The Highwayman (8 page)

Just as the warmth in her stomach bloomed into a more pervasive heat that spread a blush over her skin, curiosity and guilt nudged her toward exploration. Farah clutched at his shoulders and considered using her own tongue. Was that permissible? Would he recoil at the French manner of kissing? She'd really only heard of it from the mouths of prostitutes, but the idea had intrigued her for some time. Should she invite him inside again? Perhaps, in spite of whichever answer she decided to give him, she would still not reach the age of thirty untouched.

Just as that resplendent thought flitted across her mind, Morley pulled back, his rapid breath producing faint puffs of steam in the gathering chill.

“Come to church with me tomorrow,” he gasped. “I don't want to wait until Monday morning to see you.”

Farah let out a disappointed breath at the most tame request she could possibly imagine. How could he think of church at a time like this? She supposed, if he insisted on being a gentleman, she should be a lady.

“I'm not religious,” she admitted. “Moreover, I do not like churches. But if you'd like to meet for tea when church is over, you could call upon me in the afternoon.” She smiled at the idea, liking the prospect of exploring more of these pleasant kisses with him. Of thinking about the future.

Stepping back, he released her, but not before lifting her gloved hand to his lips once more. “I would like that more than I can say.”

Just as quickly as the warmth in her soul had ignited, the chill of the evening extinguished it, and Farah found herself wondering if the sensation had been in response to the kiss … or the intrusive thoughts she'd harbored about another man. Disturbed, she gathered her skirts, pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, and slowly began to climb the stairs. “Good night then, Carlton.”

“Sweet dreams, Farah Leigh.”

Pausing, she turned very slowly back to where he looked up at her. “
What
did you call me?”

“Farah Leigh. What did you think I said?”

“I thought I'd heard you say
Fairy.
” She whispered the word.

Sir Morley's hair gleamed copper as he threw his head back and laughed. “That kiss must have affected you as much as it did me.”

“Indeed.” Farah turned and climbed the rest of the way to her door, unwilling to show him the sudden sadness washing over her. Because he'd been utterly wrong, her mistaken hearing had nothing at all to do with the kiss.

As she unlocked her apartment, her heart was heavier than it had been in months. An old and familiar grief twisted through her, its blade as sharp as it had been a decade ago. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it and stood in the frigid darkness for a moment, her trembling fingers hovering above her lips.

How was it, after all these years, she could feel so … conflicted? Like in some way she was being unfaithful? No, that was too strong a word. But, somehow, it still applied.

Stop this, Farah,
she scolded herself. It had been ten years since the boy she loved had died. Seventeen since they'd been separated. She was nearly thirty. Surely she deserved to build a life with someone if she so chose. Certainly Dougan would understand.

Guilt compounded the sorrow until Farah felt so wretched she knew there would be no sleeping tonight. Crossing her cozy parlor, she took longer than usual to light the candle on the mantel so she could see enough to lay a fire in the stone hearth.

Lifting the candle, she reached for her basket of kindling. A swift movement in her periphery caused her to jump and turn around. The candle flame flickered, danced, and sputtered madly, as though trying to escape the devil whose face loomed above hers. His dark eye full of sin, the blue one with malice, he glared down at her with lips pulled back from white, predatory teeth to form a disgusted sneer.

Farah's screams crowded in her throat, preventing their escape as she groped behind her for the fire poker. To her shock and despair, two other large forms melted from the shadows and advanced from either side.

“I hope you enjoyed that kiss,
Mrs. Mackenzie.
” Dorian Blackwell licked his finger and pinched the flame of her candle, plunging them back into darkness. “For it shall be your last.”

 

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Ye could love me … that is, if ye wanted.

Of course I'll love you, Dougan Mackenzie … Who else is going to?

Nobody.

Farah drifted through a mist of memories punctuated by a swift but faraway click-clack rhythm that cut through the pleasant haze with loud and perplexing consistency.

I'd never leave you, Fairy.

Truly? Not even to be a pirate?

I promise. I might be a highwayman, though.

Click-clack. Click-clack.

Her head felt quite unattached to the rest of her as the softly floating mist began to swirl away and awareness permeated her pleasant dream.

“We're close enough to Glasgow, sir, that ye might want to dose her again so she'll be out for the ship ferry.” A gruff Scottish voice that reminded her of sawteeth and strong drink cut through the sweet voices of her youth.

“In a moment, Murdoch.”

That voice. Dark and cultured and smooth with just a touch of … something foreign and altogether familiar. Where had she heard that voice?

Will you try to love me, too?

I'll try, Fairy, but I havena done it before.

I'll teach you.

“Do ye really think she'll help ye?” The grizzled voice sounded closer now, along with those maddening rhythmic noises that seemed to heave her entire body this way and that.

“I'll leave her no choice.” The dark voice was also closer. Terrifyingly close.

Farah was angry at them both. These men didn't belong here in the treasured memories of her past. They were corrupting it, somehow. Especially the smooth dark one. She wanted to tell it to leave her. Dougan Mackenzie was a precious tragedy who belonged to her alone, and she wanted to order this dangerous voice far away from him. She couldn't, though, as it reached into the miasma of her odd waking dream and wrapped cool fingers of dread around her throat.

Love is for fairy stories … No such thing.

They'd loved each other, hadn't they? Farah felt the need to reach out as Dougan's solemn dark eyes began to fade. His sweet boy's voice was ripped from her and replaced by something cruel and frightening.

Yes, Farah Mackenzie, you should run.

“What will ye tell her when she wakes?” the one called Murdoch queried.

“The question you should be asking, Murdoch, is what information does she have that will be useful to me?”

Troubled, Farah tried to make sense of what she was hearing, but her thoughts seemed to be swept from her reach like fallen leaves in the first winter storm. Her limbs felt just as stiff and treelike, heavy and unbending. But still she swayed like a branch would in an errant wind.

Click-clack-click-clack.

“Ye mean, yer not going to let her know—”

“Never.” The dark voice carried a hint of passion in the vow, but pulled away from her.

“But I thought that—”

“You. Thought. What?” Cold. That man was so
cold
. Like the Thames in January. Or the deepest levels of hell where the souls too dark to burn went to keep the devil company.

A deep, long-suffering sigh could just be heard above the sound of the train. “Never ye mind what I thought.” Murdoch sounded cranky and disappointed rather than frightened, and Farah thought that he must likely be the bravest man in the world.

The train!
Recognition slammed into Farah with a jarring crash. The rhythmic clicking, the swaying movement, the faint smells of coal smoke and moisture. Seizing the knowledge of where she was with a desperate fear that she'd lose it again, Farah also mourned the loss as the last vestiges of her dream dissipated into nothingness. The mist upon which she floated formed into a soft velvet cushion with deep pockets every so often for fashionable buttons.

When had she decided to take a journey? Anxiety flared as Farah grasped for more recent memories. Had she packed a trunk? Was she traveling for work? Why couldn't she seem to surface from this fog long enough to open her heavy eyes or move her even heavier limbs?

The train whistle split the air and Farah noted that they began to slow. Oh, dear, she needed to move. She couldn't very well be caught sleeping once she reached her destination, could she? Just who were her companions?

Another word slashed through her gathering consciousness.

Glasgow.

What in the world was she doing in Scotland?

Her eyelids began to flutter and she felt her muscles tense, which she took as a sign that she might be coming out of whatever fugue state she'd been trapped in. This was so unlike her. She never took any substances to help her sleep. Nor did she ever drink to excess for fear she'd be in this very position. Just what was going on? Had she been poisoned?

Fear lanced through the holes in her memory and she felt as though she barreled toward the truth with the speed of the train's steam engine.

Let me kiss you, Farah.

She'd been with Carlton. He'd proposed—after a fashion—and she'd said … what?

“All right, then.” Murdoch's grizzled voice interrupted her concentration. “I'll go get everything prepared, Blackwell, whilst ye see to the lass.”

Blackwell.
Farah's heart raced and her mind struggled to catch up. It was almost there. Blackwell … Scotland … Kiss … Oh,
why
couldn't she put it together?

I hope you enjoyed that kiss, Mrs. Mackenzie … For it shall be your last.

Dorian Blackwell, the Blackheart of Ben More. He had her. He'd
taken
her!

Farah's eyes flew open in time to see a silver flask pass between two black-clad gentlemen who, once she looked at their faces, didn't appear to be gentlemen in the least.

They were alone in a private railcar, the luxury of which she'd never before seen. Blurry images of wine-red silk damask and velvet dripped from windows and upholstery and startled her overwhelmed senses. The color of blood. Aside from the hulking shadows of the men in the middle of the car, the color pervaded the d
é
cor to excess.

That didn't make any sense, Farah thought. If anyone were drenched in blood, it was Dorian Blackwell. From everything she'd heard, he swam in rivers run thick with the blood of his enemies. So why did it seem so incredibly wrong that his silk cravat and collar rose so pristine beneath his hard jaw?

Farah's lids fought her, but the urgency that thrummed through her told her to run. To fight. To scream.

“Doona forget to dose her before the train pulls in,” Murdoch reminded before his shadow opened the door to the railcar, letting in a blast of frigid air and daylight.

“Worry not.” Dorian turned to her, the particulars of his face lost to the shadows of her unruly vision. “I
never
forget.”

*   *   *

The next time Farah woke, she found the transition from dream to reality much easier, for no alarming voices or movement jarred her body. The sensation of floating on a cloud lingered for quite some time, and she stayed as long as she was able in that soft and safe in-between place. Not yet awake. Not quite asleep.

The first thing she registered was the sound of the ocean being tossed about by a storm. Thunder growled in the distance. A howling wind threw rain against a window in strong gusts, and the air hung heavy and cold with clean but briny moisture. Farah breathed it in, letting it evoke the memory of a place she'd left behind seventeen long years ago.

Scotland.

Her eyes flew open. Night greeted her with a heavy, velvet darkness. Windows told her that her chamber was large, but only with minimal outlines as the moon and stars were hidden by storm clouds.

Still a little too muddleheaded to panic, Farah flexed her numb limbs, testing their movements, and found, to her great relief, that she was not bound or restrained. Sending a silent prayer of thanks, she tried to gather her thoughts. She was on a bed with the softest linen she'd ever felt beneath her cheek. More movement told her she was still fully dressed, though her corset felt as though it had been loosened.

Who'd done that? Blackwell?

The thought sent a shiver through her, despite the warm, heavy covers. She needed to get moving. She needed to figure out just where he'd taken her and how to escape. The middle of the night felt like a good time to try, though the storm could definitely be a problem. If she guessed correctly, she'd be at the Blackheart's fortress, Ben More Castle. Which meant the ocean surrounded the Isle of Mull and that made escape more than just a little tricky.

Maybe impossible.

First things first.
She recited one of her mantras, unwilling to let fear incapacitate her. One had to be able to stand in order to escape anything, so she shouldn't get too far ahead of herself. Wondering just
what
he'd given her, she carefully slid her feet from beneath the covers. How would she find her slippers in the dark?

Perhaps she could feel around for a lamp or candle.

Her arms trembled weakly as she attempted to push herself into a sitting position. The room spun, or was it her head? She blinked a few times and clutched at the bedclothes to keep herself from pitching back over.

A silver streak of lightning arced through the diamond-paned windows and flashed several times. The impression of a tall, sprawling bed and a fireplace that would fit a rather large man in it barely registered as she locked eyes with the shadowed figure sitting motionless in the high-backed chair close to her bed.