The Highwayman (Victorian Rebels Book 1)

“Good morning, Mrs. Blackwell!” Daylight burst into the room, jarring Farah awake as drapes slid along their rails, grappled by a cheerful Murdoch. “I trust ye slept well?”

The sun battled its way through high white clouds and low gray mist, but still managed an illuminating brilliance.

Only in the Highlands.

“Good morning, Murdoch.” Farah yawned, blinking the film of sleep from her vision. “What time is it?”

“I let ye sleep as late as I dare, lass, but Blackwe—Jesus Christ Almighty, the bloody oaf tied ye up?”

Startled, Farah tested the movements of her arm, only just becoming aware that her left hand was still above her head, secured by Dougan’s plaid to the headboard. She must have been so exhausted last night that she’d drifted off without untying herself.

Farah looked up at the hand that had since lost all feeling resting limply against the mattress and headboard, wrapped in a faded cloth woven with black, gold, and blue.

A reminder of what binds us, she thought. The interpretation of her husband’s words now alarmingly literal rather than just figurative.

Murdoch rushed to her side, reminding her that she’d also fallen asleep quite nude. Grasping the bedclothes to her chest, she allowed him to work the knot free.

“No wonder he lit out of here this morning like the devil chased him. He knew we’d all turn on him and flay his skin from his bones with a dull knife for treating ye like this. And on yer wedding night! I doona care if he is Dorian bloody Blackwell, when I see him I’m going to—”

“It’s all right, Murdoch,” Farah soothed, testing her tingling fingers once they were released and wincing as the blood rushed back with little needles of fire. “It needed to be done in order to—You see, I reached for him in a moment of…” Farah closed her eyes against the blush heating her skin. When she opened them again, Murdoch regarded her with a mixture of regret and understanding, carefully handing her plaid back to her.

“He didna hurt ye, did he?”

Farah shook her head, sitting up and inspecting the faint bruises around her wrists, and testing the twinges and aches in muscles she’d never before been aware of. “I rather think last night was more difficult for him than for me.”

“Aye.” Murdoch nodded his agreement. “I imagine so. This isna like him…”

Farah’s lips lifted in a sardonic smile. “I would have guessed this is exactly like him.”

“Not when it comes to ye,” Murdoch insisted.

“What do you mean?”

The burly Scot cast his eyes away and turned from her, gathering familiar lacy underthings from where they draped, and laid them out for her at the foot of the bed along with her silk polonaise that she’d worn the night of her abduction. “I only meant that ye’re Dougan’s Fairy. He should have been gentle and taken great care with ye.”

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.

Were those the same pair of gloves he’d worn the night before?

He stood when she moved from the shadow of the narrow hallway and passed the two long, lavish chaise longues that served as the alternate seating, accompanied by a small dining table with delicate Louis XVI chairs. He tossed his drink back and set the glass on the sideboard. A long silent moment passed as he began a thorough inspection from her sedately knotted hair all the way down to her one good pair of slippers, a questioning anxiety lurking behind the ever-present frost.

Long legs ate up the distance between them in two strides and he stopped just far enough away to be out of her reach. “Are you—I—”

Certain that catching the Blackheart of Ben More stuttering and speechless was a rare and marked occasion, Farah quirked her lip and eyebrow at him. “Yes?” she encouraged.

He blinked the moment away and brackets appeared around his hard mouth as it turned downward into a troubled frown. “We’re visiting a seamstress the moment we get to London.”

“Oh? Why the moment we arrive? Don’t we have rather more pressing concerns?”

His lip curled in the fashion that announced he was about to say something cruel. “I dislike that dress immensely, and I noticed you have none better in your wardrobe.”

“What’s wrong with my dress?” She looked down at herself, smoothing a hand over the foamy green fabric that had cost a month’s savings. “I thought the color rather suited me.”

“Yes, and so did Carlton Morley.”

Farah’s smile returned. For someone so notoriously indifferent, her husband certainly had a jealous nature. The revelation shouldn’t please her as much as it did. “Well, if my wardrobe insults you so, I suppose I’ll have to resign myself to a new and expensive trousseau.” She gave a long-suffering sigh. “Such is my burden.”

Farah could tell she’d flummoxed him by his alert stare. “That … displeases you?”

Did it matter to him? “While a woman never likes to have her taste in fashion questioned, one can never go wrong by offering her a chance to buy a new dress.” She flashed him a cheeky smile. “Or several, in your case.”

Dorian studied her smile as his frown deepened and two furrows appeared between his ebony brows. It seemed that her good humor darkened his mood, almost as though he’d expected her to be cross or angry. “You should sit,” he ordered, gesturing to the plush chair he’d just vacated.

“Is that not your place?”

“Take it,” he insisted, his intent scrutiny oddly restless. One moment he was staring at her wrists, protected by silk gloves. Then he squinted at her left breast as though he could see through her layers to the plaid protecting her heart. He inspected other parts, her lips, her waist, and her skirts.

“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 café 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.

“Of course I did.” Farah laughed. “I was a terrible stowaway. But I told the post carrier who caught me that my name was Farah Mackenzie and my brother and I were orphans and I needed to find him in Glasgow. The man took pity on me, bought me a meal, and let me sit up front for the rest of the way beneath a blanket.”

Blackwell snorted from across the car. “You’re lucky that’s all he did.”

“I know that now,” Farah conceded. “I was rather naïve at the time.”

“I can’t believe you were foolish enough to strike out on your own,” he continued darkly, flinging a letter to his table. “It’s a miracle that—”

“I thought ye were having none of this conversation,” Murdoch quipped, winking at Farah.

“I’m not. But the idea of a tiny, sheltered ten-year-old girl on the streets of Glasgow—”

“If ye want to be involved, come over here and involve yerself, otherwise, kindly shut it and let the lady finish her story.”

Farah was certain Murdoch had signed his death warrant, but Dorian only muttered a foul blasphemy under his breath, dipped his pen in ink, and resumed his work.

“Ye were saying?” Murdoch prompted.

“Oh, yes, um, where was I?”

“Glasgow.”

“Right. I found the same story at Glasgow that I did at Fort William. The Burgh was only built to house forty people and currently incarcerated over a hundred. So they’d already shipped Dougan off to Newgate to work on the railways. The post carrier, Robert Mackenzie was his name, told me he had a cousin in London who worked as a grocery delivery man. He said that he couldn’t leave a little one from his clan undefended, so he bought me a ticket on the train and sent me to London. Sweetest man,” Farah recalled. “I sent him letters every month for a decade until he passed from a heart problem.”

“And his cousin was kind to ye?” Murdoch asked.

“Oh, yes. Craig Mackenzie and his wife, Coleen, were only ever able to have one child, a rather sickly girl named Agatha. Seeing as how I boasted the same last name, no one particularly questioned my presence in their home. He needed help with his deliveries, and so I made certain my rounds took me by Newgate, where I left food and such for Dougan which was subtracted from my own wages. I worked with Mr. Mackenzie for seven or so years, and didn’t mind it so much. Until the year Dougan—died. Everything seemed to change after that. Craig left Coleen for a Spanish dancing girl. They ran off to the Continent and so his business went under. Coleen’s sister said she’d heard that they were hiring maintenance staff at Scotland Yard, and so, at seventeen, Agatha and I went to work there as maids.”

Dorian’s quill scratched to a halt on his desk, but he still didn’t look at her. “I was searching all over the damned Scottish Highlands for you, and you were scrubbing the cesspool floors of Scotland Yard?”

“Not for very long,” Farah announced proudly. “Before Carlton—”

Dorian’s head shot up and he skewered her with his glare.

“I mean before Chief Inspector Morley took office, a man by the name of Victor Thomas James held his post. You see, because of Agatha’s poor health, I often stayed late to finish her chores, as well. One of which was laying all the fires for the Yard offices. Chief Inspector James was one of the most decorated detectives in the history of the Yard; however, his eyesight had begun to fail, but he wasn’t ready to retire. One night, while tidying his office and stoking the fire, I helped read a particularly untidy document. The next night, he had a stack for me to read and an extra ha’penny for my troubles. Over the course of two years, I became indispensable to him, and he installed me as a widowed clerk at twenty.” Farah lifted her shoulders. “The nature of the work at the Yard is rather transitory. Men come and go, are transferred, sacked, killed, or promoted. After maybe five years, Agatha had married and no one who knew me as a maid still worked at that office. I was merely Mrs. Farah Mackenzie, a widowed bluestocking. Chief Inspector James retired six years hence, Morley took his place, and there I have remained until, well, until a few days ago.”

The two very differently featured men shared identical expressions of abject disbelief for long enough to make Farah want to squirm.

“To think of the trouble we went through to find ye this wee fairy, Blackwell, and all this time she was right under our noses. All ye would have had to do is the one thing ye swore ye wouldna.” Murdoch turned to toss his employer a pained and ironic look.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Get arrested.”

“That is how you found me.”

Murdoch chuckled. “Aye, but we orchestrated that, so it doesna count.”

Farah thought a moment, wondering whom they had on the inside who would have helped with said orchestration. “Inspector McTavish?”

Murdoch laughed and slapped his thigh. “Dougan always said ye were a witty lass!”

She remembered the beating Blackwell had taken whilst locked away in the strong room. The echoes of a bruise and the all-but-healed cut on his lip reminded her of the lengths he must have gone to. “I am sorry you were mistreated by Morley,” she offered. “I don’t know what got into him.”

Dorian’s gaze touched her in places that made memories dance along the nerves of her skin until she was overwarm and aching. “I do.”

As her face heated, she ducked it down and retrieved her own cards. “Just a point of curiosity, were you responsible for the deaths of those three Newgate prison guards Morley accused you of?”

Her husband didn’t lift his head from his work, his pen never pausing in its relentless scratch across the page. “No, I wasn’t responsible for their deaths,” he said darkly.

Farah blew a quiet but relieved sigh.

“I killed them each, myself.”