The Runaway Countess (15 page)

If only Mazie could send someone ahead to warn the older woman. If only Trent did not have a true-to-life image of Roane in his pocket.

Good God, would Trent arrest Mrs. Pearl as well?

She slowed her pace, drew her horse back to an amble, then to a stop. She pretended to study something in the lush, sun-dappled forest around them.

Trent sighed loudly. “We needn’t stop every few yards, Mazie.”

She tried to ignore him, but he danced his mount around hers, the horse’s hooves fast and impatient. She threw him an annoyed glance. “I thought I saw a deer.”

She did not care how foolish she sounded—a deer was no great sight here where the forests had been stocked for hunting since Norman times.

He sighed again and murmured to her horse, who followed his instructions and summoned up a canter. The perfidious beast.

Mazie considered other drastic actions to employ. She would fall off her mount and hurt herself. Trent would be forced to take her back to Giltbrook Hall, then. Or perhaps not, the stubborn man would probably just hoist her onto his horse and ride her to Mrs. Pearl’s himself.

The rhythmic bounce of the horse continued to unsettle her belly as they cantered down the lane to impending doom.

She had to do something.

If only she could turn back time. Roane had been right. Her involvement in his scheme
was
too risky. For months he had refused to let her get involved, telling her their ties were too close. If she were caught it would be easy to find the truth of the Midnight Rider. Easy to look into her past, and her father’s past. Wasn’t Trent doing exactly that? Putting the puzzle pieces together in his mind even now?

But Mazie had protested and pleaded and promised Roane that she would never get caught. That her identity would never be discovered. She had told Roane that he needed help from someone outside suspicion, someone he trusted to sell the stolen goods. She had talked circles around him until he had given in.

And now she was about to betray him after all.

“You are unusually quiet,” Trent commented, his voice neutral. “Is something worrying you?”

Mazie glanced over at him, startled out of her thoughts. She hadn’t realized he was riding so close. She tried to relax the tension from her face but knew she failed.

“Did Mr. Vale’s visit upset you?” Concern softened the corners of his grey eyes and he almost appeared kind. It was a ploy, she told herself. He did not worry over her.

She looked away, over her horse’s head. “No, it isn’t that.” Do not let him think he is winning. “I am concerned for Mrs. Pearl. I wonder what we will find today.” How ironic, telling him the truth.

Trent was quiet a moment. “You needn’t worry. Mrs. Pearl is well, or so I am told.”

“What?” Mazie twisted in her saddle to look at him.

“I had a man stop by her cottage to offer assistance in your absence. He reported that she asked for small things like cutting a bit of wood and carrying in some vegetables.”

“What?” she repeated again. Her heart pounded and pounded against her ribs. The poor thing was going to burst one of these days.

Trent frowned. “You are upset that I helped your friend.”

Mazie told herself to relax. She told herself he hadn’t found any clues. “I am grateful for her sake,” she muttered. “I simply wish you had asked first. You know, the kind of sentence with a question mark at the end.”

He raised his brow, silently saying he would never ask permission of anyone, much less his captive. “I am told Mrs. Pearl has no family in the area other than a nephew who has not been seen for months. What is his name? Roane Grantham? You never speak of him. He should come assist his aunt while you are detained.”

“What?” Mazie squeaked, her body flying into a panic. “Who?”

“Roane Grantham. Surely you have met him.”

“Oh, Mr. Grantham, yes, of course.” The sound of Roane’s name tossed between them like a game of pass the parcel made her body go numb. “He, ah, has been away.”

“I heard the same. Where is he?”

“Scotland.” Far, far away.

“What is he doing there?”

Mazie blinked rapidly. “Timber. He, ah, wants to start a timber business.”

“Does he?” Trent murmured. “Why go to Scotland? Timber is a lucrative industry here in Radford.”

“Oh, well, I couldn’t say,” She tripped over her words. “I rarely spoke with him.”

“I see.” He let the subject drop.

No, no, no. She struggled to breathe through the tight band in her chest.

Roane could not get caught, he could not.

It was all her fault. Why hadn’t she trusted his misgivings? Why couldn’t she mind her own business?

Alert now, painfully so, she realized they were close to Mrs. Pearl’s new cottage—the one she moved to after Roane left Rodsley Manor at the age of seventeen. Unwilling to be a bastard servant on his father’s estate, Roane had pressed for a commission in the cavalry. When their father had refused, Mazie had thought to speak in support of her brother but had only succeeded in making the situation worse. So much worse that the two men had a violent row. Her father had claimed that Roane was a bad influence on his younger sister, that he had forced her to press his cause. Roane had left that night without a word to anyone. He had eventually come to look for her after her parents died, but it had been too late. She had disappeared. It was pure luck that she had arrived in Radford at all.

Only to ruin her brother’s life.

Again.

They traveled over a stone bridge, the sound of the water louder than the clang of the horses’ hooves. The forest grew lush here and reached its arms across the stream, drinking in every last bit of sunlight. Mazie always loved this spot, dense and cool with the cleansing rush of the stream. But she found little peace in it today. With a few more heartbeats they rounded a bend in the road and the overgrown trees opened to reveal Mrs. Pearl’s cottage nestled in a small clearing. At this time of day sunlight poured over the dwelling and chased the shadows back to the forest. Mrs. Pearl herself was outside tending to her large herb garden.

She stood and waved happily when she recognized Mazie. Not caring what Trent would think, Mazie raced her horse to the clearing then slid off her sidesaddle in one daring motion.

“Mazie!” Mrs. Pearl greeted her with open arms.

Mazie ran into her embrace and hugged her tight. As usual, the older woman smelled of cloves and mysterious herbs—a deep, earthy scent that matched the strong, voluptuous and motherly shape of her body. Mazie blinked back tears. Here was the comfort she would not let herself long for.

“You have to get rid of Roane’s portraits,” she hissed in the woman’s ear. “Radford has a picture of the Midnight Rider.” Mrs. Pearl stiffened. “There is an informant at the pub.”

She patted Mazie on the back but gave no other indication of their whispered exchange. After a quick kiss on the older woman’s hollow cheek, Mazie faced Trent.

He stood with both horse bridles in his one hand, an unreadable expression on his face. For one sickening moment she feared he suspected all.

“Lord Radford, may I present Mrs. Pearl.” Her voice shook only a little and that could be attributed to the happiness of seeing her friend again.

Pleasantries were exchanged and the older woman turned back to Mazie. “Are you eating enough,
ma petite
? Are they taking care of you?”

“Yes, there is no cause to worry about me.” Mazie forced a bright smile even as tears burned behind her eyes.

“Well, let us get out of this hot sun. I’m sure I have something tasty to feed you two.” Mrs. Pearl waved her hand toward the back of the house, “Mazie, you help His Lordship with the horses, show him where to get water and such.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mazie walked away before her nervousness showed on her face. She motioned for Trent to follow. “The stables are around back.”

“We won’t be long,” he protested, but at least he followed. “We needn’t use the stables.”

“They will be much cooler for the horses.” Mazie tried to think of how much time Mrs. Pearl would need to remove evidence of Roane. “It is rather hot today.”

She felt Trent brooding at her back but he did not comment further.

As soon as they entered the small building, she realized her drastic error.

Bloody, bloody hell.

This was Roane’s domain.

It was obvious that the stables had been kept in good repair, yet there wasn’t so much as a mule in sight.

She smiled at Trent. He did not notice as he led both horses into the clean, cool building.

He put each mount into a private stall then faced her. “There is fresh hay on the floor.”

“There is? Mmm.” It was a terrible reply, and the only one she could manage at the moment. She was going to need an extensive recuperation after this adventure. Her body felt raw with alarm, exhausted from it. What humor God had. It seemed her life was to be a Greek tragedy when she was so determined it be a comedy.

Or was this the comedy? Somehow, it did not seem funny.

He walked around, investigating. Always investigating. “Has Mrs. Pearl’s nephew been here recently?”

“No. No, of course not.” She shook her head. “No. He’s in Scotland.” She shot a glance at Trent but his expression was unreadable.

“Does she have other visitors?”

She curled her hands into fists. Do not babble. Do not panic. “A few.”

“A horse has been sheltered here recently.” He kicked up some hay.

“Oh?”

He threw her a look over his shoulder before taking a bucket off a tack on the wall. He peered inside then scanned the stable again. “Everything is unusually clean.”

“Is it?”

Again, the odd look. “Is there a pump nearby? I’ll give the horses a small drink.”

She led him outside and showed him the hand pump. He leaned over and drew the water into the bucket, the muscles of his back and arms evident under the fabric of his jacket. When he stood and stretched to his full height she exhaled sharply and forced her eyes away. How could she appreciate his beauty when her world was falling down around her ears?

He walked to the stables, the water bucket sloshing at his side. Automatically, she turned and watched him, then caught herself and looked down at her hands. She needed to think, to explain this all away.

Deep lines marked his brow when he walked out of the stables and into the sunlight. “Why does Mrs. Pearl need—”

“She has a gentleman caller.”

He raised his eyebrows as if surprised by her explanation, which sounded more like a hasty confession.

“He rides a horse when he visits and often stays the night. He cares for the stables,” she babbled. “He has a lovely collection of bays.”

Without comment, Trent walked to the pump and washed his hands.

“It is a terribly personal topic for Mrs. Pearl. Please, you mustn’t mention it to anyone.” She bit her lip, waiting for a reaction.

He looked up at her from where he bent over the spigot. That devilish lock of hair fell across his forehead and her breath caught. Even after their argument, even after the brittle fear of the morning, she was still attracted to him. It was entirely unfair that he was so handsome.

She wished he weren’t so beautiful.

No, she amended. She loved that he was beautiful. She wished he weren’t her enemy. That he wasn’t always so determined to ruin her life.

He shook the water off his hands and straightened.

“Shall we.” He motioned toward the house and Mazie, like everyone else, followed his command.

Chapter Eight

“Man was born free, and he is everywhere in chains. One man thinks himself the master of others, but remains more of a slave than they.” Rousseau

Trent followed Mazie into the cottage and was hit with a wave of vanilla. He glanced around, noticing the shabby comfort of the home as she led him into a small drawing room.

Closed to keep out the penetrating heat of the sun, the fading curtains were a cheerful orange silk and cast a warm glow to the room. The surfaces of the tables and shelves were cluttered with a menagerie from fine lace to pinecones, while the walls boasted frames of oil paintings and a number of drawings. Mrs. Pearl had an odd way of decorating, for there were many empty spots on the wall, as if frames had been removed and the others not rearranged to accommodate. But it felt warm nonetheless. He understood why Mazie chose to stay here after all her wandering.

“Mrs. Pearl’s teacake is divine.” Mazie motioned for him to join her on the velvet settee. Cat’s sapphire blue riding habit—extravagant with epaulettes and braids—looked lovely on her. Had the maids sewn her inside it? There wasn’t a stitch of space between her skin and the fabric.

Her skin.

He put his hands, still cold from the water, on the back of his neck. Mazie was right, it was hot today. Uncomfortably so.

Stuffing down his attraction, he allowed himself to notice only that her dress looked decidedly out of place on the faded furniture.

Struck by the two different sides of Mazie’s life—the lady and the vagabond—he sat next to her and moved a number of needlepoint pillows from behind his back. His legs, too long for the sitting area, were cramped by the table placed before them.