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

my possessions?’
    ‘Neither,’ she said. ‘I wished to...’ she hesitated before forcing herself on ‘...to attract your attention.’
    ‘You have it now. Complete and undivided.’
    She dared a glance at him and saw that his eyes were implacable as ever.
    ‘What is it that you wish to say?’
    The smell of candle smoke hit her nose and she peered round at the mantelpiece to see only darkness where the candle had been. A part of her wanted to beg, to plead, to tell him the truth. But she would almost rather face the terror than that. Almost. She experienced the urge to grab the branch of candles from his hand, but she did not surrender to the panic. Instead, she held her head up and kept her voice calm.
    ‘All of the candlesticks are empty.’
    His gaze did not falter. She thought she saw something flicker in his eyes, but she did not understand what it was. He stepped forwards.
    She took a step back.
    He looked into her eyes with that too-seeing look that made her feel as if her soul was laid bare to him, as if he could see all of her secrets, maybe even the deepest and darkest one of all. She knew she should look away, but she did not dare, for she knew that all around them was darkness.
    The silence hissed between them.
    ‘I would be obliged if you would fill them. All of them.’ She forced her chin up and pretended to herself that she was speaking to the footman in her father’s house, even though her heart was thudding nineteen to the dozen and her legs were pressed tight together to keep from shaking.
    His eyes held a cynical expression. He turned away and headed for the door, taking the branch of candles with him. She heard the darkness whisper behind her.
    ‘No! Stop!’ She grabbed at his arm with both hands to stop him, making the candles flicker wildly. ‘You cannot...’ She manoeuvred herself between him and the door, trying to block his exit, keeping a tight hold of him all the while.
    His gaze dropped to where her fingers clutched so tight to the superfine of his coat sleeve that her knuckles shone white, then back to her face.
    She felt her cheeks warm and let her hands fall away. ‘Where are you going, sir?’ She was too embarrassed to meet his gaze. Her heart was racing hard enough to leap from her chest and she felt sick.
    He raised his brows. ‘I may be mistaken, but I thought you requested candles. I was going to have my man bring you some.’
    Her eyes flickered to the branch of candles in his hand, then to the darkness that enclosed the room beyond. ‘But...’ The words stopped on her lips. She did not want to say them. She could not bear for him to know. Yet the darkness was waiting and she knew what it held. She felt the terror prickle at the nape of her neck and begin to creep across her scalp.
    ‘Lady Marianne.’
    Her gaze came back to his, to those rich warm amber eyes that glowed in the light of his candles. Please , she wanted to say, wanted to beg. Already she could feel the tremor running through her body. But still she did not yield to it, not in front of him. She shook her head.
    ‘If I were to leave the candles here...’
    ‘Yes,’ she said, and the relief was so great that she felt like weeping. ‘Yes,’ she repeated and could think of nothing else. The highwayman passed her the branch of candles. Her hand was trembling as she took it; she hated the thought that he might see it, so she turned away. ‘Thank you,’ she added and sank back into the room, clutching the candles tight to ward away the darkness.
    There was silence for a moment, then the closing of the door and the sound of his footsteps receding.
    She stared at the flicker of the candle flames and thought again that, in truth, he was no ordinary highwayman.
    * * *
    The clock in the corner on the mantelpiece chimed midnight. Misbourne left his son and his wife in the drawing room and made his way to his study. He needed time to think, needed space away from his wife’s incessant weeping, because his