The Runaway Countess (6 page)

“Where was he before he came here?”

“Traveling, I think. He talked of fighting Napoleon.”

“A soldier?” He looked skeptical.

“So he said.”

“He must be very charming.” His tone was salty as dried fish.

“Utterly charming. Witty and handsome. Tall and strong and quick to smile.” She exaggerated a wistful look just to annoy Trent. Truly, even she had to admit Roane was handsome.

“Sounds like a fantasy. Without the robbing and treason part. I should like you to sketch him when we return to the hall.”

Mazie swallowed. “Very well.” She could always draw her former employer, Mr. Carrington. He deserved to be hunted.

A breeze ruffled the meadow like a deep exhale. The flowers danced and swayed on their tall spines before the wind moved into the forest. A loose strand of hair tickled Mazie’s cheek and she tucked it back under her hat.

Trent watched her, an unreadable expression on his face. “What else do you know of him, Mazie. The name of his horse? His tailor? Does he prefer the coast? London? The highlands?”

“We talked mostly of me, to be honest. I didn’t realize how little I knew of him until recently. He rode a black horse.” That seemed to be harmless enough information. “I-I could not say what his preferences are. He talked of nothing in particular. Compliments mostly, and questions.”

Trent sighed and scanned the clearing, obviously dissatisfied with the information she was giving him. Without turning back, he walked over to his men, leaving her standing alone in the meadow. She realized her fists were clenched in her skirts and relaxed them. Her shoulders softened of their own account. My, it was difficult weaving together half-lies and half-truths. She watched as he talked with his hired investigators, their hand gestures pointing out different spots in the clearing. The men scattered, each taking a quadrant, and were distressingly thorough as they measured tracks in the dirt and picked through the fire rings. What they could gather as evidence from this place, she hadn’t any idea. Luckily, she had never met Roane here. Not once.

Trent glanced over and Mazie’s stomach rolled and pitched. Why must he always look so intense? She couldn’t guess the meaning of his stare, only hoped it wasn’t distrust. Or, worse yet, knowing she lied.

Finally, the men decided to ignore her for a while. She was no wistful wallflower, she was more than happy to sink to a log in the shade and take a moment for herself.

She looked across the meadow, lush and teeming with midsummer fullness. Yellow butterflies darted across the green grasses and the sound of a stream trickled from nearby. It felt like forever since she had last been outside. She would not think of her small attic room. She would simply sit.

No, she would not watch Trent either. She would close her eyes.

The breeze on the meadow brought the sweet scent of summer. Behind her, the deep trees pulled at her. The forest was thick and cool. One could easily get lost there.

Run
, a voice inside her yelled.
Run now!

She opened her eyes. They men were still searching the tall grass. She knew these woods, she knew where to hide. If she had so much as a sixty-second lead on them, she could escape.

Inch by inch, she slipped off the log and came to a crouched position. No one noticed.

The rush of blood was loud in her ears, her breathing ragged, and for a moment she feared someone would hear the thump of her heart. But the men only moved farther away, their backs to her.

Mazie, ever resourceful, took what opportunity was handed to her.

She gathered the long train of her skirts and darted into the woods. She favored silence over speed at first, taking her time to hop and leap over fallen branches and piles of leaves. Her old boots were worn and slick at the soles and she took great care not to slip.

Thirty seconds had passed. Had they noticed she was gone?

She dared glance behind her. No one followed.

She ran faster now with a speed born of desperation, winding through the branches. The underbrush reached up and grabbed at her skirts, nearly tripping her. She hiked the heavy fabric up higher to her knees. Her long legs bounded and leapt through the bushes and she was barely aware of the cuts and scrapes along her calves.

She came to a game trail and darted across the opening—she was safer in the confines of the foliage. With the soft and agile steps of a doe, she threaded her way west toward a ravine littered with tree roots and huge boulders. She would find a hiding spot there.

Her ears trained for the slightest sound, she dared to hope she had lost the men with her silent escape and zigzagging path.

She wanted to laugh with relief when she saw the opening of the trees and knew the steep hill was just beyond. Stealing a quick glance behind her, she saw no evidence that the men were in close pursuit. A big tree lay across her path and she bounded over it, but her skirts tangled around her legs and she tumbled to her knees. In an instant, she gained her feet, unconcerned about the dirt marring her hands and dress. She kept her gaze ahead and dared to hope.

It was there, on her skin. Freedom.

A giddy laugh erupted inside her, a flash of peace. It was just an instant though, the smallest moment of elation before a hand, solid and resolute, anchored itself to her wrist.

She was pulled up short against a tall, powerful chest and she knew instantly it was Trent. Not only by his scent, but by the way her body thrilled to his.

“No!” she screamed. She would not go back. Everything inside clamored for the freedom she had tasted. Like a wild animal caught in a trap, her body reacted with violent alarm. She kicked and scratched and threw her elbows and knees wherever she could. She tripped over her long skirts, heard the tear of fabric. “Let go of me!”

Her fist collided against flesh with a sickening crack.

“Bloody hell, woman.” Trent wrenched her arm behind her back, pinned her so she could no longer move.

“Let go of me,” Mazie demanded again, her chest heaving in sharp undulations as she struggled to catch her breath.

“Ah, but I cannot,” he growled. “I find I am loath to part with your company so soon.”

Hadn’t they already played out this exact scene a few days ago? With her free arm, Mazie elbowed him in the ribs. Hard.

Trent cursed under his breath and let go of her. She whirled, dared look up at him. He scowled down at her, his jaw set in harsh anger that hollowed out his cheeks. There was a scratch by his eye beaded with blood. One side of his jaw was red. She would not wince. It was nothing less than he deserved. Nothing less than she herself had suffered. She touched her tongue to the corner of her mouth where Harrington had struck her. It was still sore, but not so swollen or discolored anymore.

An eye for an eye. Even the Bible said that.

She tried to hold herself with pride, tried to lift her chin in defiance. But when he stepped toward her, a small motion that snapped across dried leaves, she flinched away.

“We will return to the estate,” he bit out. His hat, she noticed, was gone, and a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead.

Before he reached for her again, Mazie spun on her heel and marched ahead of him toward the clearing. Nothing, she felt nothing. The power that had burst through her, the hope of freedom, was gone.

It was a painfully quiet walk back through the dense trees. It felt like forever until light filtered down to the forest floor, then shadows gave way to the bright open meadow.

The four men were still there, talking in low tones. They fell silent at once.

“Mount up,” Trent commanded. They jumped to obey.

Mazie dragged her feet to her mare and could not refuse Trent’s touch as he assisted her atop her horse. In an instant, he was on his mount and grabbing the reins from her hands. He led her horse the entire way back to his estate.

All too soon, Giltbrook Hall loomed before them in its yellow sandstone glory. They rode around to the tidy stables and the man at the center of her thoughts did not look at her as he dismounted and talked with the stable master.

Mazie let a groom help her down then stepped toward the main estate. A swirl of light blue fabric flashed in the corner of her attention, but she did not think to turn. Perhaps she could have avoided her own downfall had she thought to look.

“I say!” A soft, feminine voice filled the small yard. “Lady Margaret?”

Mazie stopped cold, a wild orchestra of dread tuning its strings in her belly.

“Lady Margaret, is that you?”

Could she run? Deny it? The French ruse wouldn’t work. Damn.

Mazie turned toward the surprised voice and nearly groaned. There was no way out now.

“Lady Catherine. How nice to see you again.”

Chapter Four

“This only is denied to God: the power to undo the past.” Agathon

Lady Margaret!
Lady
Margaret! Trent whipped around and stared across the sunlit stableyard. Certainly he had misheard. Certainly his sister had confused Mazie for someone else.

He thought Cat was smiling beneath the wide brim of her bonnet as she approached Mazie. And Mazie, well, she had turned toward Cat but still pointed her feet away.

Impossible. He forced an exhale. It was impossible that his sister knew his captive, much less that Mazie was a
lady
. He waited for the awkward moment when Cat realized her mistake.

But his captive shifted her feet and curtsied, her movements slow and deliberate. “Lady Catherine, a pleasure to see you again.”

Mazie’s voice floated across the stableyard and slammed into his gut. His head snapped back from the impact.

She had swindled his sister.

Instinct propelled him forward. His boots crunched over the graveled drive as he headed toward the women. Mazie was a thief and a liar. She had no right to look at his sister much less address her intimately.

What had she done, pretended to be an aristocrat as part of some scheme?

Hell. She would never speak to Cat again. In fact, she would never speak to anyone again without his explicit permission.

A lady. What idiocy.

Cat looked over as he approached, indeed smiling, but her expression fell. “Trent, what happened? Your face is bleeding.” She stepped forward, took his chin in her hand and turned his head. “If I did not know you better I’d think you’d been in a brawl.”

Ah, so his face looked as bad as it felt. He glared at Mazie. Her countenance pale, she averted her eyes from his.

“It’s a small scratch,” he assured, but his growled tone belied his words. He swallowed his anger, such a distasteful emotion, and leaned down to kiss Cat’s cheek. “I was riding too fast through the forest.”

Cat pressed her lips closed like she did not believe him, but for once she let the matter drop. “I did not know you had a houseguest, but then, you failed to inform me you were coming to Radford at all. Not that I am complaining. You should visit more often.”

“I’m sorry I did not write to you sooner.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the scratches on his face. The cloth came back bloodied. The hellion, she would regret this. “I’m here on an unfortunate bit of business.”

Cat’s mouth formed an expressive O, and she shifted her curious blue eyes back to Mazie.

He also glanced at his
houseguest
. She held her chin raised at an overly tilted angle and her eyes flitted around, giving the distinct impression that she wanted to fly away. Something worried her. The truth, perhaps.

“I see you two are acquainted,” he pressed.

Mazie’s eyes strayed to the scratches on his face before she looked away, toward Cat, and forced a tight smile. “We met a long time ago, in what feels like a different lifetime.”

“Yes, it has been ages. I almost did not recognize you, Lady Margaret.” Cat laughed, but it sounded stiff, unnatural.

“How interesting.” Trent pretended polite interest when in truth he wanted to wring Mazie’s neck. The relentless midsummer sun, beating down with pulses of heat, did little to help his anger.

A tendril of dark hair blew across Mazie’s cheek as she darted a glance over her shoulder toward the estate. It was a look he knew well—the blank expression of the mouth, the heightened focus in the eyes. He saw it often in the House when his peers realized the futility of their arguments.

She wanted to flee.

“How did you make one another’s acquaintance?” He wouldn’t let her away so easy.

Cat gave him a half smile. “Why, I think it was at St. James Palace, when we made our bow to the Queen. Lady Margaret and I were blushing debutants together.”

He felt his eyebrows fly upward. A blushing debutant. In front of the
Queen
. No, he couldn’t picture it.

“Lady Margaret had the most beautiful gown.” Cat’s attention vacillated between him and Mazie. “White and silver, it absolutely sparkled.”

“Did it?” he could think of nothing else to say. Good Lord, Mazie had tricked the Queen. She would hang with her lover the highwayman.

Unless? No, it couldn’t be possible. She couldn’t be a daughter of the aristocracy.