The Highwayman (25 page)

“I think I'd prefer the chaise,” she said, wondering at his strange behavior.

He glanced at the wine velvet chaise with something akin to alarm. “Are you … unable to sit?” A muscle twitched beneath his eye, and then in his jaw.

“Why would I be?” Clarity cut through Farah's confusion and she had to clench her fists in her skirts to squelch the almost overwhelming urge to reach for him. Her husband was concerned about her well-being after their wedding night. Touched, she took a step toward him, glad to see he didn't retreat. “My corset makes sitting for an extended period of time quite uncomfortable,” she explained gently. “I find that reclining is much more pleasant.”

His suspicious regard bespoke disbelief, but the first jarring launch of the train stopped him from replying.

The movement caused Farah's already unsteady legs to give, and she stumbled backward, her arms flailing as she realized she wasn't going to steady herself in time.

She was in his arms before she registered his movement, and her hands gripped at his shoulders to regain her balance.

They both froze.

“I'm sorry,” she gasped, releasing his shoulders immediately, but not before she registered that his arms were even more solid than she'd originally thought.

To her surprise, he didn't let her go, but drew her closer, closing his arms and locking her elbows to her sides before lowering his head and claiming her lips.

His kiss had all the possession of the previous night, all the constrained passion, but something else lurked behind it. A frustrated restraint. A probing inquisition.

Moaning, Farah relaxed into the kiss, opening beneath his lips and leaning against the unyielding strength of his chest. Perhaps if he didn't like her dress, he could rid her of it, and they could pass the long train ride from Glasgow to London as newlyweds ought to.

An insistent length pressed against her through her skirts, the evidence that his body supported her plans for the afternoon. She purred into his mouth and rubbed against his swelling erection, signaling that she was not just receptive, but aroused.

She found herself thrust onto the chaise, and her panting husband standing across the railcar from her, pouring himself another drink. A rather large one.

“Dorian,” she began.

He pointed a shaking finger at her as he tossed back enough whisky that it took two gulping swallows for him to finish it. “Don't. Move.”

“Or what, you'll throw yourself from a speeding train?” Oh, dear, perhaps it wasn't the best idea to plant that suggestion. The train wasn't speeding as of yet.

His eye narrowed into a dangerous slit. “Take care with what you say to me, wife.”

Chastened, Farah realized her words had been unnecessarily inflammatory, but she wasn't one to avoid a situation. “One can only be rejected and discarded so often before one starts to take offense.”

“Discarded?” He enunciated the syllables with a dumbfounded artlessness.

“You left me last night. Why?” The moment Farah asked the question, she wanted to take it back. What right had she to act like a jilted bride? He'd said he would get her with child, but affection hadn't been part of the bargain, had it?

He poured himself another drink and gave her his back. “You wouldn't have wanted me to stay.”

“I wouldn't have asked you to if I didn't want it.”

“You don't understand.”

“You keep saying that.” She huffed. “But I comprehend more than you realize!”

Dorian stilled, his broad back tense and immobile as a mountain. “What do you presume to know about me?” he asked coldly.

Farah chose her next words with care. “Only that last night was a first for both of us, and I think it was a rather rare and unexpected experience. I suppose I anticipated—I don't know—an acknowledgment of the pleasure we shared.”

“I thought our pleasure was acknowledged rather loudly,” he commented wryly, tossing back another scotch.

“It was,” she agreed, heat rippling across her skin at the memory. “And then you were gone almost without another word.”

“And it will always be thus. I will
not
sleep with you. Ever. I'll thank you not to ask me again.”

“You will not? Or you cannot?” she prompted gently.

His glass made an angry sound as he slammed it on the table. “
Christ,
woman, can you leave no wound unsalted? No shadow unilluminated?” He stalked to where she perched on the chaise, looming over her. “Do you have no darkness or secrets that you'd rather not expose to me? Do you not fear I'll use them against you? Because that's what people do. What
I
do.” His features were more uncertain than angry, more desperate than dangerous.

“You are the only person to whom all my secrets have been bared,” she answered honestly. “And I had no choice in the matter. I have not only been naked in front of you, but also exposed to you, in every way.” She let that sink in, watched him realize the truth in her words. “And,” she continued, her eyes drawn to the snug fit of his trousers and the ridge beneath. “I found some of those expositions rather liberating.”

His gaze darkened, taking on that dangerous glint that she'd come to understand was unpredictable. She liked him this way, anything was better than the wall of ice.

“You see, husband, I have nothing left to fear but death.”

“
That
is where you're wrong.” His usually silky voice thickened to the texture of the jagged Highland stones. Whether from the strong liquor or the bleak memories swirling in his eyes, she couldn't be sure. “There are so many things more terrifying than death.”

In that moment, Farah was certain he'd been exposed to them all. She tilted her head back, feeling the stretch in her exposed throat as she gazed up the expanse of his torso to meet the dark glitter in his devilish eye. “What is it that you fear, husband?” she asked, allowing herself to lean toward him in infinitesimal degrees. “Why do you deny me your company at night?”

He watched her move toward him, making no attempt to stop her. Nor did he retreat. “My dreams,” he muttered. “Often they're nothing more than memories. They follow me back to this world and they're—violent. I could hurt you, Farah, badly, and not even realize what I was doing until it was too late.”

That was why he'd left? To protect her? “Perhaps we could work on it. Next time we could try—”

“There may not need be a next time.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You could already be with child.”

Farah's hand flew to her abdomen. “Surely, but that doesn't mean that we won't—you know. It likely takes more than once.”

“We'll revisit this discussion when we know if it's relevant or not.”

“But, don't you
want
to?”

He leaned closer as well, that cruel sneer affixed to his features. “Do you? Do you want me to defile you like that again? To tie you up and use your body as a receptacle for my seed, an object for my pleasure?”

Of course she did. Without question. But the way in which he worded his queries perplexed her. “You weren't the only one who found pleasure.”

“What if you hadn't?”

“But I did.”

“Not in the way you were supposed to, not for your first time.”

Farah shrugged. “Who gets to say how we find our pleasure together?”

“I
hurt
you,” he gritted out, his lips drawing tight, even as his body responded to the conversation.

“Yes, for a moment, but as I understand it, all virgins experience a bit of discomfort at first. You also pleased me beyond words. And I'd like to think that—I could do the same if you'd let me.” Farah curled her fingers within her gloves. It was epically difficult not to reach for him. His body, so at odds with his mind, strained and beckoned to her, and she'd promised not to reach out, no matter how badly they both craved it. So she kept leaning forward, toward the flat expanse of his stomach, a flesh-colored shadow beneath the crisp white of the shirt tucked into snug dark trousers. Beneath the dark wool, that long ridge of his manhood flexed and strained, and her body answered as she imagined it always would.

Last night, her husband had put his wicked mouth on her, causing her unimaginable pleasure. Could she have the same effect on him? What if she pressed her mouth against that hard length? What would he do?

She turned her head, running her cheek along the slightly abrading fabric, feeling the heat of the flesh beneath.

“Farah,”
He growled a warning.

“Yes?” she breathed, her chest suddenly tight, filled to the brim with anticipation, her body releasing a slick rush of desire.

“I brought ye tea and snacks!” Murdoch announced as the door to the bridge joining the railcars burst open with a blast of cold early-evening air. “They call this first-class fare, but if it is, I'll eat my own hat.” He kicked the door closed. “Be glad ye left Frank at home; he'd be appalled.”

“Mr. Murdoch!” In her surprise, Farah stood abruptly, bringing her almost chest to torso with her husband, who stepped back. If Dorian Blackwell could look guilty, he almost pulled it off just then.

Murdoch stared for a beat longer than necessary. “I've—interrupted something.”

Searching her husband's enigmatic face, she looked for the hope of regaining the moment, but his mask was back in place, and she gave a disappointed sigh. “Not at all, Murdoch, tea sounds just lovely.” She turned back to Dorian. “Join us?”

Dorian regarded the delicate table with even more delicate chairs and scowled. With the three of them, they'd have to sit rather close. “I have paperwork to attend and business to set in order before we reach London.” He abandoned them to their tea for his plush throne, ignoring them as effectively as though he'd shut an invisible door.

Farah watched his retreat with smarting eyes. Was he able to shut off his body's response to her so completely? Would he always leave her so unsatisfied?

Regardless, tea and conversation with Murdoch was a lovely break from the ceaseless intensity of her husband's company. They talked of pleasant things, books, theater, the Strand. Farah couldn't help but steal glances at Blackwell as he wrote over a mobile desk, bent above ledger books and breaking the seals on important-looking documents. If he marked their conversation, he gave no indication.

After tea, she and Murdoch settled into a card game and laughed over some more amusing tales from the Yard along with more ridiculous happenings at Pierre de Gaule's caf
é
beneath her flat. After one of her lively stories involving a Parisian painter and an English poet's fight over a rather famous Russian ballerina, Murdoch held up his hand and begged her to stop, wiping tears of mirth from the corner of his eyes.

They took a moment to sober and he stood to pour them a glass of wine. “May I ask ye something that we've all been wondering, my lady?”

Farah lifted the wine to her lips and paused. “I'm not a lady yet, Murdoch, but you may ask me anything you like. I'm an open book.”
Unlike some,
she thought, her eyes sliding over to study the sinew of Dorian's curved neck. Despite all they'd done last night, he was still such a mystery. She'd barely glimpsed more flesh than his face and throat, and hardly that. There was a powerful, masculine form beneath the layers of finery. Would she ever have occasion to gaze upon it?

Murdoch settled with his own glass and retrieved his hand of cards. “Where have ye been, lass?”

Farah paused, rolling the sweet blended red wine in her mouth before swallowing, trying to drag her thoughts away from her husband. Lord, would she ever get used to that word? “What do you mean?”

“Ye left that orphanage seventeen years back. Where did ye go? What did ye do to get by?”

Dorian's fist made them both jump as it slammed down on his desk.
“Murdoch,”
he growled.

“Oh, doona pretend ye havena been dyin' to know!” Murdoch was likely the only man alive who could wave a dismissive hand at the Blackheart of Ben More and keep the offending appendage.

“Have you considered that it may not be something she can bear to tell, or that you can bear to hear?” Her husband's low voice rumbled from between gritted teeth.

“It's all right,” Farah offered, setting her glass on the table. “The tale is neither terribly amusing, nor traumatic. I don't mind telling you.”

“I'll have no part of it,” Dorian stated without looking up from his desk.

“Then regale
me,
lass. How did the daughter of an earl come to work at Scotland Yard?” Murdoch asked.

Farah stared into the wine, a lovely plum color in her dainty crystal glass. It had been ages since she'd thought about those hellish, angst-ridden weeks after they'd taken Dougan away. “I found out from Sister Margaret that they'd taken Dougan to Fort William. On that same day I also learned that she'd informed Mr. Warrington of my—attachment to Dougan and that we'd attempted to run away, and he was on his way to collect me.”

“So ye ran?”

Farah smirked. “After a fashion. I was small enough to stow away behind the trunk strapped to the luggage rack on the rear of Mr. Warrington's coach. Once they'd stopped looking for me, I rode behind Warrington's conveyance all the way to Fort William, certainly a less comfortable journey than this one.”

Murdoch chuckled. “Bastard didna even know ye were there. Clever lass.”

Clinking Murdoch's offered glass with her own, she gave him a wry smile. “Once I reached Fort William, they'd already sent Dougan off to a prison in southern Glasgow called ‘the Burgh.' And so I stowed on a post carriage from Fort William to Glasgow.”

“And ye didna get caught all that way?” Murdoch asked.