His Mask of Retribution. Margaret McPhee

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      ‘You know nothing of the matter, Lady Marianne.’

      ‘You did not need to hit him! You did not need to make him bleed!’

      ‘Misbourne got off lightly.’

      ‘What has my father ever done to warrant such treatment?’

      ‘Your father is a thief and a murderer.’

      She shook her head in disbelief, stunned by the declaration. ‘And you are a madman, or drunk on wickedness.’

      ‘I am as sane and sober as you are, my lady.’

      His gaze bore down into hers and in the shadowed light of the barn his eyes were the colour of her father’s best tawny port and clear and lucid as he claimed, and when she looked into them she could not prevent the shiver that ran through her. He was still holding her in place against the door, her wrists secured in his grip, his body too close to hers. There was an aura of such danger surrounding them she could scarcely breathe.

      ‘It is you who is the thief. And, for all I know, a murderer too.’

      He stepped closer, his eyes intent on hers, and she saw the flare of fury in them. ‘It is true I have thieved, but as for murder? When your father grovelled in the dirt before me I could have done it, Lady Marianne, so very easily. I confess I was tempted.’ His hushed voice was so harsh and so filled with anger that she caught her breath to hear it. ‘An eye for an eye is what the Bible says. But murder…’ He shook his head. ‘That is your father’s game, not mine. I’ll settle to see him brought to justice in a hangman’s noose.’ The force of his words flayed her. Then, as suddenly as he had captured her, he released her, stepping back to open up a space between them.

      ‘My quarrel is with your father. You need have no fear. I shall not hurt you.’

      She moved away from the coach and rubbed her wrists—not because he had hurt her, but because they still tingled from the feel of his skin against hers. ‘Then what are you going to do to me?’ Her heart was thumping fast and hard. Her lips were stiff with fear but she asked the question even though she was so very afraid to hear the answer. She waited with legs that trembled, but she did not let herself look away from that razing gaze.

      The silence seemed to stretch between them and tension knotted her stomach.

      ‘Keep you until your father gives me what I want. He has something belonging to me. Now I have something belonging to him. It is a fair exchange.’

      ‘And what is it that you want?’ The words were little more than a whisper. She remembered too clearly her father’s reaction when he had read the highwayman’s demand and the shock and worry she had felt to see it.

      ‘Too many questions, my lady. We can delay no longer.’ Not once did his gaze shift from hers and she quivered from the intensity of it. She knew what he was and, despite his reassurance, what he could do to her.

      ‘You shall not get away with this.’

      ‘Indeed?’ And there was such arrogant certainty in that one word.

      ‘You are despicable, sir.’

      ‘I am what your father has made me, Lady Marianne. Pray to God that you never find out the truth of it!’ He opened the door and gestured her into the coach.

      Marianne had no option but to hold her head high and climb inside.

      She had her father’s eyes. Black as midnight, wary, and watching him with that same contempt Misbourne used on those around him. Little wonder she was the apple of her father’s eye. Little wonder he guarded her as if his pampered daughter were as precious as the crown jewels. In the rest of her face she favoured her mother. Her shapely lips pressed firm and her small nostrils were flared. His gaze swept over the blonde tendrils that framed her face, so soft and pale beside the strong darkness of her eyes. But the eyes, it was said, were windows to the soul. He wondered whether Marianne Winslow’s soul was as black as her father’s. He pulled the curtains closed and the stiffening of the girl’s body, the sudden fear in her face, spurred a twinge of irritation within him. As if he would ravish her, as if he would even touch her. Misbourne was the blackguard in this, not him.

      ‘I have told you that you have nothing to fear from me,’ he snapped. ‘Given your propensity for escape, you will understand the need for preventative measures.’ He produced a short length of rope.

      ‘And if I refuse?’ She raised her chin a notch.

      ‘You have no choice in the matter, my lady.’

      She stared at him as if he were the devil incarnate. ‘You are a villain.’ Her voice was high, her face pale.

      ‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘And you had best not forget it, Lady Marianne, especially if you have any idea of resisting me.’

      Her eyes widened, but she did not suffer an attack of the vapours or hysteria as he had expected of Misbourne’s coddled daughter. Indeed, she did not cry or plead or scream. Everything about her was contained and careful. She just eyed him with a quiet defiance and more courage than many a man as he bound her wrists behind her back, checking that the rope was not too tight.

      He turned his attention away from the woman and slid open the dark wooden panel beneath his seat to remove the small travelling bag from within. He took his time, yet his actions were slick and smooth, well practised. From the bag he took a pair of highly polished riding boots, a new hat and a pair of the finest black-leather gloves. Then he removed the pistols from his pockets, checked they were safe and laid them at the bottom of the bag. He shrugged out of his greatcoat, rolled it into a ball and thrust it on top of the pistols. The tricorn hat, his shabby gloves and the old boots followed, before the bag was stowed out of sight once more. He glanced up to find Marianne watching him. Their eyes met through the dim grey light and that same frisson of awareness rippled through him, just as it had before. And the thought that he could feel any measure of attraction towards Misbourne’s daughter sent anger licking right through him.

      She turned her face away, fixing her gaze on the dark curtains drawn across the window.

      He kept his eyes on her as he slid his feet into the smart black boots, scraped his hair back into a low tidy queue at the back of his head and tied it in place with a black ribbon from the pocket of his tailcoat. But the woman was not stupid; she did not look at him again. Not once. Not through the little country towns of Brentford or Hammersmith or even the village of Kensington. He slipped his hat and gloves in place and the rest of the journey continued in silence, the tension between them seeming to wind tighter with every mile closer they travelled through London. Eventually, Callerton thumped the carriage body and Knight knew they were nearing St Giles Rookery. He looked at Misbourne’s daughter.

      ‘Time to move, Lady Marianne.’

      She glanced round at him then. A small steady movement as controlled as everything else about her, yet he could sense the sudden escalation of distrust and see the flash of fear in those large dark eyes. He felt his conscience stir at what he was doing, but her gaze flitted momentarily away and when she looked back at him it was as if she had drawn a veil across her eyes and the only expression on her face was one of contempt. She looked so like Misbourne that any doubts he might have harboured vanished instantly.

      Knight reached for her arm and moved to execute the next stage of his plan.

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