His Mask of Retribution (13 page)

Her father’s eyes slid to meet Rafe’s.

She tensed, ready to protect her highwayman. But when her father spoke she knew he had heard nothing after all.

‘Mr Knight.’ He gave a small bow of the head.

‘Lord Misbourne.’ Rafe’s bow was so slight as to be insulting and Marianne heard the anger and dislike that edged his words. They were like two dogs facing one another, hackles raised. She could sense the energy in Rafe, a barely contained snarl, ready to pounce and rip out her father’s throat. Her father was less aggressive, but watchful and uneasy just the same.

‘I will call for Marianne to take her for a drive in Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon.’ He should be asking her father’s permission, not telling him what he intended. She held her breath, waiting for her father to respond to the insult and remembering his decree that she was not to leave the house.

‘I do not think so,’ her father said carefully and there was nothing of the angry voice he would have used had anyone else uttered such a slight. ‘Marianne has much to prepare for the wedding ceremony. We would not want her to over-exert herself.’

‘Indeed not. But she is in good health and a carriage trip in the park is hardly likely to over-exert her. Do you doubt my ability to protect her?’

‘Never that.’ Her father smiled as if Rafe had just cracked some secret joke. ‘Like myself, Mr Knight, you are not a man to be lightly crossed. I think you will make my daughter a very good protector.’

Like myself.
The words seemed to hang in the air between them, offered by her father like an olive branch and unwittingly the very comparison that would inflame Rafe.

‘Come Wednesday, Mr Knight, Marianne will be your wife and her care passes to you. Until then, she is under my protection.’

She felt Rafe stiffen.

‘I do not need a protector,’ she said. ‘I am perfectly able to protect myself.’ But both men ignored her. ‘And as for a trip in the park, Mr Knight, it would be very pleasant, but I am afraid I am busy all of tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Perhaps we should have a drink in my study, Mr Knight, and discuss the wedding plans.’ Her father smiled, but it was strained and there was something in his eyes that she did not recognise.

Her hand hung loosely at her side. She moved it surreptitiously so that the edge of her little finger touched ever so lightly against Rafe’s hand. Her gaze slid to his, imploring him to be civil, telling him with her eyes what she could not tell him with her words.

‘Another time, Misbourne,’ Rafe said. ‘I am already engaged to attend a meeting. I bid you good day.’ The rejection was tempered by a bow of his head, a concession she knew was only for her sake. ‘Lady Marianne.’ He pulled her to him and kissed her mouth, his lips searing against hers. It was an action to claim her as his before her father—an action both of defiance and possession. Her father watched with dark eyes and to Marianne’s surprise said not one word of disapproval. ‘Until Wednesday,’ Rafe said as he released her and disappeared through the door.

Her father looked at her and said nothing.

‘If you will excuse me, Papa.’

He gave a nod. ‘Of course, my dear,’ he said as if nothing untoward had happened.

Misbourne watched his daughter leave. Three more days and she would be married. ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’ He smiled grimly to himself. No matter who Rafe Knight was, no matter what he did, Misbourne could only be glad of the turn of events. ‘Wednesday—only three more days,’ he whispered, but he knew he would not sleep until Knight’s ring was upon Marianne’s finger and she was safe as his wife.

* * *

Without Rafe’s presence Marianne’s fears over the marriage seemed to take hold once more, to magnify out of all proportion. Her appetite waned so that she did little more than pick at her food. At night she lay restless, tossing and turning on her bed, unable to sleep for the turmoil of thoughts tumbling in her head. Preparations of valerian did not help. Counting her breaths did not help. Nothing that she did in the longest hours of the night made any difference. And when she did sleep, out of sheer exhaustion, there was nothing of rest, only of the worst imaginings.

She was in the country, standing beneath a leaden sky, while the wind howled like a banshee and blew a chill cold enough to freeze the stoutest of hearts. Before her was a lonely hill at the top of which grew a solitary tree, tall, its branches gnarled and twisted as a demon from a hellish tale. The light was so grey and dismal she could not see clearly. She stared up the hill, at the tree and saw the movement of a shadow against it. Something about the sight gripped her heart with terror.

She began to run, desperate to prevent what was about to happen, clambering up the steepness of the hill. But the grass was wet and slippery beneath her feet and the wind was like a great hand forcing her back, stinging her face, roaring in her ears. She fought for all she was worth, but by the time she reached the summit, the night had come and she could no longer see. In the silence she heard the creak of a rope swinging heavy in the wind.
Rafe!
she cried in the dream.
Papa!
But in reply came only the crashing of thunder that rolled across the sky and the fork of white lightning that, in the transient moment of its flicker, lit the man’s limp body swinging from the noose strung from the tree. And no matter how hard she tried, she could not see whether it was Rafe or her father. But it did not matter, because she was too late, and when she woke her maid was peering down anxiously into her face and Marianne’s cheeks were wet with tears.

The horror of the dream would not leave her, but grew only worse so that as the days crept by, hour by agonising hour, she could not dispel the sense of impending doom. She imagined persuading Rafe that she would not marry him a hundred times, even practised what she would say to him. She both longed and dreaded to see him. But Rafe did not visit again. Not on the first day, or the second or even the third. And all the while there were dressmakers and florists and menus, everything that went with the preparations for a normal wedding, except for the announcement of the betrothal in her father’s newspaper. There was no mention of that.

Her mother fussed incessantly, and her father and Francis were always in the background, always guarding and watching. Marianne was not left alone even for a minute. And every night the door to her bedchamber was locked from the outside.

By Tuesday night Marianne could think of nothing other than Rafe and what the morning would bring: her twenty-first birthday and her marriage.

She heard her father go to bed a little after one o’clock. Her body was tired, but her mind was racing; she pushed back the covers and rose from the bed, moving to the window. She edged the curtains open and looked out into the night. The lamps were still burning and overhead the bright light of the moon was hidden behind the charcoal clouds of the night. She looked out over the houses and the dark foliage of the gardens opposite that stirred in the breeze. And as she watched she thought she saw the dark figure of a man standing there amidst the shrubbery. Rafe. And despite everything her heart lifted and something of the worry diminished.

She pressed her palm to the window as if to touch him. But the figure made no similar gesture, only stood there watching. She stared all the harder and, as she did so, the clouds parted to reveal the moon. In the ethereal silver light she saw not Rafe, but Rotherham.

She jumped back, wrenching her hand from the window, her heart thudding so hard that she could scarcely breathe, her legs trembling violently. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the nausea that was roiling in her stomach. Then she stepped to the window once more, determined to see if it really was Rotherham. But the clouds had covered the moon once more and the figure had vanished, absorbed by the blackness of the night.
Had it been real, or simply her imagination?
She stood there a while and watched, but there was no movement and no sign that anyone had been there.

‘My lady?’ the maid whispered from the truckle bed behind her.

‘Go back to sleep, Polly. I am all right.’

But she wasn’t all right. She wasn’t all right at all.

Chapter Ten

W
ednesday came both too quickly and not quickly enough. Rafe declined the seat that Misbourne offered and stood at the front of the drawing room of the town house in Leicester Square. The room had been dressed with both white and pink flowers, and huge bows and swags of ribbons. The heavy perfumed scent of lilies tickled his nose. Although the day was overcast and the wind held the chill of autumn, the fire had not been lit and he was glad of it. The chairs had been set out in rows and the guests, who were only around ten in number, sat within them, the quiet hum of their chatter filling the room, speculation glinting in their eyes at a surprise wedding organised so close to the bride’s betrothal to another, that had allowed no apparent time for a new courtship. It could not have escaped their attention that there had been no mention of a wedding at Marianne’s birthday ball only a few days earlier.

Callerton glanced round at them again, easing his cravat a little looser as if it pressed too tight around his neck. Rafe could see the unease in his friend’s eyes; so at home on a battlefield, but clearly uncomfortable in the drawing room of a high-society town house. They watched a footman enter the room and whisper in Misbourne’s ear. The earl slipped away.

‘Look on the bright side,’ Callerton whispered to Rafe as they turned to face the front. ‘You’ll be able to search to your heart’s content. You’ll find out where he’s hiding it eventually.’

‘That’s not why I’m doing this.’

‘I know.’ Callerton touched his fingers to the pocket watch of his white-worked waistcoat. ‘If I’ve forgotten the ring, do you still have to marry her?’ He risked a smile.

Despite everything—the severity of the situation, what he was about to do—Rafe returned the smile.

Then the string quartet in the corner began to play and the guests rose to their feet and Rafe knew without looking round that Marianne had entered the room. Callerton had turned to watch her, but Rafe resisted the temptation. He knew what he was about to do. Marrying the daughter of the man he had spent a lifetime hating had not been part of the plan. But he was honour-bound to marry her and he would not let her face ruin at the hands of the
ton
simply because he hadn’t been able to resist her. And if he was honest, there was a damn sight more to it than that.

She was inside his head, inside his heart. She flowed in his blood and was in the very air that he breathed. He could not get enough of her. He cared about her. And he wanted her as he had never wanted a woman in all of his life, for all that she had Misbourne’s blood flowing in her veins, wanted her with a passion that seemed to simmer and nag and plague him night and day. There was the faint smell of violets and the rustle of silk. And inside, his heart leapt even at the same moment that the resentment began coursing through him, the utter distaste that he was about to ally himself to Misbourne.

He remained facing forwards, refusing to turn while he reined in the disgust and hatred he felt for the man, knowing that at this moment, more than any other, he must mask his true feelings. And when he turned his head to the side at last, Misbourne had retreated to the first row of seats, leaving Marianne standing there alone.

The sight of her made Rafe’s heart miss a beat. Every time he looked at her it was as if he was seeing her for the first time—yet simultaneously as if he had always known her. That feeling of familiarity and tenderness as if she were already his, and always had been. And protectiveness. His woman, he thought, with a fierceness.

Gone were the bows and swags and heavy layers of lace. The dress was a plain ivory silk, devoid of all decoration, yet cut to fit Marianne’s slim figure perfectly. The neckline was square and low enough to expose the smooth perfect skin of her
décolletage
. Even her neck was bare, devoid of so much as a ribbon—a fact that reminded him of the outsized ugly pearls that Pickering had bought her. And he realised with a stab of shame that Marianne had probably expected him to bring a necklace as his gift to her. But Rafe had brought no gift, either for the wedding or for her birthday. His gaze swept up to her hair, simply styled and caught up in a chignon from which several curling silver-blonde tendrils escaped to tease against her neck. The simplicity suited Marianne. He had always thought her a beautiful woman, but today Rafe could not take his eyes from her.

Her gaze fluttered up to meet his and he saw the uncertainty in her dark eyes. And without thinking he took her hand in his, and gave it a small reassuring squeeze. Her fingers felt cool beneath his, and he could feel the slight tremor that ran through them. He wanted to tell her that she had nothing to be afraid of, that all would be well, but then the priest opened his Book of Common Prayer and began to speak the words that would bind them together.

* * *

Marianne had seen the hard line of Rafe’s jaw and the way he could not bear to look round at her. She knew that he was only doing this out of a sense of honour, that she was the last woman on earth he would have chosen to marry. And her heart ached because she loved him; she knew that whatever he felt for her, it was not love. How could it be when, every time he looked at her, he was reminded of the man he despised?

And then his fingers closed around hers. And the warmth of his skin seemed to spread throughout her, thawing the ice and the fear and dread that flowed in her veins. It was such a gentle gesture, small and surreptitious in nature, but the strength of the man seemed to seep into her from that one point of contact, calming her nerves and all of her fears, buoying her, rekindling that tiny spark of hope that in some way, against all the odds, all might be well between them.

Marianne felt that what was happening was unreal, as if it were part of some dream. The priest’s words droned on and all Marianne could think of was that this could not really be happening. She was marrying the man who had abducted her
en route
to her wedding with Pickering. The man who had sworn to destroy her father, a man who was darker, stronger, more dangerous than any man she had known.

‘I, Marianne Elizabeth Winslow, take thee, Rafe Knight, to be my lawfully wedded husband,’ said the priest for the second time, peering at her with exasperation. And Marianne wondered if she could do it, if she could close the door of no return and bind him to her. She glanced around.

All the guests were staring with bated breath, almost gleeful at the prospect of her ruining yet another betrothal. Her mother’s mouth was tight, her eyes signalling frenziedly that Marianne must say the words. Her brother was looking at her with his usual closed expression. She could see the sheen of the sweat upon her father’s forehead, see the way he gripped his hands tightly together and the pallor beneath the grizzled grey of his beard, and, worst of all, the anger and fear that vied in his eyes. And finally her gaze moved to Rafe, to those clear warm amber eyes that seemed to reach through everything and touch her very soul, just as they had done that first day on Hounslow Heath.

His face was as if chiselled by the hand of a master sculptor from the marble of the gods—that strong manly nose, those perfect sculpted lips, the hard line of his jaw clean-shaven and strong. She remembered how he had saved her from being attacked in St Giles Rookery, how he had taken a bullet for her in the burying ground. And how he had not ridiculed her fear of the dark, but brought candles. He was the only man in the world she wanted to marry. The man that she loved. She did not think of anything else. All her fears were forgotten, all her worries were gone. She looked into his eyes and she said the words straight from her heart.

‘I, Marianne Elizabeth Winslow, take thee...’

And when she had finished all that had to be said, Rafe slipped a gold wedding band on to the third finger of her left hand and the priest pronounced them man and wife.

‘Let no man tear asunder what God has blessed and put together.’

Rafe lowered his face to hers and he kissed her, not some formal polite touching of lips, but a kiss in which all of the passion that was between them fired and blazed with a fury, so that she felt herself almost consumed by the fierceness of it. And when he drew back, the guests and even her mother were staring as if they could not believe it. Her brother’s eyes were narrowed, dark as thunder, and her father looked...relieved.

* * *

The wedding breakfast was held within her father’s dining room. They ate fine steak and drank the best of champagnes. And in the centre of the table was the elaborate sugar palace that had been sculpted for her wedding to Pickering and beside it a cake that had been iced for her birthday. Her father was the soul of the celebration. He laughed and joked, and, contrary to his usual demeanour, was the very best of hosts. And Marianne felt the squeeze of her conscience that he did not know the truth of the situation.

She glanced up to find Rafe’s eyes on her, as if he could see every thought that was in her head, and beneath the table she felt him take her hand and rub his fingers against hers. He smiled, a smile that was all for her, and her heart glowed with the happiness that only he could light. She smiled back—and it was enough to get her through the rest of the breakfast, the conversations with the wedding guests and the string quartet renditions that her father had arranged for the celebrations.

* * *

By the time all was done and the hour had come for her to leave with Rafe, Marianne was aware of a new nervousness. Especially when her mother held her close, kissed her cheek and whispered a reminder that Marianne did not want to hear. Her father only looked into her face, and he nodded, as if everything had come right. Then he took her hand and kissed it, before giving it to Rafe.

‘She is your wife now,’ he said, and there was a catch of emotion in his voice. ‘Look after her.’

She felt the slight underlying tension in Rafe directed at her father, but as his fingers closed around hers, he showed nothing of it.

He said not a word, only led her out to the waiting carriage and settled her inside before taking the opposite seat.

All of the wedding guests had assembled in the street to cheer them on their way. Her mother and father stood on the steps to the town house, smiling and proud. Behind them, leaning against the frame of the opened front door, stood her brother, his eyes dark and angry, his expression sullen. When she turned away, she heard the shadow of the past whisper in her ear.

Ahead lay the night, and a fresh breath of fear breathed upon Marianne.

* * *

Rafe could sense Marianne’s nervousness and knew it must be difficult for her to return as his wife to a house where once she had been his captive. The clock ticked loudly in the silence of his drawing room.

‘An eventful day for your birthday,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

The silence stretched between them.

‘The day has been long, Marianne,’ he said. ‘We should retire for the night.’ He wanted to make her his wife in truth, to make love to her.

She did not meet his gaze, just kept her eyes trained on the tea cup before her.

‘I have not finished my tea,’ she said and took another sip from the delicate bone-china cup. She had been so long in the drinking of it that any tea remaining in the cup must be stone cold by now.

‘Then bring it with you.’

She glanced up at him, a shocked expression on her face.

‘This is your home now, Marianne. There are no servants save for Callerton. We do not stand on ceremony. You are mistress here and may do as you please.’

A small shy smile fluttered briefly to her mouth, then it was gone again and she was gripping so tightly to the cup’s handle that her knuckles shone white.

‘Come,’ he said, holding out his hand to her.

She set the cup down upon its saucer with very careful precision, keeping her eyes steadfast upon it. He saw the deep breath she took before rising to her feet with the air of a woman going to her execution. Her gaze moved to his hand and she hesitated before reaching out and placing her fingers within it. The room was warm, a fire blazing in the hearth to drive away the autumnal chill, yet her skin felt like ice to the touch. And still she would not look at him. He pulled her gently into his arms; her whole body was rigid, tense, chilled.

‘Marianne,’ he said gently.

She swallowed and stood stock still. He could feel her nervousness as if it were a living breathing thing in the room between them. He touched the point of her chin and tipped her head up so that she could no longer hide her face from him. In her eyes, before she masked it, he thought he saw the ghost of fear.

‘There is no need to be nervous. We will do nothing that you do not wish,’ he assured her gently. ‘I promise you.’

She looked at him then and reached up to stroke her hand to his cheek, cradling it with such tenderness. ‘You are a good man, Rafe Knight.’ Her touch was light and loving and tender.

‘I am many things, Marianne, but good is not one of them.’ There was a five-thousand-guinea price on his head. He had abducted her at gunpoint and sworn to destroy her father. They both knew the truth of what he was.

‘Whatever you say, you have been good to me.’

She moved her hand and the new gold wedding band glinted in the firelight. He captured her fingers and touched them to his lips, kissing the ring he had placed there earlier, and felt a possessiveness surge through him. She was his wife, he thought, his woman. And he kissed the skin of her slender fingers. Trailed his kisses over the back of her hand and round to the tender white skin on the inside of her wrist where he flicked his tongue to taste her.

He heard the small breathy gasp she released and felt her body soften its resistance as she leaned into him, splaying her other hand flat against the lapel of the same black tailcoat in which he had married her.

‘Marianne,’ he whispered and took her mouth with his, kissing her gently, wooing her with his lips, tempting her with his tongue. She was so sweet and innocent, opening to him, her nervousness melting away as the passion that had always been within her kindled and ignited. He felt the blossoming of her need as keenly as he felt his own. He scooped her up into his arms and carried her upstairs to his bedchamber.