Three chandeliers glittered with Irish crystal over the long table, only the one at their end adding its light to the flickering candelabra. The sounds of expensive cutlery against the elaborate china provided the accompanying music to the dance of the flames casting the atmosphere with a golden glow.
Farah found herself mesmerized by the way the shifting light shadowed the stark angles of Blackwell’s masculine face, and gleamed off the rare ebony of his hair.
Was this what life as wife of the Blackheart of Ben More would be like? Luxurious. Decadent, even. Fraught with intrigue and secrets, banter and the clash of wills. Memories of a painful past, loved ones lost, and the shadow of an uncertain future.
She tore her curious gaze from him and fixed it on the table. Oh, well, at least there would be confections and chocolate sauce, and thereby hope for a sweeter outcome.
Pushing her nearly finished entrées aside, Farah filled her dessert plate with one of everything and pulled the chocolate sauce close, which greatly improved the potential of the moment.
A shame she was out of wine.
Farah savored a bite of the dark, bitter cocoa cake, swinging her gaze away from her enigmatic companion and observing all the opulent accents of the masterful woodwork and luxurious burgundy and gold textiles adorning the dining room.
“Everyone speculates about what goes on here at Ben More Castle,” she ventured. “I’m quite surprised at the lack of virgin sacrifices and torture chambers. Though you do have your share of interesting characters in your employ.”
“Torture chambers are generally below stairs, I don’t believe you’ve seen that part of the castle yet.” The devilish twist to his lips made her wonder if he were truly joking.
“You never entertain people here?” she queried.
“You mean for reasons other than ritual sacrifice or torture?” His lips twitched again, curling higher this time than she’d ever seen them.
She leveled him a mock-exasperated stare around a bite of the crème brûlée. A muffled moan was lost in the heavy layers of sweet custard exploding with vanilla and kissed by a hint of molasses.
Much as he’d done in the washroom, his gaze locked on her mouth, more fascinated with her actions than her words. “No.” The word was huskier, tighter. “I invite no one here.”
“But it’s so spacious and lovely,” she protested, gesturing to the table that could easily seat an entire regiment.
His gaze also touched the china, the candelabra, the heavy drapes, and expensive art. “I have other properties used for guests. Ben More has become something of a refuge, for me and the others who live here.”
Farah nodded with sudden understanding. It seemed that most of the men who ended up here were in need of a sanctuary. Murdoch, with his sad eyes and misunderstood heart. Frank, who was lost anywhere but the kitchens. And poor Tallow, who trembled more than he talked.
“Then why bring me to your sanctuary?” she ventured.
“Seemed appropriate,” he said cryptically, watching her cut into her almond cake for a moment before diverting the conversation away from his thought-provoking words. “I’m aware of what people speculate about me, but I hope you realize that not every story of my hedonistic villainy has merit.”
“Of course. For example, I’ve seen no evidence of a harem of exotic courtesans warehoused in your secret Highland castle.” And thank God for that, she added silently, and then wondered where the errant prayer had come from.
“Is this where they think I keep them?” he asked.
Her head snapped toward him and prepared to deliver a derisive reply before she caught the twinkle of gratification in his eye and the first real semblance of a smile widen the brackets around his mouth.
“You are every bit the villainous knave!” He was teasing her or telling the truth. Either way, he deserved to be publicly flogged. Farah tossed her napkin at him in outrage.
He caught it. “You don’t love me,” he said lightly. “What does it matter?”
“I—well—it doesn’t,” Farah stammered, cutting a profane bite of cake.
“No, indeed?” He stabbed at his plate only to find it empty, then looked down as though surprised he’d finished his entire meal. Pushing the empty china aside, he said, “What would a man such as I do with a harem of courtesans?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she evaded. “But perhaps one of them could have enticed you to do something other than watch.”
His expression turned serious. “You’re the only woman I’d even consider bedding.”
Farah blinked at him, frozen in place, unsure of what to say. Every conceivable interpretation of the intention behind his words caused her heart to jump like a fox-hunt rabbit.
“At any rate, a great deal of the things said about me are utter rubbish.”
“Such as?” she challenged, hating the breathless note in her voice.
“That I’ve killed more than a thousand men with my bare hands. That I broke out of Newgate by bending the iron bars. That I defeated the Duchess of Cork’s husband in a fit of jealous rage. Oh, and my most favorite, that I personally assassinated the infamous crime lord Bloody Rodney Granger with a quill pen.”
Farah searched her memory. “Rodney Granger was assassinated thirty-five years ago.”
“Before I was born,” Blackwell confirmed, lifting a glass of red wine to his lips.
“Why don’t you refute these untruths, then?”