“A-a doctor’s been c-called for,” Tallow informed them, looking in no better shape than Murdoch, who wore the most stubborn look Farah had ever seen.
“Send him for Lady Blackwell once he’s finished with Murdoch,” Dorian ordered sharply. “And have a basin and soap brought.”
“No, no. Don’t bother. I wasn’t hurt in the least,” Farah insisted. “You’d see that if you set me down.”
Dorian stared down at her with a startling expression of possession and mystification. “I—can’t.”
Murdoch’s unmistakable bark of mirth startled them all. “Go see to yer man, Lady Blackwell. I think he’s had the worst scare of us all tonight.”
Blackwell scowled at his steward, though he didn’t argue as the wisely silent crowd suddenly found a new interest in helping the wounded man to his rooms.
Murdoch had been correct. Though Farah had stopped trembling, her husband’s muscles still twitched as though being shocked with unwanted tremors. He stood in the middle of the hall, clutching her to him, looking like a man overcome by too many forces to endure.
“The master’s rooms,” Dorian ordered.
“I was using the master’s rooms.” Farah motioned toward the chaos of her chamber. “Take me in there.” She pointed to the countess’s suite. It would be cold from lack of a fire, but they’d have to make do.
The only light was provided by a bright spring moon, filtering from the windows and casting the white counterpane with silver and blue. The sudden stillness and quiet jarred them both, and they took a moment to adjust.
Dorian’s heavy breaths broke through the darkness, painting the night with the myriad of emotions Farah didn’t have to see in order to understand.
“You can set me down now,” she assured gently. “It’s safe.”
It took him two breaths to reply. “I—can’t seem to release you.”
Reaching up in the darkness, she pressed her palm to his hard jaw, now rough with a few days’ growth of beard. “You don’t have to release me.”
Reluctantly, he lowered the arm beneath her knees until her feet reached the floor, though he didn’t release her shoulders. “He dared strike you.” Dorian’s savage voice didn’t match the extreme gentleness of his thumb as he drew it against her faintly swollen lip.
Farah was hoping he hadn’t noticed. She should have known better.
“It’s nothing,” she soothed, pressing her hand against his glove.
“I wish I could resurrect the bastard and slaughter him again,” he growled. “Slowly.”
Farah stepped into him, still surrounded by his rough cloak. He didn’t pull away.
“Did he touch you, Farah?” Dorian asked in an agonizing groan. “Did he—hurt you anywhere else?”
“There wasn’t time.”
“When I heard those shots, I thought—”
She stopped his hard lips with a gentle press of her fingers. “Let’s not dwell on the terrors of the day.” She pulled her fingers away. “Why are you here, Dorian?”
His already tense body hardened against her, his hands grasping her shoulders in a punishing grip. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. The letter,” he snarled. “Have you already taken a lover? Because I swear to Christ, Farah, if you value his life—”
Her fingers found his lips again, hope beginning to seep into her chest. “It would be impossible for me to invite someone into my bed so soon after you broke my heart,” she confessed.
“But you would have,” he accused, his lips moving against her fingers. “Eventually.”
“I thought so,” she whispered. “I truly meant to, but it took me seventeen years to even consider another after losing you the first time.” She put her head against his solid chest, marveling at his height and breadth. “I was hurt and lonely when I wrote that letter. I was angry with you for rejecting me. I wanted a child more than ever, because I needed someone who would accept my love. Someone who wanted it. Who wanted me.”
Dorian grasped her shoulders and drew her away, giving her a little shake. “How can you think I didn’t want you?”
Farah gaped. “You sent me away,” she reminded him sternly. “I haven’t seen or heard from you in two months.”
He bent until his face was close to hers. His white scar and blue eye caught a shaft of moonlight, and what she read in the stark hollows of his face told her everything she needed to know.
“I want your love,” he declared fiercely, clutching her arms with desperate fingers. “I came to claim what’s mine.”
Farah’s heart glowed and her body rejoiced. “Not if I claim you first.” She lifted up on her tiptoes and captured his mouth, twining her arms around his neck and shackling him to her.
He stood frozen in her embrace for a breathless, undecided moment before melting against her, around her, pulling her into the hard curve of his body with a deep groan of surrender.
Yes. At last. The feel of her arms around him, her tongue entering his mouth, her body locked against his, was a sweeter victory than she could have imagined. It wasn’t only desire and need she tasted on his kiss, but trust.
And that word was a foreign concept to a man like Dorian Blackwell.
For a boy like Dougan Mackenzie.
A soft knock on the door interrupted them, and Dorian turned to admit a maid laden with a basin of fresh water, linens, soap, and a candle. “You want us to lay a fire?” she asked.