He lifted her fingers to his lips and was gone. Marianne paused a moment, staring at the spot where he had stood. Then she slowly locked the door, not thinking, but feeling the tingle of blood through her veins as she considered this flirtatious speech.
Chapter Eleven
It was late in the night when Marianne awoke in the unfamiliar room, wondering at that first blink where she was. As the recent past came back to her, she listened for the duchess’s snoring. All was silent in the next room. She was already out of bed and on her way to the door when she heard the faint voice calling, “Marianne. Are you there?”
“What is it, Your Grace?” she asked. The lamp was burning low, showing her the duchess’s raddled face.
“I am famished,” the duchess said in a querulous voice.
“The kitchen will be closed by now. It’s not long until morning.”
“I know, I know, but I cannot sleep a wink for the hunger pangs. I lost my dinner, you recall. I have been ringing the bell this past half hour trying to rouse someone belowstairs. There is no answer.”
“What do you want me to do?” Marianne asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Would you mind running below and asking the fellow on the desk to heat me a glass of milk?” It was not really a question, it was a polite command. “I shall make do with that until morning. There is bound to be someone at the desk, if not in the kitchen.”
“Very well,” Marianne said.
Her watch showed her it was three-thirty. She could not go belowstairs in her nightgown. To avoid getting dressed, she put on her mantle and fastened it around her shoulders. Lamps burned low at either end of the hallway. She chased her shadow along to the staircase and hastened down. There was a man at the desk, snoozing with his hand in his chin. She gave the bell a light ring to rouse him.
He shook his head. “Ah, miss—er—the duchess’s companion, is it not?”
“Miss Harkness, yes. Her Grace has not been well. She is having trouble sleeping. Could you have someone heat her up a glass of milk?”
“The kitchen help are all in bed, Miss Harkness. We’re only a small establishment. We can’t keep the kitchen open twenty-four hours a day. Cook will be back on duty in a couple of hours. I am not allowed to leave my post or I’d do it myself. There is money here, you know, that someone might walk off with.” He glanced behind him to a strongbox on a shelf.
“Oh.” She looked at him helplessly. “Her Grace is really very hungry.”
“You are perfectly welcome to heat the milk up yourself, if you like. The cook leaves the fire banked. There is milk aplenty in the larder. The kitchen is just at the foot of the staircase, there at the end of the passage.” He pointed across the empty lobby to an archway and a corridor beyond.
Marianne hesitated only a moment. Neither she nor the duchess would get any further rest unless she had her milk. “Thank you,” she said and ran across the lobby, down a pair of dark stairs to the kitchen.
It was much larger than she was accustomed to, with three stoves standing side by side. Everything was neat and tidy, with the fires banked as the clerk had said. There was a large, uncurtained window looking out on the back. She felt exposed, but it was not likely that anyone would be there at this hour of the morning. She forgot about it as she hurriedly gathered up a small pan and arranged it on the stove. That door there on the left must be the larder. She had no trouble finding what she needed. She decided to heat a glass of milk for herself while she was at it. She watched as the milk began to simmer. She was just about to fetch two glasses from the rack above the sink when the back door flew open.
There had been no warning. No sound of approaching footsteps, no shadow at the window, no rattle of the doorknob. One moment she was alone, and the next moment a stocky, rough, unkempt-looking man in a black jacket was in the room, staring at her from a pair of sharp black eyes. Wisps of black hair stuck out from under a misshapen black hat.
“A new cook, then?” he said, swaggering forward with his shoulders back. “I haven’t seen you before, have I, my darling?”
She sensed his intention even before he touched her. It was there, in his bold, darting eyes, his loose grin, and his swaggering gait. “Give me a kiss, love,” he said, sliding his arm around her waist. At close range, she could smell the stench of the stables from him.
“Let go of me,” she said, trying to pull away. “I am not the cook.”
“Serving wench, then. Stealing Cook’s milk. She’ll give you what for.”
Marianne was frightened but not yet terrified. In the past, she had found the duchess’s name a sovereign shield against unwanted familiarity. “I am a guest here, sir. I am traveling with the Duchess of Bixley.”
A throaty chuckle was his reaction to that. “Ye must take me for a Johnny Raw. A duchess at this place. Aye, you’re a duchess’s lady-in-waiting, and I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
On this disbelieving jeer he put both arms around her and tried to kiss her. She pushed him away as best she could, but he had the strength of a tiger and the tenacity of a bulldog. His rough hands pulled her mantle aside, revealing what was obviously a nightgown. When he saw this, a lecherous smile split his face.
“I’ll have you right here on the floor, my pretty.”
Marianne’s heart began banging against her ribs. Her breaths were coming in short pants. As she looked wildly around her for a weapon, she espied the milk on the stove, just about to bubble over. She reached for it and dashed it in his face. Most of it landed on his hat, but some got in his eyes. He let out a yelp and brushed the boiling milk from his face. While he was distracted, she turned to run. The man got hold of the end of her mantle and pulled her back. She stumbled and fell against the edge of the table. He reached out, wearing an ugly leer, pulled her mantle until it came loose, and threw it on the floor.
“Ye’ll pay for that, minx!” he said in a fierce, growling tone.
Marianne looked wildly around for a poker or a knife, or some weapon more deadly than the small, empty milk pan she still held in her hand. It didn’t occur to her to scream. She was too frightened. She did hear the welcome rushing down the stairs of a man’s feet, however, and gasped in relief. It would be the clerk, risking his money box a moment to see if she had found what she required. Her assailant didn’t loosen his hold, but he looked alert at the sound of the intruder.
When he saw who it was, his eyes widened. “Macheath!” he cried.
Marianne looked and saw the captain, whom she scarcely recognized. He was wearing his black mask and hat and the black jacket he had been wearing the night he robbed the duchess. A pistol in his right hand was aimed at her assailant. She saw his finger twitch with the instinct to fire it.
“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t kill him, Captain.”
Macheath’s eyes never left the assailant. He walked forward, raised his other hand and with its outer edge slashed the man on the side of his neck. The man fell in a heap at his feet. Marianne dropped the pan, which rattled on the brick floor. Macheath put his pistol in the waist of his trousers, delved into the man’s pockets, and withdrew a jingling bag of coins, which he transferred to his own pocket. Then he picked the man up by the scruff of the neck, heaved him out the back door, and locked it, before turning back to Marianne.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded.
“The duchess wanted some milk,” she said, and burst into tears. She was not prone to tears, but in the aftermath of her frightening experience, she couldn’t seem to control them. Her shoulders shook with the deep, wrenching sobs.
Macheath saw her mantle cast aside on the floor, saw the spilled milk, and had a good idea what had happened. He hardly knew whether he was angrier with Dirty Dick McGinty, the duchess, himself, or Marianne. No, not with Marianne. She looked twelve years old in her long flannelette nightgown, with her hair hanging about her face as she tried to hiccup the tears away.
He picked up the mantle and put it around her shoulders, then folded her in his arms to soothe her hysteria. He felt her body trembling and held her closer, till his body heat began to ease her shivering. As his fingers moved gently through the silken tousle of her curls, he felt a fierce well of protectiveness rise within him. It was outrageous that this vulnerable girl was sent down here alone in the middle of the night, with the likes of Dirty Dick on the prowl.
“It’s all right. It’s all right, my dear,” he said, gently stroking her shoulders.
“He was going to—”
“I know. I know, Marianne. It’s over now. You shouldn’t have been here alone. Did he hurt you?”
She lifted her head and gazed at him through tear-dimmed eyes. “You came just in time, Captain.”
Macheath’s heart swelled at the look on her face, which was close to adoration, and shrank again as the look dwindled to a frown. “I wish you would take that mask off,” she said. He drew it down. “How did you come—why are you here? Have you been out robbing coaches again?”
“No, I have been with Officer Bruce, looking for myself in all the wrong places. I left him at another inn, where I heard a rumor McGinty was encroaching on my territory. I decided to teach him a lesson. I knew he would come here.”
She drew back and gazed up at him. “Why? Why would he come here?”
“It is that sort of place.”
“A highwaymen’s den?” she asked in disbelief. “But I saw many fine ladies.”
“You saw highwaymen’s doxies, dressed up in stolen finery.”
“Why did you bring us to a place like this?”
Macheath was annoyed at the change in mood from adoring girl to scolding lady. “You seem to forget—you and the duchess were soaking wet, your carriage was mired in mud, and darkness was coming on. I hadn’t much choice.”
“You might have warned us at least!”
“How was I to know you’d be roaming about alone in the middle of the night in your nightdress?”
“It’s a nightgown,” she said, and with an air of dignity, she pulled her mantle tightly about her. Then she ruined the effect by wiping at her tears with the back of her hand.
Macheath didn’t want to argue. He wanted to see again that softly adoring look he had glimpsed a moment ago. He wanted to kiss those rosebud lips, to feel again her soft femininity trembling in his arms. He handed her his handkerchief and she dried her eyes.
“Come, I’ll take you upstairs,” he said, reaching for her hand. She looked at the handkerchief and put it in her pocket.
They took a step toward the staircase, then Marianne stopped. “The milk,” she said. “I came down for milk. I’d best take it up or she’ll be awake all night.”
Macheath was glad for the excuse to be alone with her. He watched as she moved gracefully about the kitchen, finding another pan, filling it with milk, taking glasses from the shelf.
“None for me?” he asked when she placed two cups on the tray.
She tilted her head and gave him a wry smile as she added a third glass. “I didn’t take you for a milk drinker. Brandy or Blue Ruin seem more like it.”
“I also enjoy the simple things of life, Marianne.”
“What are you going to do with McGinty?”
“Do you want me to darken his daylights, put a bullet through him? I would be happy to oblige.”
“Is that the simple sort of thing you enjoy? Shooting people? I meant about the money he stole.”
“Finders, keepers.”
“I don’t believe that refers to money found in other peoples’ pockets, Captain.”
“Depends on how it got there.”
“Did you assume that whoever you robbed tonight before you came here had also stolen the money in his pockets?”
“I haven’t—met any carriages this evening.”
“Then why are you dressed like that? You were wearing your mask.”
He gave a quizzing grin. “Masquerade party?”
“Since McGinty recognized you, what was the point of wearing it? You—” She was going to say he had promised to quit, but he hadn’t actually said anything of the sort. She poured the milk. “I wish you wouldn’t, Captain,” she said in a small, sad voice. “You’ll end up with a bullet in your heart one night.”
“Would that matter to you, Marianne?”
She handed him the glass of milk. “It’s always sad to see a young person die. One wonders what he might have made of his life, had he lived. You could be anything. You’re smart, you’re brave, strong.”
He made a deprecating gesture. “Are you sure this is me you’re talking about?”
“You didn’t recognize the picture because I left out one feature. Stubborn.”
She picked up the tray. Macheath put his glass on it and took it from her. “If you think I am going to allow you to go upstairs alone, you are very much mistaken, Miss Harkness. You attract highwaymen like honey attracts flies. And this place is full of them.”
The clerk glanced at them as they passed. He didn’t seem surprised that she had found an escort in the kitchen. It was that kind of place.
Chapter Twelve
“Since Her Grace is awake, I’ll have a word with her now,” Macheath said as they drew to a stop outside the duchess’s door.
Marianne cast a questioning, hopeful look at him. His eyes met hers and held them for a long moment. The smile that spread slowly up from his lips to lighten his eyes softened her heart as no words of love could do. He looked like a young boy, eager to please his tutor. This is how Macheath must have been before war had warped his nature, giving him that hard edge that both frightened and intrigued her. Something twisted in her breast, making her feel warm and soft inside.
She didn’t say anything. Words seemed inadequate, even superfluous. His eyes told her he was returning the diamonds to please her; her answering smile was all the thanks he wanted. She unlocked the door and went into the duchess’s room with Macheath behind her, carrying the tray. After all her trouble, she found the duchess sound asleep.
“I’ll awaken her,” Marianne said.
Macheath just shook his head lightly. “Let her sleep. She needs it. All this commotion has been hard on the old girl. I’ll come back in the morning. I told her I would call.”