The Highwayman (11 page)

Drawn by unseen hands, Farah took a tentative step into the study, and then another. The rustling of her skirts and rasp of her breath disturbed the halcyon purity of the stillness. The beats of her heart echoed as loud as cannon blasts in her ears as she entered the private lair of Dorian Blackwell.

Farah tried to imagine a man such as the Blackheart of Ben More in this room, doing something as pedestrian as writing a letter or surveying ledgers. Running the fingers of her free hand along a bronze paperweight of a fleet ship atop his enormous desk, she found the image impossible to produce.

“I see you've already attempted escape.”

Snatching her hand back, Farah held it to her heaving chest as she turned to face her captor now standing in the doorway.

He was even taller than she remembered. Darker. Larger.

Colder.

Even standing in the sunlight let in by the windows of the foyer, Farah knew he belonged to the shadows in this room. As if to illustrate her point, he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, effectively cutting off all sources of natural light.

An eye patch covered his damaged eye, only allowing glimpses of the edge of his scar, but the message illuminated by the fire didn't need both eyes to be conveyed.

I have you now.

How true that was. Her life depended on the mercy of this man who was infamous for his
lack
of mercy.

The black suit coat that barely contained his wide shoulders stretched with his movements, but what arrested Farah's attention was the achingly familiar blue, gold, and black pattern of his kilt. The Mackenzie plaid. She hadn't known that a man's knees could be so muscular, or that beneath the dusting of fine black hair, powerful legs tucked into large black boots could be so arresting.

She backed against his desk as he stepped toward her, evoking once more the image of a prowling jaguar. The firelight danced off the broad angles of his enigmatic face and shadowed a nose broken one too many times to any longer be called aristocratic. Of course, despite his expensive cravat, tailored clothing, and ebony hair cut into short and fashionable layers, nothing at all about Dorian Blackwell bespoke a gentleman. A fading bruise colored his jaw and a cut healed on his lip. She'd missed that last night in the storm, but knew it was Morley's fists that had wounded him. Had that only been days ago?

What had he just said to her? Something about her escape? “I—I don't know what you're talking about.”

His good eye fixed on the tarts she'd all but forgotten she clutched in her hand. “My guess is you attempted to leave through the kitchens, and were thwarted by Walters.”

Oh, damn.
The air in the study was suddenly too close. Too thick and full and rife with—with
him.
Determined not to be cowed, Farah raised her chin and did her best to look him square in the eyes—er—eye.

“On the contrary, Mr. Blackwell, I was hungry. I didn't want to face you without being—fortified.”

That earned her a lifted eyebrow. “Fortified?” His callous tonelessness set the hairs on the back of her neck on end. “With … pastries?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” she insisted. “With
pastries.
” To make her point, she popped one in her mouth and chewed furiously, though she instantly regretted it as moisture seemed to have deserted her. Swallowing the dry lump, Farah hoped she hid her grimace as it made its slow and unpleasant way into her stomach.

He moved a little closer. If she wasn't mistaken, his cold mask slipped for an unguarded moment and he regarded her with something like tenderness, if a face such as his could shape such an emotion.

Farah had thought it wasn't possible to be more confounded. How wrong she'd been. Though the lapse proved fleeting, and by the time she blinked, the placid calculation had returned, causing her to wonder if what she'd seen had been a trick of firelight.

“Most people need much stronger fortification than a strawberry tart before facing me,” he said wryly.

“Yes, well, I've found that a well-made dessert can do anyone a bit of good in a bad situation.”

“Indeed?” He circled her to the left, his back to the fire, casting his face into deeper shadows. “I find I want to test your theory.”

Of all the conversations she'd expected to have with the Blackheart of Ben More, this had to be the absolute last. “Um, here.” She extended the tart toward him, offering him the delicacy with trembling fingers.

Blackwell lifted a big hand. Took a deep breath. Then lowered it again, clenching both fists at his sides. “Put it on the desk,” he instructed.

Puzzled by the odd request, she carefully set the tartlet onto the gleaming wood, noting that he waited until her hand had been returned to her side before reaching for it. It disappeared behind his lips, and Farah didn't breathe as she watched his jaw muscles grind at the pastry in a slow, methodical rhythm. “You're right, Mrs. Mackenzie, that
did
sweeten the moment.”

A burning in her lungs prompted her to exhale, and she tried to push some of her previous exasperation into the sound. “Let's dispense with pleasantries, Mr. Blackwell, and approach the business at hand.” She put every bit of crisp, British professionalism she'd gained over the last ten years into her voice, quieting the tremors of fear with a skill born of painstaking practice.

“Which is?”

“Just what is it you want with me?” she demanded. “I thought I'd dreamed of you last night, but I didn't, did I? And there, in the darkness, you promised to tell me … to tell me why you've brought me here.”

He leaned down, his eye touching every detail of her face as though memorizing it. “So I did.”

 

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

“Would you like some scotch?” Dorian asked, moving to a table topped with a tray of crystal decanters and glasses situated between the two high-backed leather chairs.

Grateful for the space between them, Farah's first inclination was to decline, but upon second thought she said, “Yes, thank you.”

“It is compliments of your relation, the Marquess of Ravencroft.”

Farah blinked. “Relation?”

Watching her carefully, he retrieved two identical glasses, splashing them liberally with thick, caramel liquid. “Liam Mackenzie, the current laird of the Mackenzie clan. A kinsman of your late husband, I'm certain.”

Searching her memory, Farah struggled to quell her racing heart. “I—never had the chance to meet him,” she said. Which was the truth.

Blackwell gave her an enigmatic look. “Please, sit.” He motioned to the chair closest to the fire.

Cautiously, Farah sat, unable to take her eyes off him for a moment, just in case. In case he—what? Flew into a murderous frenzy? Lured her into a false sense of security and then—

“You mustn't attempt escape again,” he said conversationally. Instead of handing her the drink, he set it on the small table at her elbow before lowering his tall frame into the chair across from her. It was a little like sitting across from the devil, preparing to make an arrangement and trying not to consider the eternal cost of such a bargain. Your heart. Your life.

Your soul.

“I told you,” Farah began. “I was hungry.”

Blackwell leveled her a droll look. “Let's not insult either of our intelligences by lying to each other.”

To cover her guilt, Farah reached for the scotch and took a larger gulp than she should have. Gasping, she held her hand over her mouth as the liquid burned into her chest and brought tears to her rapidly blinking eyes. So much for keeping her composure.

Amusement toyed with the corner of his lips, but a smile never claimed them. “You nearly frightened poor Murdoch to tears.”

Farah opened her mouth to retort, but only a hiccup emerged. Clamping her lips shut, she cleared her throat, and tried again. “In circumstances other than these, I would be sorry to hear my actions caused another any distress, but to kidnap a lady in the middle of the night and not expect her to attempt escape
already
calls your intelligence into question.” She took another sip of the strong liquor, a much smaller one this time, having learned her lesson.

Blackwell had yet to drink, he only swirled the liquid about in his glass, never once taking his eye from her. “I thoroughly anticipated your flight, and had one of my men watching each possible exit to the castle,” he informed her. “I only warn you against further attempts for your own safety. If you happen to slip past one of my guards, I shall very much dislike to send the hounds after you. It would make all of this much more unpleasant for both of us.”

“You wouldn't!”

“Wouldn't I?”

Farah gaped, unable to fathom his brutality. She shouldn't be shocked, she'd been around the worst sort of criminals for more years than she'd care to admit. But, somehow, it astounded her that one so cultured, so relaxed and wealthy and tailored, could issue such a threat with a civil tongue. The criminals of her acquaintance were dirty and foul with explosive tempers and crude language. Blackwell threatened violence as though discussing the price of Irish potatoes.

“I'm beginning to understand, Mr. Blackwell, that there are no depths to which you wouldn't sink to get whatever it is you want.”

At last, Blackwell lifted his glass, to his lips and drank, effectively hiding his expression. When he lowered it, he regarded her with an unapologetic smirk. “Then you are finally beginning to know me, Mrs. Mackenzie.”

“I shouldn't like to,” she said stiffly.

“You don't have a choice.”

Farah finished her drink in one reckless swallow, this time braced for the burn. “Go on, then,” she challenged, the scotch adding smoke to her voice. “Let's have it.”

Resting his drink on his knee with one hand, he leaned forward, watching her features intently. “Do you know the one thing a man must do to achieve all that I have in such a short time?”

“I'm sure I don't.”

He ignored the note of sarcasm in her voice. “He must
always
repay his debts, and he must
always
fulfill his promises.”

“That's two things,” Farah challenged.

“Not necessarily.”

Biting her thumbnail, she puzzled over his words. “But you don't owe me anything, nor I you. We've never made promises to each other.”

At that, he was silent for an uncomfortably long time. Farah squirmed in the large, overstuffed chair, feeling like a child whose feet barely touched the ground.

“Do you remember what Morley said in the strong room those few days ago?” he asked.

“Should I?” Of course, she remembered every word.

He made that sound again, one that could have been amusement or annoyance. “Seventeen years ago, I was sentenced to Newgate Prison as a lad for theft. Because of some prior indiscretions, I was given a hefty term of seven years' hard labor.”

His build began to make more sense. If he'd spent a great deal of his youth digging tunnels, breaking rocks, and hauling ties for the new London underground railway, as many English prisoners did, such work would form his wide shoulders and heavy bones.

“Among my new fellow prisoners was a transferred orphan boy from the Scottish Highlands. A murderer too young for the gallows, as he was all of thirteen, and the public revolted to see anyone younger than sixteen with his neck snapped by a noose.”

Farah flinched, then stared. “Dougan,” she whispered.

“Precisely.” He finished his drink in one swallow, but made no move to pour another. “How we hated each other, at first. I thought he was a sniveling weakling ripe to be picked upon, and he thought I was a witless bully.”

“Were you?”

That provoked the whisper of a nostalgic smile. “Of course I was. I used to throw rocks at his hands while he carried buckets of dirt. Tried to make him drop things and cause his knuckles to bleed.”

Farah could feel her face hardening and a very foreign, frightening sort of anger bubbling through her blood. If Blackwell noticed, he ignored it and continued.

“One day, my rock missed his hands and caught Dougan between the legs. He fell to the ground, vomited, trembled for at least five long minutes while we all stood and laughed at him, even the guards. And then he did something quite extraordinary. He reached for the rock, stood up, and hurled it so hard at my head that it felled me. Then he leaped on me and beat my face so bloody, my own mother wouldn't have recognized me.”

Farah set her glass back on the table as the trembling in her own hand become violent. “Good,” she forced through lips stiff with outrage. She began to detest the sight of him. What was once intriguing and dangerous was now not just her enemy, but Dougan's as well, and that she could
not
abide.

Instead of taking offense at her anger, a barely perceptible softening of his features relaxed the hard line of his mouth. “I respected him after that, enough to leave him alone. Not just me, but all of us boys. He was one of the youngest among us, but the hate and violence he harbored burned the brightest. We all saw it that day, and we all feared it.”

Farah's throat tightened. She didn't want to hear any more of this, didn't want their beautiful memories tainted with a confirmation of the details of his suffering. Yet, this was her penance, wasn't it? To be faced with the consequences of the reckless actions of her youth. If Dougan's memory deserved anything, it was to have his story told, and she would force herself to sit and listen. She still owed him that much.

Owed him
everything
.

“The day came when we were to be assigned to the labor lines. Initially, most of us younger lads were put in the lines to be sent to the prison ships stationed off the coast. Hellish, rotting hulks that neither the navy nor shipping companies could use anymore, with a prisoner mortality rate of more than seventy percent. We were separated into four lines, ours bound for the ships.” Here, Dorian paused and considered her intently. “None of us knew it at the time, but Dougan Mackenzie was the only one among us who knew how to read the signs or the guards' registers. We all would have marched to our deaths had he not plucked my two best mates, Argent and Tallow, into the railway worker line. To this day, I don't know what made him do it, but at the last moment he grabbed me, too, without a guard noticing, and very likely saved my life.”