“Where to?”
“America.”
“America? So far?” Gone was the feeling of rightness she had found dancing with Trent. Gone was the sense that everything was flowing as it should, that she was part of it all. She was left with this blind, groping confusion.
“It’s all set.”
“What of Mrs. Pearl?”
“She’ll join us. We’ll three disappear as if we died. Lady Margaret can suffer some great, tragic death if you want. We could report it to the papers.”
She frowned. Must they be so dramatic? Trentwould he believe it? Cat would suspect the truth.
She did not know if this was truly what she wanted. To disappear. To die.
And to start over as someone else.
It did not feel right. Her body did not feel right. It was more than nerves. It was emptiness. Loneliness. It was a life without roots, without weight. It was endless whirling with nothing to hold her down.
And it wasn’t freedom. Not in the true sense. How had she never seen this?
“Roane”
“There are men watching Mrs. Pearl’s cottage, so it’s been tricky. I’ve had to use Jones as my go-between.” He continued down the side of the gardens by the wall. It was hardly a path at all and branches reached out and snagged her dress.
“Roane” She tried to pull her hand from his, but he continued to drag her forward.
“She’s not thrilled to leave, but she understands.”
“Roane.”
He threw an annoyed look over his shoulder. “God’s teeth, Mazie. We can talk later.”
“Roane.” She looked behind her, where the glow of the gardens was still visible, then back at his shadow lost in the darkness. “I can’t go.”
He finally stopped. She couldn’t see his expression, but his hand tightened around hers. “What do you mean, you can’t go? You’ll love America. You’ve always talked about traveling.”
“But this is fleeing. And it’s not…it’s not responsible. Not to myself.”
“What is this nonsense?” He pulled her back into the gloom beneath a tree.
Mazie searched for a way to explain. It all felt huge and important, but she had no idea how to put it into words. How to take this raw hope, this breathless fear, and spin it into a thread of language. “A rolling stone gathers no moss.”
“What?” He shook his head and sent the barest hint of moonlight scattering through his hair. “Who wants moss?”
She wanted moss. She wanted something to stick.
She wanted Trent.
She wanted love, the mess of hurt and mistakes. The longing and joy.
She would run from pain, from injustice, but she did not want to run from love. “I looked in a book. Moss grows where it is wet and dark and no other flowers want to blossom. It…it clings close together in lovely soft mats of life.”
“What?” Roane looked at her, his mouth agape. “I am worried about you. Being locked up has made you daft.”
“I’m not daft.” She inhaled, relaxed the knot in her throat. “It’s what Mrs. Pearl says, about being responsible for ourselves. We create our own freedom, no matter the circumstances.”
“Last I knew, you were hardly free, Mazie. This is nonsense.” He tugged on her hand. “Come along, you cannot stay.”
“That’s the point. Maybe I can stay.” She pulled her hand from his and pressed her palm to her eyes. She half-laughed, bewildered at her own thoughts. She did not know how this would work between Trent and herself. But she did not have to know. That was the best part. She did not need to imagine her future. She did not need to be in charge of anything but herself. She needed to give this life a chance and live it the best she knew how.
“Maybe you can stay? What the hell do you mean?” He was impatient as only an older brother could be.
She dropped her hand from her face. “I don’t know. Let me think.”
“We haven’t bloody time to think. Tell me, what do you imagine will happen if you stay?”
“He wants to marry me,” she blurted out. “Or at least he did. But only out of duty. Oh, it’s all so complicated.”
He was silent a long moment. “Who wants to marry you?” His voice was chilled.
Oh God, this was not coming out well. Rarely had she seen Roane so upset.
He stepped closer to her, towering over her. “Who, Mazie?”
“Trent.”
“Trent? The Earl of Radford? Our enemy?” He shook his head, momentarily mute. “What the hell are you thinking?”
She latched on to his jacket, begging him to understand. “You don’t know him, Roane. You cannot judge him.”
“I know enough.” He glowered at her. “Do you love him?”
“Yes.”
“Bloody, blasted…” Roane swallowed the rest of his curse with a grunt.
“He isn’t like his father. He fired Harrington.” She had to explain, make him understand.
“Did you tell him the truth?”
There was a beat of silence. “No.”
“Why not?”
She couldn’t answer. Haunting strains of music floated past them, pierced here and there by laughter.
“You cannot trust him, can you?” Roane stalked away into the moonlight, then came back to the shadows under the tree. “He would turn me in, hang me, wouldn’t he?”
Again, she did not answer.
He swore under his breath. “We are not going to talk about this any longer. You are coming with me. Tonight. Now.” He grabbed her hands.
Mazie dug her heels into the ground. “You run. Go now. I will stay and take care of Mrs. Pearl. We both know she is too old to flee. Besides, you are right, it is you they want and we would only slow you down. By yourself, you can escape. You should go now, Roane.”
“You would stay for him? Despite everything?”
“Not for him. For me. This is about me. I cannot run. That is not my future. You must leave me here.”
As if she hadn’t spoken, Roane grabbed her arm and started marching her toward the far end of the garden. Through the darkness, shadows shifted and moved.
“It is only Zeus,” he whispered. “He will carry us both out of here.”
“No, Roane.” Mazie felt calm, settled within her heart. “I won’t go. I truly believe you want justice, but I fear you have gotten too involved in the adventure of it all. The gamble. It has become too much for me. I need to stop.”
He stopped, his head bent low. “But, Mazie, I cannot stay.”
She nodded, bit her lip as emotion swelled in her chest. “I will do everything I can to protect you. Always.”
“Then” He couldn’t finish.
Then he would leave her, sail to America without her. She would say goodbye to the last of her family here in this garden.
He took her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Are you well, Mazie? Are you going to be all right?”
“Yes.” A tear slipped from her eye, then another. “I won’t lose you again, BB.”
“Don’t cry, Mazie. Aw, come on, brat.” Roane’s voice was suspiciously rough as he pulled her into his embrace. Mazie wrapped her arms around her brother and held on for dear life, terrified this would be the last moment she would ever have with him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“The course of true love never did run smooth.” Shakespeare
Mazie was gone.
Trent stared at his sister. “What do you mean, gone?” His belly sank at the words, as if gone was a heavy rock falling through the murky, bottomless depths of his fear.
“I stepped away for a moment and when I returned she was nowhere to be found.” Cat tilted her head in a pretty way that probably charmed other men.
Not her brother, however. He fisted his hands to keep from throttling her. “How long ago was this?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes.” She lifted her brows and opened her blue eyes wide.
He scowled. Mazie could be anywhere by now. Out of his life forever. “And yo
u waited to come for me?”
“I looked in the withdrawing room first.” Her huffy manner ruined her innocent posturing.
“Really, Cat. One might believe you were on Mazie’s side in all of this.”
Cat did not look as insulted by the remark as one would hope.
He was hot, burning hot. Angry. Desperate. “You gave me your word that she would not leave your sight.”
“I am not her gaoler, Trent.” Cat paled, and her hands fluttered around her like two nervous birds. “If she wanted to go, she should be free to do so.”
“Did you help her?” He grabbed her hand. “Do you know where she is?”
Cat looked down at the floor and shook her head. Guilty. Hell, his own sister was guilty.
Trent let go of her hand. He shook his head, hard, then brushed past her, and strode toward the garden doors.
Mazie would be outside. She would be moving fast. He pressed through the crowd, unmindful of the scene he was creating, and stepped out onto the stone terrace. His heart thundered in his chest. He had to find her, see her, touch her.
He skirted some drunken couples and the hot, blazing torches, then picked up his pace. He couldn’t lose her. Not like this.
Blood rushed in his ears. Had the Midnight Rider finally come for her? Was Mazie in his arms right now?
He darted around the side of the gardens, searched down each row of manicured bushes. Nothing.
She couldn’t be gone. She couldn’t have left him.
Down another path, two lovers embraced near a fountain. His lungs froze. It was Mazie. No. No, the woman was blonde. Blonde, thank God. He inhaled and pressed onward.
Pressed through the darkness.
An uncomfortable hollowness caved out his belly. Something had happened to him there in the ballroom. Something he did not know how to name. He had meant what he said. He did not care if she called herself Mazie, or Lady Margaret, or Belinda from Bastille. She was perfect just as herself. None of the rest mattered.
He had to find her. Tell her how he felt. She had to give him a chance.
His boots crunched on the gravel as he ran through the gardens, chasing shadows. One word flitted around in the back of his mind, but he could not give it credit. Or dare not.
Love.
Preposterous. Certainly he had not fallen in love with her.
Why then this sense of panic?
Because of the investigation. That was all.
He hurried on. More dark shadows, more graveled lanes leading to nothing. Wait. He stopped. There, in the darkness, another couple stood in an embrace. The smallest traces of moonlight sparkled in the woman’s dark hair. Everything stopped. Suspended. Time, breath, heartbeat paused.
It was her. Mazie. He knew it instantly.
Pain sliced through him, then the burning solder of anger.
“Let her go,” his growl rent the darkness.
The man embracing her swore under his breath and pushed Mazie behind him. It was a possessive gesture that spoke volumes.
Trent was going to kill him.
“You are done with her, Radford,” the blond man called out. “You never should have taken her in the first place.”
“You should not have left a woman to do your dirty work.” Trent walked toward them, his breath sharp and fast in his lungs. He had to calm down. He had to think straight.
Mazie’s head peaked out from behind the Midnight Rider, but the bastard pushed her behind him again and backed up. Horse’s hooves shuffled in the trees behind them.
“Let us be, Radford. It is over. We are leaving. Mazie says you fired Harrington, so you must know some of what has been going on. Be honorable, admit your mistakes.”
Rage burned so hot Trent began to sweat. His hands flexed at his side and he scanned the area. It was wooded and quiet, removed from the rest of the gardens. He could call for the guards, presumably nearby, but he wanted to fight this man himself. This criminal who had evaded him for months, mocked him, mocked his family, and now wanted to take Mazie.
Again, she tried to skirt around the highwayman. Her face looked ashen, worried.
The Midnight Rider grabbed her wrist. “Damn it, Mazie. Stay out of this. Please.”
She pressed her lips together, her eyes on Trent. She looked guilty as hell. And scared. Had the man threatened her somehow?
Did she want to go with him? Trent could barely think of her running away. Just the idea was a scorching knife to his heart.
“Let her go,” he demanded again.
“No.” The criminal’s voice was solid, determined, and held a touch of cocksure attitude.
That was enough.
With a growl, Trent lunged forward. The man pushed Mazie out of the way, giving Trent the freedom to draw back his fist and throw a punch.
The bastard dodged the blow and Trent’s fist found nothing but air. Mazie stumbled and landed on her backside. He turned toward her, did not see the punch headed toward his face until it was too late. It landed with a fierce blow that knocked his head back.
His ears rang, and damn, his face hurt. He straightened, shook it off and circled his quarry. Moonlight filtered through the trees just enough to illuminate the other man.
Trent jabbed left then swung right. This time his fist connected with a jarring impact on the scoundrel’s jaw. The sound of bone hitting bone cracked through the night and Mazie cried out.
“Bastard.” Trent shook the ache from his hand, satisfaction coursing through him.
“How did you know?” The highwayman smiled then cursed as his lip split and blood gushed down his chin.
“Stop it,” Mazie insisted, struggling to her feet. “This is ridiculous.”
Trent barely heard her. He felt powerful, awake as he hadn’t felt in years. Like he could lift a boulder or run to the top of Black Hill. His feet light and quick, he circled the criminal and danced away from his jabs. “Leaving a woman to do your dirty work, Midnight Rider.”
“And this from the man who held her prisoner.”
“At least I know you were not her first lover,” Trent taunted. “I have left my mark on her forever.”
“What?” The highwayman froze and Trent landed a punch to his belly.
“Oh my God, stop. Now.” Mazie tried to throw herself between them. Trent barely registered her pale arms reaching out in the moonlight as if she could separate them.
They moved away from her and circled each other again.
“Did you compromise her?” the man growled. “Did you force her?”
“Umph,” Trent grunted as a fist landed in his ribs. He drew in a tight breath. “No force was necessary, I assure you.”
The highwayman shook his head and a dark expression came over his face.
“God damn it. Roane, Trent. Stop!” Mazie again tried to step between them.
And again they evaded her. As if time had slowed down, Trent watched his opponent charge, his head down, his shoulders braced for impact. With a quick move, Trent sidestepped then tackled the man to the earth. Gravel bit at his skin as they rolled and wrestled, each jostling for leverage, for power. It was an evenly matched fight, but Trent had the advantage of rage. He kneed his enemy in the groin and rolled him on his back. Holding him by the neck cloth, he landed a harsh blow on the man’s face.
“Stop it!” Mazie cried again.
He was dimly aware of her at his back, trying to pull him off. He punched the man in the gut.
“Stop!” Mazie shook Trent’s shoulders and he shrugged her off like a fly.
“God damn it, Trent. Don’t you dare kill my brother!” Mazie slapped him across the face.
Something entered the red haze of his mind. Some awareness. He let go of his adversary and let the man’s head fall back onto the path.
Roane. She had called him Roane. Roane Grantham. Mrs. Pearl’s nephew.
His hands shook and stung and his breath came in panting gasps. He rolled to the ground and looked up at Mazie, who stood with her arms crossed in front of her
and tears in her eyes. Behind her, guards had arrived, torches blazing. And behind them, he just made out the blinking of the stars in the night sky.
He struggled to clear his thoughts. Something else was niggling in his mind. Something was trying to be understood.
“What did you say?” Trent asked, his breath bursting in jagged inhalations that hurt his ribs.
Mazie ignored him and fell to her knees at Roane’s side. The bastard’s face was cut and one eye was already swollen, but he looked alert.
“Do you feel better now, you blockhead.”
Trent did not know who she was talking to, but without looking she lifted her hand and pushed at his shoulder, pushed him away from Roane. She dabbed the highwayman’s cut lip with the ripped hem of her gown.
Trent tamped down his rage at the sight of her touching the other man. “What did you say?”
Mazie looked up at him, exasperated. “I said, do you feel better now, you blockhead.” Her eyes scanned his face and she sighed, heavy with emotion. “Your cheek is bleeding.”
He withdrew his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against his cheekbone. His blood was still too hot to feel pain. “What did you say before that?”
She shook her head, reached out and touched his cheek, such a soft, delicate gesture that made him feel like the worst sort of beast. Then she let her hand drop and turned back to Roane, who was struggling to sit upright.
“Careful,” Mazie instructed. She opened the buttons of Roane’s waistcoat and Trent thought he was going to explode, watching them.
Then his mind finally cleared free of the haze. My God, she had said Roane was her brother.
Her brother.
She ran her hands inside Roane’s waistcoat, searching for any obvious fractures in his ribs.
“God’s teeth, Mazie.” Roane brushed her hands away. “If there is anything worse than getting pounded in a fight, it’s getting coddled by a woman afterward.”
“Ugh!” She pressed away from her brother, glared at both men as she stood. Her hair had come loose from its pins and she pushed it back from her face. Her gown was stained with dirt and blood, and somewhere she had lost a slipper. “I hope you are both happy now. I should have let you fight it out.”
The Runaway Countess Page 29