The Runaway Countess (4 page)

Was it was true? Or was it a trap, set to make her confess? She softened her spine and tilted her head to the side, hoping it was a trap, watching for the bait.

Trent kept his condescending gaze on her. “He supports war widows and orphans, you know. Right from his own pocket.”

She had not known of that. The guilt flamed hotter, but she forced her lips to lift. “How gracious and kind.”

Trent walked toward her. Stalked actually, his paces measured, his grey eyes glinting like metal. Mazie pressed back until she felt the table behind her. She swallowed the lump of emotion in her throat, not caring to investigate what she felt. Guilt, fear or, good Lord, desire. He stopped square in front of her as if he would lean down and kiss her.

She had to tilt her head back or stare into his grey silk waistcoat. The man was tall. Taller even than Roane. And with such thick cords of muscle. With no weapon at her disposal, she could be physically overpowered in an instant. The thought was sobering.

Trent reached around her and poured himself some wine. She smelled the spice of his shaving soap, sandalwood and lemon, such a masculine scent, so excruciatingly intimate.

“Is there more to this interview, my esteemed lordship?” She smiled wide. She knew how to be flippant. Anger and attraction, on the other hand, were not comfortable passions inside her skin. “Or perhaps it is a lecture, I cannot be certain.”

He stood still and let the silence stretch out, taut and uneasy. “The pawnbroker in Bramcote was persuaded to return Atherton’s stolen belongings.” His voice was quiet and barely disturbed the room.

But it pierced through her. Had she truly made a mistake stealing from Atherton? All her other thefts, small and inconsequential to the victim, had been thought out and weighed. The carriage incident had been a rash move, impetuous. She did not want to feel relieved that the man got his watch and gloves back, but she did.

Trent lapsed into another silence as he put down his glass and loomed over her. She focused her attention on the sounds outside her window, the vibrancy of dusk at midsummer. Full, pulsating, alive. More than anything, she wanted to be out among the crickets and whispering grasses.

“What were you doing there at the accident?”

“Who says I was there?” Too agitated to sit, she darted around him and walked to the window. She placed her hands on the sill and drank in the cool night air. It was a long drop to the earth below with nothing to hold on to.

“There is no escape.”

No there wasn’t, was there. She made herself face him.

He took a calm sip of wine. “I’m not leaving until you tell me why you thought to steal from an honorable man. Is this how you conduct your imitations of justice? Prey on unsuspecting victims when they are the most vulnerable?”

Mazie bit her lip to keep from replying. His taunts would not work. She would not talk.

“I see I have upset you,” he murmured. “Your face is rather red. The truth does make one vulnerable, does it not?”

The man was beyond annoying. She tried to turn her attention to the breeze across the back of her neck and not the strangling effort to hold her tongue.

“Stealing from a war hero,” he pushed, “very commendable, Miss Mazie Jones Bell.”

“Oh, yes.” She crossed her arms and glared at him. “Because every war hero is so honorable.”

“This one is.”

“And you know so much about him?”

“I know more than you do.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure that opinion applies to many topics.”

“Not the Midnight Rider. I do not know nearly enough about him.”

“Yet you seem eager to hang him.”

“And you seem eager to condemn Lord Atherton.”

Mazie pressed her lips closed. This argument was going nowhere.

“Why I assume you have some intelligent reason is beyond me.” He stretched his back, dismissing her. “You are obviously just a hysterical female.”

She gaped at him. He was so infuriating. “You are so infuriating.” She lost her tenuous control over her tongue. “What if I did take those items? What wrong would there be in it? You may steal from your tenants. You may take shillings from the hungry and be lauded as a task maker. Yet I would be vilified for helping those who have been wronged.”

Trent’s brows snapped together and he appeared both angry and confused, as if he did not know what she talked about, but did not think he would like it. “I steal from no one. But you, you seek to defend your crimes, though they were misguided.”

“I do not confess any crimes, my superior lordship. And who is misguided? The wealthy and powerful in Radford have long denied the basic humanity of the villagers. Why else would there be such deep-rooted animosity, such anger?”

“And you sought to alleviate this inequality by stealing from an innocent man?”

“Oh, come now.” Mazie scoffed and threw her hands into the air. “Did you hear me confess?”

He raised a sardonic brow. She
had
been caught selling the items. It was rather ridiculous to continue to deny it.

“This system of subjective personal justice you have created fascinates me.” Too agitated to remain still, Trent paced the small confines of the room. “You yourself hold a tremendous amount of power. You may choose what to tell me, whether the Midnight Rider faces a court of justice or continues with his crimes. I am curious, how do you judge right and wrong, guilt and innocence? Do you have a book of some sort? A set of rules? Lists? Or do you just make it up as you go?”

He stopped and looked at her like he wanted an answer, but he spoke before she thought of one.

“Who do you think you are to decide justice? What gives you the right to interfere with the complex legal system of His Majesty? Perhaps we should all embrace your creative system, mmm? What do you think, Mazie? Will that make everyone in Radford safe and free?”

“The people of Radford are neither safe nor free under
your
system, my lord. It could only be an improvement.” Her braid coiled around her shoulder as she tossed her head.

“Very well, I shall tell all the tenants you are now at liberty to steal at will, but only from those deserving. Have at it. What fun that would be, don’t you think, Miss Mazie? This whole idea of laws and commandments is just passé.” Trent bowed in mock gratitude, his face flushed with anger.

Mazie did not dare react to the condescending gesture, did not dare press further.

“And the Midnight Rider of the local highway?” he demanded. “He seeks to avenge these supposed inequalities you speak of?”

Why had she said so much?

“Who is he? Your lover?”

Roane was far from her lover, but Trent did not need to know that. Better he assume her relationship to the highwayman was common, uninteresting.

Trent watched her almost like he wanted her to be innocent. Mazie fought the urge to fill the space with words, as he obviously hoped she would. Best to give out the information in small doses.

When she offered no further information, he lifted his shoulders as if the nature of her relationship to Roane was of no consequence to him. “Tell me the Christian name of our forested foe.”

“I don’t know the answer to that question,” she evaded.

“Very well, let’s start with something easier. How did you meet him? And do not even try to deny you know the man. You were caught with his stolen goods.” Trent’s expression was firm, red with anger.

Mazie decided she’d best reply. “I met him here, in Radford at a Saturday fair.”

“He lives in Radford?”

“For a time, yes,” she hedged.

“Was he born here?”

“No.”

Trent remained silent, waiting for her to explain.

“Loxley. He was born in Loxley.” She should not have said the words, but they came out before she could stop them. She should have told him something else, should have given him a false clue. Curse her sharp tongue.

“Loxley,” Trent’s brow lowered like a thundercloud. “As in Robin Hood of Loxley? Do you take me for some fool?”

He watched her silently for a long stretch of time. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, but anger made his voice thick. “It is an uncommon privilege you have been granted to stay here at Giltbrook Hall. I have put myself in a tenuous position, claiming you will be of use to us. Harrington, on the other hand, wants to make an example of you, treat you harshly in front of the local gentry.”

Mazie lifted her chin, not wanting to let him intimidate her. But blast, he was doing a superb job of it. She did not even want to consider what they would do to
make an example
of her.

“Tell me something of use,” he grated out. “Give me the Midnight Rider’s location, and I will help you. I will protect you.”

Mazie scoffed. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire?”

Three quick steps and his hands grasped her upper arms. “Where is the highwayman? How do you contact him?”

Her pulse leapt, electrified by his touch. She felt, actually
felt
, the power in his broad shoulders blocking her from the room. Her body reacted of its own accord and her gaze fell to his lips. Full, soft lips that did not belong on such a hard man.

He let go of her and stepped back, but not before she saw the heavy-lidded desire in his eyes. He wanted her. He had wanted her all night, throughout this exhausting cat and mouse game of a conversation. And the worst part was she responded in kind. Though he would just as soon see her hanged, attraction hummed low in her belly.

“Will you not answer me?” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Do you have no concern for the danger you are in? Do you know what will happen to you in gaol?”

With a flash of bravado, Mazie let out an impatient cry. “And whose fault is it that the county gaol is dangerous and corrupt?”

“For God’s sake.” Trent slammed his fist against the wall and Mazie jumped. A rush of fear poured through her, freezing her heart before it stuttered to life again.

A thunderous quiet filled the room.

Trent walked to the desk, poured himself some wine and gulped it down. “You will not get out of this, Mazie. You leave me no choice but to let Harrington have you, and I assure you he will not be so gentle.”

He studied her face, perhaps looking for signs of her guilt or capitulation. She did not move, did not so much as breathe. She felt numb, as if she were watching him from outside her body.

Trent was right, Harrington would not be gentle with her. The man was a brute. She had only heard hushed innuendoes, unspoken allusions to what he did with the women under his control. His acts were too despicable to talk about.

People were known to leave gaol broken and violated. She did not want to go anywhere near the place. She just wanted this nightmare to be over.

Trent walked to the door and wrenched it open. “Be ready to go first thing in the morning.”

Chapter Three

“All’s fair in love and war.” Anonymous

Early the next morning, a knock sounded on Mazie’s door. She had been waiting for this moment, expecting it, but shards of fear poured through her bloodstream all the same, slicing her everywhere into raw awareness.

Harrington had come for her.

She pulled the covers over her head and listened to the harsh sound of her own breath. She had spent the deep hours of darkness watching at the window, circling and circling in her living nightmare. Now she did not care to be brave. She simply wanted to avoid the inevitable a little longer.

The knock sounded again, the beat of the drummer leading the accused to the gallows.

When Mazie did not respond, the door opened and someone slipped inside. There was a light rustling as they opened the curtains and poured fresh water into the washbowl. Such familiar noises, domestic and safe. She peeked over the covers to see Alice, an upstairs maid, walk across the room. Alice’s white cap and apron were a far cry from the hangman’s dark hood, but she would lead Mazie to her doom none the less.

“I was sent to fetch you at once,” the maid rushed. “We must hurry.”

“Will I be allowed a last confession?” Mazie sank back against her pillows, not attempting to get out of bed.

“Only if you have something good to confess.” Alice pulled the covers off her recalcitrant charge. “Here’s a wrapper, we must be quick like.”

Mazie stood on legs that shook, her shoulders tense as she pulled on the wrapper over her shift. “Where are we going? Have I no time to dress?”

The maid shrugged, opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Cautious, Mazie followed. The guard fell into place behind them and they scurried down a dark, windy set of stairs. The warm smell of baking bread reached Mazie’s nostrils, then the familiar sounds of a kitchen at work. She ached for such comfort. The kitchens of her childhood home had been a place of safety and love—what she would give to step back to that time.

Her lips pressed into a hard line. She lived in another world now. She was a different person. And she would find her own comfort again someday, one that couldn’t be taken away.

Alice motioned for her to hurry along and opened a door that led to a dark, musty hallway.