The Highwayman (7 page)

“Whatever you like,” Morley agreed companionably, still yet to look at her.

Laying her other hand on their joined arms, she steered them into a doorway and out of the foot traffic. “Carlton,” she said, turning to face him. “You're perplexed. Is everything all right?”

The casual way in which she used his first name seized his attention. This was a new intimacy between them, and they were both still adjusting to it.

“Forgive me.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a gentle kiss to it. “I was being inexcusably discourteous. Do repeat what you just said?”

Not a chance,
she thought, but her mouth relaxed into a smile. The kiss to her gloved hand settled a warm glow in her middle and she forgave him instantly. “I noticed Dorian Blackwell was acquitted at court today. Is that what weighs heavily in your thoughts?”

At the mention of the name, Morley's features tightened with aggravation and his grip on her hand tensed. “Every time I get him on something, he slips through my fingers! I know he has half the force in one pocket, and half of Parliament in the other.” Releasing her hand, he took off his hat and ran frustrated fingers though his hair before settling it back on.
“Damn him!”
he exploded.

“And do you know what that rotten Justice Singleton had the audacity to do?” Morley asked, then continued without pausing for her reply. “He publicly reprimands
me
for malicious conduct toward the scum!”

Farah remained silent. She had her own opinion on that score, but realized now wasn't the time to mention it. She'd thought Morley a man of very strict principle, above beating someone with their hands chained, no matter how deserving the knave might be.

“Perhaps we should entertain a more relaxing diversion than the theater tonight,” Farah suggested gently. “A stroll through the gardens maybe, or—”

“No,” Morley interrupted, placing a gentle finger beneath her chin. “No. I think I require the distraction of a comedy tonight. It will help to erase all thoughts of Dorian Blackwell.”

“Yes,” she agreed, enjoying the familiarity of his touch. “You'd do well to put him out of your mind for the evening.” Though, even as she said the words, she accepted that to rid the mind of one such as Dorian Blackwell was a great deal easier said than done. As things stood,
she'd
been attempting to do just that very thing for the better part of three days. For the entire time Blackwell had been held below stairs, he'd taken unbidden residence in her thoughts, invading them like an unwelcome song until his presence in the rooms beneath her had thrummed through her nerves with a constant awareness.

“I shall. I shall focus only upon your dazzling company tonight.” Morley gazed down at her upturned face with an intent sort of determination until his mood darkened again. “It's only that, when he said those things about you and me—I felt like I could
murder
him.”

Farah tried her most disarming smile. “Don't let it bother you overmuch, I've heard worse over the years, to be sure.” And wasn't that the truth?

“Is that supposed to comfort me?” he murmured, his head drifting lower, lips hovering in the decreasing space above her own mouth.

“Yes,” she said decisively, and nudged him out of the doorway and back toward the walkway to resume their evening. “Dorian Blackwell isn't even on the list of the most crude and vile persons who've addressed me in the strong room.” But he was somehow the most frightening, she silently added. Which was strange, if she thought about it. Over the course of her career she'd been threatened, propositioned, degraded, and begged, and Dorian Blackwell had done none of those things. He'd merely said her name. Perhaps a few insinuations. Farah was certain she'd misread the subtle promise threaded through his voice, but it still sent shivers through her each time she remembered it.

“Do you enjoy working for me, Farah?” Morley asked in a tone that was almost boyish in its reluctance. “I often find myself wondering if you wouldn't rather be running a quiet and lovely home somewhere.”

Farah waved a hand in front of her face as though swatting away a distasteful smell. “I like to be busy. I think I would go absolutely bonkers if I didn't have something productive to do with my day. I do enjoy working at Scotland Yard. I feel like I'm the keeper of London's records and all her dirty secrets. I take great pride in my work.”

“I know you do.” Morley nodded, seeming distracted by a whole new set of troubles. “But, do you want to work at Scotland Yard indefinitely? Don't you ever wish for family? For—children?”

Farah was quiet as the questions dug beneath her rib cage to get at her heart. She hadn't wanted to be at Scotland Yard at first, but had taken the position there because she hoped to someday get at what she needed. To unlock the secrets of her past. As time went by, she had begun to despair of that ever happening. As to the other question … she'd never allowed herself to think on it. Words like
family
and
children
had disintegrated when she was very young, and she'd never quite been able to resurrect them without her heart breaking. Though something deep inside her clenched and ached at the idea of a child of her own. A family.

“I'm famished,” she said brightly, hoping to derail this topic of conversation. “Let's consider an early supper before the theater … something Italian?”

Reluctantly, Morley let the subject lie and agreed. “I know a place right next to the Adelphi.”

“Excellent!” She beamed.

They avoided both the heavy topics of the Blackheart of Ben More and her future during their light Italian supper, instead allowing themselves to be serenaded by a roving violinist and gorging on a scrumptious Pasta Pomodoro with an excellent red table wine. They discussed inconsequential things like the construction of new underground railways and the increasing popularity of detective fiction. The play at the Adelphi was diverting and well written, and both of their spirits had vastly improved as they strolled down Fleet Street toward her apartments above Mr. de Gaule's coffee shop. As the night wore on, and the farther east they traveled, the streets of London became more dangerous, and Farah was glad that Morley always wore a weapon.

“I wager they'll write ha'penny novels about you next, Sir Morley,” she teased. “Perhaps even include your chase of
he whom we shall not be naming for the rest of the evening
. How grand would that be?”

“Ridiculous,” Morley muttered, but his blush could be seen even in the lamplight, and his eyes were pleased as they glanced down at her.

Another one of de Gaule's poetry readings had dissolved into absinthe-soaked debauchery. The sound of Gypsy music and overloud laughter spilled onto the street and mingled with the calls of prostitutes and gin peddlers.

“I never understood why you chose to stay here, after all these years.” Morley gripped her elbow more protectively as he escorted her up the dark back stairs to her rooms. “These—these so-called Bohemians are not the sort for a woman of your gentility to be trifling with.”

Farah laughed merrily and turned to him, one stair above so she could meet his gaze straight on. “Can you imagine me trifling with anyone, Carlton? Though I'll admit to a certain fond fascination with Bohemians. They're all so creative and free-spirited.”

Instead of charmed, Morley appeared concerned. “You don't ever … attend these soirees, do you?”

“And what if I did?” she playfully challenged. “What if I mingled with the brightest and most progressive minds of our time?”

“It's not your mingling that worries me, but something else altogether,” he muttered.

“Dear Carlton.” Her gaze softening, she reached out and rested her hand on his shoulder, letting her thumb graze the neat hair at his nape. “I'm too old to mingle or trifle or whatever other euphemism for scandalous behavior worries you.” She glanced down the stairs toward the cobblestones painted in crossed golden squares by the windows of the caf
é
. “But I love this part of the city. It's so alive, so full of youth and art and poetry.”

“And cutpurses and rakes and prostitutes.”

That drew another warm laugh from her throat. “Most of whom know me from the Yard. I am careful and I feel quite safe here. Besides,” she added lightly. “We can't all afford a terrace near Mayfair, now can we?”

She'd meant the jibe about his new home acquisition as a light tease, but her words seemed to sober him, and he regarded her there in the shadows with a new intensity. “Did you … enjoy yourself tonight, Mrs.—er—Farah? With me?”

“I find I hardly enjoy anyone's company more than yours,” she answered honestly.

“Good.” His breath seemed to be coming faster now, his eyes darting with indecision. “Excellent. That is—I had a very particular subject I wanted to discuss with you tonight.”

A small tingle thrilled through her as Farah deduced just where this conversation might be headed. How on earth would she respond? “Of course.” She sounded equally breathless. “Would you … like to come in for some tea?”

He stared at her door for a long moment. “I fear it would not be prudent to invite me into your home right now. Not with how much I—Christ. I think I'm going to bungle this.”

Her fingers drifted from his shoulder to his cheek, as she tried to look as encouraging as possible, even though her heart raced away with her thoughts. “Just tell me what you're thinking.”

His hand covered hers on his cheek. “I want to court you properly, Farah,” he said in a rush. “We run such a successful enterprise together, just imagine how well we would run a society home. We enjoy each other's companionship. And, I think, we have developed feelings stronger than friendship over the years.” His hand curled around hers and brought it to his chest, right above his heart. “Neither of us has to be lonely anymore, and I could think of no one else's company I'd rather have every night for the rest of my days.”

That pleasant warmth returned to her stomach, though Farah found herself somewhat underwhelmed by his declaration. So he was no Rossetti or Keats. Should she hold that against him?

“Consider what you are offering,” she said evenly. “I'm a widow well past the marrying age. A man of your position and deserving needs a young wife who will be content to make him a comfortable place to come home to. Someone to provide him with fat babies and respectable society. Everyone I know is either a criminal or a Bohemian.” She smirked before adding wryly, “Sometimes both.”

“You're seven and twenty,” he argued with his own smile of bemusement. “That's hardly in your dotage.”

“Eight and twenty last month,” she corrected. “And I suppose I'm trying to warn you that I'm entirely too set in my ways to make you a dutiful wife.” Though her stomach fluttered at the thought of children.

He was silent a moment, though he looked rather thoughtful instead of insulted. Reaching up, he brushed a ringlet from her bare shoulder to spill down her back, exposing the white skin uncovered by her shawl. “Your first marriage…” He hesitated. “Was it so awful?”

“Quite the opposite, actually.” She smiled sadly. “Just … tragically short.”

“I'd love for you to tell me about it someday.”

“Perhaps,” Farah lied as she focused on the warmth of his fingers as they hovered above her skin. Desire drifted about them like the London mist, a gentle, masculine form of it that was soothing and agitating all at once.

“I'd also like the chance to compete with your late husband for your affections. I would even strive to live up to his memory.” Those elegant, gentle fingers finally closed around her shoulder, pulling her toward him. “The prospect doesn't frighten me like it would some men.”

Touched, Farah allowed herself to drift against his lean body. “You are a very singular man,” she complimented, her lashes sweeping down at this unexpected intimacy. “And quite handsome, too. These things are best never decided quickly. Give me a night or two to examine my feelings?”

“I should have known a woman as efficient and fastidious as you wouldn't get swept away. Give me some hope, Farah,” he pleaded, his grip pulling her torso against his and his hand stealing around to the curve of her back. “Something my lonely heart can hold on to.”

“I can't say it's not a dazzling proposition,” she said sincerely. “Tempting, even.”

His eyes flared with hope. With heat. “Tempting? Not half as tempting as you.
God,
Farah, you don't know how that word on your lips inflames me. Though, having been a married woman, I suppose you might. Damn, but your husband must have been the happiest man in all the empire, if only for a short time.” His finger stole beneath her chin, his other hand pressing their bodies even closer.

Farah endeavored to keep the sadness out of her smile. “We were both happy, for a time.” Though, she expected, not in the way that he intimated.

“May I kiss you, Farah?” The fervency in his question was at once frightening and exciting.

She considered it, then lifted her head.

Their first kiss was soft, tentative, and altogether pleasant. Farah was grateful for the relative darkness of her stairwell so she didn't have to worry about how to school her features, or whether her eyes should be opened or closed. She was able to simply enjoy the warmth of his closeness. The feel of the pressed linen jacket beneath her fingertips. The skill of his mouth as it danced and swept across hers in light, intriguing strokes. There was a momentary insistence before he gentled his pressure again. A hint of moisture as his tongue hovered close to her mouth, but never more than a whisper.

Dorian Blackwell probably kissed much differently than this, Farah found herself thinking. He was probably savage and hungry. Perhaps a bit too forceful and consuming in his passions. His mouth was so hard-looking. A cynical slash against an obstinate jaw. No, the Blackheart of Ben More would be selfish and demanding. Certainly not restrained or respectful like—Oh, Lord! What was she doing thinking about that criminal's mouth while entertaining the lips of a gentleman? Angry, more at Blackwell than at herself, she cursed the man for again invading her thoughts uninvited. Again. The unmitigated nerve!