Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
About the Author
Dedication
For my mom, whose laughter echoes across the sky. I miss you.
Acknowledgements
I am deeply grateful for my critique partners, Carey Baldwin and Lori Brighton, who offered encouragement and advice. Mirth, sorrow and too many adverbs make for remarkable friendships.
Tessa Dare, Courtney Milan, Jackie Barbosa, Beverley Kendall and Tiffany Clare for reading various portions of the manuscript. I am honored to know such a talented, generous and fun group of women.
My agent, Nalini Akolekar, is a wonderful island of sanity amid my artistic angst. Thank you for everything you do.
Deena, for babysitting, cocktails and dreaming the dream with me.
Blythe, for love beyond measure.
Last but never least, Fred, who always believed in me. I love you.
Chapter One
“Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.” Shakespeare
Nottinghamshire, June, 1821.
It wasn’t as if she enjoyed stealing from people. It wasn’t as if she took some private pleasure in punishing them. In a world of her design there would be no need for retribution. But it was a capricious world with no judicious captain at the fore, and she could but hold fast to her convictions.
Mazie Chetwyn pressed her forehead against the sole window in her garret prison. She hardly noticed the relief of cool glass against heated skin. Her every thought was centered on the man galloping up the drive, his greatcoat billowing out behind him and his hat tilted against the afternoon downpour. She could not see his face, did not recognize him by horse or style. She knew him by his fury. He rode as if the hounds of hell were slavering at his heels.
Lord Radford had finally come.
Furious as the pelting rain, he galloped past the towering oaks, past the rows of tulips and past the fountain. Mazie’s heart hammered in her chest with the same urgency as the pounding hooves.
It was done, then. Her captor was here.
Radford pulled his mount to a stop in front of the wide marble steps and jumped down. Mazie flattened her bruised cheek against the chilled windowpane and watched him toss the reins to a footman then refuse the umbrella, his arms sweeping this way and that. What was he saying? Her attic window remained stubbornly closed.
Then he disappeared into the house.
Her heart stopped—everything froze—then resumed again with a firmer stroke and beat. Would he come up here, to her garret prison? Would he rant and rave as Harrington had? Would he hit her as Harrington had?
She paced away from the window and combed her hair with trembling fingers. Radford was dangerous and beyond the reach of the law. To him, she was a nobody, an expendable inconvenience. He would get what he wanted from her, then send her to London to be hanged, proof that he was a great Lord Lieutenant.
But there was still hope. There was always hope.
She hastily braided her dark hair and looked around the room for…anything. A weapon, a prop, a diversion. There was nothing. The room was bare save a dresser with a washing bowl and a small nub of a candle, a narrow bed, a scarred desk and a chair in front of a cold fireplace.
A man’s voice rumbled through the wood floor like distant thunder and sent ripples of fear through her belly. He was coming up the servants’ stairs, biting out something about weapons and horses and lists. A space of quiet followed, and she pressed her ear to the door. Someone must have replied, and now he was on again about riding out in the morning. He would gather a militia, then. Search for Roane with an untried gathering of men, each one eager to shoot the famed highwayman and collect the reward.
Radford’s footsteps were heavier now, echoing down the hallway outside her door. He wasted no time in coming to see her. She rushed to the chair, grasped her shaking hands together in her lap and cast her gaze to the floor.
Meek. She would play meek.
She would absorb all his barbed anger and give him nothing to fight against. She would be honey and molasses, everything sweet and slow.
A lock scraped open and Radford filled the doorway, all broad shoulders and dark mood. He brought the mud and rain with him on his clothes.
From the corner of her vision, Mazie watched him step into her room and close the door. He studied her for a long moment. “Miss Mazie, I presume.”
She let her feet shift nervously on the floor but did not move her eyes. “Yes, my lord.”
He walked closer. His muddied boots reached up to his knees and gave way to powerful thighs. He was strong, of a physical nature. “I’ve been dragged all the way from London for this unfortunate bit of business.” Low and firm, his voice played across her nerves like drums before a battle. “My magistrate Harrington tells me you have refused to assist our investigation into the Midnight Rider.”
She lifted her chin and looked up at him, let her expression be round and guileless. She was everything worried and intimidated.
His frown cut deep groves into his otherwise handsome face. The years had changed him, enough that she wouldn’t have recognized him passing by on the street. Gone was the distracted young man she remembered, replaced by sharp angles, dark hollows and glittering grey eyes entirely too piercing for her comfort. His damp hair—almost black in the wan light—let go of a drop of rain. He swiped it away with a rough hand. “It is unfortunate that your reticence is my inconvenience, Miss Mazie.”
He had come to drag the information from her. Of course he had. She had to wonder at the tactics he would use, how far he would push. She slumped in her chair, giving the impression that he need not try hard at all. “I do not wish to be difficult, my lord.”
He circled her chair and his muddy boots brushed her skirts. It did not matter. Her dress had been ruined days ago.
“The highwayman will be hanged for acts of treason.” He stopped behind her, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She should have known better than to leave the chair in the middle of the room. “You do understand the danger you are in?”
“Yes.” She whispered the word. It was not hard to fake her fear.
Radford did not say anything more. He would wait to see what she did next, give her space to expose something about herself.
She played into his hands. Stood, as if uncomfortable with him behind her—which she was—and smoothed her sweating palms over her coarse black skirts.
He reached across the chair. “What’s this?”
Touch. He was touching her face. Rage jolted to her fingertips. She almost betrayed herself by lashing out. Not now, Mazie. Wait. Digging her fingernails into her palms, she let him turn her face to the window and examine the bruise on her cheek and cut on her lip.
“Who hit you?” he demanded.
She did not reply. She wouldn’t be able to say anything without revealing the depth of her fury. Harrington would pay for his cruelty, not o
nly to her but to others in the village. For now, she concentrated on being fluid like melting snow, and not the blaze of fire she wanted to be.
Radford’s grey eyes scrutinized her. The hot stroke of his attention was everywhere on her skin, from her face down to her bare feet. She would not let herself worry. He would not recognize her. Placing her in that very different context—the context of her past life—would make matters even worse. She would push the thought aside.
She shifted her gaze to the slide of raindrops down the windowpane. Radford smelled of the rain, she noticed. The out-of-doors clung to his skin, as did the sweet scent of wet horse and wet wool. And something else, the musk only a man has after a day of physical exertion.
“You have the look of a Frenchwoman.” Still, he touched her. Held her face in his hand. “Where are you from?”
“I was born in England.” She modulated her words to be perfect, sloppy English. Nothing of her maman and her delicious French accent remained.
Finally, he let go of her chin. He paced to the door and she thought he might leave, but he simply opened it and instructed the footman to go to the kitchens and fetch a salve for her cut.
That, she had not expected.
Whether it was a kindness or a strategy on his part, she did not care. His misjudgment would be her gain. In three days, never had her door been without an armed guard. Radford exposed himself in a dangerous way—one she would take advantage of.
He turned back to her, his face set in hard edges—square jaw, sharp cheekbones and slash of brow. Yes, he looked different than she remembered. His handsomeness had power behind it now. “My dear woman, you will fare much worse in prison. Tell me what I want to know and perhaps I could be persuaded to view your crimes with leniency.”
“I-I,” Meek, Mazie. Softer. She lowered her voice. “I would like to assist your investigation, my lord.”
“A wise choice. I am glad we shall play this out the easy way.” He leaned back against the wall, his eyes narrowed on her. She knew what he was thinking, his wariness spoke volumes. Harrington would have told him she was a hellion, “all spit and fire” he’d called her. And she was. That Radford watched her with such consideration heartened her. She must be playing her role well.
“The hard way is much more unpleasant,” he warned.
“I regret my earlier defiance against Mr. Harrington, and I…I thank you for offering me protection. He explained it was your choice to hold me here rather than at Radford gaol.” She wrapped her arms around her waist and hunched her shoulders. Inside, she was fair to bursting with anticipation.
She had but one chance. She must play it out to perfection.
A knock sounded and Radford opened the door, took the salve.
“I am desperately hungry.” Her voice shook with nerves. He would assume it was fear. “And some tea.”
Radford paused for a moment, and she feared he would refuse.
“Something to eat for the woman.” He closed the door, walked across the small room and offered her the jar of salve. “For your lip.”
He motioned for her to take it, and she flinched as if frightened.
“I won’t bite,” he said on a long breath.
Mazie stepped forward and took the jar from his hand. Her fingers brushed his palm, such a large and warm hand. It would make a heavy fist.
Don’t think on it.
The salve smelled of calendula and comfrey, and she smoothed some on her lip. Radford watched her as she gently dabbed the bruise and cut at the corner of her mouth.
She was close enough now. She would hit him once, as Roane had taught her. A strong, flat hand to the underside of his jaw, hard enough to stun him, incapacitate him.
His head would snap back. Maybe it would hit the wall. Maybe it would make a sound. She should be prepared for such unpleasantness.
Her heartbeat thundered. She needed to stop thinking and just do it already. She lowered her hand and his eyes jerked to hers, gauging her.
He was too alert, and she was too nervous. She must stop trembling. She must distract him. She must remember he would hang her. He would hang Roane.
Mazie slid her finger over her lower lip as she had seen the barmaids do. She had no idea if her gaoler would be so easily diverted. But, well, he was a man.
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.
The Runaway Countess Page 1