His Mask of Retribution (2 page)

Both men looked at her. Her father’s face was strained and haunted—he seemed to have aged a hundred years in those few moments—and the highwayman’s eyes held the strangest expression.

‘Run, Marianne,’ her father said, and there was agony in his voice. ‘Run, and do not look back.’

She shook her head. ‘I will not abandon you to him.’

‘Do as I say and run, damn you, girl!’

And she understood in that moment what it was that the highwayman wanted even before he said the words.

‘For what does a father love best in all the world, but his only daughter?’

‘You are wrong,’ she said. There was her mother and her brother. But she knew in her heart that he spoke the truth. Her father had always loved her best.

‘You shall not take her from me, you fiend!’ Her father threw himself at the highwayman, but the villain was taller and stronger and younger. In an instant his pistols were uncocked and out of sight. He caught Misbourne’s punch as easily as if it were that of a weakling and, in return, landed a hard fist to his face and then his stomach. When her father gasped and doubled over, clutching at his belly, the highwayman pushed him away and he stumbled back, hitting the side of the coach. He collapsed on to his knees, his right arm still wrapped around his belly. Blood was seeping from a cut on his cheek and his face was already beginning to swell.

‘Papa!’ Marianne made to rush to him, but the highwayman was quicker. He caught her around the waist and hauled her to him. ‘No!’ She kicked and punched and fought for all she was worth, but her captor was too strong. In an instant he had her held in his grip and facing her father.

Misbourne scrabbled to his feet from where he knelt in the dirt, the blood trickling down his poor injured face to darken and matt the grey hair of his beard. She tried to go to him, but the highwayman’s arm was firm around her upper arms and
décolletage
, restraining her, pulling her back until her spine tingled with the proximity of him, even though their bodies were apart.

‘What will you give for her safe return, Misbourne?’

‘Anything you wish.’

‘Anything?’ The highwayman’s voice was low and grim.

Her father nodded. ‘Money. Gold. Silver. Jewels. Name your price.’

Behind her she felt the highwayman move, although his grip upon her did not slacken. He threw a folded sheet of paper to land on the ground before her father. ‘My price, Misbourne.’

Her father retrieved the paper and opened it, and Marianne watched his expression contort with sudden shock and horror. He made not one move, spoke not one word, just stared at the piece of paper as if he could not believe the words written upon it. His eyeballs rolled up and he swayed before stumbling backwards. Only the panel of the coach door kept him upright—that and his stubborn will-power as he leaned, visibly shaken, against it.

‘Papa!’ She struggled, but the highwayman’s grip did not yield. ‘Papa!’

So much sweat beaded on her father’s forehead that his hair was damp from it. His face was ashen as a corpse. He looked old and weak, all of his usual strength and vitality exposed for the fragile mask it was. Yet the highwayman showed no mercy.

‘The exchange will be today, Misbourne. Be ready.’

Marianne felt his arm drop to her waist and then the world turned upside down as he swung her up and over his shoulder, balancing her there as if she weighed nothing at all. She wriggled and tried to kick, but the blood was rushing to her head and his grip tightened, securing her all the more.

‘No! Do not take her from me! Please!’ her father cried and collapsed to his knees as he tried to stagger towards them. ‘I beg you, sir. I will give you what you want.’ She had never heard her father plead before, never heard his voice so thick with emotion.

But the highwayman was unmoved. ‘Yes, you will,’ he said. ‘Watch for my message.’ Then he whirled around and, in the blink of an eye, was upon his horse, sliding Marianne to sit sideways on the saddle before him. The huge black beast reared, impatient to be off, and she found herself held hard against his chest, gripped so tightly that she could not move.

‘Who sent you? Was it—?’ her father shouted and she could hear the fear and trembling in his voice. But the highwayman cut him off.

‘No one sent me.’

‘Then who the devil are you?’

The highwayman’s arm was anchored around her waist as he stared down at her father. ‘I’m your past come back to haunt you, Misbourne.’ The horse reared again and then they were off and galloping at full tilt across Hounslow Heath, leaving behind her father, white-faced and bleeding, the horseless coach, and the battered remnants of her wedding flowers blowing in the breeze.

Chapter Two

R
afe 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 of the girl’s body, the sudden fear in her face, spurred a twinge of irritation within him. As if he would ravish her, as if he would even touch her. Misbourne was the blackguard in this, not him.

‘I have told you that you have nothing to fear from me,’ he snapped. ‘Given your propensity for escape, you will understand the need for preventative measures.’ He produced a short length of rope.

‘And if I refuse?’ She raised her chin a notch.

‘You have no choice in the matter, my lady.’

She stared at him as if he were the devil incarnate. ‘You are a villain.’ Her voice was high, her face pale.

‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘And you had best not forget it, Lady Marianne, especially if you have any idea of resisting me.’

Her eyes widened, but she did not suffer an attack of the vapours or hysteria as he had expected of Misbourne’s coddled daughter. Indeed, she did not cry or plead or scream. Everything about her was contained and careful. She just eyed him with a quiet defiance and more courage than many a man as he bound her wrists behind her back, checking that the rope was not too tight.

He turned his attention away from the woman and slid open the dark wooden panel beneath his seat to remove the small travelling bag from within. He took his time, yet his actions were slick and smooth, well practised. From the bag he took a pair of highly polished riding boots, a new hat and a pair of the finest black-leather gloves. Then he removed the pistols from his pockets, checked they were safe and laid them at the bottom of the bag. He shrugged out of his greatcoat, rolled it into a ball and thrust it on top of the pistols. The tricorn hat, his shabby gloves and the old boots followed, before the bag was stowed out of sight once more. He glanced up to find Marianne watching him. Their eyes met through the dim grey light and that same
frisson
of awareness rippled through him, just as it had before. And the thought that he could feel any measure of attraction towards Misbourne’s daughter sent anger licking right through him.

She turned her face away, fixing her gaze on the dark curtains drawn across the window.

He kept his eyes on her as he slid his feet into the smart black boots, scraped his hair back into a low tidy queue at the back of his head and tied it in place with a black ribbon from the pocket of his tailcoat. But the woman was not stupid; she did not look at him again. Not once. Not through the little country towns of Brentford or Hammersmith or even the village of Kensington. He slipped his hat and gloves in place and the rest of the journey continued in silence, the tension between them seeming to wind tighter with every mile closer they travelled through London. Eventually, Callerton thumped the carriage body and Knight knew they were nearing St Giles Rookery. He looked at Misbourne’s daughter.

‘Time to move, Lady Marianne.’

She glanced round at him then. A small steady movement as controlled as everything else about her, yet he could sense the sudden escalation of distrust and see the flash of fear in those large dark eyes. He felt his conscience stir at what he was doing, but her gaze flitted momentarily away and when she looked back at him it was as if she had drawn a veil across her eyes and the only expression on her face was one of contempt. She looked so like Misbourne that any doubts he might have harboured vanished instantly.

Knight reached for her arm and moved to execute the next stage of his plan.

* * *

In the study of his town house in Leicester Square, the Earl of Misbourne lay on a daybed covered by a cream woollen blanket and listened to the carriage sounds from the street outside.

‘He is gone.’ Francis Winslow—or Viscount Linwood, as he was otherwise known—Misbourne’s son and heir, stood by the window and watched Pickering’s carriage until it turned the corner and headed away from the square. ‘Do you think he believed us?’ Linwood’s eyes were as dark and venomous as his father’s as he came to stand by the daybed.

Misbourne gave a nod.

‘It will be more difficult tomorrow when he returns and wishes to visit his betrothed. Although the story of our “carriage crash” being all over tomorrow’s newspapers should help. I’ve ensured the news is already being whispered in the clubs.’ His son was good at taking care of such details, but Misbourne offered no thanks; his mind was on other matters.

He slipped the crumpled sheet of paper from the pocket of his dressing gown and smoothed it out that he might stare at it again. The hand was bold, the words, few as they were, angular and angry. A place. A year. And the highwayman’s demand.

1795, Hounslow Heath

The document that was taken—in exchange for your daughter.

He was thinking, and thinking hard. There was only one other person that knew of the document and Misbourne had eyes and ears stationed in every main port in the south watching for his return. It was possible that Rotherham had evaded detection, that he was back in England already. Misbourne’s blood ran cold at the thought and he shivered as if someone had walked over his grave.

‘Father?’ Linwood was staring down into his face and he could see the concern and agitation in the eyes that were so like his own.

‘Let me think,’ Misbourne snapped. It made no sense. Whatever else Rotherham was, he was a man of his word and one who liked everything done exactly to the letter. There was still time left before he would come. Time enough for the wedding between Marianne and Pickering.

Misbourne lounged back against the pillows of his bed and read the words again. The criminal fraternity had a way of talking even when they’d been sworn to silence. A boast in the tap room of a public house, a whisper in the ear of the buxom wench beneath them. Thank God for illiteracy. He wondered how much the highwayman could possibly know.

‘You are not well, Father. Let me deal with this in your stead,’ said Linwood.

‘Don’t fuss so, boy, I tell you I’m fine.’ An idea was taking shape in Misbourne’s mind.

‘And I disagree,’ said Linwood without a flicker of emotion.

‘You always were a stubborn little sod.’

‘Chip off the old block, so they say.’ Linwood held his gaze.

Misbourne gave a smile and shook his head. ‘And they’re not wrong.’

‘Then let us go to the brotherhood,’ said Linwood without returning the smile, speaking of the secret society of which both he and his father were members. ‘Seek their assistance in this.’