The Runaway Countess (28 page)

A man counted down and a shot rang through the air. Men burst forward. Trent threw himself into motion, near the lead. Arms pumping, legs reaching full stride, he raced across the meadow. He skidded around a large oak tree, where he offered a hand to a lad who had slipped, then ran back across the meadow toward the starting line. Laughing. He was laughing. Alive. Free. He could run forever, aware only of the flesh of his body and the green earth and lush scent of midsummer.

Younger boys, almost men, passed him on the return leg, but he did not care. Across the meadow, Mazie waved her arms, smiling brightly. More laughter rippled through his chest. He crossed the line with cheers from the growing crowd.

Winded, he leaned over and placed his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Men hooted and hollered and patted him on the back as they passed.

“‘Nice effort, milord, but I’d a won wi’ those fancy boots o’ yers,” a tall man teased.

“Oh, so it was your footwear that kept you from winning?” Trent stood upright. His smile was easy. “And here I thought it was all the ale sloshing about in your belly.”

“No, that sloshin’ was from Henry here.” A young man pushed his friend forward, who did appear loose-limbed from drink.

“Ah, to be a young lad on Midsummer’s Eve.” Trent clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Just sober up before you lead your pretty maid into the woods tonight, son, or your tickler will be floppy.”

The crowd roared with laughter. More ribald jokes were thrown around among pints of ale.

Whatever it was that had changed the villager’s minds about him, he was grateful for it. This was no longer a game or a strategy to gain their trust, he needed it for himself.

Finally, he returned to Mazie, who waited to the side with a wide grin. “You are quite fast.”

Trent snorted. “I cannot remember the last time I participated in a footrace.” He retied his cravat and pulled on his jacket, though he would rather leave it off, impossible as that was.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Immensely.”

“Good.” Again, she laughed.

He felt ridiculously glad that she was smiling and happy. Even better that she was smiling at him. He was tired of her worn, fearful, calculating expressions. Tired of feeling like her gaoler.

It occurred to him then, that she could have tried to escape during the race. She must notice the woods beyond. But she’d stayed. Why?

A trumpet sounded, then the beat of drums far off in the distance, followed by violins, flutes and horns. The parade was starting. He grabbed for Mazie’s arm, led her back through the throng of running children to the dancing green where they could watch the celebration.

It would be dark soon and the revelry would start in earnest. He had instructed his driver to be back for them at nightfall, but found that he was reluctant to leave.

The music grew louder and a glow of light became visible as men danced up the road, swinging immense torches around their heads. The Midsummer’s Eve procession entered the festival grounds before them and circled the field, the torchbearers lighting barrels placed around the gathering.

The texture of the evening changed. The pagan origins of the festival became ever more evident as light leapt and licked at the night and the music pulsed and pounded.

Trent craned his neck and searched for Cat. She stood near the musicians with Lord Dixon. He nodded at the older gentleman but would not step back into the formal role of Lord Radford. He would rather swing the torches with the laborers and farmers. Instinctively, his hand reached out and touched the small of Mazie’s back. He understood, for the first time, why she wanted to throw off the bonds of her heritage. Why she would chose to be Mazie rather than Lady Margaret.

Around them lanterns were lit and swung in the air, not attempting to push back the darkness, but simply making the shadows come alive. For a moment, he could believe that this was indeed, the night the faeries came out to play.

The musicians found their places and country dances began on the green. On the field to their right, couples lined up to leap over a smoldering bed of coals. It was an old tradition. One that was thought to bring fertility, or luck, or love, or any manner of superstitious hopes.

Mazie laughed and clapped to the music, and Trent felt his good humor blossom. He waved over a young boy, handed him a coin and instructed him to tell his driver they would not return to the manner for some hours.

When he turned back to Mazie he noticed her smile had faded. She seemed quiet and distant, as if something had bothered her. As if reality had caught up to her.

He reached his hand out and lifted her chin. She looked up at him with her wide amber eyes.

Mine.

The word burned through him, caught him by surprise.

What would he do with a fallen lady with a penchant for thieving and general trouble making? It did not matter. His reason had long ago lost this battle.

Mine.

Trent must have noticed the shift in her mood, for he tilted her chin and warmed her with his gaze. His grey eyes, attentive, almost possessive, searched hers. Mazie smiled, small and true, and he brushed the corner of her mouth with his thumb.

A thousand sensations ignited with his touch. All of her being rushed out to him, as if he had caressed some secret, private part of her. It was erotic and tender and completely disarming.

Her body froze, and he dropped his hand and looked away. But something had been started, opened, unleashed between them.

Shaken, she glanced around, wondering if Harrington had seen their intimate exchange. The magistrate had been glowering at her a moment ago, his eyes holding threats she dare not think on. But he was nowhere to be found, and she let herself forget the fear he had caused. This was a night for enjoyment, she reminded herself, not worry.

And there was much to enjoy, beginning with the man at her side. Trent was handsome, raw and thrilling and so enticing in the firelight. She glanced at him, let herself drink him in as he watched the dancers. His hair was mussed, his body smooth and relaxed. He looked different than she had ever seen him. No longer the stuffy, proper lord. But just a man, like all the other men at the Midsummer’s Eve festival. A man with a heart, with fears and worries of his own.

“Would you like to dance?” He did not look at her, but she felt his attention on her. Felt it like the damp heat of the summer night on her skin.

“Very much.” She held out her hand and he drew her onto the crowded green. A warm breeze blew over them, carrying with it the rich perfume of the flowers strewn about.

His eyes met hers and held and he drew her into the dance. Together, apart and together again.

Something churned between them, something magnetic and unnaturally quiet, like a summer thunderstorm gathering power.

Together, apart and together again. Trent grabbed her waist and spun her. Everything whirled. Her head fell back and laughter bubbled through her. When she looked up, he was watching her with half-lidded eyes, his gaze on her breasts. A thrill shot down to her feet.

Dangerous. This was a dangerous game.

He twirled her again, pulling her closer this time. His musky scent surrounded her, fascinated her. Raw, masculine and purely him. He planted his hand possessively on her waist and she wanted to melt, wanted to give in to the heavy desire pouring through her blood.

He let her go just as quickly, and she moved away with the steps of the dance. Her gaze was on his body, on the strong shape of his shoulders and the athletic power of his thighs.

Beyond the crowded dancing green, couples wandered off into the darkness together. She wondered what it would be like, that blistering passion on the heat of this summer night. The feel of Trent’s bare skin under her palm, the shape of his muscles.

Never had she thought a man so beautiful.

And unpredictable. Who was this smiling, unrestrained creature across from her?

“I wouldn’t have expected you to know the country dances.” She laughed when the music ended.

“I am full of surprises.” His lips tilted into a half-smile.

Heat flushed through her. So raw, his smile revealed the man beneath. The man who had held her, soothed her when she had been hurting and wanting to hurt him back. The man who saw not only her anger and misdeeds, but her loneliness and struggle as well. She placed a hand on her chest as if trying to catch her breath. But really, she wanted to sooth the ache there, which was oddly raw and full of want. “Might we step out for a moment?”

“Of course.” He rested his hand on her lower back and guided her to the edge of the festivities.

She did not hesitate, did not glance at him with a question in her eyes. He continued to walk away from the crowd, away from the lanterns bumping up against the dark in a flirtatious battle of wills. She said nothing as he led her farther into the darkness. Past the edge of the stalls. Past the mingling groups chatting and laughing. Past a young couple dancing in the shadows. They stopped at the edge of the blackened woods.

Neither spoke. There was no use left for words.

He turned and his eyes found hers in the shadows. She knew what he wanted from her. It was what a man wanted from a woman.

She wanted it too.

Just to taste it. Just a bit.

When he planted his hands on her hips and his dark head bent down, she leaned up on her toes and met his mouth halfway.

Lips, breath, clash of tongue. Hot. Everything flaming hot. She wrapped her arms around his neck, embraced him as if an enemy were coming to part them.

His arms held her tight as if he too wanted more, wanted to consume, to obliterate the separateness that existed between their two bodies.

She gave him everything, did not stifle her moan as he caressed her face, the bare skin of her arms, the sides of her breasts. Her hands trembling, she surrendered to her long desire and slid her palms under the fabric of his shirt. Ah, his skin, his skin. Warm, smooth.
Him.
She traced the lines of his flat belly, the broad muscles of his chest. The long cords along his spine.

He shook beneath her hands. Or maybe that was her. She could not tell anymore. She could only feel his mouth, taste his tongue. Breathe his breath.

She did not hear Harrington until it was too late.

His chuckle rent the night air and she froze in place, then dropped her head against Trent’s chest.

“Please, don’t mind me,” Harrington drawled, his tone making her toes curl in her slippers. “I am doing the rounds, keeping my eye out for any licentious behavior. Folks tend to fall into all sorts of ill-advised activities on Midsummer’s Eve.”

Chapter Sixteen

“I am that merry wanderer of the night.” Shakespeare

Hours later, Trent exhaled a long stream of cigar smoke and looked up at the stars. Why did not he sit outside at night more often? It was a beautiful summer evening. Midsummer’s Eve, he thought with a smile. Sprites and faeries would be dancing in the woods tonight, along with a few of the locals he had seen wander off at the festival earlier.

Unless Harrington interrupted them first. The rat. If Trent wasn’t already resolved to terminate the man’s employment, he would be now. No doubt Harrington had followed them into the darkness. But for what purpose? To prove to Trent there was no freedom to break the rules, no satisfaction for his ache? To embarrass Mazie?

Once he knew more about Harrington’s accomplices, the deputy lieutenant would be gone from Radford for good.

Trent leaned back against a fallen log and crossed his ankles. Moonlight shimmered on the lake before him and the throaty song of frogs filled the warm night. Despite the layer of lascivious tension in his body, it felt wonderful to do nothing but relax. Normally he would be in his office right now working. Or, if he were in London, he would be at some party or other chosen because of the connections he could make for whatever bill he was promoting.

He took another draw of the cigar. The rich, pungent smoke warmed his mouth.

Who was he kidding, he sighed on the stream of smoke, he did not know how to relax. Even as he sat here, he wondered if his sire had known of Harrington’s corruption. He tried to decide which was worse, the knowing and abetting, or the not knowing and being played the fool.

Trent rolled out his shoulders and arched his back. He much preferred the lightness, the enjoyment of earlier in the evening to this course of his thoughts. Perhaps he could do as Mazie did and turn the direction of his attention.

Mazie. He smiled, unwound the simple cravat at his neck and opened the top buttons of his shirt. It was still hot out, even at this late hour, and the breeze cooled his damp skin. He drew off his boots and walked to the water’s edge where the lake lapped against his feet. He’d loved to swim in this lake as a boy but had stopped over the years.

When the Midnight Rider debacle was over he was going to do something frivolous. Parliament would be out of session for the summer so he needn’t return to London. He would travel. Perhaps sail. Maybe he would to go to the horse races. Maybe he would take a lover.

His mind conjured images of pale skin in an emerald green dress. The flash of a smile and a laughing twirl. A kiss left unfinished. Heat simmered below his skin. Mazie. She had no idea how beautiful she was. How sensual.