Again, Harrington’s words echoed. “You don’t know what you are doing.”
Trent followed the pattern, walked to the other side of his desk and crouched into the leg space. It was dark, so he could not be sure, but it appeared that there was some design there. A cross of some sort, another fleur-de-lis. And a wing. An angel. No, it was black. A bird.
A raven.
It would have a coin in its talons.
And the crossa ray of an escarbuncle.
Hell.
His hands shook and he felt numb, detached, as if he had just been told of a death.
He stood and tried to move the desk. Hewn of the barrel of a tree, it didn’t budge. He threw his shoulder against it, tried to lift it and drag it. He anchored his feet and pushed with the power of his desperation. Nothing.
“Sterns.” His yell scratched at his throat and echoed off the walls around him. “Sterns!”
It took a few moments, but the butler appeared, his coats swinging. “My lord.”
Still, Trent tried to push the desk. “Gather some footmen. The strongest you can find.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sterns hurried off and Trent watched the doorway, impatient for his return. A passing downstairs maid peeked in, probably wondering what the yelling was about. Her eyes widened when she saw him and she scurried away.
He made himself breathe. Yes, inhale. Good. Then took himself for a lap around the room like a groom settling a frenzied horse. Sunlight beamed through the south windows. The scent of wet earth was stronger along the west wall. How often his father had talked of family honor, of the far-reaching consequences of each of Trent’s decisions. He arrived back at the desk in the center of the study. Looked down at his hands. He studied the lines on his palm, his heart unwilling to live through what his head already knew.
Two footmen appeared and Trent almost told them to leave. To let it be. “We will move the desk,” he said instead. “We needn’t move it far, just away from the windows a yard.”
The footmen must have sensed something for they kept their eyes carefully downcast as they circled the desk and each took a corner.
“On three, we will lift. One, two, three…” Nothing. It did not budge. “Try again.” Nothing, like the secret did not wish to be known. Like the bond of blood and kinship pressed down with impossible strength.
The son was not to destroy the father.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. He wanted to walk away. To forget. “Try harder!” He raised his voice, impatient with his own cowardice.
Truth above all else.
Another maid wandered outside the doorway, her curious eyes peeking in. Great, now the household would think he was in the grips of remodeling madness. He did not care.
“On three.” They tried again, the footmen red in the face from exertion. The desk raised an imperceptible amount, not enough to move it.
Trent wanted to hit something. “We’ll need more men.”
“’Tis awkward without anything to hold on to,” a footman muttered apologetically.
“Sterns!” Trent yelled.
“Milord.” The butler appeared in the doorway immediately.
“More men.”
“Yes, sir.”
Two more men entered at once, as if they also had been waiting in the hallway. Good, they weren’t making a scene the entire household would speak of over their dinner. How the earl lost his mind over a desk.
He waved the two men over. Now five of them circled the desk like pallbearers. “Don’t drag it over the carpet. On three. One, two, three…” Still not enough lift. “Bloody hell.” At least he did not yell that.
“What’s going on in here, Trent?” His sister’s soft voice rent the room.
He glanced up to find her and Mazie in the doorway. He did not want them to witness this, but he could not find the force to send them away.
“Did you not like how I remodeled your study?” Cat took a tentative step inside.
“No, no.” He glanced at Mazie, who watched him with wide, quiet eyes. “It was fine, Cat. Wonderful. Perfect. Thank you.” What was he saying? He turned back to the footmen awaiting his instruction. “Harder this time, with your all. One, two, three.” The desk lifted with the five men straining against the weight. They shuffled awkwardly and managed to move it a yard away.
“Put it down here,” Trent puffed. “Watch your feet.”
The men did as he instructed. Stone still, they waited for orders.
“That will be all.” He would not look at the design until they had left. He would keep his eyes glued to their backs.
They filed out and there stood Mazie, her face serious. Mazie, whom he had touched last night. He swept his eyes down the length of her.
“This isn’t a very good location for the desk.” Cat walked into the room. “You won’t get the good light from”
He did not hear the rest for his eyes had shifted down Mazie’s blue day dress to her slippers, then across the carpet. Across the loops and asymmetry to what had been hidden beneath the desk.
He stared at the design, comprehending and not comprehending at once. He felt off kilter, as if stepping off a boat after a long sail, as if something was splitting apart within him. Or coming together.
And he knew. Could never undo the knowing.
His father had been one of them. Corrupt. Dishonorable.
It was here before him, in some kind of twisted symbolism. Dixon, Nash, Horris, Harrington, his father, they all boasted the same coat of arms.
They were some kind of secret society. Like the Freemasons. Some kind of a fraternal order with what…a financial agenda perhaps? Or political.
His father had allowed Harrington’s corruption. Encouraged it.
He had abused his power, preyed upon his own dependents.
Trent’s mind tumbled. Memories of the Pentrich Uprising. Of his father’s coolness. My God, his father had known about the revolt all along. He had not feared it because he was controlling it. He had used an agitator to start the uprising, then taken pleasure in attacking the revolutionaries, fought his own villagers.
Trent wandered to a chair and sat down.
Hard.
He felt oddly numb, like he was watching the truth unravel from outside his body. Mazie came to his chair. She placed her hand on his arm. He stared at it for a moment, feeling her touch grounding him. It had weight and warmth and was real. What else was real?
He forced himself to look around, gather his wits.
“You look like you need a drink,” Cat murmured from across the room, like his madness was contagious.
“That is putting it mildly.” The words sounded odd, his voice foreign.
“What is it? What did you see?” Cat demanded.
He felt the hard mask of his face, nostrils flared, eyebrows down and jaw tense. He did not care. He glanced at Mazie. Her eyes were on the carpet. “Have you seen it before?”
She paused. “Yes.”
“I cannot believe he knew…” he whispered. “He was a bloody paragon, impossible to please, loftier than the king. And it was all an act. A lie. He was a liar.”
“Who, Trent?” Cat pressed.
Mazie looked at him, a frown of compassion between her eyes. She knew exactly what he spoke of.
A roar filled his ears.
It would end. Now. It would end now. “Sterns!” Trent called for the fourth time that morning.
“Sir.” He was still waiting in the hallway.
“I want Harrington, Dixon, Nash and Horris here at once.”
“Of course. But they left an hour ago.”
“I don’t care.”
Corruption.
Greed.
Abuse.
What more?
His eyes on the raven, he let a wave of dark rage pour through him. He wanted to be that bird of midnight blackness. He would claw at the face of his world; rip it apart with his razor-sharp talons. Shred and shred his dark reality until the truth no longer existed.
The single candelabra barely pushed back the darkness. Mazie sat before her mirror and studied her reflectionjewels in her hair, jewels in her ears and love in her eyes.
She hardly recognized herself anymore.
Perhaps because she had been broken into separate parts and pieces. Divided by her grief of the past and longing for the future, slashed by her worry for her brother and her continued betrayal of the man she loved.
She did not know how to harmonize the pieces of herself, the part of her that would fight and the part that would dare to hope. Dare to dream that she need not lose anything, not her happiness and not her freedom. Not her brother and not Trent.
She took the pearl comb out of her hair and placed it on the dressing table.
She wanted to tell Trent the truth.
His pain was in her skin.
Watching him earlier that day, seeing the shock of betrayal that twisted his face, had been like a knife in her heart. What did it mean that she felt his sadness so viscerally?
It meant she loved him.
If she loved him, shouldn’t she trust him? At least try?
It was obvious that he had never suspected the depth of corruption in his county. He was nothing like his father. He had already taken care of Harrington. Certainly he would deal with the others as well.
She unfastened the pearl and diamond earbobs and placed them in the small jewelry box Cat had lent her.
Now that Trent knew the truth of the secret group, he must understand Roane’s motivation. He might be overbearing and stubborn, but Trent was a reasonable man.
Perhaps, if she confessed, he might even come to love her as she loved him.
She would go to him, comfort him about his father. She would offer herself, her body, her heart. Then she would confess.
She would be responsible for herself, as Mrs. Pearl always told her. She would be responsible for her part in this. For her misjudgments.
All would be well in the light of the morning.
But fear held her immobile. She dropped her head into her palms. Not since her parents died had she put her trust so completely in another’s hands. It was terrifying.
But she was making this choice for herself.
With a trembling breath, she stood on unsure legs and walked out her door and down the hallway. She stopped in front of Trent’s door, made a light scratching sound that could barely be heard.
Trent heard it though, for the door soon opened and there he stood, his shirt off, his breeches unbuttoned.
Dear God, she was in trouble.
He raked his gaze over her before meeting her eyes. He lifted a brow in inquiry, his hand on the doorknob.
“I…ah.” Mazie couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t form her thoughts. His chest was muscled and broad and so close. She ached with the need to reach out and touch him. To love him. She jerked her gaze back to his. Fire was lit behind his eyes.
He still stood in the doorway, not inviting her in, but not shutting her out either.
Mazie swallowed and gathered her courage. “May I come in?”
His eyes were heavy lidded as he stepped back.
Mazie noticed her shoulders were tight and forced them to relax as she walked into his room.
How was she to do this?
The heavy fear settled deeper in her core. He could refuse her. Turn her away. Take her trust and abuse it.
She stopped in the middle of his roomhis sitting room, warm blue and brown, more comfortable than ornate. An open door led to his bedroom. From this perspective, all Mazie saw was his bed.
Massive, dark walnut with a blue canopy.
Her heart sped. What was she doing? She glanced at the door to the hallway. Perhaps she should flee back to safety, back to her own self-created world where she was mistress of everything. But it was a lonely world, she now admitted to herself. Sorely lacking in the companionable warmth of another body.
She inhaled and faced Trent. His eyes were deep shadows.
“May I sleep here tonight?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
The silence stretched. He merely watched her, stared in that way of his. She grasped her hands together as she waited.
His chest rose and fell. “As what? My enemy? My lover?”
“As me. Only me.”
“What are you saying, Mazie?”
“I’m saying…I’m….” She bit her lip. This was harder than she had anticipated. “I’m saying I want to trust you. I do trust you. I…I want to make love to you.”
He smiled tight, full of emotion. The same emotion she felt. “You cannot know how tempted I am, hummingbird. But I am not good company tonight.”
She stepped toward him and laid her hand on his bare chest. Wiry hair curled around her fingers. His skin was heat and silk and his heart beat under her hand.
He stepped back and let her hand drop. She gently closed her fingers around the memory of his heartbeat in her palm, as if for safekeeping. The man confused her beyond belief.
“I don’t know if I can trust you.” His voice was quiet, equal parts menace and exhaustion. “How do I know this isn’t part of some plan?”
The flame of her hope flickered, sputtered. Lies, deceit, mistrust, they were bricks piled onto her chest. I love you. “I am not here to hurt you. I swear it.”
“Then tell me”
She would tell him later, afterward. She stepped forward again and placed her trembling fingers on his lips. “Let’s not talk of it now.”
Trent did not answer with his voice, but his eyes, his eyes smoldered. Still, he did not reach out for her. He would not make this easy.
The poor man, betrayed by everyone. Hurting.
All she wanted was to love him.
Mazie cradled his face in her hands and kissed him. Softly at first, then long, drugged kisses with her tongue. He kissed her back but did not touch her, did not pull her to him.
Her hands trembling, she touched his chest, slid her palm down to the front of his loosened breeches and slipped her fingers inside. He was already swollen, proud. Tentatively, she touched his cock, cradled it. She slid her hand over the length of him, marveling at the hardness, the heat.
His hips bucked slightly, pressed toward her. She stroked him longer, from tip to base. Derived pleasure from his pleasure. Loved him with her touch.
Finally, he put his hands on hers and pushed her away gently. “I do not suppose this is all you came for?”
She shook her head, not entirely understanding.
“To the bed.” He motioned with a tilt of his head.
She turned, jittery again, and walked through the doorway to his room. Besides a small scattering of furniture, the room was dominated solely by the massive canopied bed. Her breath caught and a fluttering set across her nerves. There were papers scattered over the blue damask counterpane and she bent at the waist, reached across the bed to gather them.
“Don’t move.” A dark growl. “God, Mazie, don’t move.”
Heat wrapped through her core and spread out across her skin. His hands landed on her hips, then silk whispered across her skin as he pulled her shift higher. Silk slid up her legs. All the way up. His hands lifted and he stepped back.
Bent over as she was, Trent had a full view of her buttocks. Maybe even her sex.
She trembled, wanted to cover herself. But she wanted to give him this. Give him everything.
Time stretched and she knew he was looking at her and enjoying the looking. She heard it in his breath, felt it in the room around her. Excited, titillated, she let him stare. The ache grew and spread, throbbing and wet under his gaze. She shifted, squeezed her thighs, sought relief.
His hands landed on her hips but he did not turn her to face him. He held her steady, slid his thumbs down the seam of her sex and opened her with his fingers. Something warm, soft slid up her secret flesh. She cried out, and he did it again. So soft. She tried to move, but he held her still. His breath was on her sex. He laved her with his tongue. His tongue. It wa
s beyond shocking, beyond
A thousand tremors shot through her. He found her nub. His tongue fluttered, caressed. Then his teeth scraped her with a sharp burst of sensation. Her arms gave out and her belly fell to the counterpane. She buried her face in the velvet and opened her mouth in a silent scream. He did not let up. He used his smooth tongue, rough beard, shock of teeth, then tongue again. Wanting more, she stood on her tiptoes and arched her back. He pulled it from her, her climax. Pulled and pulled until it pounded through her. He did not stop until she pleaded.
But he did not release her. He stood, rubbed the head of his cock through the swollen lips of her sex. She shifted her hips, trying to get away from the overwhelming pulses still echoing through her. With a long, slow thrust, he slid inside her. She was wet and soft and welcoming.
His thickness grounded her, brought her back into her skin. Back into the wanting.
Then he pulled out, turned her onto her back and gathered her in his arms. Mazie clung to him as he laid her in the center of his bed.
He knelt over her and brushed the hair off her face. She tried to pull him down to kiss her, but he would not budge. She turned her head and licked his wrist instead, savoring his salty skin and wry hair. His grey eyes intent on hers, a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead, he slipped into her again. Slowly. He filled her. So slowly. Every inch of his male flesh pressed against her walls.
“Why are you here, Mazie?” His gruff voice raked across her frayed nerves.
She panted, tried to gather her thoughts. “For you.”
“To torment me?”
She held his gaze and slid her palms over the muscles of his shoulders. “To touch you.” She pulled his lips to hers. “To love you.”
He drew her knees up and pressed deeper. She sobbed, or moaned, or some other sound that she could not name, had never heard herself make. He pressed again, deeper than she thought possible, demanded that her body open for him. When she tensed, he leaned down and licked her nipples, melted her.
He thrust again and the feeling pierced straight to her heart, making her feel more naked than nude. It was too much. Too much sensation. Too much vulnerability. Squeezing her eyes closed, she lifted her arms around him, as much pulling him to her as protecting the vulnerable front of her body.
The Runaway Countess Page 26
