The Runaway Countess (27 page)

She placed her hand on his fist. Met his gaze. “I’m sorry about Harrington. For you, I mean. For your place in the mess. I don’t take pleasure in being right about this.”

Warmth flowed into him from her touch. It kindled a reciprocal heat in his chest, a place that had felt cold and dead all day. It was a kindness on her part. Whatever he thought of her, a thief and a liar, she
was
kind. Even to him. Her captor. It was obvious that she worried about people, that she wanted to help.

The noise of the crowd fell between them and neither tried to brush it away.

“How did you ever play the role of a servant?” he muttered. “You always say what you want. I cannot see you scrimping and bowing.”

“Well, I never said I was a
good
servant.”

Their laughter mingled together, hers bright, his a hesitant chuckle. Warm. He felt warm. Tinges of happiness fought through his gut-wrenching guilt and worry. It was her doing—Mazie.

A light blush colored her cheeks, perhaps from the heat of the evening. Some part of him, the angry, primitive part, instinctively wanted to be the cause of her flush.

Wanted to make her blood pulse and pound.

He looked away and drew in a breath. Then another. Then glanced back.

Dark hair, pale almond skin and those raw, intelligent eyes. And her mouth, ah, her mouth.

He liked looking at her. Arguing with her. He rather liked
her
, in fact. Somewhere over the past weeks, she had become a companion to him. Sparring and challenging, yet unexpectedly intimate and warm. Helping even as she hindered.

He shifted on his seat. “Shall we get some ale?”

She stood and brushed the hay from her skirts, offering him a delectable view of her décolletage. And he took it, what she offered, like a starving man.

“Drowning your sorrows in drink?” she teased.

Warm, almost lazy, he took her elbow and led her toward the throng. He wanted to feel it again, the scrape and noise of the crowd. The press of Mazie against his side.

“Milord,” a man called. “Lord Radford.”

Trent stopped and Mazie’s green silk swished around his legs. “Mr. Warring,” he greeted the older man, aged like the winded moors of Yorkshire. “A fine evening for a celebration.”

“It is, milord.” Mr. Warring bowed. “An honor to see you again, and so soon.”

As he had that day at farmer Smith’s, the older man stood and stared at him, as if waiting for something, or judging something. Eventually his rheumy eyes drifted toward Mazie.

“Oh, my lady.” He bowed with a flourish. “I am ashamed I did not recognize you. May I say you look beautiful this evening?”

She smiled, but it was not the free expression Trent had come to recognize. “I am still Miss Mazie, please, Mr. Warring.”

The older man grinned, showing the gap where his teeth were missing. “I was not surprised to learn of your heritage,
milady
. Some of your kindness must have influenced the earl.” He winked at her. “Bringing food to Mrs. Warner and her brood in gaol. I heard they had a veritable feast the last two nights.”

She glanced up at him and embarrassment burned his skin. Trent had hoped the gesture would remain anonymous, but then he should have realized the villagers would be too curious not to investigate.

Not wanting to stay and chat about his deeds, good or bad, Trent murmured some pleasantries and led Mazie away.

Another group of villagers passed by, their heads bent together. Talking about them, he supposed. But with smiles and amused glances.

Mazie held his arm and looked up at him with a curious expression, but did not speak. He waited, knowing she would not be able to hold her tongue long.

“Why does it make you uncomfortable that the villagers know of your kindness toward the Warner family?”

The question surprised him. He had expected her to ask if it was true, if he had sent the food.

She did not ask. She did not doubt him.

She pressed on. “Look how the villagers are smiling and nodding at you. The rumor has obviously spread. I thought you wanted this, for them to respect you and your leadership.”

He sighed. “Of course I want their respect. But not because of something so simple. I am not a brute, Mazie. I feel bad for sending the Warner family to gaol.”

They walked in silence for a moment. “I am their lord,” he muttered as the truth wound its way to the surface of his being. “They should expect more from me than that.”

Chapter Fifteen

“Tempt not a desperate man.” Shakespeare

Once the words were out of his mouth, Trent wanted to swallow them back. He talked too much of his mistakes and regrets this evening. He waited for Mazie to gloat, to press the fist of her righteousness into his gut.

She glanced up at him through her lashes, her lips pursed in thought, but there was no scorn in her expression and no pity, thank God.

She considered him a moment, then turned and nodded toward an older man wandering the stalls alone, one arm limp at his side. “That is Mr. Horn.” Her voice was soft and he leaned in to hear. “He was the village blacksmith for years and recently lost his wife. His cottage needs some repairs to the stone and mortar walls. Many would appreciate your attention to him.”

Trent straightened. Mr. Horn. Stone and mortar walls. He filed the information away for later use.

She would not press him. He reached out and touched her back, savored the contact beneath his fingertips, the warmth of her skin and how it traveled up his arm. How it made him feel less alone with his troubles.

“Oh, look, Tr-my lord.” Mazie turned with a smile and tugged on his hand, drawing him toward a small gathering of gypsy children juggling brightly colored balls. As they approached, one of the children whistled and all the balls soared into the air, into a muddle of color and movement. Just as seamlessly they fell back into some sort of pattern, plucked from the sky by little hands and quickly tossed back up.

Mazie laughed, clapping loudly. His blood lurched and lifted at the sound of her happiness.

“How do they do it?” He stopped at her side, his eyes on the jugglers. It seemed impossible that not one ball fell to the ground.

“Determination.” She elbowed him playfully. “And being willing to make a few mistakes.”

The woman was about as subtle as an axe through a tree. He dropped a shilling into a dusty hat passed by a young gypsy girl. Did Mazie have an opinion of everything?

She leaned sideways so that her shoulder brushed his arm. Again the thrill of warmth. He would reject it. He would savor it. It was maddening.

“Thank you for sending food to the Warners, Trent. I”

Surprised that
she
was thanking
him
, he sought her eyes, wondering what he would find there.

But she was looking away. The setting sun cast her profile in soft angles. She was warm, thoughtful, intelligent and truly concerned about the welfare of others, including him, oddly enough.

She glanced at him, her eyes searching his, then returned her attention to the children. “I must apologize for interrupting your courtroom.”

He laughed, astonished.

When she turned to face him, the sunlight played across her eyes and the rest of her confession tumbled out in a long rush. “I don’t know why I am so impetuous, but there is always something, and I worry, and the Warner children looked so sad. I know I made it worse for you, and that it must have been terrible. I am sorry. I should have held my tongue. I can never seem to mind my own business.”

“You do not say.” He meant to sound teasing, but his voice came out sharp. Sun flashed gold and green in her eyes. She was changing the game with this apology. He felt off balance. He tried for a lighter tone. “One would think you had the special privilege to march around the countryside, doing whatever you wish.”

She frowned at the truth behind the banter. “I know. I have been thinking about it for days. I can only explain…” She exhaled.

Unable to stop himself, he brushed a stray curl behind her ear. He hadn’t meant to upset her.

She stilled, caught in the snare of his caress, and his fingertips lingered on the sensitive skin by her ear. She stared at him, wide-eyed, then tossed her head, effectively removing his fingers from her skin. She focused on the disbanding crowd.

The gypsy children had finished their show, but she made no move to leave. “Do you know, after my parents died I felt like nobody. Nobody wanted me. I was alone and scared and at the mercy of people who did not love me.”

“And you wish someone had come to rescue you, like you did for Mrs. Warner?” There was that warm, almost painful tenderness in his chest again.

“Yes. No.” She jerked her head. Her gaze was brief, a glimpse of heaviness. “I only mean to say that I felt like nobody, and it was terrible. And then, over time, I felt stronger, and I realized I could be anybody. I was no longer bound to a family or a society. I was alone in the best sort of way. I could do anything. There were no rules anymore.”

“No one is free of those rules, Lady Margaret.”

“I know you think that. Not only think that, but live it. But I don’t. I can’t.”

“You must.”

Her brows drew together at his hard tone. “I just mean to say I will try.”

He wanted to reach his hand out and touch her again, smooth the tension from her gorgeous eyes. He gentled his tone. “I suppose trying is enough. I was taught that to try was to fail, to do was to succeed. But perhaps that isn’t the way of things.”

“Everyone fails at some point.” She crossed her arms. “And some rules were made to be broken.”

Just what he would expect her to say.

If rules were meant to be broken, he wanted to reply, let’s take this business between us back to my bedroom, alleviate this throbbing desire that you must feel as well.

No good could come of it, he told himself. Surely she would agree.

But, God, it would be nice. Relief, yes. It would bring relief to lose himself in her softness. That intimate stroke of contact. Alive. He would feel alive.

Not denying himself the need to touch her again, he took her hand and rubbed his thumb over her palm before he placed it on his arm.

Their eyes met and something passed between them, something intimate and totally outside his understanding. It was more than desire, though that was there as well. It was as if for the first time they saw each other not as right and wrong, but simply as people. They were two bodies standing together in the midst of the confusion of living.

He held her hand where it rested on his arm and they stood captor and captive. He did not know who was free and who was bound. Only knew that for this moment his soul had found a kindred spirit.

A rowdy group of boys ran past and he used the excuse to pull her against his side. So much soft flesh. It inflamed him. He bent toward her so she could hear him over the boys’ shouts, his lips near her ear. “Enough of this talk. Are you still hungry?”

He sensed rather than felt the shiver through her. She glanced up at him, and her gaze fell to his lips before sliding away.

His body reacted to her unconscious gesture. A primitive growl, a thrust of awareness.

“Let’s watch the games,” she murmured.

His mind on the rounded tops of her breasts moving just so with her breath, he turned in the direction of the rowdy boys. They gathered on a field for contests of strength. Boys and men lined up for log wrestling, javelin throwing and foot races. Behind them, the sun set in a stream of impassioned colorsburnished gold, a wash of purple, long tendrils of pink.

“You should play.” Mazie turned her face toward the sunset.

Trent laughed. “I am far too…” He stopped himself. Far too what? Old? Proper? Boring for such games? “Very well,” he surprised himself by saying. “Will you join me?” He motioned toward the distant field where women raced with a hoop, rolling it to the finish line.

“I am happy to watch, my lord.”

“But you lead me on such a merry chase. Surely you enjoy the sport.”

“It is true, but I fear I am not dressed for it.”

“You look beautiful.” And she did. “Only one thing is missing.” He picked some flowers from a swag hanging nearby. “For your hair.”

Again, color rose to her cheeks as he stepped close and tucked the blossoms, a deep pink like her becoming blush, into her hair pins. She shifted on her feet, as if unable to keep still.

With effort, he stepped back. “Here, hold my jacket.” He spoke before he fully considered what he would do.

She raised her brows but said nothing.

He walked to the starting line for the next footrace and stepped up to take his place. The villagers all looked at him with surprise, then turned to talk to each other in low voices. Was he breaking some unspoken rule by participating? He did not think so. And if he were, he truly did not care.

“Are you joining us, milord?” A man doffed his cap and smiled his welcome.

“I certainly am.” Trent loosened his cravat.

The murmurs spread wider through the small crowd, and a few rushed wagers were made.