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 cros
sed 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.
A man counted down and a shot rang through the air. Men burst forward. Trent threw himself into motion, near the lead. Arms pumping, legs reaching full stride, he raced across the meadow. He skidded around a large oak tree, where he offered a hand to a lad who had slipped, then ran back across the meadow toward the starting line. Laughing. He was laughing. Alive. Free. He could run forever, aware only of the flesh of his body and the green earth and lush scent of midsummer.
Younger boys, almost men, passed him on the return leg, but he did not care. Across the meadow, Mazie waved her arms, smiling brightly. More laughter rippled through his chest. He crossed the line with cheers from the growing crowd.
Winded, he leaned over and placed his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Men hooted and hollered and patted him on the back as they passed.
“‘Nice effort, milord, but I’d a won wi’ those fancy boots o’ yers,” a tall man teased.
“Oh, so it was your footwear that kept you from winning?” Trent stood upright. His smile was easy. “And here I thought it was all the ale sloshing about in your belly.”
“No, that sloshin’ was from Henry here.” A young man pushed his friend forward, who did appear loose-limbed from drink.
“Ah, to be a young lad on Midsummer’s Eve.” Trent clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Just sober up before you lead your pretty maid into the woods tonight, son, or your tickler will be floppy.”
The crowd roared with laughter. More ribald jokes were thrown around among pints of ale.
Whatever it was that had changed the villager’s minds about him, he was grateful for it. This was no longer a game or a strategy to gain their trust, he needed it for himself.
Finally, he returned to Mazie, who waited to the side with a wide grin. “You are quite fast.”
Trent snorted. “I cannot remember the last time I participated in a footrace.” He retied his cravat and pulled on his jacket, though he would rather leave it off, impossible as that was.
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Immensely.”
“Good.” Again, she laughed.
He felt ridiculously glad that she was smiling and happy. Even better that she was smiling at him. He was tired of her worn, fearful, calculating expressions. Tired of feeling like her gaoler.
It occurred to him then, that she could have tried to escape during the race. She must notice the woods beyond. But she’d stayed. Why?
A trumpet sounded, then the beat of drums far off in the distance, followed by violins, flutes and horns. The parade was starting. He grabbed for Mazie’s arm, led her back through the throng of running children to the dancing green where they could watch the celebration.
It would be dark soon and the revelry would start in earnest. He had instructed his driver to be back for them at nightfall, but found that he was reluctant to leave.
The music grew louder and a glow of light became visible as men danced up the road, swinging immense torches around their heads. The Midsummer’s Eve procession entered the festival grounds before them and circled the field, the torchbearers lighting barrels placed around the gathering.
The texture of the evening changed. The pagan origins of the festival became ever more evident as light leapt and licked at the night and the music pulsed and pounded.
Trent craned his neck and searched for Cat. She stood near the musicians with Lord Dixon. He nodded at the older gentleman but would not step back into the formal role of Lord Radford. He would rather swing the torches with the laborers and farmers. Instinctively, his hand reached out and touched the small of Mazie’s back. He understood, for the first time, why she wanted to throw off the bonds of her heritage. Why she would chose to be Mazie rather than Lady Margaret.
Around them lanterns were lit and swung in the air, not attempting to push back the darkness, but simply making the shadows come alive. For a moment, he could believe that this was indeed, the night the faeries came out to play.
The musicians found their places and country dances began on the green. On the field to their right, couples lined up to leap over a smoldering bed of coals. It was an old tradition. One that was thought to bring fertility, or luck, or love, or any manner of superstitious hopes.
Mazie laughed and clapped to the music, and Trent felt his good humor blossom. He waved over a young boy, handed him a coin and instructed him to tell his driver they would not return to the manner for some hours.
When he turned back to Mazie he noticed her smile had faded. She seemed quiet and distant, as if something had bothered her. As if reality had caught up to her.
He reached his hand out and lifted her chin. She looked up at him with her wide amber eyes.
Mine.
The word burned through him, caught him by surprise.
What would he do with a fallen lady with a penchant for thieving and general trouble making? It did not matter. His reason had long ago lost this battle.
Mine.
Trent must have noticed the shift in her mood, for he tilted her chin and warmed her with his gaze. His grey eyes, attentive, almost possessive, searched hers. Mazie smiled, small and true, and he brushed the corner of her mouth with his thumb.
A thousand sensations ignited with his touch. All of her being rushed out to him, as if he had caressed some secret, private part of her. It was erotic and tender and completely disarming.
Her body froze, and he dropped his hand and looked away. But something had been started, opened, unleashed between them.
Shaken, she glanced around, wondering if Harrington had seen their intimate exchange. The magistrate had been glowering at her a moment ago, his eyes holding threats she dare not think on. But he was nowhere to be found, and she let herself forget the fear he had caused. This was a night for enjoyment, she reminded herself, not worry.
And there was much to enjoy, beginning with the man at her side. Trent was handsome, raw and thrilling and so enticing in the firelight. She glanced at him, let herself drink him in as he watched the dancers. His hair was mussed, his body smooth and relaxed. He looked different than she had ever seen him. No longer the stuffy, proper lord. But just a man, like all the other men at the Midsummer’s Eve festival. A man with a heart, with fears and worries of his own.
“Would you like to dance?” He did not look at her, but she felt his attention on her. Felt it like the damp heat of the summer night on her skin.
The Runaway Countess Page 20
