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ride.
    She circled the room, looking for a hidden door, a ruse. Other than a mirror against one wall and a small platform for her to stand on, the room was bare.
    “Please, miss, we must hurry.” One of the maids motioned for her to step onto the platform.
    Mazie did as they asked. It wasn’t the maids’ fault they had been dragged into this mess. She stood still as they took off her wrapper and pulled the dress over her head, then began pinning and sewing.
    Whatever Trent had planned for her, she did not think she was going to like it.
     
    He planned to get some answers. The woman riding at a slow canter next to him would provide them. He was done with these games. Done.
    Trent turned to look at Mazie and dark almond-shaped eyes met his. Even with the smudges of exhaustion shadowing her face she was undeniably beautiful. Such smooth skin and lovely balanced features. He always did appreciate the grace of symmetry.
    He forced his gaze away. After his dreams last night, he was resolved to think of his prisoner like a rock, or a tree, and not as a woman in any sort of way.
    “I do wish you would be ready on time,” he murmured. “I cannot be expected to wait all morning.”
    She did not reply, but she did not need to. He knew the truth of the matter. According to the maids, Mazie had been ready on time but had spent a half hour sitting in her room on purpose. He did not know whether to be impressed with her continued defiance or irritated as hell.
    It was harder than he’d anticipated, unfolding this woman’s secrets. He’d threatened her, scorned her and obviously frightened her, but she did not give him so much as an inch. Reluctantly, he had to admit that he would want her for an ally. It was uncommon to find such honor to one’s cause when faced with the risk of one’s own life.
    “Why didn’t I ride in my own gown? Why this dress?” When he glanced at her again she motioned toward his sister’s old riding habit. Made of fine blue merino cloth, it was styled traditionally with a tight-fitting jacket that hugged her in all the right places. The long, voluminous skirt covered her old boots, and she wore a small-brimmed black hat with a blue ribbon to match.
    “Too many eyes watching. I’ve appearances to keep up.” Trent looked her up and down. He did not want to notice the litheness of her form underneath that dress or the lush, full curve of her breasts. “I am relieved to see the end of that horrific black monstrosity you arrived in. I shall be glad to have it burned.”
    She turned away and pressed her lips together as he knew she would. It was too easy, baiting her. “What, are you attached to that eyesore of a dress?”
    “It was mine.” Her voice revealed her fatigue, but she held her head with pride. “I bought it with my own wages.”
    “Are you a widow? In full mourning?”
    She did not so much as blink.
    “No, I did not think so. In fact, I would wager that the widow’s weeds were a disguise meant to offer a certain amount of freedom and respectability.”
    “You needn’t concern yourself with my belongings or my attire. I understand I am your prisoner, but I do wish to retain some semblance of sovereignty over my person.” The path narrowed and, without prompting, Mazie drew her horse back and fell in line behind him.
    They rode through a thick forest so dense it was still dark under the interlocking branches. The air was colder here and held the scent of damp earth. Trent scanned the ground for tracks of any kind, but his mind was on the woman behind him. Who the hell was she with her cultured speech? He was certain the intonations of her vowels indicated an education of some sort and not the kind that could be learned from books.
    And she seemed quite comfortable on a horse. It was not common for servants, especially of the female variety, to know how to ride. The forest opened to a meadow and he slowed so his prisoner was at his side once more.
    She glanced at him and, finding his