He leaned down, his eye touching every detail of her face as though memorizing it. “So I did.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Would you like some scotch?” Dorian asked, moving to a table topped with a tray of crystal decanters and glasses situated between the two high-backed leather chairs.
Grateful for the space between them, Farah’s first inclination was to decline, but upon second thought she said, “Yes, thank you.”
“It is compliments of your relation, the Marquess of Ravencroft.”
Farah blinked. “Relation?”
Watching her carefully, he retrieved two identical glasses, splashing them liberally with thick, caramel liquid. “Liam Mackenzie, the current laird of the Mackenzie clan. A kinsman of your late husband, I’m certain.”
Searching her memory, Farah struggled to quell her racing heart. “I—never had the chance to meet him,” she said. Which was the truth.
Blackwell gave her an enigmatic look. “Please, sit.” He motioned to the chair closest to the fire.
Cautiously, Farah sat, unable to take her eyes off him for a moment, just in case. In case he—what? Flew into a murderous frenzy? Lured her into a false sense of security and then—
“You mustn’t attempt escape again,” he said conversationally. Instead of handing her the drink, he set it on the small table at her elbow before lowering his tall frame into the chair across from her. It was a little like sitting across from the devil, preparing to make an arrangement and trying not to consider the eternal cost of such a bargain. Your heart. Your life.
Your soul.
“I told you,” Farah began. “I was hungry.”
Blackwell leveled her a droll look. “Let’s not insult either of our intelligences by lying to each other.”
To cover her guilt, Farah reached for the scotch and took a larger gulp than she should have. Gasping, she held her hand over her mouth as the liquid burned into her chest and brought tears to her rapidly blinking eyes. So much for keeping her composure.
Amusement toyed with the corner of his lips, but a smile never claimed them. “You nearly frightened poor Murdoch to tears.”
Farah opened her mouth to retort, but only a hiccup emerged. Clamping her lips shut, she cleared her throat, and tried again. “In circumstances other than these, I would be sorry to hear my actions caused another any distress, but to kidnap a lady in the middle of the night and not expect her to attempt escape already calls your intelligence into question.” She took another sip of the strong liquor, a much smaller one this time, having learned her lesson.
Blackwell had yet to drink, he only swirled the liquid about in his glass, never once taking his eye from her. “I thoroughly anticipated your flight, and had one of my men watching each possible exit to the castle,” he informed her. “I only warn you against further attempts for your own safety. If you happen to slip past one of my guards, I shall very much dislike to send the hounds after you. It would make all of this much more unpleasant for both of us.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Wouldn’t I?”
Farah gaped, unable to fathom his brutality. She shouldn’t be shocked, she’d been around the worst sort of criminals for more years than she’d care to admit. But, somehow, it astounded her that one so cultured, so relaxed and wealthy and tailored, could issue such a threat with a civil tongue. The criminals of her acquaintance were dirty and foul with explosive tempers and crude language. Blackwell threatened violence as though discussing the price of Irish potatoes.
“I’m beginning to understand, Mr. Blackwell, that there are no depths to which you wouldn’t sink to get whatever it is you want.”
At last, Blackwell lifted his glass, to his lips and drank, effectively hiding his expression. When he lowered it, he regarded her with an unapologetic smirk. “Then you are finally beginning to know me, Mrs. Mackenzie.”
“I shouldn’t like to,” she said stiffly.
“You don’t have a choice.”
Farah finished her drink in one reckless swallow, this time braced for the burn. “Go on, then,” she challenged, the scotch adding smoke to her voice. “Let’s have it.”
Resting his drink on his knee with one hand, he leaned forward, watching her features intently. “Do you know the one thing a man must do to achieve all that I have in such a short time?”
“I’m sure I don’t.”
He ignored the note of sarcasm in her voice. “He must always repay his debts, and he must always fulfill his promises.”
“That’s two things,” Farah challenged.
“Not necessarily.”
Biting her thumbnail, she puzzled over his words. “But you don’t owe me anything, nor I you. We’ve never made promises to each other.”
At that, he was silent for an uncomfortably long time. Farah squirmed in the large, overstuffed chair, feeling like a child whose feet barely touched the ground.
“Do you remember what Morley said in the strong room those few days ago?” he asked.
“Should I?” Of course, she remembered every word.
He made that sound again, one that could have been amusement or annoyance. “Seventeen years ago, I was sentenced to Newgate Prison as a lad for theft. Because of some prior indiscretions, I was given a hefty term of seven years’ hard labor.”
His build began to make more sense. If he’d spent a great deal of his youth digging tunnels, breaking rocks, and hauling ties for the new London underground railway, as many English prisoners did, such work would form his wide shoulders and heavy bones.