The Highwayman (9 page)

Dorian Blackwell. He'd been watching her sleep. He'd been close enough to reach out and touch her.

The lightning passed, plunging them both back into darkness, and Farah froze for the few seconds it took for the thunder to shake the stones of the keep. Though she could see nothing, she blinked several times, trying to rein in the beats of her runaway heart.

Any moment, she expected him to leap on her like the predator he'd evoked in her memory, and she knew she didn't have the strength to fight him, or to run.

“Please,” she whispered, hating the weakness in her voice. “Don't—”

“I'm not going to hurt you,” the darkness said. He was so close, she thought she could feel his breath on her skin.

Farah wasn't certain she believed him. “Then why? What am I doing here?” She wished for an impression of movement, but the shadows remained still and absolute.

A few silent moments passed before the voice reached for her through the inky black. “There is something very important I need to do. You have the capacity to either help me or be in my way. Regardless, it's better to have you where I can keep an eye on you.”

“What makes you think I would ever help
you
?” she asked imperiously, as outrage began to smother her panic. “Especially after you've taken me from my home, my
life.
That was a reckless move. I work for Scotland Yard, and they'll be looking for me.” Farah hoped her threat struck home. She remembered Blackwell in the strong room. He'd been collected, seemingly fearless, but she'd seen the sweat in his hairline, the tension in his coiled muscles, the pulse throbbing at a vein in his strong neck. “You don't like enclosed spaces, I think,” she ventured. “If they find me here, you won't be able to avoid kidnapping charges. They'll send you back to Newgate for certain.”

“You don't think I can make it so that you're never found?” His inflection remained the same—cold, uncaring—but Farah gasped as though he'd slapped her. Silently, she fought a tremor of terror. Had he meant they wouldn't find
her
? Or her body? She had to remember that the Blackheart of Ben More left a mountain of devastation in his wake in the form of the dead or missing. Regretting her threats, she groped inside her murky thoughts for something to say.

“Do you love him?”

The question caught her completely by surprise. “Pardon?”

“Morley.” The name could have been blocked in ice. “Were you going to accept his proposal?”

Farah had the oddest sense that the question had astonished them both. “I fail to see how that's any of your—”

“Answer. The. Question.”

Farah resented being ordered about. However, something about the shroud of night made her uncharacteristically frank. “No,” she confessed. “While I have a great deal of respect and fondness for Carlton, I do not love him.”

“You let him kiss you.” The dispassionate words still managed to convey accusation. “He put his hands on you. Are you in the habit of allowing men you do not love to take such liberties?”

“No! I … Morley's the first man I've kissed since—” Farah blinked rapidly. How could a man such as Dorian Blackwell put her on the defensive over a measly kiss? Didn't he have a harem of beautiful courtesans? Wasn't he the most notorious blackguard in the realm? “I don't have to explain my actions to you! I'm not a thief, a kidnapper, or a murderer. I'm a respectable, employed, self-possessed widow, and may allow whatever liberties I deign appropriate.” Her head still swam, and the more excited she became, the worse she felt. Whatever he'd dosed her with was making her reckless, impulsive, and emotional.

The darkness was silent and still for so long, she wondered if his specter had been a hallucination brought on by the drug in her veins.

“A widow?” Dorian Blackwell murmured as though bemused. “You may play the respectable matron with others,
Mrs. Mackenzie,
but you are a woman with terrible secrets. And I happen to know what they are.”

The arrogance in his tone provoked her, but Farah's heart kicked behind her ribs at his words. That was entirely impossible. Wasn't it? Her secrets had died ten years ago and were buried in a shallow, unmarked grave.

Along with her heart.

“What is it you think you know?” she whispered. “What is it that you want from me?”

Another streak of lightning forked through the storm, illuminating his bulky shadow, turning the ebony of his hair a blue-black and his scarred eye an unnatural silver. Farah only caught his expression for a moment, but it was an unguarded moment, and what she saw stunned her into silence.

He was leaning closer, his head dipped down, but his deep-set eyes burned at her through dark lashes. His hand hovered in the space between them, his expression a mixture of exquisite pain and longing.

The vision was gone as swiftly as it had appeared, and Farah sat in the dark, awaiting the pressure of his fingers.

He left her untouched, his shadow appearing as a wide outline against the window as he stood and moved away from her. “Yours are questions best left for the morning.”

Confused, Farah couldn't dispel the image of his eyes as he'd reached toward her. His scar marred the chiseled symmetry of his swarthy features. It added to his menace, to be sure, but the naked, yearning agony she'd glimpsed colored her fear with mystification.

Had it been an effect of the storm and her unruly vision?

A door opened on the far side of the room and Farah was once again astonished. He'd moved so stealthily in the pitch-blackness, without running into furniture or making a sound.

“How long do you intend to keep me prisoner here, Mr. Blackwell?” she asked, her hands fisting in the sheets, her eyelids heavy.

“I do not intend for you to be my prisoner,” Blackwell said after a slight pause.

“Captive, then?” She had the impression that she'd amused him, or was it exasperated? The sound he made was impossible to correctly interpret without seeing his face.

“Get some sleep, Mrs. Mackenzie,” he prompted. “You're out of danger tonight, and everything will be clearer on the morrow.”

He left her then, to contemplate just what he'd meant by,
You're out of danger tonight.

 

C
HAPTER
S
IX

Dorian Blackwell's words proved prophetic, Farah realized, as she woke from a dreamless sleep with sunlight spilling across her bed and pleasantly warming her skin. Her thoughts and vision had, indeed, cleared away with last night's storm clouds, leaving her rested and restless all at once.

Blinking against the brightness of the morning, she became aware of busy, rustling noises coming from
inside
her room. Gasping, she sat up like a shot as a fire flared to life in the gigantic fireplace, set by a short but husky man dressed far too well to be in the service profession.

He turned to face her, his graying beard split into a cheerful smile. “Why, good morning, Mrs. Mackenzie! What a pleasure it is to finally meet ye.” He crossed the room with startling speed for such a short, stout man.

Alarmed, Farah snatched the covers to her loosened bodice, though only her silk chemise was revealed beneath the opened buttons. “Don't—don't come any closer.” She held up her hand in what she realized was a ridiculous motion to stop him.

Surprisingly, it proved effective, and he paused near the foot of the bed.

Soft blue eyes gentled as did the grooves in his cheeks, lending him a very fatherly appearance. “Ye've nothing to fear from me, dear lass, I'm only here to lay yer fire and bring ye breakfast.” He motioned to the tray set by his left hand at the foot of the bed. “No doubt yer belly's a wee dicey, so I brought ye some rice pudding, a quail's egg, toast, and some tea.”

As Farah eyed the artfully arranged plate, her stomach let out a hungry sound of protest, then pitched unsteadily.

The smile returned to the man's cheeks, glowing with pleasure. “'Tis as I thought.” He grabbed the tray and carefully carried it toward her, setting it over her lap. “Ye can breakfast like a proper lady.” He beamed, handing her a linen.

Automatically, Farah reached up to accept the linen, settling it where it belonged while he poured tea into a delicate china cup the most lovely shade of mint green.

“You're—Mr. Murdoch,” she said, recognizing his grizzled voice. “From the train.”

The look he cast her from beneath his lashes was impossible to interpret. “Aye,” he said finally. “Though I was hoping ye didna remember anything from the journey. We kept ye out so as to cause ye the least amount of distress.”

Farah gaped at him.
Distress?
Who could not feel distress when they were kidnapped and taken to this isolated part of the world? And what was this man about, treating her as though she was a welcome guest instead of a hostage?

“Sugar? Cream?” He solicitously gestured to the matching tea service full of foamy fresh cream and lumps of cubed sugar.

“No, thank you.” Manners dictated she be polite, even to her captors. She studied Murdoch as she lifted the cup to her lips, freezing mid-tilt as she realized there might be something other than just tea in the brew.

“Have ye no fear, lass, 'tis just a breakfast tea, no more.” He correctly deciphered her thoughts.

Farah drank. If he were going to dose her again with whatever had knocked her unconscious, he'd likely hold the cloth over her mouth and nose as they'd initially done. The tea was strong and good and, though she was used to coffee in the morning, it helped to dispel the lingering cobwebs in the corners of her mind.

“Isn't there a chambermaid who could attend me?” she asked, hoping for sympathetic female company, along with a chance to escape. “You are obviously too important and well appointed to be in service.”

A sliver of knowing mischief slipped into his ever-present smile. “He said ye'd be as bright as ye are beautiful,” Murdoch praised, picking up the spoon and handing it to her while nudging the crystal dish of rice pudding toward her.

Farah hoped he didn't see her blanch at the compliment, knowing the source to which he referred.

“There are no women here at Ben More, ye see, and I'm the only man the master of the castle would allow in yer boudoir to attend ye. Now eat up. Gather yer strength.”

This was a command Farah didn't disagree with. If she were to escape her present circumstances, she needed to keep a cool head, gather information, and indeed, regain her strength. “Why you?” she asked, before taking her first bite of the honey-sweet pudding that melted in a m
é
lange of spices on her tongue. She couldn't help but savor the confectionary taste of what had looked like a boring dish, in spite of everything.

Murdoch shifted his weight a little uncomfortably. “Well, lass, that would be due to my lack of … er … romantic proclivities … toward women … that is…”

“You prefer men,” Farah deduced around a second spoonful.

He blinked, obviously not expecting her to be so blunt. “That's the way of it,” he admitted. “Hope that doesna offend ye.”

“That doesn't offend me in the least,” Farah said. “Though I do take exception to the part about you being a kidnapper, and who knows what else, for the most notorious criminal on the isle.”

At that, Murdoch threw his head back and laughed until he was gripping the sides of his suit coat as though to hold the seams together. “Ye're a brave lass for someone so wee,” he said. “Ye'll need it in the days to come, I think.”

That gave her heart a kick, and Farah found it hard to swallow the next mouthful. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, remembering Dorian Blackwell's words about being out of danger. Or had it been
in danger
? Last night seemed like a dream at this point, and faded just as readily. Except for the lightning in his eyes, and the way he'd reached toward her. Like a man in the desert reaches for a mirage.

“That's a simple question with a complicated answer, lass, best leave it to Blackwell to explain it all to ye.”

Farah's stomach erupted into a flurry of moths at the thought of facing Dorian Blackwell again. “Mr. Murdoch,” she began.

“Just Murdoch, ma'am.”

“All right. Murdoch. Could you not just … give me an idea about why I've been brought here?” she implored. “All I can do is dream up the worst possible scenarios, and I'd like to be prepared to see your—employer.”

“I'm sorry, lass, but orders are orders.” To his credit, the man did seem genuinely regretful. “But I want ye to know that not one of the inhabitants of Ben More Castle will raise a finger to do aught to ye but yer bidding.”

“As long as I don't escape,” Farah pointed out, cutting into her quail's egg.

Murdoch's smile disappeared. “Right. Yes.”

“And only if I behave like a proper hostage.” She popped a bite in her mouth, delighted to find the egg had been cooked in butter.

“Well—that's not—I mean—we'd all be obliged if ye'd—”

“And insomuch as my request doesn't contradict with Blackwell's orders.”

“Also … that.” Increasingly uncomfortable, Murdoch backed toward the door. “But ye're safe, is what I was saying, no matter how frightening any of the blokes around here appear.”

“Well, then, I shall strive to be the best possible prisoner this castle has ever incarcerated.” Farah took a dainty sip of her tea, enjoying Murdoch's discomfiture. He deserved it, the knave, despite his solicitous manner. He'd had a hand in her kidnapping and she'd do well to remember that. It would help her to fight the growing urge to like him.

“Och, lass, I'd ask ye not to see things in that way,” he said seriously, a wrinkle of worry appearing between his brows. “Give Blackwell a chance to explain the situation and maybe … ye'll see things a bit differently.” Putting his hand on the doorknob, he regarded her as she ate her breakfast as though waiting for a response.