His Mask of Retribution by Margaret McPhee Page A

dissimilar to the women who surrounded them in this part of town. She looked beautiful, abandoned, wanton almost, except for her innocence and the vulnerability that she was no longer trying to hide. He held her a little closer and knew that, whatever Misbourne had done, his daughter did not deserve this.
    Knight knew he could not risk heading home in the daylight. There was a chance that Misbourne had more men in the vicinity, that they were searching for him even now. The last thing he wanted to do was lead them to his house and his true identity. That, and expose Marianne to more gunfire and violence. He knew of an empty warehouse, which seemed the closest point of safety. And if Misbourne’s ruffians were on their tail they needed to get there fast. He guided her steadily towards it, unnoticed by those they passed as anything other than a man and his woman.
    * * *
    She had no idea where they were, other than that it was a dubious area of the city and that they were not so very far away from the church of St Luke’s. The warehouse was large and almost derelict, but it provided shelter from the rain and from what they had left behind at the burying ground. The highwayman barricaded the door shut behind them and led her across the dust and rubble to lean her against a bare brick wall. She could see that the windows were small and almost as high as the roof, letting in light but showing nothing of the outside world other than the gunmetal-grey sky. Several of the panes had been broken or were missing. Pigeons nested in the exposed rafters, making soft cooing noises. One flew overhead, the flutter of its wings loud against the quiet drizzle of the rain against the roof, and sat watching them from a nearby ledge.
    She did not look at him because she knew he was no longer wearing the mask. And she was afraid of what that meant...for her and for him. His hat dropped sodden to the floor and the rustle of his clothing sounded; from the corner of her eye she saw that he was taking off his greatcoat. He moved away to shake the water from it and then wrapped it around her shoulders.
    She stood very still and focused on the buckskin of his breeches, the scuffed leather of his boots...anything rather than look at his face, even though it was the one place she really wanted to look. She felt suffocated by the tension. The knot in her stomach tightened. He was unmasked. And she knew more than anything in the world that she must not yield to the overriding temptation, swore to herself that she would not. Yet standing there alone with him in that warehouse, with his coat warm around her shoulders and the scent of sandalwood in her nose, she could not help herself. Despite every sensible thought screaming at her to resist, she slowly raised her head and looked up into the face of the highwayman.
    However Marianne had imagined him to look, the reality stole the beat from her heart and the breath from her lungs. He was a man like none she had ever seen, a vision incomparable. Such dark masculinity that made her stomach flutter and tumble and her blood race so fast she thought she might faint. She stared and could not look away, her eyes ranging over the straight manly nose, the rugged angular jawline and square chin. Over the mouth that, even hidden, had tempted her to taste it and, now exposed, made her legs feel weak and her head dizzy. Desire seemed to whisper in the warehouse all around her. Attraction pounded through her veins with such explosive force that she felt herself tremble. She met those searing eyes that were so branded upon her memory and saw the amber in them darken. Her mouth went dry. She dropped her gaze, shocked at her response.
    Her heart was beating faster than a horse at full gallop. She kept her gaze low, praying he had realised nothing of her reaction, hoping he did not see the heat that was glowing in her cheeks.
    Her focus fixed on the dirty hem of her gown. But the deed had already been done. She had looked upon