His Mask of Retribution by Margaret McPhee

her jump, but she could not see anything because the highwayman was on top of her, shielding her from the danger. In a heartbeat he had dragged her up and hauled her behind the nearest gravestone.
    ‘Do not dare move from here,’ he whispered with a ferocity no one in their right mind would ignore, then he was gone.
    She stayed where he had left her, hugging her legs to her body, trying to calm the raggedness of her breathing while her mind reeled with the shock of what was happening and the knowledge that her father had not done the one simple thing that would have secured her release. He had sent men to kill the highwayman and they had almost killed her. None of it seemed real. Even though she had seen the man fire the pistol at her, there was a part of her mind that refused to believe it. It was all some horrible imagining. Yet the wind was cold in her face and she could feel the dampness from the rain seeping through the thinness of her shawl as she clutched it tight around her shoulders. She really was here, alive and unharmed—and there was only one reason for that: the highwayman.
    She heard the sound of feet running and then a shout. Then the sound of fists, fighting, grunts of pain. Another pistol shot and she could smell the gunpowder in the wind and see the drift of smoke even through the rain. A man began screaming in agony and she prayed, Please, God, don’t let it be him.
    ‘You bast—!’ someone shouted, but the words were cut off and there came a thud of something hitting the ground hard.
    Another shot. Then there was silence. A silence in which her breathing sounded too loud.
    ‘Marianne.’
    Suddenly he was there, reaching for her, helping her up, and she did not even think of drawing away.
    ‘Are you all right?’
    She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Her gaze moved over the gravestone to the men that lay beyond. One was rolling around groaning and clutching at his lower trouser leg, which was soaked in blood. Three lay unmoving upon the ground. And another was slumped bleeding and lifeless on the steps that led down into the mausoleum. Dead , she thought and could not seem to move her eyes away from the grotesque sight.
    ‘Marianne,’ he said again, more softly this time.
    She looked up into his eyes, at the fierceness and the urgency there. He was supposed to be the villain in all of this.
    ‘Give me your hand.’
    There was nothing she could say, no words that would come. She put her hand in his and followed him through the gravestones.
    And as they left, Marianne glanced back to the ruffians that her father had sent, and the mausoleum beyond with the name of its occupant carved into the stone lintel above the door: EDMUND KNIGHT.
    * * *
    Knight headed towards the warehouses and timber yards, keeping to the shadows and the alleyways, alert and watchful. He kept a pistol in one hand, hiding it within the folds of his coat, and the other hand was around Marianne’s waist, both securing and supporting her. To avoid attracting attention he wrenched the mask down from his face, letting it dangle around his neck as if it were a neckerchief, but Marianne did not seem to notice. Her eyes were dazed, her gaze fixed ahead, although Knight doubted she was registering much of her surroundings. Her face was so pale he wondered if she was going to faint. He could not blame her. He doubted most women, let alone one as indulged and protected as Marianne, could have remained unaffected after being shot at and witnessing a fight so brutal as to leave four men unconscious.
    He glanced down at her dress, the dress that had been intended for her wedding. Several of the bows on the bodice were hanging by a thread. It was grubby around the hem and the rain had dampened the skirt so that it clung indecently to her legs. The fine lace shawl wrapped around her had a rip in it and the ribbon with which she had bound her hair was lost, leaving it long and damp around her shoulders. Her appearance was not so