His Mask of Retribution. Margaret McPheeЧитать онлайн книгу.
the horseless coach, and the battered remnants of her wedding flowers blowing in the breeze.
Chapter Two
Rafe Knight pushed the horse hard, all the while keeping a careful hold of his most precious cargo. He could smell the sweet scent of violets from the girl’s hair and feel the soft curves of the slender body pressed against his. He regretted that she had to be any part of this, but she was Misbourne’s one weakness: the only hope of finding what he sought.
It would not be long before the coachman, groom and footmen reached the inn and summoned help. He did not have much time. He headed west, as if travelling on towards Staines, until he was out of Misbourne’s sight, then he left the road and doubled back across the wild heath land towards Hounslow and London.
Callerton was waiting exactly as planned, hidden from view within the derelict farm buildings on the outskirts of the town. The doors of the great barn were wide open and Knight rode straight inside, slid Marianne Winslow down to his friend and servant, and dismounted.
The highwayman’s masked accomplice placed Marianne inside a dark coach that waited within the barn, then assisted the highwayman in harnessing his horse as part of the team. Her throat was so dry that it stuck together, making it difficult to swallow. Within her chest her heart beat in a frenzy and every muscle in her body was racked tight with tension. The fear was so great that her breath shook from it and her palms were clammy. She squeezed her eyes shut and slowed her breaths, counting them to control the panic. When she looked again, the men had a flask and a rag and were washing the distinctive white flare from the horse’s muzzle. They were focused, hurrying, intent on their task. Marianne gathered the remnants of her courage. A deep breath in and out, then she curled her fingers round the door handle.
Her blood was still rushing, her heart beating loud as a big bass drum. The door opened without a sound, letting her slip noiselessly to the ground and edge towards the rear of the coach. Once there she stood, her back pressed against the empty boot, while her eyes scanned desperately for an escape route or hiding place. She held her breath, ragged and loud as it had become, fearing they would hear it, fearing they would notice at any moment that she was gone.
Time seemed to slow and in that tiny moment of waiting every sense seemed sharpened and more intense. She could smell hay and horse sweat and leather tack, and the damp scent of autumn and brambles. She could hear the jangle of the harness and the shuffle of hooves as the horses grew impatient. Against her face the air of the shadowed empty barn was cool. There was nowhere to hide: not one hay bale, not one cart. Her heart sank. She knew that she was going to have to take her chance. Taking a deep breath and lifting her skirt clear of her ankles, she eyed the great, wide, opened barn doors. Outside the sky was blue and clear, the sun lighting the heath land as if in invitation. She hesitated no longer, but ran for her life.
Three paces and there was a yell and a sudden swift movement and Marianne gasped aloud as strong arms enclosed her. Within a second the highwayman had her backed against the coach door, both wrists secured behind her back, as his eyes glowered down into her own.
‘Not a good idea, Lady Marianne,’ he breathed, in that harsh half-whisper of his.
He was so close that with every breath she took she could feel the brush of her bodice against his chest, so close that she could smell the scent of the sandalwood soap he had used to wash with. She had not realised that he was so very tall, or how much he would dwarf her. She felt overwhelmed, by him, by shock, by fear. For a moment she could not speak, could not even breathe as she stared up into his eyes. Her heart was pounding, her mouth dry. She forced herself to think of what he had done to her father, forced her anger to override her fear.
‘Scoundrel!’ she hissed. ‘What did you expect? That I would just sit there waiting for you to come and beat me as you beat my father?’
‘I do not beat women.’ His eyes were hard and angry as they held hers.
‘Only old men who have done you no wrong.’
‘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