The ruffians began to close with eagerness upon him, but he did not hesitate, just kept on walking.
One of the villains gave a mocking laugh. ‘You think we’re scared because you’re wearing a bleedin’ mask?’
She did not hear the highwayman’s answer. There was only the sickening sound of bone crunching against bone and the villain laughed no more. A hand closed tight around her upper arm and the thin-faced man looked down into her face.
‘Unhand me!’ She struggled to free herself, but the thin-faced man only smirked at her efforts.
She could not see the highwayman properly, but she could hear every fist that landed, could hear the grunts and the gasps and the curses from the ruffians. There was such menace about him that it made that of the villains pale to insignificance. The men before him seemed to crumple. One was thrown against a wall, slithering down to lie in a limp and bloodied heap. Another turned tail and ran away. She had never seen such power, such strength, such utter ruthlessness. It shook her to the very core. And it shook the thin-faced man too. With a snarl of disgust he gestured the biggest, heaviest-set of his men towards the highwayman. The villain was a giant of a man, his fists huge and scarred, and as Marianne watched he slipped a wicked-looking hunting knife from his pocket.
‘Come on, darlin’, me and you’ve got some business together. Fitz’ll take care of the distraction.’ The thin-faced man manhandled her towards the mouth of the close.
‘No!’ She struggled against him, straining for release, and her eyes met the highwayman’s across the carnage just for a moment. Something passed between them, something she did not understand. He was her enemy and yet he was also her only hope. He was different from the men in the rookery. He was different from any man that she had ever seen. His gaze shifted to focus on the men between them. She watched it harden, and darken, and she shivered just to see it. She stared in awe, wanting both to run to, and away from him. The thin-faced man’s fingers bit all the harder into her arm as he wrenched her so roughly that she lost her footing and went down on her knees. He yanked her up and dragged her towards the building in which she had first seen him. And behind her she could hear the sounds of the fight intensify.
They were just inside the close when the scream pierced the air. A scream of pain and of terror. A scream that made her scalp prickle and her blood run cold. Then there was silence. She strained her neck and saw the big villain lying curled on the ground sobbing like a baby. And the highwayman was still coming: relentless, unstoppable.
Knight saw Marianne Winslow being dragged towards a house by a thin-faced man. Her eyes were fixed on his and in that moment he saw her with all of her armour and pretence stripped away: her soul, bared in such honesty, and vulnerable. She was not Misbourne’s daughter now, but a woman in her own right—one who was in grave danger because of him. He felt the extent of her fear, felt her unspoken plea reach in and touch him in a place he had thought lost long ago. Something inside him seemed to boil up and spill over. There were two men between him and Marianne. Knight knew that time was running out.
‘Come on then, mate,’ taunted the stockier of the two. ‘Show us what you’ve got.’ The black-toothed ruffian moved his fingers in a beckoning gesture. ‘We don’t fight with Queensbury rules he—’
Knight smashed his fist as hard as he could into the ruffian’s nose. The man dropped and did not get up.
The sole remaining villain was backing away with his hands raised in surrender. ‘You can ‘ave ‘er.’ The man’s face was pale beneath the grime. ‘Just don’t hit me, mate.’ A telltale wet patch spread across the fall of the man’s trousers as he spoke. Knight hit him anyway and kept on moving into the close.
From above came the sounds of the struggle. A door slammed, muffling the sounds. He took the stairs two at a time, up to the first floor, hearing the struggle grow louder as he ran. He kicked open the door and saw Marianne backed against the wall watching in terror while, in the middle of the room, the villain unfastened his trousers. Both faces shot round to him.
‘What the hell…?’ The villain scrabbled at the open fall of his trousers, his shifty grey eyes taking in Knight’s highwayman clothes and the kerchief that still masked his face. ‘Piss off and get your own.’
‘She’s mine,’ said Knight.
‘This is my territory—that makes her mine.’ The thin-faced man pulled a razorblade from the pocket of his jacket and brandished it at Knight. ‘Now piss off. Three’s a crowd.’
‘I agree.’ But instead of retreating, Knight walked straight for the man. His left hand caught the wrist that swiped the razor at Knight’s neck; his right grabbed the back of the half-mast breeches and, before the villain could react, ran him headlong out of the window.
When he turned back to Marianne she had not moved one inch; just stood there frozen, spine against the wall.
‘You killed him,’ she whispered.
He let the lethality fade from his face. ‘I doubt it. We’re only one floor up. Probably just broke a few bones.’ He paused. ‘Did he hurt you?’
Her gaze clung to his. ‘No.’
Thank God!
Her voice was quiet and calm, but her face was pale as death and he could see the shock and fear that she had not yet masked in her eyes.
Someone outside started to scream.
‘We have to leave here. Now.’ But she still made no move, just stared at him as if she could not believe what was happening.
‘Lady Marianne,’ he pressed, knowing the urgency of their predicament. He took hold of her arm and together they ran from the room.
The kitchen of Knight’s house in Craven Street was warm and empty save for the two men that sat at the table. The stew that Callerton had prepared earlier was still cooking within the range, its aroma rich in the air. There was the steady slow tick from the clock fixed high on the wall between the windows. The daylight was subdued through the fine netting that Callerton had fitted across the window panes, lending the room an air of privacy.
‘You were out of sight by the time I got out of there. And I knew you wouldn’t go back to the room,’ Callerton said. He unstoppered the bottle of brandy sitting on the scrubbed oak of the kitchen table between them and poured some into each of the two glasses.
Knight gave a nod. They both knew the arrangements if something went wrong. ‘How is she?’
‘She’s resting.’
‘You got to her in time?’ Knight gave another nod. ‘Just.’ Marianne Winslow’s virtue had hung by a thread within that rookery. He wondered what he would have done had he not arrived in time. Killed the blackguard in the room with her. Blamed himself for all eternity.
‘Thank God for that.’ Callerton downed his brandy in one. ‘You’ve got to give her back.’
He knew that. He also knew that he had come too far and could not give up Misbourne’s daughter just yet. ‘That’s what Misbourne’s banking on. We keep her…for now.’ In his mind he could still see those dark eyes of hers, holding his with such brutal honesty, and the look in them that would not leave him.
Callerton rubbed at his forehead. His face was creased with concern. ‘The letter he sent is from the right date. And it’s
