He forced his gaze away. After his dreams last night, he was resolved to think of his prisoner like a rock, or a tree, and not as a woman in any sort of way.
“I do wish you would be ready on time,” he murmured. “I cannot be expected to wait all morning.”
She did not reply, but she did not need to. He knew the truth of the matter. According to the maids, Mazie had been ready on time but had spent a half hour sitting in her room on purpose. He did not know whether to be impressed with her continued defiance or irritated as hell.
It was harder than he’d anticipated, unfolding this woman’s secrets. He’d threatened her, scorned her and obviously frightened her, but she did not give him so much as an inch. Reluctantly, he had to admit that he would want her for an ally. It was uncommon to find such honor to one’s cause when faced with the risk of one’s own life.
“Why didn’t I ride in my own gown? Why this dress?” When he glanced at her again she motioned toward his sister’s old riding habit. Made of fine blue merino cloth, it was styled traditionally with a tight-fitting jacket that hugged her in all the right places. The long, voluminous skirt covered her old boots, and she wore a small-brimmed black hat with a blue ribbon to match.
“Too many eyes watching. I’ve appearances to keep up.” Trent looked her up and down. He did not want to notice the litheness of her form underneath that dress or the lush, full curve of her breasts. “I am relieved to see the end of that horrific black monstrosity you arrived in. I shall be glad to have it burned.”
She turned away and pressed her lips together as he knew she would. It was too easy, baiting her. “What, are you attached to that eyesore of a dress?”
“It was mine.” Her voice revealed her fatigue, but she held her head with pride. “I bought it with my own wages.”
“Are you a widow? In full mourning?”
She did not so much as blink.
“No, I did not think so. In fact, I would wager that the widow’s weeds were a disguise meant to offer a certain amount of freedom and respectability.”
“You needn’t concern yourself with my belongings or my attire. I understand I am your prisoner, but I do wish to retain some semblance of sovereignty over my person.” The path narrowed and, without prompting, Mazie drew her horse back and fell in line behind him.
They rode through a thick forest so dense it was still dark under the interlocking branches. The air was colder here and held the scent of damp earth. Trent scanned the ground for tracks of any kind, but his mind was on the woman behind him. Who the hell was she with her cultured speech? He was certain the intonations of her vowels indicated an education of some sort and not the kind that could be learned from books.
And she seemed quite comfortable on a horse. It was not common for servants, especially of the female variety, to know how to ride. The forest opened to a meadow and he slowed so his prisoner was at his side once more.
She glanced at him and, finding his attention on her, narrowed her brown eyes. “I expected Harrington this morning. Will you send me off to him when we return?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” Such a charming conversation.
“What of your threats last night?”
A reaction of rage, a ploy meant to scare her. It seemed it had worked. “I am trying to keep you out of the county gaol, only the good Lord knows why.” Actually, he did know why. There was an unexpected elegance about her that would be her undoing in gaol. The guards would see it instantly and prey upon it. Harrington already had.
“How gallant of you,” she snapped.
He guessed she was irritated with her own fear as much as she was irritated with him. Good. He would keep her off-kilter. “You had best play nice, Miss Mazie.”
“I am just confused. It is rather difficult to sort the lies from the truth.” Forced friendliness laced her tone.
“Are you speaking of yourself, then?” What a mouth this woman had, full of challenge and insult.
She turned away with an irritated sniff, and Trent found he had to suppress a smile. He could not countenance it, this amusement he found in deviling her.
They rode in silence, punctuated here and there by the layered sounds of the meadow. A gentle wind rippled the tall grasses. A swallow warbled. Somewhere in the distance a man struck a hammer.
Mazie tilted her head back and let the sun fall on her face. Trent could not help but watch her. Perhaps she was thinking of her small room. Of a life in Newgate with no meadows to ride in.
“Trent,” she said, not opening her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you send me to Harrington, really?”
He considered his answer, let her waiting stretch out. “Mazie.”
“Yes.”
“I am not done with you yet.”
Her eyes opened, and she reared back. He watched the play of emotions cross her face—surprise, then the blush of memory—she must be thinking of the kiss—then the coolness of her control.
She glanced at him and he raised a brow. She turned away at once, but it was too late. He had already seen her reaction. She was just as affected by that damned kiss as he.
Without another word, he rode on ahead, their conversation at an end.
Mazie called herself a thousand times a fool and loosened her hold on the reins. The horse plodded along beneath her, slowing down to a wandering amble. She could waste another thirty minutes of their day if she kept up this pace.
She considered the man ahead of her on the lush green path. Trent seemed relaxed and comfortable on his hulking beast of a horse, and dashingly handsome to boot. He wore his hat at a conservative angle, his cravat was crisp and gleaming white and his boots freshly buffed. He was quite well turned out for a morning ride in the deep forest with only the company of his captive and four hired brutes. Some lords favored casual dress in the countryside, but not the Earl of Radford. No, he was dressed to go riding in Hyde Park with Dukes and Princes.
It was a shame he was not in London, flirting with some impressionable young girls out for their first season. They had much more use for his handsomeness than she did.
His earlier words echoed through her mind.
I am not done with you yet.
What did he mean? Her mind conjured memories of their kiss, the unwanted attraction between them. Hopefully, he did not refer to that.
She forced her attention away from her infuriating captor and watched the wind play with the grass. The sweet smell of summer blew over her. She wondered what Roane was doing this morning. Maybe he was camped out by a creek somewhere, laid out like a cat. Perhaps he was hiding in a cave or secreted away in a barn.
Wherever he was, she hoped he was safe.
Trent expected her to divulge all the Midnight Rider’s secrets this morning. Where she met him to exchange goods. Where he slept. She could not very well expose the truth, but neither could she afford to provoke her captor. No, she must provide him with compelling information, convince him she was valuable enough to keep around until she figured something else out. She hastily mapped out areas of Radford in her mind. She would lead him on a merry chase, none of it related to the truth.
“We turn up ahead, at the bend in the river,” she called out, not daring to glance at Trent. It was rather disconcerting lying to his face. A tinge of uneasiness flipped around in her belly. Surely it was not guilt. She owed this man nothing, while she owed Roane and his aunt her life. No, it was just nerves. It would be hard to trick her captor. He was an intelligent and all too observant man.
Trent remained silent and followed her lead. She scanned the tall grasses and nearby trees for signs of the trail, which was both well marked and yet disguised. With a few wrong turns into the thick woods, followed by the grumbling of the large men behind them, she led the way into an open meadow. Wagon tracks marked the edges of the clearing and fire rings scarred the earth. A thick patch of purple clover buzzed with bees in the sunlight.
T
rent dismounted and left his horse to graze untethered. He paced around the clearing and gathered information in his head. “A gypsy encampment.”
He did not know of this place though it was on his land. Good, it would be easier to trick him.
“Yes,” Mazie replied, offering as little information as possible.
Trent came to her side and wordlessly assisted her down from her mount. She stepped out of his arms as soon as her feet found purchase on the earth. It was terribly uncomfortable being so close to him. It was like her entire being awakened under his attention.
Never had she thought herself such a dunderhead.
The four other riders tied up their horses and walked the perimeter of the clearing. Would they know she was lying? Would the earth give them clues she could not know of?
Her hands felt sweaty in her riding gloves. She took a deep breath. There was no sense delaying further. “I—” She faltered when Trent turned to her with those ever watchful eyes. Avoiding him, she looked down at the skirts of her riding habit and brushed out the wrinkles. “This is where I met him last.”
“When?”
Her gaze still downcast, she watched as he widened his stance and planted his feet. Ever determined, this one.
“Three weeks ago. He made his camp here.”
“Were you to meet him here again?”
“No, I don’t think I shall ever see him again. We had a quarrel, you see.” Brilliant. She surprised herself sometimes.
Trent’s feet shifted. “What sort of a quarrel.”
“Just a quarrel, my lord.” She blushed. She could not care what kind of a lightskirt he thought her to be. A thief and a whore.
“Do you know how to contact him?”
She forced herself to look up at him. “No. I simply wait for him to send me a note when he is near. I wouldn’t know how to reach him.” The truth, safe enough to reveal.
Trent crossed his arms. “How gallant of him, leaving with no forwarding address. What if you needed his assistance?”
“I…well…I take care of myself.” Definitely the truth.
“Remind me how you met this charming fellow.” He cocked his head to the side. Oh, how the young girls in London would giggle and twitter if they could see Lord Radford in his relentless handsomeness.
“I told you last night. It was at the Saturday market. He bought me a ribbon.”
“Ah, a ribbon.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice.
“It was a very pretty ribbon,” Mazie said defensively. The absurdity of her feeling insulted by his reaction to her lie was not lost on her, but did little to sooth her temper.
“Such a pretty ribbon that you agreed to meet him alone, in the woods, and assist him in his treasonous crimes?”
“I did not know he was the Midnight Rider at first. Eventually he told me the truth and I found his mission to be rather heroic. You may scoff, my lord, but—” She stopped herself before she said too much.
Trent shook his head. “What does the man know of heroism, Mazie? He knows nothing of honor, of sacrifice.” He looked away, toward his men. After a moment, he glanced back at her. “Who are his friends?”
“I met none of his acquaintances. I don’t believe he was in Radford very long.” This mix of fabrication and truth was harder to organize than she imagined. She was fully sweating now, not just her palms.
“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.
The Runaway Countess Page 4