Memories of the previous night singed through her with a vibrant thrill. Dorian hadn’t been gentle, per se, though … “He was—careful,” Farah acknowledged. “There’s no reason to be cross with him. As you see, I am well.” She offered him a smile, a little surprised, herself, that it was genuine. Until Murdoch’s earlier words struck her. “Did you say that Mr. Blackwell—er, my husband left this morning?”
Murdoch turned to set a fire and offer her privacy. “Aye. He’s procuring our passage back to London on the late afternoon train.”
“London? So soon?” Farah had wondered if they might not take a few days to adjust to married life. To, at the very least, get acquainted with one another. Perhaps take a few nights like the one before, and discover what other pleasures might be found in the marriage bed.
“There’s a hot bath waiting in the washroom for ye.” Murdoch poked at the fledgling fire, urging it to ignite. “And I’d advise ye to hurry. I’ll not want to be the one to tell Blackwell that we derailed his plans, as it were.” He chuckled at his own pun.
Of course, Farah thought as she gingerly stood on shaky legs and reached for the silk wrapper next to her bed. Now that he’d claimed her, Blackwell would be in a great hurry to also claim the Northwalk title. Which meant dragging her back to London and parading her in front of a villain who’d once desired her as his wife, but now just wanted her out of his way.
By murdering her, if necessary.
Farah bit her lip, wondering, not for the first time, if Dorian Blackwell kept his promises as obsessively as he claimed. After she procured what he wanted, would her life mean anything to him? Was he truly any less of a villain than Warrington? Whose word did she have, other than a castle full of convicts and criminals, that her new husband and Dougan Mackenzie were as close as he claimed?
Farah held a hand to her lips, watching Murdoch’s unhurried movements. She’d been so quick to believe them. So desperate for a connection with her past, with the boy who had been taken from her, that she’d readily accepted anything they’d said. Had already begun to care … What if she’d just made the gravest mistake becoming the wife of the Blackheart of Ben More?
What had she been thinking?
Doubt unfurling in her sore muscles, she glanced at the bed, remembering the reverence on her husband’s face, the savage possession in his touch, the longing pleasure tinged with awe and wonder.
Such things could not be fabricated. Could they? Certainly not on her part. No, what happened between them last night had been real. So real that he’d retreated from it. From her.
Farah had spent the better part of a decade around criminals and liars. And she believed, as much as she could trust her own judgment, that Blackwell had been telling her the truth when he promised to keep her safe.
God, she hoped so, because as much as she loved and missed Dougan Mackenzie, she wasn’t ready to join him in the grave just yet.
* * *
The train from Glasgow to London whistled its final warning. The warm rush of steam colluded with the fog to obstruct the vision of the late-afternoon passengers. A footman turned the fine latch and handed Farah up into Dorian Blackwell’s private railcar.
“We stowed Mr. Blackwell’s luggage, but I doona see any here for ye. Should I hold the train while we fetch something?” The young man’s wide brown eyes matched his constellation of freckles as he steadied her on the step.
Only for a man like the Blackheart of Ben More would they throw off the entire train schedule. And now, she supposed, for his wife, as well. “No, thank you, Mr. McFarley, I am not traveling with a trunk.” Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a coin and tipped him.
“I thank ye, Mrs. Blackwell.” His eyes sparkled at her. “Going to enjoy some shopping in London, eh?”
Mrs. Blackwell. Why was it that the counterfeit name of Mackenzie had felt more accurate than the valid name of Blackwell?
She glanced down at her evening dress, the loveliest she’d ever owned, and realized that for people of the upper class, such garb would be acceptable traveling clothes. “I suppose I will have to, won’t I?” Surely her everyday dark Scotland Yard clerk uniforms wouldn’t do for a countess.
“Will ye be returning to Scotland soon, ma’am?”
“I am bound to visit regularly,” she answered honestly.
“Very well, Mrs. Blackwell, enjoy yer journey.” He tipped his cap and stepped back, hurrying toward the other rail workers milling on the platform next to the office door. Once she glanced over at them, they jumped and pretended they’d been looking elsewhere or were going about business other than staring at her. Something she’d have to get used to, she supposed. Anonymity had worked splendidly for her, and Farah mourned the irrevocable loss as she turned and latched the door on the conductor’s last “All aboard” call.
In every room Blackwell occupied, a large chair seemed to take a central location, from which he sprawled and towered at the same time. He looked like a dark autocrat who soaked velvet and damask in the blood of his enemies and then adorned the textiles with gold tassels and illuminated them with a crystal chandelier. A despot with a taste for luxury.
His eye patch slanted across his forehead and shaped his glossy hair into a rakish wave. The good eye was fixed on some invisible vexation on the floor in front of him. A forgotten crystal glass of caramel liquor rested on one knee, clutched in a black leather glove that caused Farah’s feminine muscles to clench.