His Mask of Retribution by Margaret McPhee Read Free Book Online Page A

‘You’ll be late back, then.’
    Knight scowled at the prospect. ‘I’ll have to make a show of it, but I’ll be back in time.’
    ‘Most men would love a chance to play the rake. Come to think of it, most men would be living the dream rather than faking it.’
    ‘I’m not most men.’
    ‘No, you’re not,’ agreed Callerton more quietly. ‘Most men would have left me to die in Portugal.’
    The two men looked at one another, feeling all of the past there in the room with them. The only sound was of something being thudded hard against wood, coming from above.
    ‘We’ll get him,’ said Callerton.
    ‘Damn right we’ll get him. And in the meantime I’ll silence his daughter.’ Knight slipped the black silken mask from his pocket, tied it around his face, grabbed a branch of candles and strode up the stairs.
    * * *
    The ivory-and-tortoiseshell hairbrush splintered into three from the force of being hammered against the door. Marianne threw it aside and continued her assault with her fists and her feet, not caring about the pain.
    The panic was escalating and she feared that she would not be able to keep a rein on it for much longer if he did not come soon. She banged at the door so hard that her blood pounded through her hands and she could feel bruises starting to form. She glanced round at the mantelpiece and the dying candle upon it. The light was already beginning to ebb. Soon it would be gone. Her stomach turned over at the thought. She bit her lip and banged all the harder.
    She did not hear his footsteps amidst the noise. The lock clicked and then he was there in the bedchamber with her.
    ‘Lady Marianne.’ His half-whisper was harsher than ever. ‘It seems you desire my company.’ He stood there, holding the branched candlestick aloft, and the flickering light from the candles sent shadows darting and scuttling across the walls. His brows were drawn low in a stern frown and the shadows made him seem taller than she remembered, and his shoulders broader. He was dressed in expensive formal evening wear: a dark tailcoat, white shirt, cravat and waistcoat, and dark pantaloons. Beside all of which, the mask that hid his face looked incongruous. No ordinary highwayman.
    ‘My candle is almost spent.’ Her pride would let her say nothing more. She glanced across to the mantelpiece where the lone candle spluttered.
    ‘It is.’ He made no move, just looked at her. His gaze dropped to the broken hairbrush that lay on the floor between them. ‘Not very ladylike behaviour.’
    ‘Highway robbery, assaulting my father and abducting me on the way to my wedding are hardly gentlemanly.’
    ‘They are not,’ he admitted. ‘But as I told you before, I am what your father made me.’
    She stared at him. ‘What has my father ever done to you? What is all of this about?’
    He gave a hard laugh and shook his head. ‘Have I not already told you?’
    ‘Contrary to what you believe, my father is a good man.’
    ‘No, Lady Marianne, he is not.’ There was such ferocity in his eyes at the mention of her father that she took a step backwards and, as she did, her foot inadvertently kicked a large shard of the handle so that it slid across the floor, coming to a halt just before the toes of his shoes.
    She saw him glance at it, before that steady gaze returned to hers once more. ‘My mother’s hairbrush.’
    She looked down at the smashed brush, then back up at the highwayman and the fear made her stomach turn somersaults. She swallowed. ‘Does she know that her son is a highwayman who has terrorised and robbed half of London?’
    ‘The newspapers exaggerate, Lady Marianne. I have terrorised and robbed six people and six people only, your father amongst them.’
    Her heart gave a stutter at his admission.
    ‘And my mother is dead,’ he added.
    She glanced away, feeling suddenly wrong-footed, unsure of what to say.
    He carried on regardless. ‘Were you trying to beat the door down to escape or merely destroy