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 décor 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.