“Ye’re a bloody idiot,” Murdoch declared.
“And you are this close to losing your—”
“She’s yer Fairy, Dougan. How can ye possibly let her go now?”
“Don’t call me that.” An abyss that could encompass the night sky had opened up in his chest a week ago, on that day in the gardens, and Dorian rubbed at his sternum, wondering when it would burst from his rib cage and swallow the earth. “You’ve seen what I’ve done to her.” He fingered a page, receiving a cut for his troubles. “It was never part of the plan to keep her with me. She wants to make me a father. We both know that’s a terrible idea. I’m not—whole.”
“She loves ye,” Murdoch offered.
“She loves her memories of Dougan. She’s known Dorian for such a short time, and I’ve already done more damage than can be repaired.”
“But, what if ye—”
“What if I broke her?” Dorian seethed, advancing on Murdoch. “What if I hurt her in my sleep, or worse? What if I lost my temper? What if I lose my mind?”
“What if ye let go of yer past and she made ye happy?” Murdoch retorted. “What if she gave ye peace? Maybe a little hope?”
Dorian swiped a bottle of Highland scotch he’d been nursing and took a deep, burning swig before turning toward the window overlooking the drive. Maybe he would drink himself to death. At least then the fire in his belly would be something other than this numb sort of despair. And wouldn’t Laird Ravencroft be glad to hear of his demise? By his own whisky, no less.
“There is no hope for a man like me,” he told his reflection, and the pathetic bastard in the window seemed to agree, looking back at him with disgust. “No peace to be had.”
After a hesitant moment Murdoch asked, “Are we going back to Ben More, then?”
A black coach and four pulled into the circular drive and rolled to a stop beneath the portcullis. Dorian watched its progress with a sinking desolation. “I will likely be, but you’re to accompany Lady Blackwell to Northwalk Abbey.”
“But sir!” Murdoch argued. “I havena packed.”
“I had them pack your things this morning,” Dorian informed him. “I don’t want her traveling alone and Argent is—occupied.”
“Very well,” Murdoch acquiesced. “But she should get used to the idea of her being alone. Ye’ve just cursed her with a life of nothing but isolation. She’ll be the unwanted wife of the Blackheart of Ben More. How lonely do ye think that’ll be?”
Dorian took another swig, his books forgotten, his head swimming in scotch and misery. “Have a safe journey, Murdoch,” he said in dismissal.
“Rot in hell, Blackwell,” Murdoch tossed back before quitting the room and slamming the door.
He already was, Dorian thought with a wry huff before taking another swig. He didn’t think he stood staring out at nothing for that long, but before he knew it Farah stepped from under the front awning.
There couldn’t be a picture of a more elegant and refined countess. Her traveling dress, a jewel green with gold ribbing at the hem of the jacket, matched the hat covering her intricately pinned hair. A tasteful black feather flowed from the hat and matched the gold and black bobs at her ears.
Dorian drank in the sight of her. Committed it to his memory as he had none other. The indent of her waist. The fourteen ruffles of her pelisse. The delicate curve of her neck and the way a few lone ringlets draped down her shoulder.
Don’t look back at me, he begged, unable to tear himself away from the window. Don’t give me another memory of your eyes to haunt my dreams.
It had been at his insistence, hadn’t it, that she go and properly claim her father’s Hampshire castle? He could no longer stand her presence beneath his roof. No longer watch her while she slept and not be tempted to take her. To hold her. To curl against her body and lose himself to the oblivion she found so easily.
The blood of the dead and dying didn’t haunt her dreams.
And he had to make certain it stayed that way.
Don’t look back.
If she did, he wouldn’t be able to let her go. He’d lock her in the tower like some pirate’s captive and—and—well, it didn’t bear thinking what he’d do. All manner of debauched perversions, that’s what. He’d use her in all the dark and devious ways he’d been trying not to obsess about since that first night.
He took another swig.
Murdoch took Farah’s hand to help her into the coach. She paused, her chin dropping and tilting toward where he stood at the grand library window.
He put his hand on the windowpane, feeling more like that boy at Applecross than he had in years. Don’t look back at me.
And she didn’t. For there was nothing to see.
* * *
Farah stood on the banks of the river Avon and enjoyed a few minutes of rare and blessed silence. It wasn’t that she minded all the callers and well-wishers who had swarmed upon Northwalk Abbey; in fact, they provided a lovely diversion. One could not dwell on a broken heart when there was a house to put in order and a past to reclaim.
Breathing in fragrant air chilled by river water and sweetened with bluebells, Farah turned back to admire the gables of Northwalk Abbey. Diversion only took one so far. The mind was a powerful tool, but altogether useless when it came to matters of the heart.
Farah had done everything she could think of to keep herself occupied. Renovations to Northwalk Abbey, working with Murdoch to transfer, claim, and understand her finances, which were more vast than she realized, and acquainting herself with Hampshire society. She was requested to every drawing room, solarium, and dining table, as the Countess Northwalk became the latest and most stylish controversy. Not just because of who she was, but also because of to whom she was married.