His Mask of Retribution (9 page)

She did not look at the highwayman then, only at her father, lest he follow the direction of her gaze and fathom something of the truth.

Her mother scowled. ‘Look at them, insolent young bucks! Out all the night long and only now, at this late hour of the morning, crawling home. It is a disgraceful way to behave.’

‘Young men will be young men,’ her father said with a tolerance that was at odds with everything that he was always saying about the society of the day. ‘Once they are married with a nursery to raise they will soon settle down.’

Marianne blinked with surprise and saw the slight widening of her mother’s eyes. Lady Misbourne gave a sniff of disapproval, pressed her lips tight shut and folded her hands together upon her lap. ‘And what seems to be the hold-up on the road ahead?’

Her father explained about the accident and went back to looking at it. Marianne relaxed a little, touching a hand to the centre of her palm that
he
had held with such gentleness. She began to breathe again. And then she saw her father glance back at the small group of men, watching them for a second or two with the strangest expression upon his face.

‘Papa,’ she called to distract his attention. ‘Perhaps we would be quicker to walk. The day is fine and—’

‘Stay in the carriage, Marianne,’ he snapped, cutting her off. His eyes narrowed and he cast a suspicious, almost frightened glance all around them before climbing into the carriage and shutting the door.

* * *

Rafe had reached the steps to his own house. Only Devlin remained by his side—the home of the viscount’s latest conquest lay a few streets on and it seemed he was planning a visit. All the way back, Rafe had placidly followed the viscount’s example, dawdling at the slow pace, smiling at the jokes, showing nothing of the turmoil within him. He had punched her father, abducted her at gunpoint, held her captive and exposed her to the seamier side of life and more danger in three days than she would have seen in a lifetime. She was Misbourne’s daughter, for pity’s sake. She had to have pointed him out to her father. But there had been no hue and cry, no covert shadow following him. And he knew that Marianne had not told her father.

What the hell had Marianne been doing in St James’s at that time in the morning anyway?

* * *

Rafe discovered the answer to his question later that week. The gossip was all over town. Everywhere he went they were talking of it.

Rafe came home from the theatre that night and leaned against the jamb of the door, watching Callerton blackening their boots in the kitchen.

‘Thought you would be back late.’ Callerton glanced up. ‘Told them you’re tupping some woman again?’

Rafe nodded.

‘You know you might actually have to bed a few or they might start getting suspicious,’ Callerton joked, but Rafe could not bring himself to laugh and Callerton stopped polishing the boots and looked at him, his expression suddenly serious.

‘What’s wrong? Has Misbourne come after you? Maybe the girl pointed you out to him after all.’

‘She did not.’ Rafe shook his head. ‘Misbourne does not know me.’

‘But something’s wrong.’

‘It’s all over town that there was no accident on the way to Marianne Winslow’s wedding,’ Rafe said.

‘They know it was the highwayman?’

Rafe shook his head. ‘They think it was an excuse dreamt up by Misbourne to buy time.’

‘For what?’ Callerton resumed his polishing.

‘It seems that Pickering has pulled out of the betrothal. They are saying that he told Misbourne on the day of the wedding and that Misbourne and Pickering came to fisticuffs over it.’

‘Well, we know that’s rubbish,’ said Callerton. ‘There was only one fist that smacked Misbourne’s face and it wasn’t Pickering’s.’

Rafe moved into the kitchen and sat down at the table. ‘Misbourne is threatening to sue for breach of promise if Pickering does not marry Marianne.’

‘Again?’ Callerton raised an eyebrow. ‘You’d have thought he’d have learned his lesson with Arlesford the first time round.’

‘It serves only to embroil Marianne in yet another marriage scandal.’

‘Why do you care? There will be a damn sight more scandal by the time you’ve finished with her father.’

‘Because had I not abducted her she would already be married to Pickering.’

‘That’s not the reason,’ said Callerton.

Rafe met his friend’s eyes.

‘You’re soft on the lass,’ said Callerton quietly.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. She’s Misbourne’s daughter,’ retorted Rafe as if that was a denial. He did not know what it was that he felt for Marianne, only that he felt it very strongly indeed.

‘Aye,’ said Callerton, ‘she is that. And if you’re set on destroying the father, you best not have a care for the daughter.’ And he went back to polishing the boot.

* * *

Marianne saw him the moment that she walked into the room of the circulating library. He was standing amongst the shelves of novels, seemingly engaged within the pages of a book, but then his eyes glanced up and momentarily met hers before sliding back down to the page. Her heart skipped a beat before racing off at a gallop.

The library was quiet; only two other people were in the room and one of those was the elderly librarian seated in the corner. The other was Caroline Edingham, Lady Willaston, who immediately spotted them and headed straight for Marianne’s mother, her eyes lighting up at the thought of scooping some gossip straight from the horse’s mouth.

‘Keep quiet over Pickering and let me deal with this, Marianne,’ Lady Misbourne whispered beneath her breath.

‘If you do not mind, Mama, I will have a look within the poetry room.’

‘Go quickly before she is upon us. And do not return. I will come and fetch you.’ Marianne made her escape, but not before she saw the false smile that her mother plastered upon her face to greet Lady Willaston. ‘My dear Caroline. It has been an age.’ The two women were kissing one another’s cheeks as if they were the best of friends before Marianne was halfway across the room.

She was careful not to look at the highwayman, but she thought she caught the faint scent of sandalwood as she passed him and it made her heart beat all the faster.

The poetry room was empty. Marianne made her way over to the shelves of the classical poems, took the first book down from the shelf and opened it. She stood with her back to the door, her eyes scanning the open pages without seeing a single line that was written upon them. Her mind was whirring. She did not know what to think of his presence here. She was afraid he would follow her—and even more afraid that he would not. When she heard the quiet tread of a man’s footsteps she did not need to look round to know it was him.

He came and stood beside her, looking at the same shelf of classical books.

She could not help herself. Her gaze flew to his, to those clear amber eyes that were fixed upon hers, and that stern handsome face.

‘Why are you here?’ she whispered.

‘To see you.’

Her stomach gave a somersault and her heart began to thunder in earnest. ‘Don’t you know that there is a very large price upon your head? My father has men searching for you even as we speak.’

‘I know.’

There was a small silence.

‘The other day in St James’s... You did not tell your father.’

‘No.’

‘Why not, Marianne?’ he asked.

‘Because there is every likelihood that they will hang you if they catch you.’

The silence hissed between them.

She felt her cheeks warm. ‘How is your arm?’ He wore no sling. Neither had he done so that day in St James’s.

‘It did not fester.’

And with those words she was back in the warehouse and the air was thick with all that had happened between them.

‘I am sorry about Pickering,’ he said.

‘I am not. In truth, I am relieved. I never wanted to marry him. It was my father who...’ She had said too much. She turned away and laid the book down open upon the table as if she meant to read it.

‘My father does not have the document that you seek. I asked him,’ she said, trying to change the subject.

He was standing behind her, but she heard him step closer.

Her body was in uproar, but she did not edge away. Nor did she look round.

He said nothing. He did not need to. She knew by his silence what he thought.

‘You think he is lying,’ she said.

Still he did not speak, and she turned on him, feeling angry and confused. ‘Why won’t you admit it?’

She could see the determined set of his jaw, the resolve in his eyes, and, remembering his talk of justice and vengeance, she felt suddenly afraid for her father.

‘You are intent on wreaking revenge upon the wrong man.’

‘I do not think so,’ he said softly. ‘And it is not revenge, but justice.’

‘And what is this justice you seek from him?’

‘I have never lied to you, Marianne. I would see him dance upon the end of a gibbet.’

‘My God, my father is right. You
are
delusional and dangerous.’

‘Delusional and dangerous?’ The breath of his whisper tickled her ear.

She jumped. ‘If I scream, you are undone, sir.’

‘I am more than undone. My life is in your hands. You can claim the reward your father has set upon my head.’

She closed her eyes at that.

‘What are you waiting for? If you really you think me delusional and dangerous, go ahead and scream.’

He did not crowd her with his body, did not touch her to coerce, yet she could sense him and the attraction that hummed between them stronger than ever. The thud of her heart was so loud she wondered that it did not echo in the room around them. She should scream, but she knew that she wouldn’t. Was he delusional? No. Was he dangerous? Very. To the men who would hurt her, to her father. But not to her. Never to her.

Slowly she raised her gaze to meet his. ‘I will not let you harm him. You do know that, do you not?’

‘I would expect nothing other.’

The very air seemed to vibrate between them.

‘Marianne,’ he whispered and stepped closer.

She knew that he was going to kiss her. She should have turned away. She should have run. Instead, she shivered with anticipation, with need, and raised her mouth to meet his.

He kissed her. And it was everything she remembered from the alleyway and more. A meeting of two mouths that were made to be together. He kissed her and it felt right. Safe and dangerous both at once, and utterly wonderful. Such gentleness, yet within it she had never been more aware of his masculinity and his strength. And she kissed him back, only a little at first, but then as her confidence grew, bolder, more fully.

Beneath her hands she could feel the hard muscle of his chest and the steady strong beat of his heart, though she did not remember placing her palms there. She felt his arms encircling her, enclosing her, yet she felt no panic at being held, only need and desire. She slid her hands up over his chest, higher, to wind around his neck, pressing herself closer until she could feel the brush of his chest against her bodice and the sensitivity of her nipples beneath her stays. The scent of him filled her nose; the feel of him overwhelmed her senses. She thought she could kiss him for all eternity and it would never be enough.

He drew back, breaking off the kiss, and she did not know why he had stopped. She felt dazed, weak, breathless. His breath was almost as ragged as hers. He eased her away so that the backs of her thighs were leaning against the table.

His eyes stared down into hers and they were dark and filled with the same torment that was fast rushing in to fill the place where all her wonder and joy had been. He stared for a moment longer and then released her.

‘I should not have done that.’ Still staring at her, he shook his head as if to deny what had just passed between them, then turned and walked away.

She stood where she was, her whole body tingling and aflame. Unable to think straight. Her heart still fluttering like a caged bird desperate to be free. Reeling from his kiss. Reeling from all that coursed through her body. Reeling from the thought of what she had just done. She touched trembling fingers to her lips. She had kissed him with all her heart and all her soul. Marianne Winslow, who had not thought she could tolerate the touch of a man ever again, had kissed him. A highwayman with a five-thousand-guinea price on his head, a man whose name she did not know, a man her father was paying half of London to capture. And a man who had sworn vengeance on her father.

She was still staring at the same page when her mother came into the room.

‘She has gone at last, thank the lord. So many questions. Caroline Edingham could do with a few lessons in subtlety. And she’s hardly one to be gossiping about anyone else. Not with the stories I’ve heard of her husband.’ Her mother glanced at her. ‘Have you made your selection?’

‘I think I will take this one,’ she managed to say and closed the book.

Her mother peered more closely. ‘Are you quite well? You look rather flushed.’

‘I am perfectly well, Mama. It is rather warm in here, do you not think?’

‘Hurry along, Marianne. I told your papa we would not be long and you know how he worries about you. He will not be happy if we are late home.’

‘Yes, Mama.’ Marianne picked up the book and followed her mother.

* * *

Rafe Knight stood alone in his study, leaning against the mantelpiece and staring into the flicker of flames upon the hearth. Outside, across the heath, dusk was darkening the sky, yet he had not drawn the curtains or pulled down the blind. The day’s newspapers lay unread upon his desk. The paperwork due with his man of business in the morning had not been touched. There was only one thing on his mind, and that was what had happened in the circulating library with Marianne.

She was Misbourne’s daughter, he told himself again and again. A woman in whose veins flowed the blood of the man he despised. A woman who bore the same dark eyes as the devil. The last woman
in the world he should want. Yet he did want her. He had wanted her almost from the very start. Maybe it was just physical need driving him. Maybe Callerton was right and he should be out there tupping women as frequently as he pretended. Maybe then he would be rid of the need that gnawed at him. But the thought of bedding another woman left him cold. The desire that burned in him was for Marianne Winslow alone.
Misbourne’s daughter
, he thought again. Yet had it not been for her eyes, he would not have believed it. Eyes that, on first glance, looked so like Misbourne’s, but when he looked deep into them there was nothing of Misbourne there. She was nothing like Misbourne. Nothing like that monster. But she
was
Misbourne’s daughter and nothing he could do would ever change that.