The Runaway Countess (41 page)

“The things I was imaging when I saw you…” He followed her, his mind slow, his body pulsing and beginning to ache. Where was she going? He wanted her to kiss his hurts. “Why won’t you stop?”

“You don’t want to talk to me.”

“I don’t?” A weight settled on his chest as he watched her back.

“No, you don’t. I give you another minute before—”

He stopped, his feet rooted to the earth as he struggled to breathe through the band in his chest. “You lied.”

“Yes.” Mazie stilled but did not turn around. “I lied.”

The words hit him worse than any punch Roane could throw at him. The highwayman was her
brother
. She had purposefully misled him time and again.

And she had planned this, her escape. He, the fool, had fallen for it, brought her to the ball himself.

“Was it all a lie?”

Mazie finally turned, a few paces away. He couldn’t see her face in the darkness of the back garden. He waited, stone still, for her answer.

She hesitated a long moment. What could she have to think about?

“Hell. Forget I asked.” Cold spiked through him, underscored by a raw and totally unwanted ache.

“Mazie.” Roane limped past. “Where are you going?”

She did not answer, just crossed her arms in front of her.

“Mazie.” Roane put his hand on her shoulder and a sob escaped her, fierce and harsh.

The sound pierced his heart. He resisted the urge to go to her, to comfort her.

She was a liar. A fraud. Nothing that had happened between them could be trusted.

She had used him for her own purposes. Maybe her brother had put her up to this. Had made herno, he would not think on it.

“Neither of you are going anywhere.” He steeled himself against everything but his goal. “You are caught. Arrested. Detained. Whatever the hell you want to call it. It is all over now.”

Mazie tried to get Trent’s attention all through the long night. She tried to talk with him as the guards tied up Roane and stuffed him into a coach bound for Radford gaol. Tried to talk with him as he bundled she and Cat in another coach and sent them to Giltbrook Hall. Tried to sneak off to his room, but the guard stationed at her door wouldn’t allow it.

Deep in the dark hours of night, seated at her window, Mazie stared up at the moon and wept great big rolling tears and breath-stealing sobs that left her exhausted.

She could have chosen Roane and been on her way to America right now, with him at her side.

She could have chosen Trent and been preparing to wed the man she loved.

Instead, she had dithered and stalled and lost everything.

It was hopeless.

No, not hopeless, a determined voice said inside her. Roane was still alive and Trent would have to face her at some point.

She stared out at the moonlit night, at the stars and their unfathomable pattern. From the corner of her eye, she saw a flicker there by the lake. There was movement in the shadows and a shape separated itself from the trees and moved across the lawns.

She leaned forward and watched.

Trent. He was just now returning home.

She knew him by the way he sat in his saddle. The way his broad shoulders rolled with the horse’s gait. The way he held both reins in his right hand, as he did when he was tired.

He rode slowly, as if not wanting to reach his destination. Mazie leaned out the window and watched him amble around the back of the house to the stables.

Her heart pulsed with hope. Would he come up here, to her lush prison? Would he be angry? Would he kiss her, forgive her?

She paced away from the window and tightened her silk dressing gown with trembling fingers. No, he would not come. He thought her a liar and a fraud. Now that he had what he wanted, he would send her away.

But there was still hope. There was always hope.

She
would go to
him
.

She would not let the guard stop her this time. Love gave her strength and she crossed her room, yanked open the door and fled down the hall in one swift motion.

“Stop!” the guard yelled, but she was already leaping down the stairs.

She must see him.

Down the stairs and into the empty foyer. He was not there. She turned and ran toward the back of the house, closer to the stables. Her dressing gown billowed out behind her and the guard was in close pursuit.

She sprinted as fast as her desperate legs would take her, came to the back door and threw it open.

There, he was there, walking toward the house in the moonlight.

“Trent,” she cried, just as the guard grabbed her arm and yanked her away from the door. “Trent, I must talk with you!”

He looked up but did not falter once as he trudged through the wet grass. “What are you doing, Mazie?” He sounded exhausted.

Mazie pulled free of the guard. “I saw you…” She huffed for breath. “Please, we must talk.”

He hesitated at the bottom of the steps. “Fine,” he sighed. “In my study.”

She loved him. She stepped back and let Trent pass, her fingers clutched in the folds of her dressing gown. She fell in step behind him, noticed the way he limped slightly. The guard followed them both and waited outside as Trent closed the door to his study. He had brought a taper from a hall sconce and lit a candelabrum, leaving most of the room in shadow.

“What is it?” He took off his hat and ran a hand through his mussed hair. His face was beginning to bruise and his eyes were glassy. In all, he looked oddly disheveled.

She wanted to go to him, hold him. Kiss every one of his bruises. She searched his face for clues. Should she apologize? Beg? Seduce him?

No, no more games. “Where were you?”

“Talking with your brother.” He shook his head, then winced. “The man is one hell of a drinker.”

Drinker? Mazie sniffed the air. Brandy. So that explained his appearance. She sighed. Trent was in no condition to have a logical conversation, yet somehow she needed to convince him to act slowly, with deliberation and compassion. “Did you talk of the charges against him?”

His gaze grew hard, cold with disgust. She almost wished she hadn’t mentioned her brother. “We talked of his
crimes
, yes.”

“And?”

“And?” He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a tumbler of brandy. He lifted his glass in a mocking toast. “I am celebrating. What a
victory
this evening has been.”

“What will you do?” She had asked him this same question before. Was it futile to hope for a different answer?

He sipped his brandy then shrugged one shoulder as if they were talking of nothing important. “Roane Grantham is a criminal. I will let the law decide.”

Cold panic seized her. “But you cannot turn him in to be hanged. He is my brother.”

“So he is.”

What did that mean? His expression was remote, unreadable. “Trent”

“This is what you have come to me for?” he interrupted. “To fight for the highwayman?”

“Yes. No.” She was at a loss for words. She did not know how to breach the chasm between them.

A long silence stretched out. He leaned against the sideboard and sipped his drink, the paleness of his face contrasted with the dark bruises where he had been hit. The revelations of the evening had not come at an easy cost. Something weighed heavy on his heart.

Mazie wanted to take his weary head in her hands and offer him the shelter of her love. She wanted to plead with him for Roane’s very life. She wanted to hear him say her name with tenderness and affection.

“Trent, I’m sorry,” she began on a shaky breath.

He raised a brow. “For what, exactly? For lying to me or lying with me?”

“For deceiving you. But you must understand”

“Oh, I understand all right. Too much.” He pushed away from the sideboard, a supercilious expression on his face. “Let’s make a list of what exactly you lied about, shall we?”

Here was the man she had met that first night. She loved him even as he drove her mad.

“You had me send men to Tyneside when you knew he was in the Midlands.”

“I-I didn’t know where he was.”

“He never talked of Tyneside.” He limped toward her, his jaw set hard.

“No.” She clasped her hands together. He would not welcome her touch. Would not want her affection. But she would make him understand. She would make him forgive her.

“The drawings at Mrs. Pearl’s, the stables. Those are his doing, aren’t they?” In the candlelight, his eyes flashed, angry and hurt.

“Yes.” She would not fall apart, not yet.

He came closer and she winced at the swelling by his eye. “Did you ever meet him at the gypsy camp?”

“No.”

“The caves?”

“No,” she whispered.

“What about the other night? When you came to me?” His eyes held hers and she recognized the pain in their depths. “Simply more lies?”

“No!” She stepped forward, her hand outstretched.

He recoiled backward as if from fire.

She froze mid-step and dropped her hand to her side. A terrible ache throbbed through her core. “Nothing that happened between us had anything to do with the investigation.”

He raised a brow, his disbelief palpable.

She had to make him understand. “I-I love you, Trent.”

He scoffed, shook his head. “I have heard enough. Goodnight, Mazie.”

He went to step around her, but Mazie cut him off. “Be angry, be furious. But please, Trent, tell me all is not lost. Give me hope.”

“Hope for what?”

“Forgiveness?”

His eyes were cold, deadened. “I see where we were both at fault, Mazie. I was ignorant and closed-minded. But you were willful and deceitful.”

“With good intentions.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Does that count for nothing?”

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

“I did my best,” she cried.

Trent crossed his arms. “You could have trusted me.”

“Trusted you? You were going to hang my brother, for God’s sake!” She stomped her foot. He must see her side in this. He must.

Nothing. He gave her nothing. Not one twitch of expression. Not one possibility of softness. Just glittering black. The sapphire that would cut without remorse.

“You and Mrs. Pearl are free to go. I expect to hear no more of the petty thefts here in Radford.” He walked around her, toward the door.

“I don’t want to go,” she said into the room.

He paused. “Don’t you? You were going to run tonight.”

“I wasn’t!” She whirled around to face him. He was watching her over his shoulder, his face shuttered. “I was, but then I realized…I wanted…” How to explain it? That freedom wasn’t found in running away. That she wanted to take a chance on him. It was all too vulnerable in this harsh moment.

He sighed loudly as if expecting an argument. “We’ve no more to discuss. I want nothing more to do with you. Soon Roane’s fate will be out of my hands as well.”

Her heart stuttered. Everything came down to this moment. She had nothing left. Wanted nothing more.

She clasped her hands to her chest as if to hold in her weeping heart. “‘I am a humble suitor to your virtues. For pity is the virtue of the law.’”

“‘And none but tyrants use it cruelly.’ Do you think to turn me with Shakespeare?” Disgust laced his voice.

She clenched her hands tighter. She was running out of time. “You know what will happen if you send him to London.”

He stared at her but did not answer.

“Do you think he deserves to hang?”

He looked toward the empty fireplace, unwilling to meet her eyes.

Mazie walked to him, gently took his bruised chin in her hands and forced him to meet her gaze. “Do you think the Midnight Rider deserves to hang for protecting his people?
Your
people?”

“Are you saying he was doing my job?” His eyes flashed and her heart leapt with hope.

He was not as distant and unaffected as he would have her believe.

“I am saying he had the good of the people at heart. And yet you are ready to hang him for the sake of the letter of the law.”

He wrenched his chin from her hand. “He is a highwayman. He knew his fate.”

“Did he? Because it is so easy to know our own destiny? I think not, Trent. All he knew was that he couldn’t ignore the injustice around him.”

“He could have come to me.”

“What reason did he have to trust you? The letter of the law is more important to you than justice.”

“I’ll not listen”

“Yes, you will.” She grabbed his upper arms and he did not pull away. They stood intimately, as if they were going to kiss. It made her heart hurt. “The beauty of the law is in its spirit, Trent, not in the words themselves. It is in its intention to protect honesty and fairness.”

“You do not know”