The Runaway Countess (34 page)

She had betrayed him. She had put him in harm’s way.

Still he speared her with his gaze, slashing and slashing. The wound of love would kill her. She would die a thousand deaths for this man.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he turned his mount, charged through the gathering and down the drive.

“Be careful,” Mazie cried. No one heard.

With a holler, the men circled the drive, found their formation and thundered past into the black night.

Chapter Twenty

“Is this her fault or mine?/The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?” Shakespeare

The lane was thick with darkness. Shadows lay upon shadows and swallowed any moonlight. Trent let his mount pick his way up the path. They were both exhausted. Horse and rider had seen the sun rise and set without rest.

The day was lost, and the Midnight Rider with it.

Forty-two men had scoured the countryside, riding forty-two horses through meadows and forests and caves. Forty-two men found nothing, not so much as a track left in the muddy soil.

Trent scrubbed his face, the stubble on his jaw scratched against his leather gloves.

The search had been disbanded hours ago, after hunger and tiredness had worn away at the men. After they had disintegrated into aggression and unreasonableness, as men were wont to do. The impromptu assemblage had done exactly what Trent had feared when he had refused to gather the militia before. They forgot their common enemy and preyed on a different one, an impulsive one.

At least no one was shot. Trent had seen to that when their weapons were pulled on each other.

A bloody disaster.

The first lights from Giltbrook Hall pierced the blackness and he made himself sit taller. They would be waiting for him, the grooms and the footmen and his valet. Ready with dinner, a bath, his bed. But it was not them he wanted to see.

Thoughts of her had plagued him all day.

Mazie. She would drive him mad. One minute she was weaving betrayal and pleading for the Midnight Rider’s life, the next she was wrapping Trent in her gaze, her eyes speaking of things he dared not imagine.

Thirty minutes later he found himself bathed, fed and outside Mazie’s door. Desire and anger, longing and fury wrapped into one hard ball that chafed inside him. How could she rest so peacefully while he was so tormented? He pushed open her door, not bothering to knock.

He was blind in the pitch dark of her room, felt his way toward her bed. His bare foot connected with somethinga chair. He cursed, perhaps louder than he realized.

“Who’s there?” Breathy. Yes, she had been asleep.

“Who do you expect?” He followed the sound of her voice deeper into the room.

“Trent?”

“Disappointed?” If the highwayman came for her, Trent would kill him.

“Of course I am not disappointed. Are you well? Unhurt? What time is it?” The questions rolled off her tongue. A scrape of a match then light flared into the darkness. She lit the candle by her bedside, illuminating her face and hair, her shift. “What about the Midnight Rider?”

The knot coiled tighter. She was beautiful. Beautifully wicked. “What of him?”

Mazie did not reply. A small frown formed between her brows as she scanned him from head to toe. He knew how he looked, dressed only in his shirtsleeves open at the collar and simple breeches, his face unshaven. He looked as he felt. Wild. Dangerous.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice shook. What part of him did she see? The fury or the desire? The need for punishment? Or the need for pleasure?

“I wanted to see the woman who has caused so much trouble.” He reached out to her bedcovers and, startled, Mazie slapped his hand away.

“What are you doing?” she repeated, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Always fighting to be in control, she would meet him on equal footing.

He wanted to take that away from her.

“Even better.” His voice was husky, rough even to his own ears. The covers had slid off her as she stood, and the candle illuminated the curves of her body through her thin shift. She reached for something white. “Don’t. No dressing gown. Come here. I want to see you when I ask you this.”

He held out his hands to her. She took a step toward him, her eyes soft and round. She crossed her arms and eyed him warily. “Ask me what? What are you”

“Doing?” He dropped his hands. Smart girl, she was wise to be cautious. “Why must you question everything? I’ve never known a woman to question so much.”

“Did you find the highwayman?”

“No.” He laughed, though there was no humor in it. “No sign of him at all.”

She exhaled, her face an unreadable mask. “Where have you been? The others returned hours ago. I’ve been worried.”

“I fired Harrington.” He did not know why he told her this, but he needed to. Since the moment he had argued with his magistrate, since the nasty words they had flung at each other, he had thought of her, of her touch.

She said nothing. Bit her lip, watched him. “You did?” Incredulous.

“This evening.” He could no longer stomach the man’s deceit, no matter the investigation. Needing to feel her hands on him, Trent stepped forward. She stepped back, silly girl, as if she could get away. “I hit him.”

“Truly?”

“I haven’t hit anyone since I was a lad.”

“I don’t doubt it. How do you feel?”

He considered her for a moment. “Dangerous.”

“I see,” she squeaked.

“It has all become more dangerous.” He took another step forward and she stepped to the side, skirted the bed. He studied her, his gaze burning through her white shift to the hint of flesh beneath. “There is nowhere left to hide, Lady Margaret Parthena Harlan Chetwyn.”

She must have seen something in his face for she inched back, placed a chair between them.

He wouldn’t let that stand. He would have her feel as lost as he did.

He would have her hands on his bare skin.

“Wha-what happened today?” She darted a glance at the door. “Other than Harrington?”

He did not say three guns were pulled. He had barely stopped the madness, had been left hot and shaking. Nothing like his father, who had been self-possessed and calculating during the Pentrich Uprising. Trent did not wish to think upon it, his father’s eerie calm, what it meant.

He stepped forward and kicked the chair away from between them. “I visited Mrs. Pearl again. Why did she appear so concerned about the Midnight Rider?”

He might as well have swept the rug from beneath her feet. Mazie swayed backward and her face paled. She had no reply, no quick retort. He had been right. The older woman was tied to the highwayman.

His pulse kicked up as he closed the distance between them. Mazie uncrossed and crossed her arms, looked again at the door.

He would stop that train of thought. He planted his hands on her hips and walked her backward in some dangerous dance until she pressed against the wall behind her.

Her body was all warm curves beneath his touch.

He dropped his gaze to her lips before looking back up into her eyes. “Tell me again you weren’t going to meet the Midnight Rider at the lake.” It was not the question he had meant to ask.

“I wasn’t.” She flattened her hands against his chest, either to push him away or to implore him to believe her. His eyes closed at the feel of her, such small palms pressed into him. “Truly, I wasn’t.”

He forced his eyes open, leaned into her touch. “Who is he to you?”

Her lips rounded as if she would speak. Her gaze held his and he thought she would tell him. He saw it in her eyes, the flickering of truth, the desire to speak it aloud.

He waited.

She ran her hands up his chest, over his shoulders. “We were close.”

Truth. But not all of it. “You never let him touch you.”

“Not in that way. No.”

“But me, you did.”

“Yes.” She whispered as if the word was pulled from her.

“Why?” His muscles bunched under her hands as he awaited her reply. If she lied, he would see it in her eyes.

“I-I couldn’t help it.” Wide and soft brown, her eyes were worried but guileless. No falsehood. “I wanted you to touch me.”

Trent leaned down so his forehead rested against hers. He understood what she meant, had tried to stay away tonight. His hands tightened on her hips. His fury was tamed by her small hands, by her confession. Only the longing remained. “I need your arms around me, Mazie.”

The request was soft. He hated the sound of it. But Mazie wound her arms around his neck and he no longer cared. This is what he needed. This strange comfort and sensual temptation. His chest shuddered with a labored breath. How ironic, this drama between them, where the one to hurt was the one to soothe.

“I’ve had a wretched day,” he sighed against her cheek.

She caressed his neck, his face, turned her head and invited him to kiss her.

And he did. With a groan, he pressed into her, trapped her against the wall. He slanted his mouth and tasted her with his tongue.

She was soft, sweet. An angel. And he a beast that would devour her. His need was sharp-toothed and raw. He gentled his hands where they squeezed her hips and softened his mouth where it consumed hers. She smelled of roses and woman. Not the dank odor of wet horses or the tang of gunpowder as he fought to control the militia. His body shook with the effort to be tame.

But when a breathy little moan escaped her lips, he was lost. He lifted her to her toes, ground his pelvis against hers and bit down gently on her lip.

She cried out. There was no fear in the sound. Only ache, the same ache that tortured him. She touched her hands to his chest, his back, before she pulled his shirt from his pants and slid her hands onto his bare skin.

Her hands on his bare skin.

He gnashed his teeth. Her fingernails raked over his back. He closed his eyes and saw the despair on Mrs. Pearl’s face, the disdain on Harrington’s. Hell. He pulled back, yanked off his shirt, grabbed Mazie’s shift and pulled it down off her shoulders. He nipped and laved the sensitive flesh of her throat and shoulders before trailing downward. He tugged her shift lower. The globe of her breast burst free of the fabric and he licked her nipple.

She sucked in her breath. He did it again and she trembled in his arms.

He needed to be inside of her. Now.

“I couldn’t stop thinking of you.” Her shift stirred the air as he pulled it over her head. Then her bared breasts were pressing against his chest and he shook like a green lad.

Needing her to be as crazed as he was, he slid his hand up her thigh, up her bare flesh. A haze of pleasure intoxicated him. He slipped higher, kissed her without a need for breath. Then he touched her in her most private place. A hot slide that made her sob. He swallowed the sound, slipped another finger inside her, found her nub with his thumb.

He was lost in a liquid river of touch. Dark pleasure. Her hands were on him, stroking and needing. His mouth was on her breast, her eyelids, the edges of her lips. He could never get enough of her. Never enough.

He fumbled with his breeches, kicked the fabric away from his feet, then nudged her thighs farther apart. Lifting her up, he wrapped her legs around him.

And she let him. Thank God, she let him. Shaking, gasping, flesh to flesh, he pressed her against the wall, pressed his cock into the core of her.

Wet. She was so wet for him. Ready for him. He pressed deeper. Her head rolled forward and fell on his shoulder. She swallowed him whole. Arms, legs, cunny, she touched him everywhere.

“Mazie.” His voice came from somewhere he did not recognize. “Mazie, my beautiful, my sweet.”

He kissed her hair, pulled out the length of his cock and slipped it back in. She bit his shoulder. He pressed and pressed and pressed. Lost himself inside her. Then drew out again, found an irony of organization in this madness. He dove in, pulled out, over and over. His breath coming in ragged gasps, he murmured words his mind did not understand. Her hands on his flesh, she leaned her head back against the wall, arched against him. He kissed and laved her flesh until, crying out his name, she peaked, squeezed and milked his cock deep inside. He watched her, accepted the gift of her pleasure as she fell into him, fell everywhere in bliss.

With a roar, he followed.

Pretending to sleep, Mazie watched Trent slip on his clothes in the dim light of dawn. Despite the beautiful sculpting of his muscles, he appeared exhausted with dark stubble on his chin and circles under his eyes. He had seemed tormented last night, and she ached for him as he scrubbed his hands through his hair. Gone was the impervious man she had met weeks ago, gone was his undaunted pride. He was hurting.

She was doing this to him.

He, the man she loved.

She wanted to tell him the truth. She truly did. She wanted to break down the walls between them, reveal her honest self to him. She wanted him to see her, know her. Love her.

She wanted to trust him. He
had
fired Harrington.