The Spurned Viscountess by Shelley Munro Page B

name, but he’d taken her side against Lady Augusta. She stroked a finger across the kitten’s head and felt her smile widen. Both things were hopeful signs.
    At a second fork in the corridor, she hesitated before turning left. More portraits of long-forgotten ancestors filled the walls, interspaced with alcoves holding marble busts. Slowing her steps, she turned a slow circle. None of the portraits looked familiar. Had she walked this way this morning? When she looked back in the direction she had come from, she noted footprints on the floor. Her footprints. She turned again and frowned at the lack of footprints. This wasn’t the way she’d walked this morning.
    “Bother.” She’d have to turn back and try the other way. Castle St. Clare, she was learning, consisted of a multitude of rooms. Some belonged to centuries earlier while others, such as the ones the family used for entertaining guests, were recent additions. Trying to navigate the place was like exploring a maze.
    Rosalind turned left again and entered a cavern-like room with a soaring ceiling. Wicked knives decorated the walls while a ray of light from an arrow slit highlighted a display of tarnished shields.
    Another room she didn’t recognize from this morning. She studied a rusty set of armor. A battle-axe hung on the wall alongside the armor.
    When the kitten stirred, Rosalind stepped toward the open door at the far end of the room. From a second arrow slit, she caught a glimpse of the sea. The grayish-blue water stretched as far as she could see. In that moment, she decided to find the entrance to one of the towers. The climb to the top would surely be worth the effort. The views would be magnificent.
    She stared out another arrow slit. The steady drip-drip of water sounded continuously, and a sudden blast of cold air made her shiver. The kitten quivered in her arms, reminding Rosalind of the need to hurry. She spun and headed to the door at the far end of the armory room. A whooshing followed by a loud thump made her start, a small cry of surprise escaping. The battle-axe now lay on the floor, right where she had stood but a few minutes ago.
    Swallowing hastily to force her heart back to its rightful place, she stared up at the place on the wall where the axe had hung. The wooden hook hung at a drunken angle. A shudder swept down her body as she realized how close she’d come to injury.
    The same ill-at-ease sensation—as if someone was spying on her—made the area between her shoulder blades itch insistently. Rosalind whirled, her gaze searching the room. Nothing seemed out of place. Her nervous laugh echoed back to her. Imagination. No doubt the hook was old and perhaps unstable. It was merely bad luck.
    Shaking off the uneasy feeling as nonsense, Rosalind increased her pace and burst into another unfamiliar passage, her shoes clattering on the stone floor.
    A lone sconce lit the way, creating unwelcoming shadows and dark corners. Rosalind drew in a lungful of the musty air. The uneasy feeling persisted. Gooseflesh sprang up on her arms and legs. She glanced over her shoulder again and moved faster. Anxiety of the like she’d never felt before threatened to overwhelm her. Almost running now, she plowed into an obstacle.
    A scream tore from her throat when she realized another person was clutching her arms. “Let me go!”
    “Rosalind.” The insistent voice pierced her panic, cutting through her whimper of fear. “Lady Hastings!” This time a shake accompanied her name.
    Her eyes focused on the man standing in front of her. She smelled his shaving soap and the faint tang of the sea on his clothes along with smoke from a recently smoked pipe, sucked in a deep breath and finally found her voice. “Mr. Soulden.”
    Charles Soulden’s hands dropped to his sides. Concern shimmered in his blue eyes as he stepped away. “Lady Hastings. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
    “I…I wasn’t expecting anyone. I wasn’t looking where I was