His Mask of Retribution. Margaret McPhee
Читать онлайн книгу.
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 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