The Highwayman (37 page)

Dorian's head snapped up. “Are they sure? Did you see the body?”

Argent nodded. “He was wearing the monogrammed jacket the villain disappeared in. You were right about him. Fat bastard was even more bloated by the water, took five coppers to lift him.”

A tension that had resided in Dorian's shoulders these past months released, resulting in a throbbing headache.

Argent regarded him with those trademark cold, shrewd eyes that seemed less like he saw you as a human, and more like a creature he'd like to dissect.

“Why don't you go to her?” Argent queried. “Now that Warrington is no longer a problem?”

“I—can't,” Dorian admitted wryly. His body was strung too taut for that. Once he'd tasted the sweetness she had to offer, the oblivion that bliss afforded, he couldn't even be trusted in the same room with her. Even now, his body responded.

Argent shook his head and unfolded his tall form from the chair, crushing his cigar on the tray. “Never thought I'd see the day Dougan Mackenzie gave up his Fairy.” He flicked a concerned glance toward Dorian.

“The next person to call me that is going to lose his tongue,” Dorian snarled. “I haven't given her up. We're married. She's still
mine
.”

An amber brow conveyed skepticism, but Argent wisely kept his own counsel.

“A letter for you, Blackwell.” His butler brought in a flat envelope on a silver tray. Dorian took it, his stomach taking a dive at the sight of the Northwalk seal.

Why wasn't she using his seal
?
he wondered as he broke the wax and unfolded the letter.

Why would she?

“I'll take my leave, then.” Argent pulled the bell and requested his coat from a footman as Dorian read the words that drove rail spikes of rage through his temples.

Dorian,

I have given our situation a great deal of consideration, and have decided to subsequently release you from your promise. My intention to raise a family still remains. As such, I will be accepting another candidate to fulfill the required vocation until my objective has been attained.

It is my sincere hope that this letter finds you well and that you are able to find peace.

Yours,

Lady Farah Leigh Blackwell, Countess Northwalk

Crushing the paper in his hand, Dorian stood and hurled it into the fireplace. A fury the likes of which he'd never before felt bolted through him with such violence he physically jerked. Beneath the cold logic and cruel calculation of every villain lay slumbering a mindless beast of wrath, greed, and lust. This beast was cultivated in a more barbaric time, one where a man had to fight with his hands to keep what he claimed. He had to use rocks and weapons to crush his enemies. This beast surged through him now.

He would rip the limbs off any man who dared touch his wife.

Mine.
His blood sang with the words. His breath flowed with them. His heart, the one he'd not thought to possess, beat the staccato of what he'd known since the moment he'd seen her on the Scottish moors all those years ago.

Only mine.

Argent's words were nothing but the buzzing of an insect as he hurled himself past the man, reached for his coat, and bellowed for his horse.

He should have known she wouldn't accept his terms, should have guessed she'd be obstinate. But he hadn't considered that she'd dare to fill her bed with another man for the sake of a child.

Farah wanted a family?
He'd plant a manor full of children in her belly. He'd take her until she could no longer walk. He'd tried the honorable route. Done his best to keep her safe from the menace and perils of his life.

No more.
She'd won her dangerous game. She wanted the love of the Blackheart of Ben More? It was hers, and all the danger and darkness that came with it.

 

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO

Farah stood on the round dais in her dressing room long after Madame Sandrine had left, staring at her figure in the long mirror.

A velvet, late-spring evening settled into her Hampshire valley, turning the emerald fields into black squares of shadow. Only a dark blue stripe of light remained on the western horizon, and Farah had left the doors to her balcony open to let in the soft breezes to tease her hair.

The lavender lace sheath she wore brought out a violet tone in her eyes that she'd never before seen. Her hair spiraled around her arms in wild ringlets, reflecting the light from the candles with an almost luminescent glow. As nightgowns went, this one was rather scandalous. Though the neckline was high, the diaphanous fabric clung to her every line and curve, even accentuating the press of her nipples against the slight chill in the mobile air around her.

Though she slept and rose alone, generally eschewing the use of a ladies' maid, she couldn't help but try on the lovely undergarments that Madame Sandrine had brought with her to Northwalk along with several newly commissioned gowns. She only modeled them for herself, but she liked the sensual feel of the fabric against her skin. The glide of the hem on her ankles. She could imagine a masculine hand gathering the fabric in his grip to uncover the flesh beneath.

Lord, but her mind drifted to such things often these days. She supposed once she'd tasted the pleasures of the flesh, it became more difficult to live without. Farah knew, of course, that not all sexual encounters were as intense and climactic as hers had been, and she realized it would be excruciatingly difficult to allow anyone but her husband into her bed.

She wanted him. More than she wanted a child. More than she wanted her title. She wanted her Dougan back. Not only that, she wanted the sleek, predatory criminal Dorian Blackwell. She missed his cool arrogance, his sharp wit, and the way his eyes tracked her.

Watched her.

She wanted him to see her in this gown. Wanted to tantalize him by standing in front of the candles and pulling it across her skin while he watched, wondering when his control would snap and waiting for him to pounce like her jaguar.

The fantasy caused her thighs to clench and a moist warmth to rush between them. She really did look like a fairy in this gown. She wanted to show him that, too. That she still could be
his
fairy. That she could teach him how to love, just like she had once before.

A click interrupted her thoughts, and she whirled in time to see a shade move in the darkness beyond her candle. Who would lurk in the shadows of her rooms? “Dorian?” she called.

“You still haven't accepted that your bastard husband has forsaken you?” The voice from her nightmares stepped from the shadows. “Pathetic.”

Reacting on impulse, Farah lunged for the bellpull that would bring a footman running. A revolving click stopped her cold.

“One more step and I paint those mirrors with your blood.”

“Warrington,” she gasped. She'd known he'd been released, and that he'd disappeared, but she'd been told by Murdoch that he'd been found dead.

“How did you get in here?” She'd been facing her door, and the balcony was two stories high. The stone walls were flat with no trellises to climb.

His eyes were two dark pits of rage in his large, ruddy face. “I've lived in this house longer than you've been alive, you spoiled bitch.” He took a threatening step forward. “This is
my
home.”

“This was my father's home,” she argued.

Warrington scoffed. “But I know all her secrets.”

Farah's eyes swung to the bed, her arms crossing over her breasts in an attempt to cover herself. Her limbs felt weak, her neck frozen and unable to move as terror locked her muscles into place. “What—what do you want?”

“I want what's
mine
!” he raged, advancing on her until the metal pistol pressed against her temple in an icy kiss. “I want what your father promised me.”

He meant
her
. Panic stabbed deep into her belly, nearly doubling her over.

“You'd better escape before my husband returns,” she threatened, hoping she'd improved upon her lying skills somewhat. “He's a dangerous man. I won't send him after you if you leave now.”

Though he had to be inching toward fifty years, Warrington had retained a powerful build, if not a bit softer and heavier than in his youth. Farah remembered that he'd fought with her father in the war, that he'd saved her father's life. Was that why Robert Townsend had kept him around? Out of gratitude?

Now that he'd stepped into the dim light, Farah could see that his skin looked worse than it had months ago. Sores covered one side of his neck, and his breath smelled foul. Like rot and death.

She cringed as he lowered his face to hers. “That disfigured bastard you married can't stand the sight of you. He doesn't love you. He's not coming to save you. No one will even notice you're missing until it's too late.”

The truth of his words terrified her more than the gun at her head. She'd turned in for the night. Even if the maid, Margaret, peeked in to check on her, she likely would just assume Farah had gone to use the necessary before bed.

No one would look for her until Warrington had done his worst.

“I cannot give you what you want.”

“I know that,” Warrington snarled, his eyes rolling in a way that made her doubt his sanity. “Don't you think I know that?” Clawlike fingers grasped her arm and pulled her toward the east wall against which her large wardrobe stood. “I will die before getting what I want, but at least I'll claim the vengeance I deserve.”

Farah struggled, knowing that if she went anywhere with him, her life would be forfeit.

A soft knock sounded on her door. “My lady?” Murdoch called.

“Get rid of him,” Warrington hissed, shoving the gun so hard against her, it wrenched her neck.

“I—I've turned in, Murdoch,” Farah called, her voice surprisingly steady. “I'll talk to you in the morning.”

“Ye'll want to know this,” Murdoch pressed. “I've a telegram from Argent in London … It's about your husband.”

“Murdoch, please, I can't be bothered. Don't come in here!” she cried, praying that he would find the urgency in her voice strange and send for help.

A second ticked by before her door exploded open, shattered by the strength of Murdoch's burly shoulder.

Warrington fired, and Murdoch fell.

Farah screamed. She tried to jerk out of Warrington's grip, but his hand clasped about her arm like an eagle's talon. Blood spread from Murdoch's side, seeping into the gray wool of his vest. He was breathing, gasping for air, the shock of the bullet having knocked the wind from his chest.

“Murdoch,” she cried. “Murdoch, can you hear me?”

The pistol was shoved through her curls and against the back of her head. “You'll come with me, or the next bullet goes in his eye.”

Panic faded, and a cold sort of calm resolution stole through Farah's veins. Murdoch couldn't leave Tallow, not when they'd just found each other. The gunshot would bring the household, and the next person through that door would be Warrington's next victim.

“I'll go,” she said. “Just don't kill him.”

Warrington jerked her toward the wardrobe, opened the latch with one hand, keeping the gun trained on her, and hurled her through her new dresses until she tumbled out of the false back, barely maintaining her balance.

The other side of her papered wall and velvet drapes was nothing but cold stone lit by a few sporadic torches. It was like stepping back in time two hundred years.

“What is this?” Her tremulous voice echoed down the dank stone corridor, interrupted by only a few other openings, presumably from different manor rooms.

Warrington gave her shoulder a rough shove forward. “Walk,” he commanded.

The cold of the stones and close, arid stench seemed to reach through the thin fabric of her gown. Farah hugged herself and plodded forward, the dank, uneven earth beneath her slippers making sounds she dare not identify.

“Northwalk Abbey was built in the sixteenth century by a papist earl,” Warrington informed her conversationally. “It's said he hid condemned Catholic priests here, and smuggled them out of the country by way of Brighton.”

“Surely you didn't bring me here for a history lesson,” Farah said imperiously. “Where are you taking me?”

Warrington's gun jabbed at her shoulder. “Just like you entitled monarchists. Don't even
know
where your titles come from. Don't acknowledge the innocent blood that's been spilled so you can have your castles and your tenants.”

“That's not me,” Farah argued. “I only want what my father intended for me to possess. What makes you more entitled to it than I?”

They came to an abrupt drop, a steep set of wooden stairs that led down into a dark abyss. Farah glanced over her shoulder at Warrington, who kept the gun trained on her as he took a torch from the wall. “Climb down.” He gestured to the stairs with his pistol.

Farah stared into the dark. She didn't
want
to go down there. What if she never came back out?

“Move, or I'll set those pretty ringlets on fire.”

She could feel the heat of the torch on her skin as he thrust it toward her. Gathering her gown above her knees, she gripped the rough wooden banister tightly as she took the first step.

The light from his torch followed her down, and Farah could hear the heavy bouts of his breath as they descended.

The smell hit her first. Death, filth, and excrement. She held a hand to her mouth to contain her gag reflex. The torchlight touched a pile of animal bones she'd rather not identify. Then the rough pallet of filthy blankets, and finally, the old bucket he must have been using as a chamber pot.