The Reluctant Countess (38 page)

Unfortunately, a residue of that brainless bravado must still have lingered deep inside my lily-livered soul. Without giving myself more time to think about it, I squeezed my eyes shut, launched myself into space, and jumped.

I landed with a bone-jarring thump on the perimeter road.
I was outside!
For the first time in four years I was not, technically, in prison. Digging out the gravel imbedded in my palms and using my tongue to take roll call of my teeth, I scanned the terrain. Beyond the road was no-man’s-land, a flat stretch of ground with all vegetation slashed away, as wide and exposed as an interstate highway. Expecting to hear a bullhorn-amplified voice ordering me to halt any second, I slithered commando style across the open stretch until I reached the woods opposite. Then I scrambled to my feet and ran.

Taycheedah is located in the middle of the Kettle Moraine, the range of wooded hills that snakes across the length of eastern Wisconsin, tucking calendar-cute farms among its rolling ridges and hardwood forests. In fall, when the sugar maples are blaze orange and the scarlet maples are—well,
scarlet
—the Kettle Moraine makes the New England woods look like end-of-season clearance sale colors. But that great color explosion was weeks in the future. Right now the trees were still in their green, full-leafed, convict-covering phase. I would hide in the woods, I decided. I’d gather roots and berries, I’d hunt game with a bow made of saplings. I’d live in a pine bough lean-to. Swiss Family-of-one-Maguire.

I imagined myself aiming a homemade spear at a bunny. I pictured the bunny chuckling merrily as my spear thwunked into a nearby tree and splintered into twigs. I
envisioned myself showering beneath a freezing waterfall, using moss for tampons, shaving my armpits with clamshells, and attempting to skin roadkill with a chunk of sharp stone. I’d have the sky, the stars, and the great outdoors. But no toilet paper, clean underwear, or M&Ms. And if I wanted to get right down to it, I didn’t actually know how to make a fire to char my squashed squirrels. In Girl Scouts they’d tried to teach us to produce fire by rubbing two sticks together, but all I’d ever produced were blisters.

Okay, so not the woods. So where instead?

Where was the best place to hide a marble?

Inside a bag of marbles
.

I had to find a place where a solo woman wouldn’t stick out like a nun at a strip club. I needed to put as much distance as I could between me and the prison before the man-eating dogs glommed on to my trail.

Keeping to the cover of the woods, I began moving parallel to Taycheedah’s access road. This was a lot harder than it sounds. These weren’t nice woods. These were evil woods like the one in Snow White where she’s escaping her evil stepmother. Low-lying branches slapped me in the face, thorns shredded my arms, mosquitoes dive-bombed me. I climbed barbed wire fences set in the middle of the woods by some inconsiderate idiot. I crashed through the brush with all the stealth of a tank battalion. I cursed a lot. As the hours wore on, I became convinced that the prison authorities had set up night vision cameras in the woods and were watching my bumbling escape on screens in the control center, laughing so hard they drooled on their starched white shirts. They were purposely not swooping in and grabbing me because of my entertainment value.

A thicket of thorny brush forced me to steer away from the access road. When I finally angled back to where the road ought to have been, I discovered that it had treacherously disappeared, leaving a bog in its place. I plunged into swamp water up to my knees. Mud sucked off my right shoe and I had to grope through oozing slime before
I finally retrieved it, trying not to think about the
things
that might be paddling around in that gunk, itching to crawl up under my pants legs and insinuate themselves into personal parts of my body.

By the time I climbed out of the swamp I was completely lost. For all I knew, I’d walked in a circle and would find myself back at the prison. It was now pitch-dark and raining like God’s power showerhead. Shivering from cold and shaking with muscle fatigue, I collapsed onto a mossy log and started bawling. Mouth wide open, snot drizzling from both nostrils, not caring if the hidden cameras were watching or not. What had I been thinking? Why had I even
wanted
to escape?

I used to lie awake nights fantasizing about breaking out of Taycheedah, inspired by the great escape movies—
Cool Hand Luke, The Shawshank Redemption, The Fugitive
. But I knew they were fantasies; in real life most escapees are caught within a few hours. The same thing would happen to me. I was going to be caught and punished. Tossed into solitary, sentenced to a hundred years
plus
my life sentence. When I died, they’d lock my rotting carcass in a cell to make sure the sentence was carried out.

Sirens warbled in the distance. The woods distorted the sound so I couldn’t tell which direction they were coming from. Emergency vehicles out for storm victims or police cars sent to chase me? At this point I didn’t care.

All right. Here was my plan: I would sit here and wait until the bloodhounds found me. I would plead for mercy. I’d say I’d suffered a bout of tornado-induced insanity.

Plead insanity
, advised my lawyer, Sterling Habenmacher.
Your husband was going to divorce you; you were going to lose him to another woman; you were going to be kicked out of your own home. So you went a little PMS and offed your hubby. Happens all the time. Plead temporary insanity and we’ll get you off with twenty-five years
.

I hadn’t listened to Sterling Habenmacher. I had refused to say I was insane. I
had faith in the American justice system. I’d gotten up on the witness stand and told the jury that I hadn’t killed my husband. I had no idea how my husband’s blood had gotten on my nightgown, how my nightie had gotten stuffed behind the clothes dryer, or how the gun that killed my husband had gotten wedged in a heating duct. I didn’t even know how to operate a gun.

So much for the American justice system. The jury hadn’t believed me. The jury had believed the sneering, swaggering, finger-stabbing prosecutor. The jury had looked at the bloody nightgown, the video, and the gun and reached a verdict of
guilty
. The jury had the IQs of specimen cups.

Thinking about my expensive, inept lawyer and the barracuda prosecutor who had gotten himself elected to a judgeship off publicity from
my
trial, I started feeling angry all over again. The anger warmed me. I locked my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. I scowled at the rain.
Pull it together, Maguire!

Doctor Richard Kimble,
The Fugitive
, had explained to the jury how the one-armed man had murdered his wife, but the jury hadn’t believed
him
, either. He’d been convicted and sentenced to death. When the bus taking him to prison crashed in front of an oncoming train, did he sit there like the stupid peanut in the song, waiting to get smashed into peanut butter? No. He’d hauled ass. He’d spent the rest of the movie jumping off dams and prescribing lifesaving treatments for accident victims while tracking down the one-armed killer. I knew every detail of his escape because
The Fugitive
was the most popular Friday night Rec Room movie at Taycheedah.

Neurons were slowly firing in my frozen brain. Was I going to sit here like a chump, wasting the opportunity the tornado had plopped in my lap? Was I going to meekly return to Cellblock 23 without being able to brag about encountering a single hot young hunk out trolling the woods for some no-strings-attached convict sex? No, I was not.

Fisting the tears out of my eyes, I wiped the snot off my face with my rain-soaked sleeve and racked my brain, trying to formulate a new plan.

Okay, here it was:

Step 1: Ditch the jumpsuit. Not only did it stand out like a neon traffic cone in the dark, not only was
Wisconsin Correctional
stamped in big black letters across the back, not only was it a garment designed for the sheer purpose of humiliating its wearer—but it made me look
fat
. Dress Angelina Jolie in an orange jumpsuit and I guarantee you Angelina Jolie will look fat! Jumpsuits aren’t so bad for guys—all they have to do is unzip it and whip it—but for female plumbing, jumpsuits are insane. You have to unfasten the top, slide it down your hips, and pull it under your butt every time you need to pee. When I find the sadistic male who invented this garment I am going to stun-gun him, hogtie him, and staple his equipment to the crotch of a jumpsuit. “How easy is it to pee now?” I’ll snarl.

Step 2: Get the hell out of this swamp.

London, June 5, 1817

The faint, metallic screech sounded as loud as thunder in the oppressive silence of the dark bedroom. Julianna froze, silhouetted by the moonlight against the back wall, the sudden noise stealing her breath away.

“Unless you care to be shot this evening, I wouldn’t move from where you’re standing.” The deep voice was quiet but firm and it came from the shadows of the big bed.

Julianna remained still as a statue, her mind awhirl. For a moment all was silent, but then she heard the bedsheets rustle and the mattress groan. She cast her eyes toward the bed, afraid to move even an inch. She could see from the man’s outline that he was now leaning against the headboard. His arm appeared to be resting on his upraised knee, but it was too dark to tell whether or not he was actually holding a gun.

“You’re probably wondering if I do indeed have a gun,” he said nonchalantly, and Julianna had to suppress a gasp.
How did he know?
She closed her eyes and pursed her lips in annoyance at herself. Of course he knew. It’s what any halfway intelligent person would be thinking if they were discovered in her position.

“Let me reassure you that the answer is yes.”

His reassurance was hardly necessary, since she had already concluded that to be the case. In her experience, gentlemen were alarmingly odd, at least in most respects, so it was no surprise that this one apparently slept with a gun. Given his wild and reckless reputation, it would perhaps be more surprising if he did not.

He snorted inelegantly from the bed, which amused Julianna in spite of the dangerous situation she was in. In that moment he didn’t sound at all like the Honorable
Mr. Alasdair Sharp to whom she’d recently been introduced, but very much like an annoyed schoolmaster.

“Stand up, for God’s sake,” Mr. Sharp ordered from the bed. “You look like a caricature of a thief, hunched over and creeping along the wall.”

Julianna started to straighten and she heard another rustle from the bed.

“Slowly,” Mr. Sharp admonished, and she froze again for a moment before straightening very, very slowly.

“And now you must tell me what you found so irresistible in my bedroom in the middle of the night.”

Julianna heard the amusement in his voice and it irritated her. So he found her amusing, did he?

The slight weight in the secret pocket of her shirt burned into her side like a brand as she faced him. “Let me reassure you that it was the Stewart Pearl I found irresistible,” she retorted, “and nothing else.”

As soon as she spoke she could have bitten off her tongue. Why, oh why did she always open her mouth before thinking things through? Surely he would recognize her now.

“You’re a woman,” Mr. Sharp exclaimed in shock.

Julianna closed her eyes in despair at her own foolishness. If she had kept her mouth shut, he wouldn’t have figured that out so quickly, maybe not at all. She was dressed in dark trousers and a dark shirt, her hair pinned up. In the dark she was certain she could pass for a man. The waning crescent moon outside barely gave enough light for him to see her. Even though her outburst had given away her sex, she refused to confirm it by answering him. She was light-headed with relief that he had not recognized her voice.

“I thought you looked a little short for a man,” he mused, “but I imagined that you
were an apprentice thief or some such thing. It never entered my head that you might be a woman.”

Julianna had to press her lips together not to make a disparaging comment about the contents of his head, since it was clear he had no idea who she was. It wouldn’t be wise in this situation, although it was her natural inclination.

“Cat got your tongue, Miss Thief?” he asked, and Julianna shivered. She was not afraid of him—rather, she was afraid that she was losing control of the situation and of herself.

He shoved the covers aside and rose from the bed, and Julianna almost squeaked in alarm. He was naked. The pale moonlight flowing through the open window fell across the floor at an angle, and as he stood next to the bed, the light shone on his very naked body, illuminating him from his flat stomach to his bare feet.

His face was still covered in shadow, but Julianna remembered it from the many times she had seen him leaving his house and walking down the street, not to mention the party she had attended the other night. Mr. Sharp was a descendent of the Stewarts, all right: tall, handsome, with a high forehead and spectacular blue eyes. He looked just as the eyewitness accounts had described Bonnie Prince Charlie. She should have known from his firm, pointed chin that he wouldn’t be an easy mark. But she’d been distracted by his silky blond curls and those eyes, not to mention the width of his shoulders. Oh, yes, and, more important, the Stewart Pearl. At the party she had barely been able to take her eyes off the famous pearl, which sat in solitary splendor in a glass case surrounded by candelabra—gleaming, pale, and round and begging to be stolen.

“So you want my pearl, do you?” he asked, his voice smooth and suggestive.

Julianna’s gaze darted up to his shadowed face, but she could see nothing. The anger and amusement in his voice, however, had been replaced by something else. Something that made her distinctly nervous, considering that he was naked and she was
caught.