Mad for Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 2 (16 page)

“Damn, I should have employed you as a scout,” he said. “Listen. We’ll come back tonight with a few likely lads. I’m sure I can find some in the village. You’ll wait in the carriage and we’ll get him away. He should have come to his senses by then.”

Sorrow and confusion reigned in her mind. How could her mother have done that to him? That anguish in Blaize’s eyes; that was him trying to break through and he couldn’t, but he was fighting. She saw it. She wanted to go back and hold him. He could throttle her if he wanted to, but she needed to stay by his side, fighting with him.

But he could kill her. When he came to his senses, how would that make him feel? No, she couldn’t have gone back, stayed with him. She’d felt that strength and if not for the man hidden beneath the insanity, but not entirely conquered, he’d have killed her. He crushed her throat instead of merely squeezing it.

They made their way back to the road without incident, thanks to her knowledge of the terrain. The carriage was close to the entrance, and when Lyndhurst waved at it, the driver whipped up the horses and came to fetch them. He helped her in. Lurking on this road would get them noticed, otherwise she would have stayed there until nightfall. But Lyndhurst spoke sense. They’d return later.

“What was in that bag?” she demanded, referring to the satchel she’d assumed contained weapons.

“As many bottles of wine as I could cram in,” he said with a tight grin. “Let’s hope he has the sense to drink them.”

Chapter Nine

He’d seen her—hadn’t he? But it wasn’t her, it was somebody else. The bitch who’d put him here, who kept his mind weak. He needed to work something out, but when he tried, it moved out of his grasp.

Blaize rolled over, groaning, spitting out dirt and blood. Somebody had hit him, but he’d only had eyes for her, for revenge, because he wanted to kill her, to kiss her, or both. God, he’d never been mad and helpless before. Usually he could send his spirit soaring. Why not now?

He should stop eating, maybe, but he had to drink, even if it was only damned water. Filthy stuff.

Had she touched him, like this? Hell,
he
wouldn’t touch him like this. When it rained he stood under the stream, but he never got clean. He just got muddy when he lay down to sleep. Madness wasn’t a complete confusion of mind—it contained flashes of reality, except it was hard to decide what reality was. Spikes of grandeur. A different way of thinking. Instead of in straight lines, sideways, and up instead of down. Hard to describe. Patterns, thinking in depth.

Something hard pressed against his side. Reaching around without looking, he found something slippery, cold. Glass, that was it. Yes.

Holding on to the word, he turned and found something green and pretty, sealed, liquid inside. Mallet-shaped. Bottle, it was a bottle. Holy hell, not water. With fumbling speed, he broke the seal and got the cork out. He’d have smashed the neck if he couldn’t. Fragrance assaulted him, fruity, spicy, everything he needed in a bottle.

Tipping the rim against his lips, he gulped the contents. No need for a cork if he didn’t put the bottle down. No spillage, either.

He hurled the empty bottle away.

Grass, green all around him, high hedges. He’d hurt himself trying to scale them, but he healed fast, so even the deepest of the cuts had gone the next day.

He grabbed the second bottle and gave it the same treatment as the first. The shattered pieces of his world began to draw together and make sense once more. God, he stank! His smell even overpowered the wine.
Wine.
He savoured the word.

By the end of the third bottle, he’d started putting things in order. Except who had left this wine. Seeing her here, that was an illusion. There was nobody here now.

They’d taunted him. They knew who he was.

He sat up. The first sight that confronted him was a man at the edge of the glade. Blaize didn’t have to get to his feet and walk, more or less steadily, to see that he was dead. But he did. The man had weapons. Glory be!

And clean clothes. Without spending too much time in useless thought, he stripped. And then it started to rain. Again. He’d cursed the rain, danced in it, rolled in the mud it caused, but he was sensible now. As much as he ever was, he thought with a wry grin. He found it strange to have his body under his control again. Good, though.

Slowly, his mind started working the way it was supposed to. Possibilities occurred to him. What was this bastard doing lying dead in his grove? Maybe he’d killed him in a frenzy. He tried to find some compassion, but after what they’d done to him, he couldn’t.

The rain stopped, leaving him wet and a little cleaner. He stripped his late tormentor and donned his clothes. Not as clean as he’d like, but a damned sight cleaner than the stuff he’d just taken off. He had one bottle left, so he’d better get out of here before the madness started up again. He’d need to ration the alcohol if he was to stay sane.

Recalling when he’d first been brought here, he vaguely remembered his desperate attempts to get out. It seemed that all paths led back to the centre of the maze, and just when he thought he’d found a way out, the path doubled back and brought him here again.

He only saw two men, and both knew who he was. If he roared at them, they laughed. They brought food and it was eat it or starve, so he ate. Formulating a plan, he told himself.

Now one was dead. Did only those two know his identity? Perhaps he should wait until the other came to see what had happened to his colleague. Then he could shoot him, too. Or maybe he’d better get out of here. If he could.

His brain working double-time, now he’d restored it to a semblance of normal, Blaize checked the weapons the man had. One had been discharged. He left that and took the other three. Plus the extra bottle of wine. That was all he’d need. Running his hand over his wet hair to slick it back, he left the centre of the maze, fully expecting to see it again soon. Because he always did.

Either his sense of direction had returned with his sanity or he was luckier than before, but he found himself assessing where he was. The sun was still up and Blaize considered conserving his strength and waiting until dark, when the stars would be out. He could remember the major constellations, and in any case, the patterns would tell him. His divine ancestors put their friends in the sky, he recalled with a smile.

So good to be in his right mind! Even if he drove himself mad, he could retain his reason. It was just that the reason was different. But debilitated as he was, he couldn’t gain control over the minds of the people sent to tend him. Either the drugs saw to that or the men were chosen because of their resistance to his influence. It was difficult to know which, with one dead and the other one absent. Although Blaize had no doubt he’d come soon. Yet another reason to escape as soon as he could. He didn’t want to kill the other one too. That was where his skills lay—he preferred to make them rave, take their sanity.

Sometimes that could be crueller than a clean kill.

When he recognized the small space he entered, he sighed in frustration. Just as he thought he was getting somewhere. He’d slept in this space a time or two, he realized, recognizing the place where he’d tried to rip a hole in the hedge and ended up with little more than a small impression and a huge number of scratches and cuts for his trouble. But this place was smaller than the centre of the maze, and a touch more sheltered. Better when the wind was up.

A breeze drifted through the area and he caught something. A scent? A sense of something different? At any rate, the sensation sent him to his knees.
Aurelia.
She’d been here.

A flick of white distracted him. Something was caught in the hedge. Blaize moved closer to investigate. He found a thread. And here, the aura that he felt was so much stronger. Still a trace, but a definite trace here, not a vague sense.

He touched the thread. It was attached to the hedge. Someone had deliberately knotted it, not accidentally left it there.

Hope seared his throat, blinded his vision until he caught it and bound it to the thread. He would take the invitation it offered.

Even touching this faint reminder of her sent his cock twitching. A deeply inappropriate response, but another reminder that he had himself back and he was alive. Why was he alive? Was the dowager trying to give him some of his own back, or did she have a more practical reason? Had she realized, as he had, that a crippled immortal was better than a dead one? Or did keeping him hostage appeal to some perverted sense of rightness?

While thoughts rippled through his head, his return to sense sending them working harder than usual, he was following the thread, running his fingers along it as he travelled deeper into the maze. Dusk was falling. All the better to hide his movements. This was the best time for him to escape.

At first he passed places he knew, some he had marked, though not in the damaging way he had in the place he’d discovered the thread, then the guide led him deeper into the maze, past the centre, then toward the edge, then back again. Frustrating, but mazes were supposed to puzzle the person entering. It had certainly succeeded with him.

At least it wasn’t raining.

As he thought that, the fine drizzle started. Of all the varieties of rain in this place, he hated this the most. So gentle he could hardly feel it, but it soaked more thoroughly than a fast, hard, downpour. It could go on for hours and he’d end up wet, miserable and muddy. Not this time. In minutes, the rain had penetrated his new clothes and the shirt clung to his back, despite the moleskin waistcoat that was supposed to help to keep him dry.

Some hope, with this kind of rain, the kind that wet a person through. Gentle but thorough. The words put him in mind of Aurelia, who was never far from his mind. He’d even dreamed of her when he was insane. She had that same quality, the way she soaked him with her personality, her generous spirit and her unexpected asides that added spark. His arms were permanently empty without her.

For her he’d escape this place, in the hope of seeing her again. As he passed the thread through his fingers, her spirit imbued him with her presence, her sweetness and her spice. Now he could think straight, he realized that if the dowager had imprisoned him and if he hadn’t been loaded on to a ship, then it was likely he was in Scotland, at her stronghold. Getting home from Scotland, even without a penny to his name shouldn’t tax his intelligence too much. He owned a small property in North Yorkshire. So if he could beg, borrow or steal the stagecoach fare, he’d get there and then become himself again. And plot his revenge.

He could do this. Anything else was unthinkable. If he died, the duchess would probably have someone nearby, a pregnant woman ready to receive his gifts. If they could be called gifts. His lip twisted.

He took another turn. This felt new, although it appeared like just another path. Why hadn’t he come this way before? There must be miles of this damned green hedge. He could almost feel sorry for whoever had the upkeep of it. Either that or kill him where he stood.

Voices drifted over the hedge, soft murmurs. He couldn’t hear what they were saying. He drew one of the pistols, but didn’t release the thread, as much to fortify his spirit with the potent reminder of Aurelia than because he couldn’t pick it up again when he needed it. How long the thread had been lying there, he didn’t know.

That voice could be hers. Or it could be a boy’s.

The whisper had been brief, not long enough to identify anyone. A word or two, that was all.

Cautiously he moved forward. He took slow, careful steps on the grass, in case twigs or other detritus lay underneath, and keeping away from the hedge, because the lightest touch would stir the leaves. The people on the other side weren’t so careful. They rustled.

He stepped around the hedge, his weapon levelled, ready to fire, if need be. If he had to, then he’d need to flee, because the sound would bring people running. He had no time to assess his surroundings.

A fresh breeze assailed him. Oh, glory be, he was in the open air!

No time now. Later. Two people, one male, one female, stood with their backs to him. They were concentrating on the ground. Hunting for the thread. “You won’t need that,” he said steadily. “Turn around slowly. I’m armed.”

Ignoring his command, the woman spun around, her skirts tangling in the long grass and nearly overturning her. Blaize cast his gun aside and leaped forward to catch her. Because it was Aurelia.

She cried his name, as he held her close, banding his arms around her slender body. Tears pricked his eyes, the relief swamping him with a flood of emotion. Helplessly repeating her name, he kissed every part of her he could touch. Her hair, her forehead and when she lifted her chin, her pretty lips. Sweet and addictive, the taste he’d craved for so long.

But he pulled away. “I must stink,” he said.

“Not as bad as before,” she said, “and I held you then.” Tears rolled down her face. He kissed them away, every one.

“Touching though this reunion is,” came a familiar, cool voice, “I think we should consider moving on.”

Mars. He might have known that the Duke of Lyndhurst would be involved somehow. And that he’d owe him, which he couldn’t deny that he did. He glanced at Lyndhurst. “Thanks for the wine.”

Lyndhurst gave him a tight grin. “That’s all right. We have more in the coach. If we get that far.”

Blaize patted the capacious pocket of the breeches he’d stolen. “I kept one for emergencies.” His attention inevitably went back to Aurelia. Although he’d loosened his hold on her, giving her a chance to move away, she still nestled close.

Her eyes glinted in the moonlight that had broken through the clouds. He hadn’t noticed before, but it had stopped raining. It seemed appropriate. Perhaps another god was watching them. He wouldn’t be in the least surprised.

“He told me,” she said. “He explained about the explosion, the struggle against the Titans, everything. I’m still struggling to believe it, but when I saw you…you’re still Blaize.”