The Spurned Viscountess Part 28

Rosalind grabbed for the large key but the girl refused to yield it. "If you don't give me the key, I'll make warts grow on your nose, your mouth, and your hands. Your sweetheart won't want you. You'll be ugly. No one will want you."

Tears streamed down the girl's face.

"I'll turn William Harrow into a frog," Rosalind warned the terrified girl. "Give me the key. You don't want William to suffer, do you? You wouldn't want him to know he suffered misfortune because of you."

Annie's terrified gasp filled the room. She cowered even farther away, her panic clear. She swallowed, finally finding her voice. "How did ye know his name?"

"I'm a witch," Rosalind muttered, glancing at the door. This was taking too long. Mansfield might arrive at any moment, or the old woman, and then she'd lose everything.

Rosalind sprang suddenly, grabbed the girl's hand and pried the key loose. She winced at the flash of pain in her ankle, but forced her discomfort aside. Escape was imperative. She wouldn't get another chance. With the key in her possession, she crept to the door and slid it open to peer into the pa.s.sage outside. When she saw there was no one to witness her escape, she slipped out as quick and fluid as morning mist. She locked the door and pocketed the key. Deep sobs penetrated the barrier, and Rosalind knew the pitiful sound would haunt her in weeks to come.

The moon shone through the window high above him, the light hitting him in the face. Lucien's eyelids flickered before he jammed them shut. Pain, sharp and intense, knifed through his head, the moon's glow aggravating the steady throb. He heard a groan. His groan. Nausea rocked his gut, yet his mind impelled him to move.

Lucien lurched to his feet, and a moan squeezed past his clenched teeth. There wasn't any part of his body that didn't hurt. He sucked in a slow, cautious breath. Then another. One thought crystallized in his hazy mind and stuck there.

Rosalind. Where the h.e.l.l was she?

He gripped a st.u.r.dy pillar for balance while he took stock of his surroundings. Despite the limited light, he noted the old wooden casks in various states of repair stacked beneath the lone window. A scuttle of feet told him he had rats or mice for company. He let go of the pillar and wobbled, unsteady for an instant, before righting himself with the help of a wall.

Dust rose with each move he made, tickling his nose and teasing a sneeze loose. The sound reverberated in the cavernous prison, sending renewed pain surging through his aching head. He frowned, having no idea of his location. He listened carefully, trying to fix his locality. Apart from the steady drip of water and the rustle of rodents, he heard nothing to aid him. Presumably the casks indicated the King's Head. Odd that he couldn't hear the drunken gaiety of patrons. He fumbled his way along the wall, searching for a door. He blundered into a cobweb and sneezed twice before he located the exit.

"Rosalind," he whispered, picturing her blond beauty in his mind's eye. He'd give almost anything to hold her right this moment. He had to find his English mouse.

He thought back, examining his memory for clues. He'd led Oberon through the lane, despite his misgivings. Someone had struck him when he'd exited onto the main thoroughfare. He hoped Oberon was safe. Had Mansfield hit him? Lucien scowled, trying to make sense of his jumbled thoughts. No, the other man had gone ahead to order the drinks. Lucien discarded the idea of treachery, but his mind kept circling back to the idea. If the motive was robbery, he'd still be lying in the lane. His incarceration in this dark hole made things appear more sinister than mere robbery.

One hand reached up to investigate the knot at the back of his head. Blood came away on his fingers. His father always said St. Clares had hard heads, and several pub brawls when he was younger had proved it. Lucien's teeth clamped together as he rode another wave of pain. What the h.e.l.l had Mansfield hit him with?

Mansfield.

His father...

Lucien froze. A hazy memory surfaced, shimmering through his throbbing brain. As usual, he tried to seize the fleeting thought before it disappeared. Instead of escaping, the memory solidified as he eagerly grasped it.

Lucien concentrated as another emerged.

And another.

Memories poured into his mind like after-dinner port splashed into a gla.s.s. It was as if a barrier in his mind had broken, allowing the memories to flow free.

He remembered his past.

All of it.

Lucien stumbled against the door and attempted to open it. He stepped back and ran at the door with his shoulder. A sharp throb of pain burned the length of his arm. Cold pierced his damp jacket and breeches, pebbling goose b.u.mps over his limbs. But elation surged as memories piled one on top of the other. One particular memory hit him hard.

Betrayal.

A friend's betrayal.

Mansfield's betrayal.

Lucien recalled the night in Naples. He remembered his friend walking up to him in the deserted street in the early hours of the morning.

"Mansfield." Lucien swayed, worse for local wine. His shirt and jacket reeked of the woman's cheap perfume and s.e.x, but he felt loose and limber after the spectacular ride she'd given him. "Thought you went back to our rooms." d.a.m.n, he wished Mansfield would stand still. His friend kept splitting into two men. Two friends angry with him wouldn't do at all. "Sorry 'bout 'fore," he slurred.

"Couldn't sleep," Mansfield muttered, ignoring the apology.

"I'm gonna win our bet." Lucien's small step turned into a stagger, but he righted himself before he hit the ground. "Whoa! Ground's moving. Tonight was number ten."

"I don't care about our stupid bet. You're drunk," Mansfield sneered, glancing past Lucien instead of looking him straight in the eye. "Think I can forgive your insults to my mother? To me? I am the rightful St. Clare heir and, by d.a.m.n, I'm going to claim my place. You might have won Edwina, but I'm not having you steal my birthright too."

Befuddled, Lucien stared at his enraged friend. Brother? Was it true? If so, he'd never suspected a thing. A foreign sound drew Lucien's attention. He spun around. Three men with clubs and knives stood behind him.

"Robbers! Draw your pistol!" Lucien cried to Mansfield. He darted a quick glance at Mansfield and blinked. His friend stood unmoving, his expression disinterested.

The first blow caught him on the shoulder, numbing his right arm. His pistol dropped to the ground. A knife flashed out, slicing the length of his face. Blood gushed from the wound, shrouding his sight.

"Make it look like a robbery," Mansfield instructed tersely. "But make sure he dies."

Lucien was dimly aware of Mansfield leaving.

"There be someone coming," one man warned.

They dragged him to a dark alley, kicking and beating him savagely until he lost consciousness.

Lucien shook himself from the black fog of the past. He'd been drunk. Vulnerable.

Mansfield had acted as decoy while his paid men had come up behind him with knives and bludgeons, striking him repeatedly, leaving him for dead. By G.o.d, Mansfield had abused his trust and now he'd captured him again. But Rosalind-did Mansfield have her? Worry filled him at the thought of her in Mansfield's clutches. He'd endangered Rosalind by marrying and bedding her. The possibility of an heir between Mansfield and the t.i.tle had pushed him over the edge. And where was Charles? Was his cousin part of the scheming?

Fury propelled him away from the wall. Lucien stalked the boundaries of his confines, ignoring the dull ache in his head as he searched for a way out.

He stumbled over a barrel. With his mind functioning more clearly, he smelled the stale scent of dried hops, of beer. An unused cellar. But where, if not the King's Head? And how the devil was he going to get out? He paused, listening carefully for a noise, any sound to alert him to the presence of another.

He heard nothing apart from the rustling of rodents. Frustration grabbed him. He tested the door with his shoulder for the second time. Although old, it was stout and built to last.

Lucien sank to the floor, his back resting against the cold wall. He'd have to wait until someone came, then overpower them. It was his only hope.

Chapter Nineteen.

Shouts and cheers from the public rooms increased in intensity as Rosalind crept down the stairs. The stench of smoke and beer, boiled cabbage and unwashed bodies a.s.saulted her nostrils. Raucous laughter spilled through a partially ajar door, masking the creak of the wooden stairs under her feet. She caught flashes of movement and faces-a barmaid carrying tankards, a group of rough laborers, two well-dressed men. Mansfield was probably inside the taproom, so she hurriedly continued down the last two stairs instead of gawking.

Fear of discovery made her heart pound and her limbs tremble, but she forced herself to speed. There would be only one chance. She mustn't falter.

The door leading to the taproom burst fully open and a couple staggered out. The man kicked the door shut and the couple fell against the wall. His hands swept under his partner's full frothy skirts, displaying white thighs to Rosalind's incredulous eyes. As she watched, the man fumbled with his trousers. She pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back her cry of shock. They were going to do it right in front of her.

At least the door leading to the tavern was shut now. The couple was engrossed in each other. Surely escape was but a few steps away, as long as they didn't see her. Rosalind ducked her head, letting locks of hair fall across her face. She scuttled past the couple, trying to ignore the animal grunts of l.u.s.t.

Rosalind tugged at the side door to the small street off the main thoroughfare. Her hand, moist and sweaty, skidded across the latch. Her teeth clamped down on her lip as she glanced over her shoulder. She wiped her palms across her skirts, took a deep breath and tried again. This time the latch slid smoothly under her grasp. She opened the door and slipped through, closing it with a snap.

After scanning for danger, Rosalind shot away from the King's Head. Somewhere to hide. A plan. Quickly, before Mansfield discovered she'd escaped. She ran, lifting her skirts so she didn't trip.

Once clear of the King's Head, she ducked into a narrow alley. Her chest heaved as she gasped for breath.

Lucien.

Good grief. She wasn't thinking too clearly. Mansfield had probably incarcerated Lucien at the King's Head too, if he hadn't killed him already. Fool Fool. She'd have to go back and search for him.

Or find someone who knew of his location. The thought slid into her mind. She swallowed. She'd have to use her gift again, perhaps intimidate another person with stories of witchcraft.

Rumors would fly about St. Clare, and now Whittlebury, like mythical witches on broomsticks. People would point and jeer, if they didn't try to burn her first. All hope of a normal life with Lucien seemed far away. Saving Lucien would effectively spell doom for her hopes of a secure future. Rosalind dithered, trying to decide on a course of action-help Lucien or seek aid from someone else. It was so late she had no idea who to turn to for help.

"h.e.l.lo, dearie." A filthy hand grasped her arm while another pinched her bottom. "Fancy company?"

Rosalind started. Panic pumped through her veins before she regained control. She straightened and glared down her nose at the leering men. "Let me go." Act like a weakling and you become weak Act like a weakling and you become weak.

"Hoity-toity! Too good for a tumble with us."

Rosalind scowled. "Do you know who I am?"

As she spoke, she opened her mind, letting one of the men's thoughts wash through her. For the second time today she embraced her gift and shoved away the consequences. Too bad if people discovered her differences. Lucien's life depended on her finding help. She loved him and could never live with the knowledge she hadn't tried her best to save him.

Aha! "Prudence won't mind?" she asked, quirking one eyebrow at the man holding her captive. "Prudence won't mind?" she asked, quirking one eyebrow at the man holding her captive.

The man jerked from her touch. Even in the dim light, she saw his face pale. But his friend laughed.

"What are you laughing about?" Rosalind glowered at the other man who still groped her backside with one wandering hand. "Your woman will cut your b.a.l.l.s off if she catches you with your hands on another."

The man removed his hands so quickly, Rosalind fell against the cold mud walls of a building. She'd only repeated his thoughts, but her cheeks felt fiery hot because of the coa.r.s.e language she'd used.

"Yer a witch," he snarled, but his strong tone conflicted with his stance. Shock showed clearly on his round face.

Intimidate. Yes. Rosalind stalked the closest man. Twice as wide and a foot taller, he backed away as if plague pustules covered her face. She suppressed a grin as heady power rushed through her, lending strength and resolve.

Both men cringed. "Don't put no spells on us. We won't tell anyone we seen you," the b.u.m fondler pleaded.

What he meant was he valued his home comforts. He didn't want his woman to discover his roving eye. "The King's Head. Tell me about the public house. Where are the cellars? Below or out the back of the building?" Rosalind eyed the men expectantly. When they stared at her in mute silence, she took one threatening step toward them. "Who runs the public house?"

"Digby," the hulk blurted. "The building be old. Two buildings joined together."

"Cellars?" Rosalind demanded.

"Rooms out the back."

"There be cellars below," the fondler added.

Rosalind nodded. The men backed from the alley. "Is there a cellar man or does Digby look after his own cellars?"

The men edged away until she could see only the one dark silhouette.

"Digby." The man's voice shook, but Rosalind wasn't sure if it was her or Digby the men feared most. She wanted to demand more answers but the echoing thud of footsteps told her the cowards were fleeing. She made a click of disgust at the back of her throat. Two men twice her size, intimidated by her. Fancy that.

Rosalind exited the far end of the lane and scanned the road. Light spilled from the King's Head, and customers overflowed from inside onto the street. Her light-colored gown stood out like a beacon. Wind whistled down the road, tearing her hair, plucking at her skirt. She yanked her hair away from her face and melted into the shadows of the buildings. A baker. A drapery. A blacksmith's forge. The King's Head took up the rest of the street.

When Rosalind reached the smithy, she turned down the alley running between it and the drapery. A stench made her nostrils flare. The farther she crept into the alley, the worse the smell became. Her eyes watered. Her stomach flipped in protest, but Rosalind kept moving. She needed to find a rear entrance to the public house before Mansfield discovered her absence.

The overhang from the roof obliterated every sc.r.a.p of illumination. Rosalind heard a disgusting squelch coming from beneath her shoes. Swallowing her rising bile, she hastened her pace. Cautious steps sounded behind her, ratcheting up both fear and her vivid imagination. Rosalind ran. Her gown caught on something sharp. She yanked. The rip of fabric sounded before she wrenched free. Rosalind burst from the alley, her breaths coming in wheezy pants.

"Who's there?" A man's voice, low and husky, did nothing to slow her galloping heart.

She froze, trying to decide if he was friend or foe.

A dog's growl sounded, mean and threatening.

"Don't let him hurt me," Rosalind begged. "Someone's chasing me."

"Show yerself." The blunt voice sounded as frightening as the dog's warning rumble.

Rosalind clutched her skirts and crept into the light. Off to her right, a huge man restrained a black dog by its collar. His large biceps and muscular shoulders told her she'd run into the blacksmith. But friend or foe? She halted close enough for him to see her, but far enough away for her to attempt to run if he meant harm.

"Sit," he ordered the dog.

The dog sat, but didn't take its eyes off Rosalind. Neither did the blacksmith.

"La.s.s, what are you doing out at this time of night? 'Tis not safe. A wee bit of a thing like you. The men from the King's Head will eat you for dinner and spit out yer bones."

Rosalind eyed him cautiously. "I think my husband is imprisoned at the King's Head." Tense, she studied his reaction. If he showed the slightest malice, she'd make a run for it.

He scratched at his spa.r.s.e gray hair. "Aye. Strange goin' on there. I try to stay out of it, mind, but a man gets curious."

Rosalind edged closer. "Could you tell me where they'd keep a man imprisoned?"

"Cellars out back." He nudged his head to the right. "Along there. Maybe upstairs."

"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."