The Highwayman (36 page)

Farah had done everything she could think of to keep herself occupied. Renovations to Northwalk Abbey, working with Murdoch to transfer, claim, and understand her finances, which were more vast than she realized, and acquainting herself with Hampshire society. She was requested to every drawing room, solarium, and dining table, as the Countess Northwalk became the latest and most stylish controversy. Not just because of who she was, but also because of to whom she was married.

Deciding to head back, she kicked at a rock with the toe of her walking boot. She certainly didn't
feel
married. It had been two extremely busy and exhausting months since she'd left Blackwell House in London. Busy because of all she'd accomplished, and exhausting because of the sleepless, lonely nights.

Northwalk Abbey seemed immense and empty, even after she'd requisitioned Walters and Tallow from Ben More to help, and installed Gemma with Walters in the kitchens. In truth, she'd thought that might anger Dorian enough to come after her and reclaim his staff for Ben More. But he didn't. According to Murdoch, he remained in London, becoming such a recluse, people feared him a prisoner of his own home.

More like a prisoner of his own mind,
Farah thought.

“When do ye think we should go back to London?” Murdoch had asked at the end of that first dreary month.

“Probably the first week of
never,
” Farah had retorted, hating the bitterness in her voice. It covered a wound she felt like she'd never be rid of.

“My lady…” Murdoch had begun, but in the end, hadn't been able to think of anything to say.

“I mean it. I'm not going back to him. Northwalk is my home now. He can sit in his bloody castle and brood his life away.” She couldn't believe how angry the subject made her. How utterly disappointed and frustrated. Farah had always considered herself a calm and reasonable woman, prone to curiosities and independence, but not fits of temper and ranting. “We were given a second chance at life—at happiness—and
I'm
going to grasp it. Whether he does or not.”

Farah would have regretted those initial words to Murdoch except they'd seemed to galvanize him, somehow. And he'd, in turn, taken his second chance with Tallow.

The footman, now turned butler, smiled more these days, and stuttered less. Though he and Murdoch kept their relationship very much to themselves, Farah didn't miss the way they protected or encouraged each other, the light brushes of one's hand against the other's shoulder as they passed, or the fact that Tallow's room hadn't been slept in for ages.

It had taken her another month to admit that she
wasn't
happy. Not even close. A desperate loneliness haunted her quiet moments, and had begun to stalk her regardless of how many people she surrounded herself with.

Picking her way through the gardens, Farah veered for the kitchen doors as she smelled Walter's baking. Perhaps he'd prepared some spring fruit and cream. Or, if she were lucky, followed through on his threat to make an olive oil cake with preserved cherry compote that he'd read about in an Italian cookbook. They'd just received a shipment of dark Spanish chocolate. He'd probably worked wonders with that.

Stomach rumbling with anticipation of what she might find, she swung open the door to the entry and was rendered speechless by the scene that greeted her.

A towering Frank held Gemma in his embrace from behind, his chin resting on the curve where her neck met her shoulder as he watched her fold confectioner's sugar into some kind of concoction.

Farah observed them from the doorway, neither of them having noticed her yet. Ingredients splayed across the wooden island in disarray, and Farah knew that this was Gemma's doing, as Frank tended to be fastidious to the point of compulsive with the cleanliness of his kitchens.

The basins, sinks, stove, ovens, and cutlery of Northwalk Abbey had all been his own requisitions and they eerily resembled those at Ben More.

Gemma hadn't so much transformed in two months as adapted. Her dresses were newer, her skin and hair more luminous, but she maintained her stubborn sense of self and wielded her bawdy personality like a weapon.

Yet, as Farah watched her with Frank, she spied an expression on the woman's face she'd never before imagined. A vulnerable insecurity.

“You whisk it too rough,” he guided gently, engulfing her stirring hand with his gigantic one. “Slow. Like this.”

“I told you I ain't no good at this,” Gemma protested churlishly. “I can roast the bloody hell out of a bird, but baking gives me a fever.”

Frank turned his head and kissed her jaw. “You're good at this,” he said with absolute conviction. “You're good at lots of things.”

“Get on with you,” Gemma chided. But the woman smiled down at their joined hands, and relaxed into his arms.

Farah glided backward until she was certain they wouldn't notice her and pulled the door shut as quietly as she could.

Gemma and Frank? Frowning, she made her pensive way to the front entrance. She'd been too wrapped up in ignoring her own problems to notice their attachment. Or perhaps she just hadn't wanted to see the affection and hope blooming here at Northwalk. Everyone was seizing their second chances at life. And love. Murdoch and Tallow, and now Gemma and Frank.

Farah was happy for them. If any man would treat Gemma with kindness and infinite patience, it was Frank. And the former prostitute likely wouldn't mind his slow speech or simple ways. A gentle giant like Frank Walters would allow her freedom, protection, and would more often than not defer to her for all decision making. Gemma would finally have control over her life, and the pure kind of love only a man like Frank could give.

Farah couldn't pretend that all of this romance didn't make her solitude that much more pernicious. She didn't want to be bitter. Didn't want to resent the good fortune of those she cared about. Such tendencies were beneath her.

And yet …

The tender intimacy of a gentle embrace like the one she'd just witnessed caused a yearning so palpable her skin ached with it. Every affectionate touch Murdoch and Tallow shared felt like a blade sliding between her ribs and nicking at her heart.

Farah knew she possessed a capacity to love that was greater than most. Sometimes, she was filled with so much care, so much brimming affection, she thought it might encompass the entire world. She wanted to hold every unloved child, to save every wounded soul. She wanted to embrace the man she loved, and have him return that love in kind.

But he didn't. He couldn't.

Tears stung behind her eyes and only managed to irritate her.

Enough of this,
she told herself. Hurrying up the wide marble steps to Northwalk, she swept past Tallow. “Do you know where Murdoch is?” she asked him.

“T-t-the study, my lady.”

She was already halfway up the grand marble staircase when she thanked him, gripping the black banister to propel her faster.

Murdoch looked up from the big oak desk in the study as she entered. Once he took in her troubled expression, worry lines appeared between his brows.

“Are ye well, my lady?”

“Quite well, thank you,” she lied, suddenly uncertain why she'd sought him out.

“Is there something ye needed?” he asked carefully, following her restless pacing from one end of the study to the next.

“No. Yes.” Farah paused her pacing, then started again, nearly unsettling a globe unlucky enough to be in her path. “I—I'm not sure.” She'd just been so melancholy. Felt so—abandoned. But now, staring into the patient gaze of her friend, it all seemed so silly, and also hopeless.

It wasn't the understanding in his eyes that unraveled her. It was the pity.

“Why don't ye sit down?” He motioned to the plush bronze settee and pulled the cord to ring for a maid. “I'll call for tea.”

Farah didn't want to sit down, but was suddenly too tired and heavy to stand. Murdoch ordered tea while she stared at her hands, then settled himself next to her. He was quiet while she gathered her thoughts, her courage, knowing that she'd speak as soon as she could.

“I miss him,” she admitted to her lap.

“No more than I'm certain he misses you.”

“A part of me hoped he'd come, and a part of me knew he wouldn't.” She turned to him, dashing at angry tears. “He was right, you know. I
am
a fool.”

“Doona say that, my lady.” Murdoch reached for her hand. “
He
is the fool. Love and fear are the two strongest emotions known to the heart of man. I've never seen Blackwell afraid, it's part of what's made him so dangerous. No matter how much he's acquired, he's lived like he's had nothing to lose. Like he didna fear death.”

Farah stood, too restless to sit any longer. A hot ire speared through her like a lance, settling close to her heart. “He doesn't fear death, but he fears life? That's so ridiculous!”

“He's a dangerous man, my lady. He's afraid he'll hurt ye. He's afraid to let himself hope, to lose ye again. He almost didna survive the first time.”

Farah wrapped her arms around herself and leaned against the desk. “All the terrible things that happened to him—they were a result of his love for me. Do you think that's why—”

“Nay.” Murdoch put a staying hand out, but didn't go to her. “Many different circumstances and forces converged against him. His path may have been similar whether ye were a part of it or not. Such is the lot of so many bastards and orphans.”

“It just makes no
sense,
” she lamented. “Why be so afraid of
losing
something, you deny yourself of it? Everyone is entitled to a chance at happiness. Even the Blackheart of Ben More. Especially him.”

“So are ye, my lady.”

“So I am.” Farah straightened, galvanized by a moment of self-discovery. “I'm so angry with him. He thinks he's done me such a favor by restoring my birthright, and it isn't that I'm not grateful. But his methods have stolen from me the one thing I've ever wanted.” She was gesturing wildly, ignoring Murdoch's growing alarm.

“What's that?” he asked hesitantly.

“A
family,
Murdoch.” Farah marched behind the desk and extracted a sheet of monogrammed paper and pen. Two monthly courses had come and gone since Farah had last seen her husband, and each one had been a reminder that her thirtieth birthday approached, and her child-bearing years were numbered. “If he's too afraid, too stubborn to love me, that's his prerogative. But if Dorian Blackwell thinks he can deny me what he promised, he has another thing coming.”

“What do ye plan, my lady?” Murdoch rose slowly.

“I'm writing a letter.”

He eyed the paper dubiously.

“I am going to live my life, Murdoch,” she announced. “I intend to have my family, whether he's a part of it or not.”

Murdoch sat down like a man readying for the gallows. “No one gives Dorian Blackwell an ultimatum who doesna regret it,” he cautioned.

“This isn't an ultimatum, Murdoch. This is his last chance. And while
he
might be afraid to seize it,
I'm
not.”

“Ye might destroy him, lass. Doona tear him down.”

Farah glared up at Murdoch, though she understood and appreciated his loyalty to her recalcitrant husband. “I have worked with nothing but men for over a decade,” she informed him. “I know exactly how to dismantle them, and how to put them back together. You think it's difficult? I would have built him back up, Murdoch. We could have had the future that was stolen from us.” She took the tall seat at the desk.

Murdoch stroked at his close-cut beard for a moment before reaching for the pen and unscrewing the cap with infinite slowness and handing it to her. “I think all this time, I've been afraid of the wrong Blackwell,” he mused.

*   *   *

“You look like hell,” Christopher Argent observed mildly as he puffed on a cigar in Dorian's London study.

Dorian bloody well knew what he looked like. He cringed at the memory of what he'd seen in the glass this morning. He'd lost weight in the past two months. His skin clung more tightly to his sharp, heavy bones and caused every scar and line of age to stand out. He did, indeed, look like some dark creature that'd dragged himself from the bowels of hell. He ate little. He slept less. He worked, he drank, and he haunted the streets of London in the dark looking for trouble.

Sometimes he found it. Sometimes, it found him.

And yet he lived. He yearned.

The torture of
her
absence was worse than the cause of any mark left on his body. He was obsessed,
possessed
. His skin burned and his heart ached. He wanted. He needed. He
craved.

“When's the last time you shaved?” Argent queried, running an elegant hand over his own shadow beard, this a bit lighter red than the auburn of his hair. Cropped close to his sharp jaw, it made him look more like a rawboned, ferocious Celt than a gentleman.

Dorian ignored his questions. He'd bathed today after his work on the wine cellar. That was all he could muster. “Any sign of him?” he demanded.

Since Harold Warrington had paid for his release pending investigation on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder, he'd simply disappeared.

A corrupt judicial system was somewhat of a double-edged sword. Any judge willing to accept bribes or blackmail from one villainous reprobate, namely Dorian, certainly would turn coat for another.

Though the judge who'd released Warrington should have known better than to go against the Blackheart of Ben More, Dorian thought darkly. He'd deal with
that
later.

“That's why I'm here.” Cigars always lent Argent's rough voice even more gravel. “The bobbies fished a body out of the Thames this morning. McTavish says it's Warrington.”