Confused, Farah couldn’t dispel the image of his eyes as he’d reached toward her. His scar marred the chiseled symmetry of his swarthy features. It added to his menace, to be sure, but the naked, yearning agony she’d glimpsed colored her fear with mystification.
Had it been an effect of the storm and her unruly vision?
A door opened on the far side of the room and Farah was once again astonished. He’d moved so stealthily in the pitch-blackness, without running into furniture or making a sound.
“How long do you intend to keep me prisoner here, Mr. Blackwell?” she asked, her hands fisting in the sheets, her eyelids heavy.
“I do not intend for you to be my prisoner,” Blackwell said after a slight pause.
“Captive, then?” She had the impression that she’d amused him, or was it exasperated? The sound he made was impossible to correctly interpret without seeing his face.
“Get some sleep, Mrs. Mackenzie,” he prompted. “You’re out of danger tonight, and everything will be clearer on the morrow.”
He left her then, to contemplate just what he’d meant by, You’re out of danger tonight.
CHAPTER SIX
Dorian Blackwell’s words proved prophetic, Farah realized, as she woke from a dreamless sleep with sunlight spilling across her bed and pleasantly warming her skin. Her thoughts and vision had, indeed, cleared away with last night’s storm clouds, leaving her rested and restless all at once.
Blinking against the brightness of the morning, she became aware of busy, rustling noises coming from inside her room. Gasping, she sat up like a shot as a fire flared to life in the gigantic fireplace, set by a short but husky man dressed far too well to be in the service profession.
He turned to face her, his graying beard split into a cheerful smile. “Why, good morning, Mrs. Mackenzie! What a pleasure it is to finally meet ye.” He crossed the room with startling speed for such a short, stout man.
Alarmed, Farah snatched the covers to her loosened bodice, though only her silk chemise was revealed beneath the opened buttons. “Don’t—don’t come any closer.” She held up her hand in what she realized was a ridiculous motion to stop him.
Surprisingly, it proved effective, and he paused near the foot of the bed.
Soft blue eyes gentled as did the grooves in his cheeks, lending him a very fatherly appearance. “Ye’ve nothing to fear from me, dear lass, I’m only here to lay yer fire and bring ye breakfast.” He motioned to the tray set by his left hand at the foot of the bed. “No doubt yer belly’s a wee dicey, so I brought ye some rice pudding, a quail’s egg, toast, and some tea.”
As Farah eyed the artfully arranged plate, her stomach let out a hungry sound of protest, then pitched unsteadily.
The smile returned to the man’s cheeks, glowing with pleasure. “’Tis as I thought.” He grabbed the tray and carefully carried it toward her, setting it over her lap. “Ye can breakfast like a proper lady.” He beamed, handing her a linen.
Automatically, Farah reached up to accept the linen, settling it where it belonged while he poured tea into a delicate china cup the most lovely shade of mint green.
“You’re—Mr. Murdoch,” she said, recognizing his grizzled voice. “From the train.”
The look he cast her from beneath his lashes was impossible to interpret. “Aye,” he said finally. “Though I was hoping ye didna remember anything from the journey. We kept ye out so as to cause ye the least amount of distress.”
Farah gaped at him. Distress? Who could not feel distress when they were kidnapped and taken to this isolated part of the world? And what was this man about, treating her as though she was a welcome guest instead of a hostage?
“Sugar? Cream?” He solicitously gestured to the matching tea service full of foamy fresh cream and lumps of cubed sugar.
“No, thank you.” Manners dictated she be polite, even to her captors. She studied Murdoch as she lifted the cup to her lips, freezing mid-tilt as she realized there might be something other than just tea in the brew.
“Have ye no fear, lass, ’tis just a breakfast tea, no more.” He correctly deciphered her thoughts.
Farah drank. If he were going to dose her again with whatever had knocked her unconscious, he’d likely hold the cloth over her mouth and nose as they’d initially done. The tea was strong and good and, though she was used to coffee in the morning, it helped to dispel the lingering cobwebs in the corners of her mind.
“Isn’t there a chambermaid who could attend me?” she asked, hoping for sympathetic female company, along with a chance to escape. “You are obviously too important and well appointed to be in service.”
A sliver of knowing mischief slipped into his ever-present smile. “He said ye’d be as bright as ye are beautiful,” Murdoch praised, picking up the spoon and handing it to her while nudging the crystal dish of rice pudding toward her.
Farah hoped he didn’t see her blanch at the compliment, knowing the source to which he referred.
“There are no women here at Ben More, ye see, and I’m the only man the master of the castle would allow in yer boudoir to attend ye. Now eat up. Gather yer strength.”
This was a command Farah didn’t disagree with. If she were to escape her present circumstances, she needed to keep a cool head, gather information, and indeed, regain her strength. “Why you?” she asked, before taking her first bite of the honey-sweet pudding that melted in a mélange of spices on her tongue. She couldn’t help but savor the confectionary taste of what had looked like a boring dish, in spite of everything.