The Runaway Countess (2 page)

She watched Lord Radford watch her. A lock of dark hair had fallen over his forehead and made him appear much more innocent than he was.

His dipped his gaze to her lips again. Now. It was time to act now, before the footman returned. She stepped back and half-turned away. Her chin dropped down, shy. She hoped she looked coy. She was not much of a flirt, had never had cause to be one. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d been kissed.

The best liars were not actors. One had to believe in their story. Mazie peeked up at her captor, pushed aside her fear and studied him as a man. A very fine man. Dark hair, grey eyes and a face worthy of marble. He was a head taller than she, his shoulders broad and thick with muscle. If it came to a battle of might… She ignored the thought and slid her eyes over him, sought something innocuous to admire. A broad chest and flat belly. Long fingers and an uncanny ability to remain still.

It wasn’t hard to feign attraction to him.

He must have noticed for he took a small step forward, tested her as she hoped he would. She snapped her head up and met his gaze, let there be fear in her eyes and something else as well.

His lips pressed together in a thin line. He would not make this easy, this attack.

“Thank you for the salve.” She wondered if he noticed that her voice shook. Truly, she shook everywhere with nerves. Her breaths came in little puffs as fear bound her lungs. “The ointment tastes like honey and calendula.” She ran her tongue over her lower lip.

He glanced away, but not before she saw the slight tightening of his posture. The hollows of his cheeks deepened, the jut of his jaw became more pronounced.

She stood up tall, drew in a full breath and pressed her breasts against the worn fabric of her gown. His gaze flashed down.

“Ah, I see how it is.” Radford crossed his arms. “You are playing your last card, and not a very original one at that.”

He called her bluff, but it did not matter. One way or another she would escape. She would be free or she would be killed.

Mazie knew how to march on in the face of impossible odds. She found the strength of her backbone and lifted her chin. “I promise I will be worth the effort.” There was no need to be shy now. She drew the linen fichu out of her black dress. Skin and décolletage gleamed white in the wan light of dusk. “We can talk about my punishment later.”

He cleared his throat. “You must think little of me to attempt such a common ploy.”

She walked toward him and unbuttoned the top of her bodice, her fingers fumbling with the task. It
was
her last card, and she had to play it well. Her life depended on it.

A muscle leapt in his jaw. “I cannot be seduced by some criminal’s Maid Marian.”

Her bodice gaped open to reveal the plump tops of her breasts.

“It won’t work.” His voice was a growl, and the line of tension deepened between his brows.

She took one last step forward and placed her hand on his chest, above the cross of his arms. She would hit him then run at once, down the servants’ stairs at the opposite of the hall and out into the darkening night.

Hit him!

She stalled, so nervous she could barely feel her feet. Radford uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on her shoulders as if he would push her away. Hell. She couldn’t hit him now, did not have a good position. Desperate, she wound her arms around the back of his neck, pulled his head down and kissed him.

His lips were soft, smooth and he smelled of man. Virile man. His hands on her shoulders gave a firm push, but she did not budge. She opened her mouth, and he opened his as well, and she rubbed her tongue against his. A shock of sensation jolted through her, a new kind of nervousness curled low in her belly. She did it again.

“Hell.” He breathed against her lips, then turned his head away to end the kiss. But she pursued. Pressed up on her tiptoes, held his face steady in her hands. The scruff of his cheeks was rough under her palms. She sought his lips with her own.

“Vixen,” he murmured, again trying to push her away. But his attempt was halfhearted, his lips gentle as they moved over hers. Never once did he press on her bruise, never once did he hurt her.

It was delicious, this kiss. It poured through her like warm chocolate, stole her thoughts like a too-hot bath. She marveled at the soft texture of his tongue sliding against hers, the place where his hands gripped her shoulders.

She could lose herself in him.

Fool of a girl.
She forced herself to focus. The footman would return any moment. Her right hand trailed down Radford’s shoulder to his chest—she would not think about all that muscle—and set in place under his chin. She leaned up and pressed her half-naked breasts against him. His hands slid down her sides to her hips.

Heavens. Tremors coursed through her and not just from nerves. She forced in a breath, started to draw back, tension in her every muscle. On her next exhale, now—

He dodged. Tipped his head to the side. Her hand smashed against the wall. Pain shot through her palm, up her arm.

“Bloody hell.” He twisted away and wrenched her arm behind her back.

Icy fear froze her heart and breath rushed out of her. She couldn’t seem to inhale again. She told herself she was breathing, told herself air was coming into her lungs, but still she felt like she was drowning.

“You tried to punch me,” he growled, his voice at her ear.

Mazie’s knees wobbled and threatened to give way beneath her. Her arm throbbed both from where she had hit the wall and where he held it twisted behind her back. He would strike her now, as Harrington had.

She steeled herself for the blow.

But he did not abuse her. He let her go with a little push that sent her stumbling into the center of the room. She pulled her bodice together and whipped around to face him.

Lord Radford pinned her with his stormy grey eyes, his face held tight by fury. The man had a look, intimidating to be sure, as if he was seeing through her, through to the days she wound her hair in braids and held her mother’s hand. She forced herself not to react. He wasn’t all-seeing, or he would know who she was.

Her breath came in large gulps of air, and she rubbed her sore arm. Pushed away her worry with a determination honed from experience. He did not remember their introduction many years ago. There was that to be thankful for.

“This is a dangerous game you play, Miss Mazie. It would be best not to underestimate me.” His hands were heavy at his sides. She would not look at them.

“Yes. I will remember that next time.”

A flash of rage. She was pushing too far.

“Tell me where the highwayman is,” he demanded. “When were you to meet him again?”

Her chin raised, she walked to the window and gave him her back. She would give him nothing more. Not ever.

A gust of wind pelted rain against the window, obscuring the view over the drive.

“Very well, Miss Mazie. We do this the hard way.”

Chapter Two

“Where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?” Jane Austen

The morning was still chilly, not yet portending the warmth of the day to come. Droplets of dew hung on everything green and thirsty, and the sun hid behind a bank of clouds. Trent drew Themis to a halt, pausing to breathe in the refreshing coolness and gaze out over the rolling fields. Hedgerows divided the lush vegetation into squares like a quilt, sheep and cows grazed on the green grass in the distance, while closer to him were the various crops tended by his tenants. All the land he could see, and much beyond—twenty-two thousand acres to be exact—had belonged to the Radford estate for almost five hundred years and was now his responsibility to manage. A task he usually took care of from his townhouse in London.

He removed his hat and scrubbed his hand through his hair. It was good he had come to Radford, too many months had passed since his last visit, but the timing could not be more inconvenient, nor the circumstances more infuriating.

Damn his prisoner. He smacked some dust from his hat. That little episode two nights ago had thoroughly obliterated his sense of reason. He was a rational man, not prone to ragged emotion, yet it had taken him a full day to rein in his temper.

Oh, Miss Mazie was a maddening one all right. Maddening and dangerous as hell.

Though, to be truthful, he was angriest with himself. Wide lips and luscious breasts and he became a salacious fool. He was only glad his father was not alive to see him make such an arse of himself.

Trent shifted his weight and Themis responded at once, trotted down the trail toward the valley below.

One would think he would be beyond such behavior. He, the twelfth Earl of Radford, entrusted with the honor of a prestigious title and duty-bound since birth to live for a greater purpose. He knew his responsibilities, knew he must capture this highwayman who dared challenge the Radford name.

Indeed, Trent was personally insulted by the man’s antics. This Midnight Rider debacle threatened all he had worked for these last eight years. It had forced him to leave London and her wagging tongues, forced him to miss the last weeks of Parliament, and perhaps forfeit his nomination for a coveted seat on the Committee on Foreign Trade.

It made him appear feeble and ineffectual, the weak link in the unbroken chain of Radfords that dated back to Henry VII.

And yet he had let Miss Mazie kiss him.

And enjoyed it thoroughly.

Somewhere, in some language, there as a word of sharp syllables and dark meaning that perfectly described an idiot like him.

“Radford.” His name carried across the wind. “Lord Radford.”

Trent laughed at fate and glanced over his shoulder. Seated atop a beautiful Arabian chestnut, which must have cost a fortune, his magistrate rode down the incline toward him.
Good.
Trent pulled his mount to a stop. Here was the man he wanted to see.

“I’m glad I found you,” Harrington called. “I’ve just now returned.”

Themis shifted nervously at the Arabian’s approach, and Trent leaned forward to stroke his neck. “Did you get Lord Horris’s statement?”

“Signed under oath.” Harrington tipped his hat back from his face. He was a thin man, boney and long with pale skin and sandy hair. Only his eyes, a bright blue that would look pretty on a daughter if he’d had one, gave him weight. It was a deception, this sense of frailness. Trent had seen the man be hard as stone. “How’s our little houseguest? She talk yet?”

An image of Mazie’s bruised cheek flashed to mind. Harrington could easily have given her that special mark of imprisonment.

Trent’s blood flared. Mazie was not a small woman, but she only reached up to his chin. She would be outmatched by Harrington’s brute strength. “Did you hit her?” He turned his anger outward. “She is sporting quite a bruise, Harrington. I had better not see that again. On any prisoner. Ever.”

The man said nothing.

“I do not care if she is a crafty wench set upon defying you. I do not condone striking a defenseless prisoner. There is no honor in abusing those under one’s authority.”

Still no reply.

“Do you understand?”

Harrington dipped his head and his wide-brimmed hat hid his expression. “Yes, my lord.”

Trent forced his shoulders down. “What did you find out from Horris?”

“It was a waste of my time,” his magistrate grumbled. “Horris revealed nothing new. All the reports about the Midnight Rider have been the same.”

“No new clues? Nothing?” Hell. Justice hung in the balance—lives hung in the balance—until the highwayman was captured.

“Nothing. I think we need to change tactics. The gentry are getting impatient. And the villagers are eager to act as well. With the robberies and the roads not being safe, folks are getting together, the way they do. There’s been talk of forming a local militia.”

Absolutely not. “I am in charge of the local militia, Harrington, I will decide what is necessary.” Themis danced sideways, and Trent gave the horse free rein to canter down the path. The Arabian fell in step as well. “Haven’t you learned anything from the Pentrich Uprising? No militia.”

“But we—”

“Besides,” Trent cut off his protest, “I am told the villagers have no quarrel with the Midnight Rider, they venerate the fool and his crimes against the landed and the rich.”

“Well, yes, but times being tough, folks are struggling to keep the wolf from the door. There’s a high price on the highwayman’s head. It’s money the villagers need, whether they believe in the cause or not.”

His skin tightened with irritation. “If the villagers are so in need of funds, I have offered a generous reward for information leading to the highwayman’s capture.”

Harrington swept his bright gaze over Trent’s jacket, expertly cut by the most discerning of London tailors. “The locals don’t trust you. They think you’ve grown soft in Town.”

As if that weren’t already obvious. But their evaluation did not bother him. He knew there was nothing soft about him. Boxing and riding kept him in top form, while Parliament sharpened his mind.