What would he do now? Farah could feel the blood draining from her face, but the man’s eyes sparkled at her as though she’d pleased him somehow. “He needs you,” Frankenstein informed her genially. “Go to him.”
“I’d rather go to the devil!” she spat, again not needing clarification regarding just who he was. Turning from him, she faced the cook island behind her, seething with indignation and not a little bit of fear.
A sigh evoking a bovine character emitted from the bull-statured man behind her. “You were Dougan’s Fairy,” he said, his voice touched with a bit of awe.
Farah whirled back around. “What?” She gasped.
“He told me you looked like one. With silver curls and silver eyes and tiny freckles.” He pointed at her hair as though to show her the color.
Farah blinked rapidly at the hulk of a man in front of her, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “You knew Dougan Mackenzie?” she breathed.
“I’s in prison with him. We all were. Long time ago.”
“Tell me,” she begged, all thoughts of fear and escape evaporating at Dougan’s name. “Please, sir, can you tell me what he said? Tell me about—”
“Go to him, first.” Frankenstein’s meaty hand scratched a large scar on his head. “In the study. That will give me time to remember words.”
“I can stay here while you remember.” Farah stalled, wondering if this man had been born so handicapped or made so by his many obvious head injuries. Searching for anything to distract him, she eyed the tartlets. “You made my breakfast, didn’t you?”
He nodded.
“It was very good,” she said truthfully. “Do you think that maybe—”
“Go. Now. Talk later.” The cook’s expression became stubborn as he thrust a finger toward the door.
“I don’t want to go to Blackwell. I want to go home!”
“He needs you, Fairy.” He blinked at her and nodded in encouragement.
“Don’t ever call me by that name!” Without realizing what she was doing, Farah took a threatening step toward him and he backed up into the door, his eyes wide and mystified. “Do you understand me? You haven’t the right to call me that!”
Farah had the notion she’d surprised them both with the intensity of her reaction, but this situation infuriated and, she’d admit it, intrigued her. So many questions about her past were left unanswered, and perhaps those answers waited for her in this isolated castle. And yet, what if there was nothing here for her but danger? What if, behind the solicitous staff and handsome décor, awaited a Machiavellian predator who was simply playing with her before she became his next meal?
She couldn’t take much more of this. “I’ll go to him,” Farah snapped. “You leave me no choice.”
He nodded again, as though oblivious and satisfied. “You can take some tarts if you’d like,” he offered.
“Not a chance.” Farah swiped her coins back into her purse and huffed to the door, thoroughly exasperated. Why was it that every time she came close to answers, to truth, she was thwarted by thickheaded men? It was inconceivably irritating.
Pausing, she turned back around. “What kind of tarts?”
“Strawberry.” Frankenstein wiped his hands on his apron and held the tray out to her.
Cursing her inability to refuse pastries, she took one of the bite-sized confections. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you for being a kidnapping criminal.”
“’Course not,” he agreed.
“Just so we’re clear.” She popped it into her mouth, and instantly butter, sugar, and the tartness of spring strawberries delighted her palate. “Oh, Lord,” she moaned, unable to help herself.
His teeth, or lack thereof, appeared again as his lips peeled back in a genuine smile. Farah considered the man in front of her as she chewed. He looked so out of place in the Parisian-style kitchen stocked with the latest and most expensive of instruments, like he’d be better suited to a blacksmith’s stable or—well—a prison hulk. Regardless of that, he was a very talented chef.
“What is your name?” Farah couldn’t stop herself from asking.
“Walters.”
“Walters.” She took another tart, and then another. “Is that your first name, or your last?”
He took longer to answer than the question warranted. “Can’t say as I remember. Just Walters, though I’d like to have a first name, I expect.”
Farah thought about it for the space of another tart before deciding. “What about ‘Frank’?” she suggested, switching her third tartlet to her other hand before reaching for a fourth.
“Frank Walters.” He savored the name like she savored his tarts.
“A right proper name,” she told him. For a right proper Frankenstein. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I apparently have an appointment with a blackhearted criminal mastermind.”
Farah got lost taking one too many turns through the winding halls before finding the study. She’d dawdled in the library for a few minutes, distracted by the floor-to-ceiling bookcases and the iron spiral staircase leading to the second floor. The study was, as she predicted, located in a resplendent room off the grand entry. Though when she peeked her head in—apparently no one closed doors in this blasted keep—she found the handsome massive room empty.
No, not empty, per se. Though devoid of anyone else, a strange and dynamic presence lingered in every corner of the masculine study. Farah could smell it in the pungent notes of cigar smoke clinging to the supple dark leather furniture. The aroma mixed with cedar and whatever citrus oil was used to clean the enormous desk flanked by even more dark wood bookcases. No sunlight pierced through heavy drawn wine-red velvet drapes. The only light in the room was provided by two lamps on the neat desk and another fireplace that could house a small family from Cheapside.