The Highwayman (10 page)

“Very well, Murdoch,” Farah said, hoping she was convincing enough.

He seemed to relax. “There are some ladies' clothes in the attic,” he supplied. “How's about I go searching for some while ye eat and finish yer tea, then I'll come back and gather yer dress to launder it. Would ye like me to see about a bath?”

She nodded around a bite of toast, and the husky Scotsman scuffled out of the room.

Farah listened for the sound of his boots to carry him away from her door before she shoved the remaining bites of toast into her mouth and washed it down with scalding gulps of tea. He hadn't locked the door behind him. This could be her only chance. If Farah knew anything, it was that women who went missing were rarely ever found, and though the best and brightest investigative minds would be looking for her, no one would ever imagine she'd been taken to Ben More Castle. Liberation was her responsibility, alone, and she intended to take the risk rather than await her fate in the silk-draped luxury of her castle chamber.

Finishing the perfectly cooked quail's egg in two bites, she set her tray on the ground and leaped out of the bed, her fingers flying to fasten the buttons on her bodice. It really was a shame that she'd have to attempt escape in her lovely evening wear, but at least the extra layers of her full skirts would help keep her warm.

She found her purse, shawl, and slippers draped over a soft blue velvet chair next to the beckoning fireplace, and she checked inside the satin bag to find enough coin to hopefully secure her passage back onto the mainland. After that, she would try to find a local constable, and see if she couldn't return to London on a little credit and professional courtesy.

After a fruitless check of the white wood wardrobe, she despaired of finding a cape or pelisse and prayed the sunshine would hold for a few more hours. Crossing to the large windows, she investigated the castle grounds.

The dazzling sight that greeted her stole a sigh from her lips. Ben More Castle lorded over a wide peninsula from atop a foundation of craggy gray and black rock. Farah followed the gentle slope of the hill as the emerald grass crawled toward the coast where the sun glinted off the calm gray-blue waters of the sound. Grazing sheep dotted the pastoral view, and the beauty of it distracted her from the urgency of the moment. The mountains of the Scottish mainland were visible across the narrow channel, close and yet unattainable.

The windows faced east, which meant land was to the west and north of here. Where there was a castle, a village always hunkered nearby, and if she had any chance of finding someone to help her across the channel, she'd find it among the fishermen and porters who doubtless lived there.

Farah wrapped her shawl around her disheveled curls and stepped into her slippers on her way to the bedroom door. She only looked over her shoulder once, pausing to consider her options. Despite her rush to escape, a niggling curiosity seized her. Why had the Blackheart of Ben More brought her here? What possible use could she have been to him?

A dark fear whispered to her that she likely didn't want to linger long enough to find out. With a pounding heart and a surprisingly steady hand, Farah eased open her door and pressed an eye to the crack, checking for a guard. Finding none, she slipped through the opening and softly shut it behind her.

Instead of cold gray stone, the halls of Ben More Castle were updated with plush burgundy carpets and Italian marble floors. Farah silently followed the dark wood panels along the hall toward a grand open gallery stairway. The carpets muffled her light footfalls, but it would do the same for anyone deciding to trail her, so she was careful to look out for Murdoch or any of the other frightening characters who might be in Blackwell's employ. The front gallery must have been an older wing of the structure, because it could have been the great hall of any medieval castle. The chilly stone was warmed by lush woven tapestries and a wrought-iron chandelier dangled over a wide stone staircase.

Farah barely paid her expensive surroundings any heed as she crouched to the level of the chiseled stone railing, as a side door opened on the floor below the curved stone staircase and two booming male voices echoed through the hall. Footmen, she realized, as they crossed the foyer in their heavy boots and left by way of the impressive and ornate front doors.

Well, she hadn't expected to escape by just walking out the front doors, had she? She remembered back to another escape attempt …

The kitchens. They'd be on the ground floor or below, and have places to hide if need be. And if she was caught on the way there, she could claim to be in search of food.

Farah didn't breathe as she tiptoed down the grand staircase and dashed across the wide stone entry. The kitchens would be in back of the keep if this castle were built like any of those in England, which would be, thankfully, on the north and west sides. Feeling as though providence was with her, she wound her way through the ground floor among a maze of hallways, past an intriguing library, a neglected rectory, and numerous sitting rooms. When she found the dining hall, she knew she'd come in the right direction. Other than the footmen, she didn't meet another soul.

A large, fragrant stewpot simmered over a cookstove in the kitchen, and on the flour-covered island, steaming fruit tartlets rested in neat, scrumptious rows. Farah's mouth watered at the scent, and her fingers itched for the tarts, but she resisted, knowing that her window for escape narrowed with each passing second. Murdoch would return to her rooms eventually, to find her gone, and she needed to be at least a mile away by then.

The door across the large and well-stocked kitchen actually stood ajar next to an open pantry door adjacent to it. Perhaps the cook was down in the cellars or the larder.

Her timing couldn't be better.

Toes barely touching the floor, she flew past the island, the ovens, and the simmering food, clutching her shawl to her chin and lifting her voluminous skirts. Sunshine spilled over the stones and touched her face for a glorious moment as she pulled the heavy door wide enough for her to slip through.

Farah's shoulder was nearly wrenched from its socket as her only hope of escape was slammed shut by a meaty hand.

“No,” said the sloe-eyed giant, wagging his other finger as though scolding an ill-mannered hound. “No leaving.”

Farah leaped back, banging into the sharp edge of a counter. Biting back a curse and a cry, she clutched her hip and tried not to cringe away from the hulking, ill-formed bald man who resembled something like Frankenstein's monster, complete with scars, marks, and very gentle brown eyes.

“Please,” she implored him desperately. “
Please
let me go. I'm being held here against my will. No one will know that you let me leave. Have pity on me.”

In response to her pleas, the man shut the pantry, and positioned himself in front of the kitchen door, a silent sentry against her escape.

“I have money,” Farah tried, dumping the coins in her purse onto the counter. “It's yours if you'll just let me pass.”

Frankenstein remained quiet, crossing his arms over his belly and still regarding her with a mixture of patience and pity.

Spying the cutlery, Farah lunged for the largest knife she could find, and brandished it at him. “You
will
let me go, this instant.”

The infuriating quirk of his lips told her she'd just amused him.

“I—I mean it. I don't want to hurt you.” The thought of doing anyone violence made her ill, but she tried to put on the most determined expression she was capable of producing.

His amusement turned into a disconcerting smile uncovering sharp teeth spaced at alarming intervals. “You won't,” he said in the relaxed voice of a simpleton. An English simpleton. Strange, that.

“I most certainly
will
if you don't step aside and—”

With a movement much too quick for such a slow-talking beast, he relieved her of the knife without so much as touching her, and set it on the counter out of her reach.

What would he do now? Farah could feel the blood draining from her face, but the man's eyes sparkled at her as though she'd pleased him somehow. “He needs you,” Frankenstein informed her genially. “Go to him.”

“I'd rather go to the devil!” she spat, again not needing clarification regarding just who
he
was. Turning from him, she faced the cook island behind her, seething with indignation and not a little bit of fear.

A sigh evoking a bovine character emitted from the bull-statured man behind her. “You were Dougan's Fairy,” he said, his voice touched with a bit of awe.

Farah whirled back around. “What?” She gasped.

“He told me you looked like one. With silver curls and silver eyes and tiny freckles.” He pointed at her hair as though to show her the color.

Farah blinked rapidly at the hulk of a man in front of her, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “You knew Dougan Mackenzie?” she breathed.

“I's in prison with him. We all were. Long time ago.”

“Tell me,” she begged, all thoughts of fear and escape evaporating at Dougan's name. “Please, sir, can you tell me what he said? Tell me about—”

“Go to
him,
first.” Frankenstein's meaty hand scratched a large scar on his head. “In the study. That will give me time to remember words.”

“I can stay here while you remember.” Farah stalled, wondering if this man had been born so handicapped or made so by his many obvious head injuries. Searching for anything to distract him, she eyed the tartlets. “You made my breakfast, didn't you?”

He nodded.

“It was very good,” she said truthfully. “Do you think that maybe—”

“Go. Now. Talk later.” The cook's expression became stubborn as he thrust a finger toward the door.

“I don't
want
to go to Blackwell. I want to go
home
!”

“He needs you, Fairy.” He blinked at her and nodded in encouragement.

“Don't
ever
call me by that name!” Without realizing what she was doing, Farah took a threatening step toward him and he backed up into the door, his eyes wide and mystified. “Do you understand me? You haven't the right to call me that!”

Farah had the notion she'd surprised them both with the intensity of her reaction, but this situation infuriated and, she'd admit it, intrigued her. So many questions about her past were left unanswered, and perhaps those answers waited for her in this isolated castle. And yet, what if there was nothing here for her but danger? What if, behind the solicitous staff and handsome d
é
cor, awaited a Machiavellian predator who was simply playing with her before she became his next meal?

She couldn't take much more of this. “I'll go to him,” Farah snapped. “You leave me no choice.”

He nodded again, as though oblivious and satisfied. “You can take some tarts if you'd like,” he offered.

“Not a chance.” Farah swiped her coins back into her purse and huffed to the door, thoroughly exasperated. Why was it that every time she came close to answers, to truth, she was thwarted by thickheaded men? It was inconceivably irritating.

Pausing, she turned back around. “What kind of tarts?”

“Strawberry.” Frankenstein wiped his hands on his apron and held the tray out to her.

Cursing her inability to refuse pastries, she took one of the bite-sized confections. “This doesn't mean I forgive you for being a kidnapping criminal.”

“'Course not,” he agreed.

“Just so we're clear.” She popped it into her mouth, and instantly butter, sugar, and the tartness of spring strawberries delighted her palate. “Oh, Lord,” she moaned, unable to help herself.

His teeth, or lack thereof, appeared again as his lips peeled back in a genuine smile. Farah considered the man in front of her as she chewed. He looked so out of place in the Parisian-style kitchen stocked with the latest and most expensive of instruments, like he'd be better suited to a blacksmith's stable or—well—a prison hulk. Regardless of that, he was a very talented chef.

“What is your name?” Farah couldn't stop herself from asking.

“Walters.”

“Walters.” She took another tart, and then another. “Is that your first name, or your last?”

He took longer to answer than the question warranted. “Can't say as I remember. Just Walters, though I'd like to have a first name, I expect.”

Farah thought about it for the space of another tart before deciding. “What about ‘Frank'?” she suggested, switching her third tartlet to her other hand before reaching for a fourth.

“Frank Walters.” He savored the name like she savored his tarts.

“A right proper name,” she told him.
For a right proper Frankenstein.
“Now, if you'll excuse me, I apparently have an appointment with a blackhearted criminal mastermind.”

Farah got lost taking one too many turns through the winding halls before finding the study. She'd dawdled in the library for a few minutes, distracted by the floor-to-ceiling bookcases and the iron spiral staircase leading to the second floor. The study was, as she predicted, located in a resplendent room off the grand entry. Though when she peeked her head in—apparently no one closed doors in this blasted keep—she found the handsome massive room empty.

No, not empty, per se. Though devoid of anyone else, a strange and dynamic presence lingered in every corner of the masculine study. Farah could smell it in the pungent notes of cigar smoke clinging to the supple dark leather furniture. The aroma mixed with cedar and whatever citrus oil was used to clean the enormous desk flanked by even more dark wood bookcases. No sunlight pierced through heavy drawn wine-red velvet drapes. The only light in the room was provided by two lamps on the neat desk and another fireplace that could house a small family from Cheapside.