He gave a snort, said, “I don’t know what he sees in you,” and dropped the blanket back over her face. She never imagined she would be so glad to be found unattractive. The man returned to the table and his drink, and Marianne to her work with the nail file. It seemed a hopeless task. She could not get a firm hold on the smooth ivory handle. It kept slipping, but she persevered, as she couldn’t think of anything else useful to do. After perhaps a quarter of an hour, she had severed one strand of the rope. When she pulled, the rest of it came loose. Her hands were free. That small success gave her confidence and courage. Her hands were numb. She flexed her fingers to restore the flow of blood.
Now if she could get her feet loose without alerting him what she was about! She rolled over, turning her back to the room to allow herself a little freedom of movement. When the man didn’t say anything, she began working her hands down to her ankles. It was easier to untie the ropes there than to cut through them. After a few broken fingernails, the rope at her feet was loose. She was no longer bound, but she was still locked in a house with a large man holding a gun. A man who was rapidly drinking himself into drunkenness.
She turned over quietly until she was facing the room again and listened. The only sound was the snapping of wood in the grate and the occasional rattle of a glass or bottle on the table. She risked lifting the corner of the blanket and peeking out. La Rue sat at the table, facing her but not looking at her. He was looking at the fire. When he rose to go and stoke it, she lowered the blanket and looked around the room for a weapon. He had left his pistol on the table. Could she reach it before he caught her? If she failed, the attempt might jolt him into an ugly mood—and with a fair bit of liquor in him. God only knew what revenge he might take.
She wanted something closer to hand. There was nothing. The place was only a one-room shack, with no stove or sink. The man who lived here must cook at the hearth. If he washed, it could only be in a nearby creek. La Rue was bent over the fire, working at it with a poker. He held a log in his hand, preparing a spot to add it to the fire. That would take him half a minute at least. She might not have another chance. She’d make a dart for his gun.
She pushed the blanket aside and leapt toward the table. She didn’t look behind her, but she heard La Rue drop the log.
“Here!” he shouted, and came after her.
Her fingers closed over the weapon. It was heavy and felt awkward. She had never fired a gun in her life, but she knew she had to pull the trigger. She turned and saw him coming toward her, wearing an ugly scowl.
“If you come one step closer, I’ll shoot,” she said, surprised at the firmness of her voice. She had thought it would quake with the terror she felt. Her hand was trembling. She saw La Rue look at it, and his lips drew back, revealing crooked, yellowed teeth.
“It ain’t loaded,” he said
Staring into his snuff-brown eyes, she couldn’t see any shadow of fear. Surely he hadn’t gone to rob the duchess with an unloaded gun.
“Yes, it is,” she said, and put her other hand on the gun handle to steady it.
“Try it,” he said, his lips stretching into an evil grin,
His eyes held hers, neither of them wavering. It was a battle of wills. She gritted her teeth and determined that if he came one step closer, she’d pull the trigger and hope he had been bluffing about the gun’s not being loaded.
He took a step toward her. She steadied the pistol as well as her trembling hand allowed, aimed at his right shoulder to avoid striking his heart, and pulled the trigger. The explosion reverberated in the small room, sounding as if a cannon had gone off. It rang and echoed in her ears. The man stared at her in astonishment, emitted a grunt, and fell slowly to the floor. She dropped the gun and stood a moment, gathering her wits, then she ran toward the door. As she opened it, a low moan came from the man’s throat. She stopped and turned back. The man was looking at her wildly.
“Help me, miss,” he said in a weak voice. “I’m bleeding to death.”
She saw the blood spreading down his left sleeve and found she could not leave him to die by inches. Slowly, reluctantly, she turned and went back to him.
“Have a look at my wound,” he said. “See if you can stop the flow of blood.”
She bent down and reached to open his shirt. He sat up like a jack-in-the-box. His right hand clamped her wrist and wrenched her arm back until she was afraid he’d break it. “Shoot me, will you, wench? I know what to do with the likes of you!” he said in a firm, angry voice. It had all been an act. His wound was only a scratch. He stood up and dragged her to her feet, with her arm still cruelly twisted behind her back.
She couldn’t fight anymore. She wasn’t strong enough to overpower a big man. She wasn’t evil enough to deal with such people as this on their own terms.
“If you wasn’t so ugly, I’d take you myself. You’re only fit for the likes of McGinty,” he scoffed.
He shoved her back toward the sofa, where the ropes and blanket awaited her. She couldn’t face it again. Something inside her revolted. She had one free hand. She slid it into her pocket and drew out the nail file. When he released her arm to shove her onto the sofa, she turned and struck at his face with the nail file. It cut a slash into his cheek. Blood spurted. While he instinctively reached to feel it, she turned and bolted for the door, with the man in hot pursuit, cursing her. She had her fingers on the doorknob when he caught her by her hair and yanked her back.
She watched in growing desperation as the doorknob turned and the door flew open. McGinty was back, to have his way with her. But it was not McGinty who came in. It was Macheath, with a menacing smile on his face and blood in his eye.
“I have been wanting to do this for a long time,” he said as his fist flew out and La Rue dropped to the floor.
Marianne ran into his arms and buried her head in his shoulder. She couldn’t speak. She didn’t even want to open her eyes. She just wanted the safety of his arms around her, holding her tight.
Chapter Eighteen
“Are you all right, my dear?” Macheath asked a moment later, when she had stopped trembling.
She looked up at him with wide, dazed eyes. “I shot him, John.”
“Good!”
“I thought he was dying, but it was only a ruse to get me to stay.”
“My sweet innocent,” he said ruefully, “how did you come to fall into such company as this?”
“It all started when you held up the duchess’s coach,” she said, not reproachfully, but merely answering his question. Macheath swallowed a lump in his throat and she continued. “I don’t suppose you recovered the diamonds?”
“I know where they are. I beat it out of McGinty.”
La Rue squinted and frowned, but didn’t ask for McGinty’s whereabouts. “I’m bleeding. I need help,” he said.
“Don’t pay him any heed!” Marianne said. “It is a trick, John. Tie him up and let us leave.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Macheath replied. He picked up La Rue’s gun and led Marianne out into the darkness with his arm around her shoulder, holding her to his side.
Outside, he tossed the gun into the forest. Then he tilted her face up to his. It was pale in the moonlight.
“If anything had happened to you, I— Oh, Marianne! This is all my fault. I am so sorry, darling.” He drew her into his arms and hugged her fiercely. “You were right. Turning highwayman is not the way to solve the world’s problems. When I went back upstairs and saw you gone, I— They drugged Miguel, you see, which is how it happened.”
“I thought it was you at the door and let them in.”
“We should have arranged a signal. I was sure they wouldn’t come until later. Was it very bad?”
“Yes, it was horrid. And the worst part was finding out that I could be just as bad as they were. I never thought I could shoot anyone in cold blood. I can well understand now how the war made you so vicious.” Macheath winced. “Oh, John, I didn’t mean— You were always quite civil to the duchess and me.”
“I know you didn’t mean it. That is the worst part of it all. You were simply telling the truth. I have become a brute without realizing it.”
“But a gentlemanly brute,” she said consolingly and changed the subject. “That man I shot in the arm is La Rue, is he?”
“Yes,” he replied distractedly, for his mind lingered on what she had inadvertently said, “vicious.”
“Where’s McGinty?” she asked.
“Tied to a tree a little farther along. He came creeping up behind me as I was running toward the shack. I used his kerchief to tie him by the wrists to a sapling.”
As they continued, Marianne related her night’s suffering. Each of her torments caused another stab of guilt for Macheath. To have subjected an innocent young girl to such horrendous doings was unconscionable.
Not far along the path they came to McGinty, tied to a sapling as Macheath had said. McGinty had given up trying to loosen his bonds. He scowled at them. “Ain’t you going to release me?” he asked.
“Not until I see if you were telling me the truth about the diamonds,” Macheath replied and continued on his way.
“Is La Rue dead?”
“Perhaps,” Macheath called back and kept on walking. An echo of curses followed them.
When they came to the part of the path where he had tethered his mount, he helped Marianne up and she held on to his waist, her head resting against his back while they rode through the forest to the inn.
Once there, he hopped down and held out his arms. Marianne jumped into them and he swung her to the ground. He kept his arms around her a moment, enjoying the feel of her tiny waist.
“You can let me go now, John,” she said primly.
“I can, but I don’t want to.” She stepped back. “Go upstairs and see if the duchess is still sleeping,” Macheath said. “I’ll be up in half an hour.”
He rode to the next signpost, and there, hidden under a rock as McGinty had said, sat the diamonds, wrapped in a handkerchief. He slipped them into his pocket, rode back to release McGinty, and went to the inn.
Marianne found the duchess still sleeping soundly, oblivious to the horrors of the night. She closed the door and went into the next room to tidy herself. Her hair hung in strands around her shoulders. She was covered in dust and dirt from the wagon. Her wrists were sore and her fingernails a mess, but when she looked in the mirror, she saw a smiling, confident woman.
A downtrodden girl, frightened of her own shadow, had set out on this trip expecting no more than a tedious journey with a short respite in London for the wedding. And instead she had had a life-changing adventure. She had met a highwayman, been nearly drowned, been kidnapped, and shot a man. But she had survived it all. She would never be the same again, never frightened of a foolish old woman just because she had a title. And best of all, she had fallen in love. Bath would be desperately dull after this.
When the tap came at the door later, she felt a spurt of fear and didn’t open it until she called, “Who is it?”
“It’s me, John.”
Then she opened the door. He came in, dangling the diamonds from his fingers. In the dull glow from the grate, they hardly sparkled. They might have been made of paste.
“What a lot of bother these bits of crystalline carbon have caused,” he said, and dropped the necklace into her fingers. “One day you’ll have a set of your own.”
“I don’t share the duchess’s love of showy baubles.”
“How much of what has happened tonight do we tell the old girl?” he asked. “You will want to spare her the more gruesome details, I expect.”
“Why should I? She has never spared me. Let her realize the mischief she has caused.”
“Actually, I am the one who has caused the harm, which you kindly call mischief. And with her heart, you know...”
“Yes, we must take that into account, of course. Very well, I shall tell her La Rue came while she was asleep, and you recovered the diamonds as we planned. I do think, though, that people ought to be accountable for their actions.”
Macheath took this unusually stern speech as a reflection on his own part in the affair. Gazing at Marianne, he did not see the frightened girl who had cowered in his arms, trembling, an hour ago.
“Did you release McGinty?” she asked.
“Yes. He’ll tend to La Rue’s bullet wound.”
“They should both be reported to the constable.”
Macheath didn’t reply, just looked at her uncertainly. She knew how he felt about that. They had discussed it. He was equally culpable, as far as that went. Did she think he should be reported as well? It was not the moment for romance. He deduced that Marianne was having second thoughts about all this, about him. Her sufferings over the past days were taking their toll. From the mutinous set of her chin, he judged it would not be long before they were arguing if he stayed. And really he had not much to say in his own defense. He had foolishly tried to right a country’s wrongs single-handedly. A childish, quixotic thing to do. Better to let her cool down and talk to her in the morning.
“I’ll let you get a few hours’ sleep,” he said.
She brushed a weary hand over her forehead, revealing the scrapes and bruises on her wrists. “Who could sleep after a night like this?”
“You’ll want to tend to those scrapes. And a glass of wine to help you rest.”
“I’ll have some of that brandy in water.”
He wanted to clear the air before leaving. “Marianne, I’m truly sorry.”
“I know. I know, John,” she said brusquely. With her newfound confidence, she added, “But it was really very bad of you. The duchess never did you any harm.”
“I know. I’ll call on her tomorrow and apologize.”
He wanted to kiss her, but she looked too daunting. “Until tomorrow, then,” he said, and left with a last long, searching gaze.
Marianne poured a glass of water and added a dollop of brandy to it. She sat alone by the smoldering grate, sipping and thinking until she felt her eyelids grow heavy; then she went to bed. She slid the diamonds under her pillow for safekeeping.
She slept until eight o’clock and awoke to find the duchess standing over her. For the first time in memory, the duchess had tidied her own hair.