His Mask of Retribution (21 page)

Rafe hesitated, as Marianne knew that he would over such an order.

‘I am aware of the fragility of trust, Mr Knight, but I am afraid I cannot dispense with my own pistol until I know you are unarmed. I would not wish my finger to grow tired where it is positioned upon the trigger...not when Lady Marianne is in such proximity.’

Rafe threw the pistol to the place Rotherham had gestured.

‘And the rest of them, if you would be so kind, sir.’ Rotherham’s voice was smooth, his hand held across her
décolletage
cold and calm. She could smell the sweet scent of tobacco that came from his coat and the familiar heavy scent of his cologne.

Rafe took two pistols from his pocket and threw them to land by the first. He stood facing Rotherham, unarmed and unafraid if the defiant tilt of his head beneath his low-slung hat was anything to judge by. Marianne felt her stomach grip in fear, and not for herself. Her focus was fixed firmly on Rafe and the danger that he was in. The touch of muzzle was light against her hair, yet she could feel the prickle of her scalp beneath and a gladness in her heart, for all the while Rotherham aimed his pistol at her he could not shoot Rafe. She watched her husband intently, while every nerve in her body was poised and alert, ready for that first hint of movement in Rotherham’s hand.

Rafe held his hands up to show there was nothing in them, then, with slow clear movements so that Rotherham could see exactly what he was doing, he produced the document from within his greatcoat.

‘Open it. Lay it down on the ground before me. But do not make the mistake of coming too close.’

Rotherham cannot be trusted
, the little voice whispered in her head. And every nerve in her body strained to free herself from her ropes that she might save Rafe. Rotherham must have felt her surreptitious movement, for his arm tightened ever so slightly around her.

‘Patience, my dear,’ he whispered in her ear.

Rafe walked closer; she held her breath, waiting for him to produce another pistol from some unknown hiding place and shoot Rotherham. Or for him to move fast, landing a blow that would send Rotherham reeling. But the man from whom the worst of villains had scurried, the man who could best seven men with his fists alone, did only as Rotherham instructed. She realised in that moment that he would do nothing to endanger her life.

The IOU looked very convincing where it lay upon the grass.
A copy of a copy
, she thought, and prayed that Rotherham would not realise.

Please, God
, she prayed for her husband’s safety.
Please.
She prayed that somehow this mess would all work out for the best.

‘Thank you, Mr Knight.’ Rotherham gave a sigh as if in relief.

Rafe said not one word, just faced him with a steady determined patience.

This was the moment.
Rotherham thought he had the document. He had Marianne and a loaded pistol, and Rafe unarmed before him. Every muscle in her body tightened. The breath stayed lodged in her throat. Her heart gave a stutter.

‘It is over,’ Rotherham said, ‘at last.’ She waited for him to squeeze the trigger, for the roar of the pistol as it fired its bullet. But whether it would be into her head, or Rafe’s chest, she did not know. She felt the slight movement in Rotherham’s arm and she closed her eyes and prayed his aim would find her.

But there was no explosion, no plume of gunpowder. Rotherham’s grip slackened and dropped away. She opened her eyes and for a moment she just stood there, unable to believe it. And then Rotherham gave her a little nudge forwards.

‘Take her,’ he said in a soft voice in which the regret was unmistakable.

Marianne ran the small distance to her husband.

Rafe swung her behind him, shielding her from Rotherham. He gave a grim nod at Rotherham and then turned to her, urging her forward towards his horse, always keeping himself between her and the duke.

They walked away and Rotherham let them go, just as he had said he would. They were almost free. Five paces and they would be on Rafe’s horse. And for the first time since Rafe had placed the document down she allowed herself to hope. Maybe Rotherham was telling the truth, maybe both she and Rafe could escape this nightmare alive.

Four paces. Maybe Rotherham did mean to go back to the Continent and never return.

Three paces. Maybe it really was going to be all right.

She wanted to look round at Rafe, to look into his eyes. Two more paces and she could do it. Two paces and they would be upon the horse’s back. Two paces and they would be safe.

The shot rang out, ripping through the quietness of the heath.

‘No!’ She turned to see Rafe collapsing down on to his knees, his gloved hand clutched to his chest. ‘No!’ But he was already face down upon the grass and in her line of vision, through the haze of drifting white-blue smoke, was Rotherham, standing where she had left him, the pistol still smoking in his hand.

She chafed at the ropes that bound her until her wrists bled, but it made no difference, she could not free herself to help her husband. She dropped to kneel by his side.

‘Rafe!’ Her voice was guttural and ragged. ‘Rafe!’ she cried, but his body lay still and unmoving.

‘What have you done?’ she yelled at Rotherham.

‘I have made you a widow, my dear,’ he said in a voice devoid of all emotion, ‘a widow who is set to remarry with indecent haste.’ He dropped the pistol and produced another from his pocket. ‘But let us take no chances.’

Marianne had not thought it was possible to feel such pain, such rage, such madness.

‘No!’ she shouted. ‘You are the vilest of creatures to have walked this earth!’

‘That is no way to speak to your future husband, Marianne,’ he said and began to walk towards her.

The tears were streaming down her face. She wanted to launch herself at him. She wanted to kill him. Rotherham smiled at her. She stared and could not look away. She stared and thought that what had just happened had driven her mad, in truth, for behind Rotherham a man was crawling closer on his belly. And as she watched the man rose up to his feet and the man was tall and dark and powerful. He was a man who wore no hat or dark silk kerchief around his face, yet had seemingly risen from the dead—the man was her husband.

She did not know if his image was the product of her own imagining or the soul of her husband come back to save her from beyond the grave.

She saw him aim his pistol and heard him call Rotherham’s name in his own strong harsh voice.

‘He has a pistol!’ she yelled in warning.

Rotherham turned and fired at the man who looked like Rafe. But he was not fast enough. Rafe’s bullet landed in Rotherham’s thigh, sending the duke sprawling on the grass.

‘Rafe?’ She was on her feet, running towards the spectre before it could vanish.

‘Marianne.’ He reached her, cutting the ropes from her wrists, hugging her briefly against him, his body warm and hard and strong.

She glanced back at the fallen body of the highwayman in confusion, but Rafe grabbed her hand and ran to the man.

She watched while he rolled the man over so that he lay on his back. And the man gave a grunt and opened his eyes.

‘Did you get him?’ The words were muffled behind his mask.

‘Rest easy,’ said Rafe and freed the hat from the man’s head and the mask from his face that he might breathe easier, and checked the wound to the man’s shoulder. At first she did not recognise him, for the beard had been shaved from his chin and the moustache from his lip. And then the man’s eyes met hers.

‘Papa,’ she whispered.

‘My daughter,’ he said and his voice was thick with emotion. ‘Whatever you think of me, it is deserved. But know that I love you and that I have spent a lifetime ruing those vowels so wickedly and thoughtlessly and drunkenly written.’

She clutched his hand in hers, feeling the wet blood that smeared upon it.

‘I love you, too, Papa.’

He wept at that, silent tears rolling down his cheeks.

Rafe pulled her aside, speaking quiet words for her ears only. ‘We have to get him home. There is a doctor waiting ready.’

‘Was there no other way?’

‘None that would not endanger your life all the more. And none of us would risk that. He wanted to do this for you, Marianne. I could not deny him the chance to regain some measure of honour.’

She nodded.

‘Help me get him into the carriage.’ Together they moved her father into the hackney, supporting him as best they could and laying him across the seats. Then Rafe tied her father’s horse on a lead to the carriage.

Rafe walked over to Rotherham and grabbed him, flipping the man to lie flat on his back. He took a fresh pistol from his pocket and pressed the barrel against Rotherham’s temple.

Rotherham paled even more and gave a whimper.

‘No.’ Marianne came to stand by Rafe’s side, touching her hand to the tight tense muscle in the curve of his arm. ‘Do not do this, Rafe.’

‘For what he has done to you he deserves to die.’

‘If you kill him, they will hunt you down and hang you.’

‘It is a price I would willingly pay.’

‘But I would not.’

She felt the tremble that ran through Rafe’s arm.

‘He is nothing to me. And you are everything.’ It was true, she thought. Rotherham no longer held any power over her. She was not afraid of him. ‘And besides,’ she said in a quiet voice, ‘you once told me that you were not a murderer.’

He closed his eyes at that and she knew that he understood the truth of it—that if he killed Rotherham in that moment he would be no better than the villain himself.

‘Do not give him the power to change the man you are.’

Rafe lowered the pistol, but he did not shift his eyes from Rotherham. ‘The document,’ he growled.

Rotherham scrabbled in his pocket and passed him the copy.

‘He has the original too,’ she said. ‘He has had it all along.’

‘Then the one in your father’s possession...?’

‘A copy Rotherham had made. Billy Jones was Rotherham’s man. He killed your father under Rotherham’s instruction.’

She saw the darkening in Rafe’s eyes and wished she had not blurted the truth here and now, when the pistol was still in Rafe’s hand and Rotherham lying helpless before him.

‘Rafe,’ she said softly. And he looked round at her. Their gazes met and held. All that was in her heart reached out to him. He touched his fingers gently to her cheek. Then he took the original document, the one her father had written all those years ago, and stuffed it into his pocket. Taking Marianne’s hand in his, he turned and led her away towards the carriage.

‘You cannot mean to leave me here?’ said Rotherham.

‘I shall not kill you, Rotherham. But neither shall I help you.’ Rafe’s voice was quiet and controlled.

‘This place is not safe. And my leg...’

‘Nowhere in England is safe for you, Rotherham.’ Rafe’s voice was grim and dark and filled with promise. ‘In the eventuality that you escape this heath you would do well to remember that.’

‘Damn you, Knight!’

But Rafe had already turned and was helping Marianne into the carriage. She sat beside her father, whose face was white and strained from Rotherham’s bullet lodged in his shoulder, and held his hand in hers. And as the darkness of the night began to close in, Rafe drove them home.

* * *

‘Now that Mama and Francis are not present to hear, tell me honestly...’ Marianne paused briefly ‘...will he survive the wound?’

‘There is likely to be some impairment in his left arm, but aside from that, and assuming that he takes no fever, then your father should make a good recovery.’

She nodded and closed her eyes; when she opened them again they were blurry with tears.

‘I should not have let him do it,’ Rafe said, misunderstanding why she was weeping. ‘I should have—’

But she did not let him go on. ‘I thought it was you,’ she whispered and the tears flowed harder. ‘I thought Rotherham had killed you.’

‘Marianne.’ Her name was like a sigh on his lips. He took her into his arms, trying to hold her against him, but she did not yield, just stared up into his face, determined to tell him.

‘I thought it was you, and I could not bear it.’

‘I’m sorry, Marianne. If there had been another way...’ He traced the outline of her face with his eyes. ‘But I did what I had to, to save you. And I will always do that. Because I love you.’

His words were a whisper, the same whisper a highwayman had used on a heath what seemed an eternity ago. And they meant more to Marianne than anything else in the world. She stared into his eyes.

She reached up and touched her fingers to his lips and there was no more need for words, only the need of a woman for her man. After all that they had been through, after all the day had brought. They undressed each other, one garment at a time. And then he carried her to their bed, and he made love to her, and the union of their bodies, the physical manifestation of a love that had been born in spite of vengeance and hatred and wickedness, began to heal their hurts.

* * *

It was two weeks after that fateful day upon Hounslow Heath. The house was very different from the one that the highwayman had first brought her to. There was a full staff of servants. The shutters had been opened in the yellow and master bedchambers and the rooms were filled with late autumn sunshine as she and Rafe carefully packed away his parents’ possessions.

‘You must choose the paints and wallpapers, and materials, Marianne. I would fill this house with light and laughter...and children.’

She smiled and gave a nod. ‘Most definitely.’

‘I will hold you to that, my love,’ he said.

‘Please see that you do.’ She leaned across and kissed him on the mouth, and everything in the world was right.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt of
My Fair Concubine
by Jeannie Lin!

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