When she led him through, that proved to be the case. The narrow service hallway was unoccupied. It was also a small one, so they could slip through it and into the next area in the house. “It’s a shortcut my brother and I used a lot,” she said as they entered a pleasant room in a different part of the house. “This is the back, and it leads directly to the gardens.”
“Very well.” He spoke quietly but kept his hand on her arm. “What if you’re recognized?”
“I’ll claim I came back for a visit.” She grinned. “I can imitate my mother and grow arrogant and angry. She’s very good at that.”
“I know,” he said with feeling.
This room wouldn’t be open to the public and signs of family occupation were more evident here, with favourite pieces like her mother’s workbox and her own small selection of books. It seemed odd to see this from a stranger’s point of view.
She could forever be a stranger to this place. She wouldn’t put it past her mother to ban her from ever going through the doors again. In more ways than one, she’d be changed.
They had no time to waste. Leading the way on to the terrace, she glanced around, but saw nobody. The maze was close now. When she pointed it out to Marcus, he gave a terse nod. “What are the visual signs?”
“Subtle changes of colour. She has the hedges changed on a regular basis, but you can tell which have been moved. That doesn’t help with the key. What does is watching the hedges. She has tiny sprigs of a different variety of box planted there. If I’m wrong, we’ll have to be rescued.”
“We can climb up?”
“Not really. The hedges are close-grown; there are no footholds. You can get scratched to death trying.” Well did she recall the day she’d become lost in the maze, before she and Edmund had worked out how to find their way in and out. “There is no plan as there is in some mazes, like take every second turn on the right. That’s one of her games, to see how many people waste time trying to work out a system. There is none.”
“So the key is that there is no key?”
She nodded. “Come on.”
They had to walk across an open greensward to get to the entrance to the maze, so she did it with her head up and her heart thumping.
By the rustle of his clothing she knew Marcus was getting out the club he’d brought, and his pistol, which, once he’d fired it, he could reverse and use as another club. He’d come prepared. She put her hand on the pistol in her pocket and grimly prepared to use it, if she had to. Not something she was looking forward to.
Footsteps vibrated under the ground, but before she could react, Marcus had lifted her off her feet and moved aside to duck into a nearby hedged alley. A blind end, as it turned out.
As he slowly lowered her back down, he pushed her behind him. How a man so large could move so silently astonished Aurelia, but she had no time to ask him how he accomplished it. The steps came closer and she nearly choked on her breath, when strong, masculine footsteps trod past them. With a gesture to stay back, Marcus cautiously moved forward to peer around the corner. The steps faded and Marcus came back to her.
“Not him,” he murmured, his voice lower than a whisper. Aurelia nodded, and when he waved her on, scooted back where they came and started again.
The changes in colour were too subtle to be noticed—unless one happened to know to look for it. A slightly brighter green, but only in a few leaves. Easily missed. Not by Aurelia. Concentration meant she needed all her wits about her just to identify the leaves. Marcus followed silently, her own personal bodyguard.
She turned, opened her mouth, but Marcus leaned closer and spoke quietly right into her ear. “We don’t know who is listening on the other side of the hedge.”
Aurelia was making enough noise with her skirts swishing against the grass. But if he wanted to keep this silence, that was up to him. “Fine,” she murmured, and carried on studying the hedges.
Although she didn’t bother to draw out her watch, she guessed half an hour must have passed before they reached the centre of the maze.
And there he was. Sprawled on the grass, dressed in clothes so grimy he probably hadn’t changed in a fortnight. He even sported a beard, straggling and uneven. But it was him, and a peck of dirt wouldn’t prevent her going to him again. He was busy eating, hunched over a crude pottery bowl, a hunk of brown bread in his hand. Eating like a savage, but after two weeks immured in this place, who wouldn’t?
Ignoring the strictures to stay, she raced forward, dropping her weapon so she could lift her skirts. “Blaize, oh, Blaize!” Going down on her knees by his side, she reached for him.
Then he turned his head.
His light grey eyes, nearly silver, showed her no recognition. Nothing. His pupils were pinheads in the centre of all that grey, and he blinked at her, then again. Glancing down, he dropped the bread in his bowl, which she could see now was filled with some kind of noxious concoction, and stretched his hands out. The nails were broken, the ends of his fingers bloodied, but freshly done, as if he’d struck out and connected with something hard. Or he’d been digging with his bare hands. His hair had grown. She’d never realized it curled, because he wore it so short usually. But she wanted nothing more than to hold him now, prove to herself that he was real.
He grabbed her ungently and slid his hands up her arms to her shoulders. “Blaize, we’re here. We’ll take you back now,” she whispered. “Oh, I’ve missed you!”
Then his hands closed around her throat.
She stared at him, but she could no longer speak. What was he doing? His thumbs pressed on her windpipe and she couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. Her vision faded, his face dancing toward her.
Then, and only then, he spoke, his voice cracked and unused. “You think you can trick me, you bitch? I know you and your kind! You know who I am by now and I condemn you. I will make you mad before I’m done, see if I don’t!”
All the time he was squeezing, squeezing. She couldn’t breathe, scrabbling to loosen his hands, uncomprehending at first, then terrified. He didn’t know her. He thought she was her mother, or someone else he hated. What had they done to him?
She had no more time to stare at his frenzied features, because Marcus was on them. The air rushed past her face as he struck Blaize neatly under the chin, knocking him unconscious in that one, clean blow.
Aurelia fell into Marcus’s arms, gasping, the breath ragged in her throat as she sucked in the life-giving force. “Stay there a moment. The man had just brought his food, that was why the entrance to the maze was unguarded. But we have him now. All we have to do is get out of here.” He grimaced. “That will take some arranging, but we’ll handle it.” He gazed down at her, his eyes distant. He was thinking rapidly. “We can’t do it now. Not with him in this state. We’ll come back tonight. Or I will, with a few useful men.”
Her hand to her throat, Aurelia pulled in air, her chest heaving. Eventually she found a semblance of her voice. “What have they done?”
“Deprived him of what he needs to be sane and drugged him to prevent the frenzy.” Marcus glanced at the prone figure on the ground. “I hate to rush you, but do you think you can move? I don’t know how long he’ll remain unconscious and we need to get out of here.” He glanced at her face. Aurelia nodded and let him help her to her feet. Her hand to her throat, she gasped for air.
“You were so fast, sir, that I don’t think he’s damaged me.”
“I know he hasn’t. Otherwise you’d be dead. But you’ll have a mark for a few days.”
“He didn’t know me!” As her senses returned, fear clutched her. He was truly mad.
“He will. This is what happens when he doesn’t drink. We have to get him back to the inn and then get on our way as soon as we can. As soon as word gets out that the madman has escaped, they’ll come after us.”
“Yes.”
But as she spoke, someone moved behind them. Immediately Marcus shoved her behind him and stood, wide-legged, his pistol in his hand.
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br /> “What are you doing here?” the man yelled, his brogue thick even at this volume.
Aurelia didn’t know him, otherwise she’d have tried the haughty lady. But anyone looking less like a haughty lady couldn’t be imagined, so she knew it would be useless. He’d shoot her with one of his pistols, the one in his hand or one of the couple he had stuck in his belt. He stood in one of the exits. The other was opposite. Some mazes had four, and she would have had more of a chance with that, as she could have slipped out, but running in the opposite direction would get her shot in the back.
“What are we doing here?” Marcus repeated. “What do you think we’re doing?”
The man frowned, then with slow deliberation drew the hammer of his weapon back. The metallic click sounded loud in the hush. These hedges blocked a lot of sound, and perhaps the guests wouldn’t hear them, and the rooms overlooking the maze weren’t open to the public, so nobody would see what he did now. They could disappear without a trace. Nobody knew exactly where they were. Even her mother thought they were eloping, so they wouldn’t be here. Gretna Green, more like, fifty miles to the south.
Birdsong shrilled suddenly as a blackbird shot across the area. Marcus took his chance, leaping forward to tackle the man. Her heart in her mouth, Aurelia stood over Blaize and drew her weapon, but she didn’t need it. One swift blow to the stomach doubled their aggressor up, and then Marcus brought up his knee. The crack sounded like a shot, but it was bone connecting with bone at a velocity that would at the least cause serious injury.
The man fell. Marcus nudged him aside and called to her. “Come on!”
He gave her little time to protest. Grabbing her hand, he hauled her out of the place.
In disarray, her hat hanging off her by its ribbons, one shoe awry, she tried to protest, but he was relentless. “There’s another,” he said. “I don’t want to kill them all.”
Horror jolted her. “You killed him?”
Impatiently he lifted her off her feet and raced around the next corner. “You think I’d leave him to tell the tale? This way they’ll think it was Blaize. They won’t hurt him, not yet. Not until the duchess is sure she can do it and get away with it.” He sounded barely out of breath, but all the time he spoke, he ran with her cradled in his arms. He swung her around so that he held her close to his chest. “But they’ll hurt us, if they catch us. Can you run now?”
When she nodded, he lowered her to her feet. Her petticoat had torn, and her hat was next to useless. Only the recollection that people would stare at a hatless woman made her bother to loosen the ribbons, jam it on her head and fasten it again as firmly as she could.
“I’m ready.” She found a bright green patch and walked toward it. “Can’t we go back and get him?” Tears choked her now, not the thumbs of the man she loved.
When she glanced back, she saw Marcus shake his head. “In this state, nobody can handle him.”
She studied the exit and took a left turn. “Can you remember this path?” An idea struck her, so blinding she stopped thinking for a second. “Wait.”
Sitting on the cold grass, she dragged her skirts up to her knee. “Knitted stockings. Perfect.” After dragging her shoes off, Aurelia snatched off her stockings and handed them to him. “Pull a thread loose.”
While she jammed her shoes back on, he found the top of the delicate items and tore a thread away. Once he’d pulled about a yard free, she scrambled to her feet and grabbed the stocking back. Feeling for the base of one of the hedges, she tied the end around the stem of the hedge, and pulled some more threads free.
“A stroke of genius! A thread we can follow tonight!” His delight was infectious, and she grinned back at him. He gave her a quick, hard hug. “You go ahead. I’ll ensure the thread isn’t too obvious.”
They were coming back tonight? Relief nearly sent her back to the floor, but she had to keep going and she needed all her concentration to recognize the damned green patches. Just as well she was wearing sturdy woollen stockings in a shade of ecru rather than the white silk ones she wore in town. They would blend better.
Slow going, far too slow, but she went as fast as she dared. One false step and she’d mire them in this place for hours. The patches of brighter green led them on a merry dance, but she knew she was on the right track. Other patches tempted, but they weren’t the right colour, not exactly. Dead ends, distractions.
“When will they send another guard do you think?” she asked.
“I would guess in six hours or so. They’ll bury this one and ignore it, if they think Blaize killed him. After all, he’s mad, isn’t he?”
“You keep saying that,” she protested, tears misting her eyes so she had to blink them away. And they’d killed someone, actually killed him.
“Haven’t you worked it out yet?” He faced her, eyes flashing, temper lurking behind them. “He needs the wine. Otherwise, he goes insane. They kept it from him, but if they drive him insane, they also call forth his power. He can control the mind, drive men demented. Lead them into orgies of frenzy, make them cavort and drink until they drop dead. In order to prevent that, they drugged him.”
“Bacchus,” she whispered, her breath softer than the air. “You’re telling me that Blaize is Bacchus.”
“Some of him,” Marcus snapped. “Now, for heaven’s sake, get us out of here before someone sees us!”
She wasted no more time. Her senses in turmoil, she led them safely out of the maze.
But they’d hardly pass muster as visitors now. With no stockings, her hat in disarray, her skirts torn and begrimed, she looked more like a gypsy. Marcus appeared to advantage next to her. Luckily she knew the estate.
“The woodland,” she snapped. Careless of proper behaviour, she lifted her skirts to her knees and headed for the copse. Five minutes seemed like a lifetime until they gained the safety of the woodland. Unless the gamekeeper was prowling the grounds, they were safe now. “Half an hour will bring us to the gates. I can do it.”
“Damn, I should have employed you as a scout,” he said. “Listen. We’ll come back tonight with a few likely lads. I’m sure I can find some in the village. You’ll wait in the carriage and we’ll get him away. He should have come to his senses by then.”
Sorrow and confusion reigned in her mind. How could her mother have done that to him? That anguish in Blaize’s eyes; that was him trying to break through and he couldn’t, but he was fighting. She saw it. She wanted to go back and hold him. He could throttle her if he wanted to, but she needed to stay by his side, fighting with him.
But he could kill her. When he came to his senses, how would that make him feel? No, she couldn’t have gone back, stayed with him. She’d felt that strength and if not for the man hidden beneath the insanity, but not entirely conquered, he’d have killed her. He crushed her throat instead of merely squeezing it.
They made their way back to the road without incident, thanks to her knowledge of the terrain. The carriage was close to the entrance, and when Lyndhurst waved at it, the driver whipped up the horses and came to fetch them. He helped her in. Lurking on this road would get them noticed, otherwise she would have stayed there until nightfall. But Lyndhurst spoke sense. They’d return later.
“What was in that bag?” she demanded, referring to the satchel she’d assumed contained weapons.
“As many bottles of wine as I could cram in,” he said with a tight grin. “Let’s hope he has the sense to drink them.”
Chapter Nine
He’d seen her—hadn’t he? But it wasn’t her, it was somebody else. The bitch who’d put him here, who kept his mind weak. He needed to work something out, but when he tried, it moved out of his grasp.
Blaize rolled over, groaning, spitting out dirt and blood. Somebody had hit him, but he’d only had eyes for her, for revenge, because he wanted to kill her, to kiss her, or both. God, he’d never been mad and helpless before. Usually he could send his spirit soaring. Why not now?
He should stop eating, maybe,
but he had to drink, even if it was only damned water. Filthy stuff.
Had she touched him, like this? Hell, he wouldn’t touch him like this. When it rained he stood under the stream, but he never got clean. He just got muddy when he lay down to sleep. Madness wasn’t a complete confusion of mind—it contained flashes of reality, except it was hard to decide what reality was. Spikes of grandeur. A different way of thinking. Instead of in straight lines, sideways, and up instead of down. Hard to describe. Patterns, thinking in depth.
Something hard pressed against his side. Reaching around without looking, he found something slippery, cold. Glass, that was it. Yes.
Holding on to the word, he turned and found something green and pretty, sealed, liquid inside. Mallet-shaped. Bottle, it was a bottle. Holy hell, not water. With fumbling speed, he broke the seal and got the cork out. He’d have smashed the neck if he couldn’t. Fragrance assaulted him, fruity, spicy, everything he needed in a bottle.
Tipping the rim against his lips, he gulped the contents. No need for a cork if he didn’t put the bottle down. No spillage, either.
He hurled the empty bottle away.
Grass, green all around him, high hedges. He’d hurt himself trying to scale them, but he healed fast, so even the deepest of the cuts had gone the next day.
He grabbed the second bottle and gave it the same treatment as the first. The shattered pieces of his world began to draw together and make sense once more. God, he stank! His smell even overpowered the wine. Wine. He savoured the word.
By the end of the third bottle, he’d started putting things in order. Except who had left this wine. Seeing her here, that was an illusion. There was nobody here now.
They’d taunted him. They knew who he was.
He sat up. The first sight that confronted him was a man at the edge of the glade. Blaize didn’t have to get to his feet and walk, more or less steadily, to see that he was dead. But he did. The man had weapons. Glory be!
Mad for Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 2 Page 14
