Trent. He was home.
A warm, honeyed pleasure spread through her at the sound of his voice, as did the prickly memory of what he had done to her, the surrender he had coaxed from her before leaving her vulnerable and alone. Not turning to greet him, she slid another arrow from her quiver.
“Where have you been?” A twirl of light green satin disappeared from Mazie’s vision as Cat hurried to embrace her brother. “We’ve been so worried.”
“Have you?”
“You left with no word,” she fussed.
He is a cad. Mazie pursed her lips and nocked her arrow. Even his sister thinks so. She aimed and shot in one quick motion. The arrow landed just shy of center.
“I should scold you, Cat, for putting a bow and arrow in Lady Margaret’s capable hands.” The warm rumble of Trent’s voice held no real censure.
Unable to ignore him any longer, Mazie forced her shoulders back and faced him. He leaned against a stone-bordered flowerbed that was crowded with red daylilies, his posture relaxed, his dark hair mussed. He was watching her, waiting. Their gazes clashed with all the power and sizzle of a bolt of lightning.
He looked regrettably handsome, damn the man. His clothes were more casual than she had previously seen, more appropriate for a lord riding about the country. His buckskin breeches hugged his long legs and tucked into a pair of worn boots spattered with mud. His coat was fine, but his flat belly was covered by a waistcoat of linen rather than silk.
Despite her best efforts to remain aloof, Mazie recalled the last time she had seen him, the pleasure he had given her. A hot blush crept up her cheeks, but she refused to look away, refused to hide behind the wide brim of her bonnet.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” Cat tugged on her brother’s arm, demanding an answer. “Where did you go?”
His attention still on Mazie, he finally answered. “I rode west, to Derbyshire.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. What did he mean by that? Both she and Roane were born in Derbyshire. Had he discovered something? Is that where Roane was hiding?
“Next time at least leave a note,” Cat huffed. “Shall we continue our match, Lady Margaret?”
“No, you go on.” Mazie put down her bow and walked away a few steps, busying herself with unlacing her leather armguard. The task proved difficult as her palms were damp, her hands shaky.
“Allow me to help.”
She almost jumped, his voice was so close. The smells of his warm skin wrapped around her, pulled at memories deep within. She throbbed, one long squeeze in her tender feminine flesh.
“No, thank you.” She hurried toward the gazebo, which provided the only shade in the field bordering the lake. She needed to cool her temper, to cool the flush of heat pulsing with unwanted awareness. Really, she wanted to dive into the lake, escape into the quiet, muffled world of the fish.
She hated this vulnerable reaction Trent stirred within, this intense longing. He had played her the fool, yet she still desired him.
“You are correct to avoid me, Lady Margaret.” He followed her, his voice a near whisper so Cat would not overhear. “I behaved dreadfully. Please accept my most humble apologies for my actions. I was the worst sort of fool.”
She halted her retreat, not sure how to feel.
“Your arm.”
Before she could respond, he took hold of her wrist and pulled her hand toward him. She watched his dark fingers unfasten the leather lacings of her armguard, each tug sending vibrations through her body like a plucked bowstring. Either he wore no gloves or he had taken them off. His hands looked masculine against her pale skin and she couldn’t help but remember holding his forearm as his fingers pleasured her—
He glanced up at her, then let his gaze slide down her lilac muslin dress, down to her slippers, before returning to the lacings. Her pulse roared in her ears as he bent his dark head, unwound the last of the leather and slowly pulled the armguard over her hand.
Taking a small step back, away from his grey eyes, his strong jaw, she forced aside her awareness of him, forced her thoughts to her unraveling predicament. What had Lord Radford—for she must think of him that way—discovered these past days? Was there news of Roane?
“I’ve had a most interesting journey, most informative.” He reached out and touched her pearl earbob, on loan from Cat. “Rodsley is a lovely village.”
Mazie flinched, both at the spark of his touch and the surprise of his words.
He let his hand drop by his side and said nothing more. He would make her ask.
“How resourceful that you would seek out the place of my birth.”
“I met Mrs. Martin.”
She forced herself to breathe, though the name of her beloved governess brought a piercing pain to her chest. “How did you find her?”
“Comfortable.”
Comfortable? Comfortable like she wasn’t starving or comfortable like she had a home of her own, a place to rest? Mazie bit her lip and looked away, wanting to ask for information but terrified of the answer. Her father had left no provision for her, his own daughter, after his death. Neither were there funds for her governess who had been with her since her earliest memories. “Is she well cared for?”
“Yes, she lives in a cottage with Mrs. Shelton.”
“The housekeeper? Her husband passed away, then?”
He shrugged. “Both women seem content and loved to talk about you.”
Her heart froze in her chest, sealing away the tumult of emotions threatening her. She was full of questions, excited and sad at once, but did not want to show any of that to Trent—Lord Radford. Perhaps, she admitted, she did not want to show them to herself. It was like Pandora’s box. Once she opened those memories she feared what power they would have.
“What are you two whispering about over there?” Cat called from her spot on the shooting line.
“Your brother has been interrogating my former governess and housekeeper.” Mazie tried to sound more lighthearted than she felt. Truly, she mostly felt raw. She tried not to think back to those days when life had been gentle. When she had been loved and cared for.
Every child must grow up, leave behind their innocence and learn the ways of the world.
The conversation must have been more interesting than the target, for Cat put down her bow and walked toward them. “Were you really bothering Mazie’s governess?”
“And housekeeper.”
Trent shot both women a look. “I wouldn’t say the kind ladies were bothered by a visit from the Earl of Radford.”
Cat shook her head at him.
“Actually, I think the women were just excited to talk about their ‘darling little Marguerite’.” He smirked.
“They said I was darling?” This topic held no threat, Mazie decided. Neither woman would say anything about Roane. They had been friends with his mother and helped protect him after she died. The opportunity to talk about her childhood was too tempting to hold her tongue. “They must be getting confused in their old age.”
Trent smiled. “They said you were a willful hellion as well.”
“That sounds more like Mrs. Martin.” She couldn’t help but laugh.
“I also met Vicar Ashley.”
Her laughter froze in her chest and she pressed her fingers to her lips. Vicar Ashley was a kindhearted soul and used to sneak her peppermints after sermon. At one time she had been certain God must resemble him with his white hair and bushy brows.
But the vicar was old now, maybe feeble. Might he have said something about Roane?
“I didn’t mention to him that you are now a blasphemous sinner.” Trent winked to take the sting out of his words.
Mazie’s eyes rounded. She hadn’t thought of such a possibility. “What did you tell them about my current situation? What did you tell Mrs. Martin?”
“I told them you were being considered as a traveling companion for my sister.”
“Oh.” She blinked, relieved and grateful and close to
tears at what her life had become. “Thank you.”
“They were worried about you. Someone from your uncle’s estate interviewed them after you ran away and no one has heard from you since. As well they should worry,” he muttered. “A woman alone, without protection, is in grave danger.”
She stiffened against her guilt. She had known Mrs. Martin would fret. The old woman had always been so kind.
“And a willful woman without a reasonable sense of caution is in the worst sort of danger.” His grey gaze never left hers. “No one knew where you were, not even those who love you. You could have been hurt, Mazie.”
She drew back an imperceptible inch. He almost seemed concerned about her. “I can—”
“Take care of yourself? Yes, I see that.” He widened his stance and crossed his arms, preparing for a battle. “You have taken your own brilliant counsel and created quite an adventure for yourself.”
“Trent.” Cat reached out and touched his arm.
He did not look at his sister, just kept his gaze on Mazie. “But what counsel? I have yet to decide if you are running from something or rushing headstrong toward something else.”
She lifted her chin. What in the world had he discovered these last few days?
“I should say I am running nowhere at the moment. At least not in these shoes.” Thinking to distract him, she raised the hem of her dress and pointed her toe. A lilac slipper and a silk-clad ankle peeked out. “They are quite comfortable but would quickly surrender in a disagreement with a rock.”
Trent continued to frown at her as if he was judging something, mulling something over in that thick head of his. “I knew your father.”
Mazie jerked her gaze to his. Where was he was going with this?
“Not very well,” he amended. “But I made his acquaintance.”
A slight raise of her brows was the only reaction she allowed herself to show. Inside, she was a scramble of anticipation and dread.
“And I do remember your mother. She was a famous beauty.” He tilted his head to the side, the motion sending the wayward lock of dark hair across his forehead. “You look like her.”
She had heard this opinion from many people, but to know that Trent felt the same brought an unwanted surge of pleasure, a warm flush that she feared showed on her face.
“I was only vaguely aware that your father lost his fortune.” He kept his voice soft, gentle, as if talking to a child. “Were you informed of the details?”
Damn and blast.
She shrugged, tried to let her shoulders drop and relax. “He—” she cleared her throat, “—he spent too much money on my first season. Maman was mad for the dresses and carriages. I think father gave her everything she wanted.” She kept her eyes round and innocent as she told the lie. Well, not exactly a lie. Those things were true and had led to the demise of the family fortune. But they were not the real cause of their destitution.
Trent’s brows lowered as he concentrated on her. Another wave of heat washed over her.
“What do you know of your father’s business interests with Lord Nash?” Again, he used a soft, kind voice.
She shook her head, pretending confusion.
So he had learned much in Rodsley. Too much.
She held her posture though inside she wanted to run, pivot on her heel and flee.
Trent relaxed his frown and seemed to accept her denial as truth. Really, why would she know about Nash? Daughters rarely knew of their father’s business concerns. But Mazie had always been curious. She had known something was wrong when her father lost his usual sparkle. It was not too hard to listen in on a few private conversations and rifle through his desk at night. Around the same time her parents became ill with the influenza, she had discovered that Nash had swindled her father with a land scheme.
“Always so serious.” Cat swatted her brother’s arm. “Certainly you heard some charming tales about our guest.”
A warm breeze blew across the lake, tossing loose strands of Mazie’s hair across her sensitive cheeks. The slight tickle was a great irritation in her current state. She tucked her hair haphazardly into her bonnet, wondering what Trent would say next, pretending like there was nothing to fear.
“I did hear quite a number of amusing stories,” he finally confessed. “And I brought something back.” He raised his brows and walked toward the gazebo.
Mazie hung back, fearing what it was he had to give her. Whatever it was, she was certain she did not want it.
So, when Trent returned with his gift, she was stunned for a moment.
He held her doll.
“Bébé.”
He placed the doll in her outstretched hands and she thought her heart would literally break, the ache was so intense.
She ran a finger over Bébé’s familiar face. The doll looked exactly the same. The same wide blue eyes and brown curls, the same pink cheeks and full mouth. She fingered the miniature gown of silk and lace, made from a favorite dress of her mother’s. She could still picture her maman wearing the evening gown, smelling like roses as she bent to give a goodnight kiss.
She felt suspended in time. No matter how much she thought she had changed, how much she wanted to run away and become someone else, she was the same little girl inside, sad to say goodbye to her parents for an evening’s entertainment. She was the same young woman, desperate over their deaths.
The unbearable ache rendered her chest into two throbbing halves. Memories of another time, another life, crashed over her and threatened to drag her under. The sorrow was too much for one heart to bear.
“Mrs. Martin gave it to me,” Trent said quietly. “She found it a few years ago but didn’t know how to return it to you.”
“Mmm.” Mazie did not dare open her mouth for fear her composure would completely crack.
Pandora’s box had been opened.
With exaggerated slowness, Mazie walked into the gazebo, placed her doll on a chair and picked up a glass of lemonade from the table. She looked beautiful, serene in her pale lavender. The picture of a gentle lady enjoying the country air. Trent could not relate this image of her with the wild, erotic woman he had left three nights ago.
No, not just left. He had fled, run away from her and the fierce pull she had over him. Fled the questions she had inspired about his father.
But his time in Rodsley had been no distraction from thoughts of Mazie. Indeed, he had spent the last three days talking of nothing but the mysterious Lady Margaret and her childhood, learning of her parents and the classically aristocratic world they had inhabited. Learning about the demise of their fortune and their ruined friendship with Lord Nash.
Lord Nash—the Midnight Rider’s first victim.
At night, when he had tried to sleep, Trent had dreamt of Mazie, the throaty sound of her passion, the arch and tremble of her pleasure. Now his body was acutely, painfully aware of her. Even as she stood three paces away, he noticed her scent of rose, the lines around her eyes from not sleeping, the way her hands fluttered and never seemed to still.
The way she was trying very hard not to cry.
He should not have given her the doll. Without intent, he had insulted her or hurt her or some other mysterious female emotion. He wished he understood what he had done to cause her sadness so he could fix it, render her pain obsolete. Instead, he stood there, confused and frustrated, ignorant to the true mind of the woman who tormented him. The woman who was at this moment hiding her face behind the straw brim of her bonnet. The woman who’s every dodge and parry only stoked his interest.
What the hell was he going to do with Lady Margaret Parthena Harlan Chetwyn?
Cat stepped in with a gentle touch to Mazie’s shoulder. “Can I get you anything? Would you like to return to the hall?”
Mazie shook her head then lifted her chin, her brown eyes shining with tears. “I feel so foolish.”
“Trent and I understand,” Cat said with a reassuring pat. “Truly, it does help to cry.”
He rubbed h
is hand over his forehead. When was the last time he had cried over his parents’ deaths? He had been a lad when his mother died in childbirth and had wept and wept until his father reprimanded him. After his father’s death, he had allowed himself one night of tears. That was it. He was the earl, and earls do not cry.
Another sob tore from Mazie’s throat and he had to restrain the impulse to embrace her. He hated feeling useless in the face of her sorrow and contented himself with handing her his handkerchief.
“I-I want to stop hurting. I-I do,” she stammered. “But I am a-afraid to forget them even more.”
A raw ache filled his throat and he clasped his hands behind his back until he was sure his knuckles were white. “God damned Midnight Rider.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Both women regarded him with wide eyes. “Of course you were easily led astray by the criminal.” A swipe of his hand indicated her vulnerable state. “You lost your family, your fortune, even your friends in one fell swoop. You were unprotected. Lovely and unprotected and an enticing prey for any warm-blooded male.”
Mazie pursed her lips at his statement. Cat’s blue eyes widened even further. He should bite back his anger and tamp down his frustration, but it had been growing since the moment he left Mazie’s room, his erection fierce and unsatisfied. The more he learned about his captive, the more he wanted to protect her from the highwayman, ensure she never saw the bastard again.
Surely it was a natural inclination, for it couldn’t be jealousy.
“Our gender is a despicable lot,” he grumbled. “But the Midnight Rider is ten times a coward to abuse a vulnerable woman. I will see the man hang, I swear it.”
Mazie’s face paled and Cat shook her head at him, clearly thinking that he’d lost his mind. He paced to the table and poured himself a glass of lemonade. The day was hot and growing hotter. The matter of Lady Margaret was twisted and growing ever more confusing.
“I am no man’s prey,” Mazie whispered.
He leaned back against the table and studied her. Wide, guileless eyes and a prim, upright posture. At this moment, she painted the picture of innocence, but he wasn’t so obtuse as to believe she was a victim to life’s circumstances. She was heartbroken, confused and had made some unfortunate choices. But at least she had made choices, had tried to manage the lot life had given her. He had to respect that even if she continued to choose the path of deception.
The Runaway Countess Page 15