“Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife…”
Ye are blood of my blood, and bone of my bone.
Blackwell’s “I do” was more decisive than hers. In fact, when she spoke the words, she may have been answering a question like, “Do you mind sitting next to the Marquis de Sade and discussing literature?”
It counted, though, and before she knew it, the priest pronounced them man and wife. The final words read in his hushed voice from his Bible sent little shocks of dread and desire through her.
“And they two shall be one flesh: so then they are no more two, but one flesh…”
I give ye my body, that we two might be one.
One flesh, the Bible said. Joined. Cleaving. The righteous words caused a wet rush of warmth to spread like a sin between her legs. Tonight they would be joined by more than words. Their two bodies moving as one. Surely such wicked thoughts were blasphemous in the church. Farah stared across at the dark form of Dorian Blackwell. Of course, when one was marrying the devil, what was one or two other blasphemies?
“What therefore God hath joined together, let no man put asunder…”
I give ye my spirit, ’til our life shall be done.
“Amen,” Dorian agreed.
“Amen,” echoed the congregation.
“Um, Mr. Blackwell, sir, that part in the canon doesna require an amen.”
“To me, it did.”
“Well, then, I suppose … ye may kiss yer bride.”
It took Dorian an eternity to lift her veil. And another to lean down to her, his eyes two mismatched pools of determination.
Farah held perfectly still, as though one tic of a muscle might change his mind. Both of them breathed rather hard, though his inhales labored through his chest more deeply than hers. He smelled of soap and spice with a hint of wood smoke, as though the flames of hell had singed his tailored suit.
His lips parted a whisper above hers. His breath brushing her mouth in soft bursts. She could read the yearning in his eyes. The doubt. The need. The panic. And she did what he needed her to do. She closed the infinitesimal gap between them with a slight reach of her neck, and pressed her mouth to his in a chaste but undeniable kiss.
His lips were warm, hard, and still, but he didn’t pull back. In fact, he didn’t move until she pulled away and turned to a grinning Frank, not missing the surreptitious swipe Murdoch made at his watering eyes with the handkerchief Tallow had pressed into his hand.
Farah had done it. She was Mrs. Dorian Blackwell. For better or worse.
Until death parted them.
* * *
Dorian’s cock was hard. It pressed against the fabric of his tailored trousers with an aching persistence that made walking damned inconvenient. He’d been worried it wouldn’t be, that the blood rushing in his ears and pounding in his chest and throat might not leave enough for his manhood.
It had happened before.
But, though he’d legally taken Farah as his wife, he could not truly call her his own until he claimed her body and planted his seed in her womb. She knew it, demanded it. And so did his cock.
He stood outside of Farah’s room for what could have been a few minutes, or may have been an hour, the door handle gripped in his leather glove.
She was his, her name no longer tied to the past, but to him. The sweet, innocent girl who’d become a Newgate legend, now an unspeakably desirable woman about to be sullied by his corrupted, repellent, vile body.
He couldn’t let her touch it. Or look upon it, even. She would be revolted, disgusted, or worse.
Of all the things Dorian had coveted, a wedding night had never been among them, and yet, here he was. But what of his bride? Had she dreamed of this day, this night? Did she have mysterious and romantic expectations of the virginal explorations of a tender lover? Or had she accepted that he was incapable of both love and tenderness? His wife was no fool. She had agreed to marry the Blackheart of Ben More. A man who gave nothing. No compassion and no mercy. A notorious thief who only took and only when it pleased him to do so.
He’d made the promise to take her tonight, and Dorian Blackwell always kept his promises.
Farah had passed restless and settled on anxious a half hour ago. At first, she’d arranged herself in a pretty picture on her blue and cream counterpane with a book, the first button or two on her high collar undone, and her skirts spread about her legs in a pool of silk. She pictured herself posing for a Marie Spartali Stillman painting, serene and mysteriously aloof, but approachable.
That had lasted all of five minutes.
Slipping off the bed, she’d lit candles and placed them on various surfaces about the room, hoping to cast just the right amount of flattering golden light. That done, she’d positioned herself on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap, and decided not to move a muscle until he entered.
Oh, dear, what if she was supposed to go to him? What if, even now, he awaited her in his own lair? They hadn’t really discussed the particulars after the meal that neither of them had touched, as they’d listened to the sound of masculine merrymaking around them.
A slightly drunk Murdoch had escorted her back here, announcing loudly that he’d been waiting on this day for decades and it was about bloody time she and Dorian seized their happiness, and each other.
Farah knew enough not to argue with a Scotsman in his cups, so she declined to remind him that she and Blackwell had only known each other a few days, and that neither of them were particularly happy about the marriage.
She wasn’t unhappy, though, which amazed her. One would expect to feel morose trepidation about such a match. But she didn’t. In fact she felt surprisingly calm, hopeful, even. Almost as though—as if—