his head, snowy white with fresh powder. His silk frockcoat glinted in the soft light pouring from an open window above them. Raucous laughter and loud voices floated down to her. A private dining room, she decided. None of the occupants would be interested in the drama unfolding below.
His breathing had barely changed, but his eyes glowed from the thrill of the chase. He grinned crookedly. “You’re not going to do this the easy way, are you, sweetheart?”
“I am not your sweetheart.” Her chest heaved as she gasped for air. Noting his masculine interest, she folded her arms. “Don’t look at me like that.”
His grin never wavered, and it was his confidence that sent a sli
ver of fear racing down her spine. “You’re mine.” He trailed one finger down her cheek. “Perhaps I should have pushed the matter earlier. So you’d believe it as much as me.”
Rosalind swallowed the bloom of panic. Where was Lucien? The smithy? Help would arrive soon. All she needed to do was prevaricate and delay Mansfield. Between them, they would outsmart Mansfield and quash his tentacle-like hold on the St. Clare family and village. “I’m not, and will never be, yours.”
Temper clouded his face, and he shook her.
“Poaching, Mansfield?” Lucien stepped from the shadows. “That always was your style. You always were a spoilt child wanting the toys Charles and I had. I see nothing has changed.”
“Damn it! How did you escape? Never mind.” He pulled a pistol from beneath his coat, aiming it at Lucien. “Rosalind, behind me, if you please.”
She didn’t please at all. Her chin lifted in defiance. He’d have to shoot her first, and she didn’t think he’d do that. The smithy had managed to free Lucien. She scanned the area but couldn’t see the man. Had he gone for help?
“Rosalind.” Both men spoke at once. Lucien brooked no refusal. Mansfield’s voice held sharpness and a trace of something suspiciously like panic.
He hadn’t expected her to gainsay him. Good. She glanced at Lucien, silently seeking direction. His face appeared drawn. Pale. Dried blood smeared one side of his face, giving him a grotesque look. Concern for her husband creased her brow.
“Rosalind, stand aside now or I’ll shoot.” Mansfield gestured at Lucien with the gun, and she understood the silent threat. He intended to shoot Lucien, not her.
“I didn’t think shooting was your style either,” Lucien drawled. “In my experience, you prefer skulking in the shadows. The secretive and cowardly approach, or you pay someone else to do your dirty work.”
“Shut up.” Although his voice barely rose, Mansfield’s face darkened with anger. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have to work in the darkness. Move, over there where I can see you. Don’t give me an excuse to shoot. I’m happy to make Rosalind a widow.”
He was going to kill Lucien this time, no matter what he said to the contrary. The determined look on his face told her the truth.
Rosalind glanced at Lucien again, but his gaze remained fixed on Mansfield. Frustration made her jaw tighten. She was capable of helping. Why didn’t Lucien do something?
Mansfield made a small sound of impatience. “Rosalind, for the last time, move. Now.”
Oh, good idea. She edged behind Mansfield so she was out of his sight.
“Rosalind, I want you where I can see you.” He never took his gaze from Lucien. “Rosalind?”
Rosalind leaped on Mansfield’s back, clinging like holly on the North Tower. Her hands seized the back of his wig. She twisted it roughly so the powder sprayed in all directions and the hair hung in his face, obscuring his vision. Mansfield’s elbow jerked upward, catching her a glancing blow on the side of the head. She saw stars and slid from his back.
A gun discharged. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. A hand fisted in her hair, tugging painfully hard.
“Get up now.” Mansfield’s voice held fury, no longer the charming rogue.
It felt as if he were ripping her hair out by the roots. Tears smarted at her eyes. Waves of agony pounded through her head. A groan sounded, then she heard the explosive crunch of a fist smacking against bone. The firm grip on her hair loosened, bringing with it pained relief.
Rosalind wiped the back of her hand over her eyes and looked up. Lucien and Mansfield were trading punch for punch. What had happened to the smithy? Had Lucien sent him for help?
Lucien caught Mansfield with a heavy blow to the jaw. He stepped back and almost fell over her. She crawled out of range.
The smithy wasn’t present, but the fat woman from the inn had stayed to watch. The woman crept up behind Lucien with a heavy earthenware urn in her hands.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Scrambling to her feet, Rosalind rushed the woman, screeching at the top of her lungs. Lucien was depending on her. He couldn’t handle both Mansfield and the woman at the same time.
She charged, her head butting the soft roundness of the woman’s stomach, throwing herself at her even though she was half the size. The air bled from the woman in a hoarse gasp. Rosalind struck out with her elbows, using them like weapons.
“I’ll get you, little bitch,” the woman howled. She raised her hands above her head and smashed the urn down, aiming for Rosalind. The woman stumbled and a rush of air whistled past Rosalind’s ear.
“Rosalind!” Urgency filled Lucien’s voice.
Rosalind heard a thud. A groan. A fist whizzed past her face. The fat woman staggered and dropped to the ground with an earth-shaking crash.
“Rosalind?” Impatient hands grabbed her, clutched her roughly and smoothed her hair from her face. “Are you all right? Where do you hurt? God, I told you to leave this to me. I’d wish you’d listen for once in your life!”
Her head hurt, her scalp smarted, and her ankle ached like the devil. Rosalind’s lips curled up in a lazy grin. “Good to see you too.”
A blur of movement behind Lucien caught her attention. “Behind you!”
A gunshot sounded. Blood bloomed on Lucien’s shirtsleeve. Rosalind screamed.
“My game, I believe.” Mansfield swayed behind Lucien, a smoking pistol in his right hand. Triumph blazed from his face. “My woman.”
He shoved Lucien away like pig swill and held out a hand to her. “Come, my dear. It is time for us to leave for Rye. The boat awaits. We’ll leave now and board early, ready for departure at full tide.”
“I think not, Mansfield. I believe I hold the winning card.” Lucien indicated the group of men behind him, led by the smithy. “You can’t shoot all of them.”
“God, I should have had you killed in France,” Mansfield snarled. “They were meant to leave you for dead. You have the luck of the devil—more lives than a damn cat.”
Lucien’s face blanked of expression, and Rosalind bled inside for him. She knew how much he’d loved his wife.
“Why didn’t you? You killed my wife. My child.”
“I wanted you to suffer like I’d suffered when the woman I loved pledged to you. Besides, you had no idea who you were. I thought you’d wander around France or return to Italy. If I’d known you’d travel to St. Clare, I’d have shot you myself.”
“Maybe you should have done a better job in Italy, then you would have been rid of me once and for all.”
Rosalind gasped. Both men were talking as if…Her gaze shot to Lucien’s face. He’d regained his memory! She was pleased for him. No matter how it might change her future, at least Lucien was past the struggle with his memory and the frustration of groping with the unknown.
“What do you want done with him, my lord?” The smithy approached Mansfield with wary respect.
“Tie him up and lock him in the cellar. The woman too. We’ll send them to the authorities once it’s light.”
After a brief struggle, the smithy restrained Mansfield. Lucien watched as they shoved him roughly inside the cellar. Two of the men lifted the woman to her feet and dragged her, kicking and screaming, to the cellar as well.
“Rosalind?” Lucien held out his hand to help her up.
“You’ve got your memory back.”
Lucien studied his petite wife, in awe of her steadfast determination to save him despite the danger to herself. Her bravery eclipsed that of most men. “I have.” If Mansfield had harmed her or done anything untoward, he’d kill the man with his bare hands. “Did Mansfield do anything?” He hesitated, unable to voice his fears.
“I’m fine. He didn’t force himself on me, although he intended to later on, once we arrived in France.”
Lucien felt relief first, then warmth swept his body followed by the desperate need to reassure himself she was in good health.
“I’m glad your memory has returned,” she said.
She grinned and stepped close enough for Lucien to feel the warmth coming from her skin, the scent of lavender and Rosalind.
“It’s Lucien I fell in love with,” she whispered. Her words shivered through him, making him wish they were alone in his chamber. Her chin lifted while her blue eyes glinted with determination. “I don’t believe there was a George anywhere in the equation.”
Despite the men milling around them, Lucien bent his head to kiss his bride. The moment their lips touched, Lucien knew he was home.
Really home.
Chapter Twenty
The open carriage lurched and swayed over the uneven road. In the early dawn, the wind whistled in from the coast, bringing the invigorating tang of the sea.
Rosalind sat beside Lucien on the hard bench seat. With each successive rut in the road, she bounced hard enough to make her teeth rattle. She clutched the carriage sides, her body tense and uncomfortable. Yet, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Thank you for arranging for Annie to come to work at Castle St. Clare,” Rosalind said. “I felt guilty about locking her up and leaving her to face that horrid woman.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Tickell will be glad of the help.” Lucien urged the horses on, glancing around to check on Oberon, who trotted behind the carriage.
The castle appeared on the horizon. Squat and ugly, with glaring eyes, it looked like a nightmarish creature lying in wait for the unwary traveler.
She turned to smile at her husband, her heart feeling lighter than it had for a long time. “We’re home.”
He transferred the reins to one hand and reached over to squeeze her knee. “So we are.” Satisfaction coated his voice. “Ugly, isn’t it?”
The carriage clattered past the crumpling gatehouse and the grimacing gargoyles. Rosalind regarded them fondly.
The Spurned Viscountess Page 28
