The Runaway Countess (11 page)

He surprised her by answering her question rather than flinging a reciprocal challenge her way. “There was no great drama. I grew tired of his lectures. He thought I was squandering my time in the House of Commons. That I needed to take a wife and uniquely support his chosen political causes.”

“So you had a row?”

He stepped out of the shadows, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on her. “No, never an argument. I would never disrespect him. I always considered his position. He was an astute man.”

“I see.” Uncomfortable with his gaze, Mazie turned back to the piano and plucked a few random notes. She couldn’t hold Trent accountable for his father’s sins. She could only judge him on the man he was, and thus far, he hadn’t done anything abusive or unkind. He was prideful, perhaps, and domineering. Certainly controlling.

But he
had
offered her safe shelter in his home rather than send her to Harrington. He had given her ample opportunity to tell the truth and be set free.

“I feel certain you’ve other intentions than talking about my father,” he said. She glanced up at him, at the rueful half-smile on his face. “There is something on your mind, something you want to say to me.”

“Yes.”

“Care to join me in a glass of whisky?”

She nodded and wondered at the implications of the question. He would never make such an offer to a lady, or to a prisoner. Who was she, then?

He walked to the side table and poured two measured glasses of whisky. She watched him cross the room, noting the confident way he moved within his elegant clothes. Some men moved smooth and sleek like a cat. And others trampled and trudged like their bodies were great big lumps of inconvenience. Trent was neither. He was simply efficient, a touch athletic and wholly unaffected.

One might believe he had no notion of his handsomeness.

She shifted on the hard bench. Every inch of her skin hummed with awareness of him. He was a handsome man. And she was alone with him, at night, showing more décolletage than was her comfort. Her mind brought forth images of their previous nocturnal meeting where candlelight had cast deep shadows across their shared passion.

She stood and walked away from the piano, too nervous to sit, which required that Trent continue to stand as well. He handed her a glass then leaned his hip against the back of a chair, a pose that was inviting in its informality. She would rather he remain stiff and uptight. It was easier to brush him aside that way.

She took a burning sip of whisky for fortitude. “Indeed, there is a delicate matter I would like to discuss.”

He raised a brow, encouraging her to continue.

She took another sip of the liquor, more to stall than anything else. He had to say yes. She had to make him believe he held the winning hand. “I have decided upon a proposition which may be of interest to you.”

His body froze at the word proposition. He stared at her, his gaze almost aggressive. His eyes dipped down to her lips and, for a moment, he looked like he wanted to kiss her. No, not kiss her,
devour
her. He put down his glass, as if the moment she invited his advances he would grab her.

Heat flashed across her skin. She floundered inside her own heartbeat. “I have some things that you want, and you have some things that I want. Can we not come to an agreement?”

“What is your offer?” His voice carried the slow burn of whisky.

She moderated her tone to be calm despite her quick breaths. “I will tell you everything I know about the Midnight Rider.”

He scowled and she held up her hand. “I have disclosed much of what I know, but we should ride out, as you proposed, and I will show you where I met with him. I will write down the confession of my good deeds—”

“Thefts.”

“And I will work with you to regain the good will of the villagers. I have their ear, as you are aware, and can spread rumors of your generosity and kindness. In addition, I can make suggestions of improvements for the village, projects that are important to your tenants and would display your good faith.”

“And my side of this bargain?” Displeasure creased between his brows.

“You will allow me use of the house and immediate grounds. I will no longer be locked in my chamber.” She would have her freedom, or some semblance of it. Enough that escape would be possible.

“Under supervision, I assume.”

With an ambiguous wave of assent, she handed him her glass and watched him put it down. She refused to give him a verbal agreement. Taking a breath, she plunged into the heart of the matter. “Once the Midnight Rider is found you will let me go. Free.”

He straightened to his full height and studied her with that gaze again, the one that revealed the magnetism between them, the deep current moving swiftly, inevitably, toward dangerous seas. “One week.”

“What?”

“You have one week to provide me with his location. If you wish to stay here, rather than gaol, you must prove your use.”

“But I do not know his location.” One week was not enough time. She needed to supply him with misleading information, monitor the guards and devise an escape plan in case Roane did not get to her first. And she needed to ensure that she stayed here at Giltbrook Hall. No matter how she despised being Lady Margaret, she would be no use to anyone if Harrington got his clutches on her. “Two months,” she countered.

“Two weeks.” He raised his brows, his grey eyes glittering.

“One month.” She squared her shoulders. Certainly she could find her opportunity to flee within that time.

“One month. You will remain under my control, and do as I say.”

She forced down her agitation, forced herself to nod. “Within reason.”

He took a step toward her and she had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze. “I will establish a set of rules that you will abide by.” His tone brooked no dissent. “I cannot have you turning my estate upside down as you are wont to do.”

Again, she moved her chin in a choppy up and down of reluctant agreement.

“No one will know of this bargain. I will have to tell something to Harrington, but such decisions are mine alone. As far as everyone else is concerned, you were invited as a guest of Catherine.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He frowned at the sarcasm she did not bother to hide. “I repeat myself, you will speak nothing of this to anyone.”

“Very well.”

“And you will no longer seek to deceive me, either by artifice or by silence. I do not enjoy surprises,
Lady Margaret
. If I discover your continued duplicity, I shall consider our agreement forfeit and send you to Harrington.”

“Agreed,” she acquiesced as if she had nothing to hide, though she felt as if she were seated atop a runaway horse. “Do we have a bargain?”

“We do.”

She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, binding her relief into a tiny ball that he would not see. “I am glad we could come to an understanding.”

“Tomorrow we will ride out early.”

“Of course.” She silently congratulated herself. She need only outwit him for four weeks and she would be free. Trent was a gentleman who loved to talk of honor. He could be trusted to uphold his side of the bargain. She, however, had no intention of keeping their agreement. What did that make her?

Desperate.

On ne fait pas d’omelette sans casser d’oeufs.
One cannot make an omelet without breaking some eggs, her maman used to say.

She inhaled with relief, only to feel the bite of stays against her skin. “Perhaps we can negotiate what it means to ‘dress as a lady’. I cannot abide this corset for an entire month.”

His grey eyes darkened and he dropped his gaze to her décolletage. She blinked, flustered by her own words, flustered by his reaction. Her skin heated with embarrassment and something else, something that started as a heavy pulse and spread out like the hot fingers of the sun.

“I-I have grown unaccustomed to them,” she stammered.

What was he doing to her? Was this part of the game? She could not control it and thus did not like it.

“You dress this way for your lover, do you not?” He reached out a hand, drew it back, then reached forward again as if he couldn’t help himself. Her stomach lifted in what should have been alarm, but truly was anticipation. With the merest of touches, his fingertips traced her collarbones. His gaze remained on the tops of her breasts where her corset pressed them up to be round and full. “You could entice a saint, Mazie, dressed like this.” He laughed, harsh. “But then the Midnight Rider is no saint.”

She had no reply. She had no breath. She had no command over the trilling in her body.

“Tell me about the man.” His hand slid up the column of her throat. He stepped even closer, cupped her chin and tilted her head back, captured her gaze. “Is he gentle with you? Is he kind when he touches you?”

What game was this? Her feet were lost to her brain. She tried to shake off his hand but could not move her head. “He is gentle enough.” Her voice was a rasp.

Something dark flared in his eyes. “Does he please you?”

She couldn’t think. His smell was everywhere, spicy and warm.

“Does he kiss you tenderly, like this?” Trent leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. It was a whisper of a caress. A maddeningly soft kiss. Slowly, with utmost control, he brushed his mouth across hers.

Her breath raveled and unraveled, not knowing where to rest. For there was no rest. No calm. Only want. Only desire for things she could not have.

“Or does he pleasure you like this?” He pulled down on her jaw with his thumb and opened her mouth. Swept his tongue across hers. He tasted hot, of salt and whisky and man.

A shiver snaked up her spine. She wanted him. She wanted this. She wanted more.

His free hand wrapped around her hips and pulled her against him. That aching, pulsing part of her wanted to cry out with relief. She grabbed on to his shoulders and touched her tongue to his. He slanted his mouth and deepened the kiss, desire pouring through him and into her. She stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck. His hands cupped her buttocks, fitted her against him so she felt the hard length of his arousal. Heavens,
yes
. She clasped him tightly as he kissed her jaw, nipped her ear. “Is this how he makes you shiver?”

Yes! No…
no!

God’s teeth,
no
.

What was she doing?

She dropped to her heels and wrenched away from his hands. Backing up two paces, she pressed her fingers to her swollen lips, then wiped her hand across her mouth.

He watched her, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark.

What was he thinking? Was he triumphant? Angry? She could not tell. He was lost to her. Would always be lost to her. He was her
enemy
.

Oh, she was a fool.

She turned away, focused on the green curtains still fluttering in the warm breeze, the piano bench still at a slight angle.

Nothing had changed.

A sharp sound behind her made her jump. She spun, prepared to defend herself.

Trent refilled his tumbler of whisky, that was all. He looked up, lines of tension fanning his grey eyes. But as he straightened, everything else about him appeared dark and smug, as if he had proved the victor of this battle. As if he had proved something to himself. So she had enjoyed his kisses. It wouldn’t happen again, and there was certainly more at stake.

Whatever he thought he knew was wrong. He had underestimated her, as men were wont to do.

He was cunning and intelligent and already piecing together more of the puzzle than she would wish. But she had a greater understanding of the situation than he. She was familiar with the county, with the way of the villagers, while he had been in London these last years.

And he was starting with the wrong conclusions about the Midnight Rider. Conclusions she had no intention of setting straight. It was fine with her if Trent thought her a light skirt, some kind of fallen woman who took a criminal for a lover.

Best he not suspect the truth.

Best he never know that the Midnight Rider was, in fact, her brother.

Chapter Six

“If we are bound to forgive an enemy, we are not bound to trust him.” Thomas Fuller

Was he to be challenged at every turn?

Trent glared at his deputy lieutenant from across the wide expanse of his desk. Harrington sat forward in sharp angles, bristling in a patch of bright morning sun.

“My men know the lay of the land,” Harrington huffed. “You needn’t have brought in those lads from the city. They wouldn’t know a badger from a broomstick.”

Trent arched his brows. Harrington clearly felt the need to protect his domain. “I cannot say that I agree with your assessment of the Bow Street Runners, but I did appoint one of your militiamen to each team of three.” His voice was sheared by vexation. He abhorred the need to defend his decisions.

“You didn’t take one out with you yesterday when you went to the old gypsy camp.” The man leaned back into the gloom that took up the rest of the study. “How do I know what you’ve gotten yourself up to?”