The tender intimacy of a gentle embrace like the one she’d just witnessed caused a yearning so palpable her skin ached with it. Every affectionate touch Murdoch and Tallow shared felt like a blade sliding between her ribs and nicking at her heart.
Farah knew she possessed a capacity to love that was greater than most. Sometimes, she was filled with so much care, so much brimming affection, she thought it might encompass the entire world. She wanted to hold every unloved child, to save every wounded soul. She wanted to embrace the man she loved, and have him return that love in kind.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
Tears stung behind her eyes and only managed to irritate her.
Enough of this, she told herself. Hurrying up the wide marble steps to Northwalk, she swept past Tallow. “Do you know where Murdoch is?” she asked him.
“T-t-the study, my lady.”
She was already halfway up the grand marble staircase when she thanked him, gripping the black banister to propel her faster.
Murdoch looked up from the big oak desk in the study as she entered. Once he took in her troubled expression, worry lines appeared between his brows.
“Are ye well, my lady?”
“Quite well, thank you,” she lied, suddenly uncertain why she’d sought him out.
“Is there something ye needed?” he asked carefully, following her restless pacing from one end of the study to the next.
“No. Yes.” Farah paused her pacing, then started again, nearly unsettling a globe unlucky enough to be in her path. “I—I’m not sure.” She’d just been so melancholy. Felt so—abandoned. But now, staring into the patient gaze of her friend, it all seemed so silly, and also hopeless.
It wasn’t the understanding in his eyes that unraveled her. It was the pity.
“Why don’t ye sit down?” He motioned to the plush bronze settee and pulled the cord to ring for a maid. “I’ll call for tea.”
Farah didn’t want to sit down, but was suddenly too tired and heavy to stand. Murdoch ordered tea while she stared at her hands, then settled himself next to her. He was quiet while she gathered her thoughts, her courage, knowing that she’d speak as soon as she could.
“I miss him,” she admitted to her lap.
“No more than I’m certain he misses you.”
“A part of me hoped he’d come, and a part of me knew he wouldn’t.” She turned to him, dashing at angry tears. “He was right, you know. I am a fool.”
“Doona say that, my lady.” Murdoch reached for her hand. “He is the fool. Love and fear are the two strongest emotions known to the heart of man. I’ve never seen Blackwell afraid, it’s part of what’s made him so dangerous. No matter how much he’s acquired, he’s lived like he’s had nothing to lose. Like he didna fear death.”
Farah stood, too restless to sit any longer. A hot ire speared through her like a lance, settling close to her heart. “He doesn’t fear death, but he fears life? That’s so ridiculous!”
“He’s a dangerous man, my lady. He’s afraid he’ll hurt ye. He’s afraid to let himself hope, to lose ye again. He almost didna survive the first time.”
Farah wrapped her arms around herself and leaned against the desk. “All the terrible things that happened to him—they were a result of his love for me. Do you think that’s why—”
“Nay.” Murdoch put a staying hand out, but didn’t go to her. “Many different circumstances and forces converged against him. His path may have been similar whether ye were a part of it or not. Such is the lot of so many bastards and orphans.”
“It just makes no sense,” she lamented. “Why be so afraid of losing something, you deny yourself of it? Everyone is entitled to a chance at happiness. Even the Blackheart of Ben More. Especially him.”
“So are ye, my lady.”
“So I am.” Farah straightened, galvanized by a moment of self-discovery. “I’m so angry with him. He thinks he’s done me such a favor by restoring my birthright, and it isn’t that I’m not grateful. But his methods have stolen from me the one thing I’ve ever wanted.” She was gesturing wildly, ignoring Murdoch’s growing alarm.
“What’s that?” he asked hesitantly.
“A family, Murdoch.” Farah marched behind the desk and extracted a sheet of monogrammed paper and pen. Two monthly courses had come and gone since Farah had last seen her husband, and each one had been a reminder that her thirtieth birthday approached, and her child-bearing years were numbered. “If he’s too afraid, too stubborn to love me, that’s his prerogative. But if Dorian Blackwell thinks he can deny me what he promised, he has another thing coming.”
“What do ye plan, my lady?” Murdoch rose slowly.
“I’m writing a letter.”
He eyed the paper dubiously.
“I am going to live my life, Murdoch,” she announced. “I intend to have my family, whether he’s a part of it or not.”
Murdoch sat down like a man readying for the gallows. “No one gives Dorian Blackwell an ultimatum who doesna regret it,” he cautioned.
“This isn’t an ultimatum, Murdoch. This is his last chance. And while he might be afraid to seize it, I’m not.”
“Ye might destroy him, lass. Doona tear him down.”
Farah glared up at Murdoch, though she understood and appreciated his loyalty to her recalcitrant husband. “I have worked with nothing but men for over a decade,” she informed him. “I know exactly how to dismantle them, and how to put them back together. You think it’s difficult? I would have built him back up, Murdoch. We could have had the future that was stolen from us.” She took the tall seat at the desk.