His Mask of Retribution (7 page)

‘Most young women in your position would not offer to help me.’

‘Then you should be glad that I am not like most young women,’ she replied and thought of the terrible dark secret she was hiding.

‘No, you are not, Marianne.’ His gaze held hers and as she looked deep into his eyes she felt something shift between them. In her hand he yielded her the linen. Then he pulled a knife from within his boot and offered it, handle first, to her. ‘You need to cut away the sleeve of my shirt.’

She looked at the blade and then up into his eyes. ‘With such a weapon I could do a better job than the bullet.’

‘You could,’ he agreed, but the knife still lay upon his palm and she knew it was more than the knife he was offering her. Trust. It was such a fragile word. Power. It was not something she had ever known.

She looked at him a moment longer, then her fingers closed around the handle. The blade was sharp and wicked, and she wielded it with great care to cut away the thin linen sleeve of his shirt. With the skin exposed she could see the wound that gaped in the flesh of his upper arm and the glisten of the blood that leaked from it.

‘Lay the sleeve flat upon the ground and check that where the bullet entered none of the material is missing.’

She did not understand the reason, but did as he instructed, smoothing out the blood-soaked linen, finding the small gaping hole the bullet had made and showing it to him. To her shock he pulled his injured arm across his chest and began to poke his fingers into the wound. She could see the way he gritted his teeth against the pain; the blood flowed all the harder.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘The missing piece of shirt is within the wound. It will fester if left there.’

‘Allow me.’

‘Marianne,’ he growled.

‘Are you afraid that I will hurt you?’ she goaded.

‘Perhaps.’

‘I do not believe you. You do not fear anything.’

‘We all have fears, Marianne.’

She felt the shadow of her past fall upon her. ‘And they always find us no matter how fast we run, or how well we hide,’ she muttered beneath her breath. But he had heard her.

‘Running from fear only makes it chase you. Hiding from it only makes it seek you. You have to face fear.’

Their gazes locked and held just for a moment. Then she took his injured arm within both her hands and examined the red pulp of the groove the bullet’s path had cut through his skin. It was, as he had warned, not a pleasant sight, but she did not allow herself to balk from it. The metallic scent of blood was so heavy in the air that she could taste it at the back of her throat. She did not see the single scrap of bloodied linen at first. Indeed, it no longer looked like linen, being dark red and wet; only the edge of uneven threads made her realise what it was. She knew that it would hurt him. She glanced up at his face and saw he was watching her.

He gave her a nod of encouragement.

She reached into the wound, feeling the muscles tense slightly, and found the end of the linen scrap. She carefully picked it out, placing it on her palm and showing it to him.

‘Open it out, fit it against the hole within the sleeve.’

And when she did, they could both see that it completed the sleeve—there was no more of the material within the wound.

Using the knife, she cut the neckcloth into strips, then took a clean pad of handkerchief from the pocket of her dress, pressed it gently to the wound and bound it in place with the strips, tying off the last of them so that it would not unravel.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘You are welcome.’

The silence seemed suddenly loud within the damp chill of the warehouse.

Her father had not sent the document. The knowledge hung between them, although neither of them spoke it.

‘What happens now?’

‘We wait until nightfall so that we can cross the streets unseen.’

‘And then?’

‘And then you may go home to your father.’

Her eyes scanned his, searching for lies and trickery and finding none.

‘There is much time to wait, Marianne. You might as well make yourself comfortable.’ He gestured to the ground by his side. He was right. She sat down on the side of his good arm, leaning her back against the wall as he did.

‘The day is chilled,’ he said, and when he repositioned the coat so that it covered both their legs she did not stop him. Her dress was damp with rain and when she breathed she could see the faint mist of her breath, yet she did not feel cold. Indeed, the side of her closest to him seemed to burn.

They sat in silence, their bodies so close, yet not touching.

She looked down at where their hands lay on top of his greatcoat. His, so very large, a man’s hand, strong and capable, the fingers long and blunt, the knuckles grazed. Hers, so very small and pale in comparison. Both were stained with blood. His blood.

‘You don’t have to be afraid any more, Marianne.’ He turned his right hand, the hand that was closest to her, over so that it was lying open and palm up.

And it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lay her hand upon his and feel the gentle close of his fingers.

They sat against the wall. Side by side, neither looking at the other.

They sat in silence, listening to the rain and the occasional distant sound of a bell tolling, and the howl of the wind through the roof. And the clouds moved across the sky, all the shades of grey and charcoal, racing so fast as to give her the illusion that she and the highwayman, not the clouds, were moving. And the rain drummed all the heavier before finally ceasing its attack. Even when it stopped they could still hear the run of water from the guttering. And all that time his hand was warm and strong and reassuring around hers.

* * *

‘Hell, Knight! I thought he had you. I went to the burying ground, but it was empty and there was blood all over the place.’ Within the kitchen of the house in Craven Street, Callerton was unwrapping the bandage from Knight’s arm.

‘I had to lie low until I was sure they would be gone.’

Callerton removed the dressing from Knight’s arm and peered at the wound. ‘The lass did a good job.’

‘She did,’ agreed Knight, thinking of how Marianne had helped him. Nothing about her was as he had expected. She was not over-confident, spoiled and demanding. He found her quiet dignity, her courage, the secrets in her dark eyes, intriguing. Too intriguing for a woman he had abducted. And definitely too intriguing for the woman who was the daughter of the man he had spent a lifetime hunting.

‘This is going to hurt like the devil.’ Callerton lifted the clean boiled rag and dipped it in the cooling boiled water.

‘Do your worst,’ said Knight and grimaced as Callerton began to cleanse the wound.

‘Misbourne is an utter bastard. I can’t believe he would risk his daughter’s life for the sake of a piece of paper.’

‘Believe it.’ Knight’s hatred of the man intensified at the thought of how he had endangered Marianne’s life.

‘If his men were sent in to free her, how could they make the mistake of shooting at her? You said it was point-blank range. They must have seen her.’

Knight frowned slightly as Callerton pressed harder on the wound. ‘Because they weren’t sent to free her. They were sent to kill me. None of the men made any attempt to retrieve Marianne. I doubt he even told them that I was holding his daughter.’

Callerton blew out a sigh and shook his head. ‘So Misbourne’s keeping quiet about Marianne’s abduction, even to the ruffians that he’s hired.’ He paused and looked at Knight. ‘But why try to kill you when, to his knowledge, you’re the only one who knows the location of his daughter?’

‘Because he thinks I know what’s in the document. Whatever is written on that piece of paper, Misbourne is willing to do anything to keep its secret safe. Even if it means risking his own daughter.’

‘Hell,’ said Callerton. He finished cleansing the wound and started to bind it with a fresh dressing and strips of linen. ‘What is in that document?’

‘The explanation for what played out on Hounslow Heath fifteen years ago. And the more Misbourne tries to hide it, the more determined I am to find it.’

‘And Lady Marianne?’

‘We let her go,’ said Knight. Her father might risk her life, but he would not.

Callerton paused in his binding. ‘She’s seen your face. She can identify you.’

‘Only if she sees me again. She does not know my name.’

‘It’s risky, especially with you having to play the rake around town.’

‘It’s a risk I’m going to have to take.’ He remembered the look on Marianne’s face when she realised that her father had not sent the document to free her: shock, disbelief, confusion, hurt. Misbourne was a villain, but seeing Marianne realise it gave him nothing of gladness or victory, only a sick feeling deep in his stomach. ‘I never meant for her to be endangered or hurt. I thought Misbourne would give up the document, to save her from me, at the first opportunity.’ He thought of her standing before him in that burying ground, prior to the arrival of Smithy and Misbourne’s ruffians. And the urge he had felt to kiss her. And his palm upon which hers had lain in the warehouse tingled, and the same desire he had felt then whispered through his body. He had to be losing his mind.

‘Misbourne will think he’s won.’ Callerton tied off the bandage.

‘He’ll soon realise otherwise,’ said Knight. He gritted his teeth and hardened his voice. ‘The sooner she is gone from here, the better.’

* * *

Within the yellow bedchamber Marianne watched as the accomplice, still masked, poured the last of the hot water into the copper bath positioned before the fire and left. The highwayman lifted his own empty bucket and moved towards the door.

‘The bath is warm to soak in and there are clothes in the wardrobe and drawers, old fashioned in style, but clean and dry. When you are ready, ring the bell and your dinner will be delivered to you. When you have eaten I will take you home to your father.’

She gave a small nod of acknowledgement. ‘I have been thinking,’ she began. She had done nothing else but think since the warehouse. ‘The document cannot be in my father’s possession. It is the only explanation.’

He said nothing, but she could see from his eyes that he thought otherwise.

‘Believe me, if my father had the document he would have given it to you. I am certain of it.’

Still he said nothing. It was not as if he were arguing against her. She did not know why she felt the compulsion to explain to him. ‘It is more than the fact he is my father.’ She hesitated before rushing on. ‘There are other reasons...very good reasons...’ Of which she could make no mention. ‘I know he would not have left me in such a situation if, by the production of a single document in his possession, whatever that document might detail, he could free me.’

She saw the look in his eyes and understood what it was. She faced right up to him, suddenly reckless and angry. ‘Do not dare pity me!’

He did not argue, did not move, just looked at her with those eyes of his.

‘You think you know my father so well. You think you have it all worked out with your plans and your machinations. But my father has not delivered you the document and there can only be two possible explanations. The first is that...’ she swallowed and was proud that she did not hesitate to say the words ‘...is that I am not the most precious thing to him. And the second is that the document is not in his possession. Either way, you were wrong in your estimation, sir.’

There was a dark flare of fury in his eyes. The air seemed to tingle between them, making her suddenly very aware of him as a man and of all of his power. She wondered if she had gone too far, yet she could not back down.

The seconds seemed to stretch. They stared at one another across the small distance.

‘Your bath is growing cold, Lady Marianne,’ he said, his use of her title erecting the barrier of formality, as if nothing had happened between them in the burying ground or the warehouse. And with a small inclination of his head he left.

* * *

The hour was late by the time they travelled the first part of the way through the lamp-lit streets, in the same carriage in which he had brought her to his house. Fog drifted in patches, slowing their progress. Eventually the carriage came to a halt in an alleyway and they continued the rest of the journey on foot. There was nothing securing her wrists. He did not hold her, not her arm or her hand or her waist. He told himself that it was because she had no reason to escape, not now that he was taking her home to Misbourne. But that was not the only reason. The truth was that he liked the feel of her too much.

They did not speak, just walked side by side through the quiet streets that glistened with dampness and puddles. He did not wear the black-silk kerchief around his face, but the collar of his greatcoat was turned up and his hat pulled low on his head. Beside him, Marianne was wrapped in a long fawn cloak that brought back memories of his childhood. His mother had been taller and bigger in build than Marianne, so the bodice of the deep-blue silk beneath it had been pinned to keep it decent and the hem of the dress touched to the ground. The cloak’s hood was pulled up over her head, but he knew that beneath it her hair was plaited neatly and tied with a silk ribbon that matched the dress.

They continued walking, keeping to the alleyways and mews through the occasional mist that swirled and hid them. Always in the shadows, that the few people they passed would not know either Marianne or him. Until at last he stopped at the end of the alleyway that would lead out near to Leicester Square.

He looked down at her and she looked up at him, and he was seized by the sensation that had things been different, had she not been Misbourne’s daughter, had she not been the woman he had abducted, had she not been promised to another man...

But she was all of those things, and what lay between him and Misbourne was only just beginning. When it finished there would be a noose around Misbourne’s neck. And he could not afford to let himself think of what that would do to the woman before him; he did not need that complication.

She was Misbourne’s daughter, he told himself, and nothing more.