The Highwayman (Victorian Rebels Book 1)

Dorian Blackwell’s words proved prophetic, Farah realized, as she woke from a dreamless sleep with sunlight spilling across her bed and pleasantly warming her skin. Her thoughts and vision had, indeed, cleared away with last night’s storm clouds, leaving her rested and restless all at once.

Blinking against the brightness of the morning, she became aware of busy, rustling noises coming from inside her room. Gasping, she sat up like a shot as a fire flared to life in the gigantic fireplace, set by a short but husky man dressed far too well to be in the service profession.

He turned to face her, his graying beard split into a cheerful smile. “Why, good morning, Mrs. Mackenzie! What a pleasure it is to finally meet ye.” He crossed the room with startling speed for such a short, stout man.

Alarmed, Farah snatched the covers to her loosened bodice, though only her silk chemise was revealed beneath the opened buttons. “Don’t—don’t come any closer.” She held up her hand in what she realized was a ridiculous motion to stop him.

Surprisingly, it proved effective, and he paused near the foot of the bed.

Soft blue eyes gentled as did the grooves in his cheeks, lending him a very fatherly appearance. “Ye’ve nothing to fear from me, dear lass, I’m only here to lay yer fire and bring ye breakfast.” He motioned to the tray set by his left hand at the foot of the bed. “No doubt yer belly’s a wee dicey, so I brought ye some rice pudding, a quail’s egg, toast, and some tea.”

As Farah eyed the artfully arranged plate, her stomach let out a hungry sound of protest, then pitched unsteadily.

The smile returned to the man’s cheeks, glowing with pleasure. “’Tis as I thought.” He grabbed the tray and carefully carried it toward her, setting it over her lap. “Ye can breakfast like a proper lady.” He beamed, handing her a linen.

Automatically, Farah reached up to accept the linen, settling it where it belonged while he poured tea into a delicate china cup the most lovely shade of mint green.

“You’re—Mr. Murdoch,” she said, recognizing his grizzled voice. “From the train.”

The look he cast her from beneath his lashes was impossible to interpret. “Aye,” he said finally. “Though I was hoping ye didna remember anything from the journey. We kept ye out so as to cause ye the least amount of distress.”

Farah gaped at him. Distress? Who could not feel distress when they were kidnapped and taken to this isolated part of the world? And what was this man about, treating her as though she was a welcome guest instead of a hostage?

“Sugar? Cream?” He solicitously gestured to the matching tea service full of foamy fresh cream and lumps of cubed sugar.

“No, thank you.” Manners dictated she be polite, even to her captors. She studied Murdoch as she lifted the cup to her lips, freezing mid-tilt as she realized there might be something other than just tea in the brew.

“Have ye no fear, lass, ’tis just a breakfast tea, no more.” He correctly deciphered her thoughts.

Farah drank. If he were going to dose her again with whatever had knocked her unconscious, he’d likely hold the cloth over her mouth and nose as they’d initially done. The tea was strong and good and, though she was used to coffee in the morning, it helped to dispel the lingering cobwebs in the corners of her mind.

“Isn’t there a chambermaid who could attend me?” she asked, hoping for sympathetic female company, along with a chance to escape. “You are obviously too important and well appointed to be in service.”

A sliver of knowing mischief slipped into his ever-present smile. “He said ye’d be as bright as ye are beautiful,” Murdoch praised, picking up the spoon and handing it to her while nudging the crystal dish of rice pudding toward her.

Farah hoped he didn’t see her blanch at the compliment, knowing the source to which he referred.

“There are no women here at Ben More, ye see, and I’m the only man the master of the castle would allow in yer boudoir to attend ye. Now eat up. Gather yer strength.”

This was a command Farah didn’t disagree with. If she were to escape her present circumstances, she needed to keep a cool head, gather information, and indeed, regain her strength. “Why you?” she asked, before taking her first bite of the honey-sweet pudding that melted in a mélange of spices on her tongue. She couldn’t help but savor the confectionary taste of what had looked like a boring dish, in spite of everything.

Murdoch shifted his weight a little uncomfortably. “Well, lass, that would be due to my lack of … er … romantic proclivities … toward women … that is…”

“You prefer men,” Farah deduced around a second spoonful.

He blinked, obviously not expecting her to be so blunt. “That’s the way of it,” he admitted. “Hope that doesna offend ye.”

“That doesn’t offend me in the least,” Farah said. “Though I do take exception to the part about you being a kidnapper, and who knows what else, for the most notorious criminal on the isle.”

At that, Murdoch threw his head back and laughed until he was gripping the sides of his suit coat as though to hold the seams together. “Ye’re a brave lass for someone so wee,” he said. “Ye’ll need it in the days to come, I think.”

That gave her heart a kick, and Farah found it hard to swallow the next mouthful. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, remembering Dorian Blackwell’s words about being out of danger. Or had it been in danger? Last night seemed like a dream at this point, and faded just as readily. Except for the lightning in his eyes, and the way he’d reached toward her. Like a man in the desert reaches for a mirage.

“That’s a simple question with a complicated answer, lass, best leave it to Blackwell to explain it all to ye.”

Farah’s stomach erupted into a flurry of moths at the thought of facing Dorian Blackwell again. “Mr. Murdoch,” she began.

“Just Murdoch, ma’am.”

“All right. Murdoch. Could you not just … give me an idea about why I’ve been brought here?” she implored. “All I can do is dream up the worst possible scenarios, and I’d like to be prepared to see your—employer.”

“I’m sorry, lass, but orders are orders.” To his credit, the man did seem genuinely regretful. “But I want ye to know that not one of the inhabitants of Ben More Castle will raise a finger to do aught to ye but yer bidding.”

“As long as I don’t escape,” Farah pointed out, cutting into her quail’s egg.

Murdoch’s smile disappeared. “Right. Yes.”

“And only if I behave like a proper hostage.” She popped a bite in her mouth, delighted to find the egg had been cooked in butter.

“Well—that’s not—I mean—we’d all be obliged if ye’d—”

“And insomuch as my request doesn’t contradict with Blackwell’s orders.”

“Also … that.” Increasingly uncomfortable, Murdoch backed toward the door. “But ye’re safe, is what I was saying, no matter how frightening any of the blokes around here appear.”

“Well, then, I shall strive to be the best possible prisoner this castle has ever incarcerated.” Farah took a dainty sip of her tea, enjoying Murdoch’s discomfiture. He deserved it, the knave, despite his solicitous manner. He’d had a hand in her kidnapping and she’d do well to remember that. It would help her to fight the growing urge to like him.

“Och, lass, I’d ask ye not to see things in that way,” he said seriously, a wrinkle of worry appearing between his brows. “Give Blackwell a chance to explain the situation and maybe … ye’ll see things a bit differently.” Putting his hand on the doorknob, he regarded her as she ate her breakfast as though waiting for a response.

“Very well, Murdoch,” Farah said, hoping she was convincing enough.

He seemed to relax. “There are some ladies’ clothes in the attic,” he supplied. “How’s about I go searching for some while ye eat and finish yer tea, then I’ll come back and gather yer dress to launder it. Would ye like me to see about a bath?”

She nodded around a bite of toast, and the husky Scotsman scuffled out of the room.

Farah listened for the sound of his boots to carry him away from her door before she shoved the remaining bites of toast into her mouth and washed it down with scalding gulps of tea. He hadn’t locked the door behind him. This could be her only chance. If Farah knew anything, it was that women who went missing were rarely ever found, and though the best and brightest investigative minds would be looking for her, no one would ever imagine she’d been taken to Ben More Castle. Liberation was her responsibility, alone, and she intended to take the risk rather than await her fate in the silk-draped luxury of her castle chamber.

Finishing the perfectly cooked quail’s egg in two bites, she set her tray on the ground and leaped out of the bed, her fingers flying to fasten the buttons on her bodice. It really was a shame that she’d have to attempt escape in her lovely evening wear, but at least the extra layers of her full skirts would help keep her warm.

She found her purse, shawl, and slippers draped over a soft blue velvet chair next to the beckoning fireplace, and she checked inside the satin bag to find enough coin to hopefully secure her passage back onto the mainland. After that, she would try to find a local constable, and see if she couldn’t return to London on a little credit and professional courtesy.

After a fruitless check of the white wood wardrobe, she despaired of finding a cape or pelisse and prayed the sunshine would hold for a few more hours. Crossing to the large windows, she investigated the castle grounds.

The dazzling sight that greeted her stole a sigh from her lips. Ben More Castle lorded over a wide peninsula from atop a foundation of craggy gray and black rock. Farah followed the gentle slope of the hill as the emerald grass crawled toward the coast where the sun glinted off the calm gray-blue waters of the sound. Grazing sheep dotted the pastoral view, and the beauty of it distracted her from the urgency of the moment. The mountains of the Scottish mainland were visible across the narrow channel, close and yet unattainable.

The windows faced east, which meant land was to the west and north of here. Where there was a castle, a village always hunkered nearby, and if she had any chance of finding someone to help her across the channel, she’d find it among the fishermen and porters who doubtless lived there.

Farah wrapped her shawl around her disheveled curls and stepped into her slippers on her way to the bedroom door. She only looked over her shoulder once, pausing to consider her options. Despite her rush to escape, a niggling curiosity seized her. Why had the Blackheart of Ben More brought her here? What possible use could she have been to him?

A dark fear whispered to her that she likely didn’t want to linger long enough to find out. With a pounding heart and a surprisingly steady hand, Farah eased open her door and pressed an eye to the crack, checking for a guard. Finding none, she slipped through the opening and softly shut it behind her.

Instead of cold gray stone, the halls of Ben More Castle were updated with plush burgundy carpets and Italian marble floors. Farah silently followed the dark wood panels along the hall toward a grand open gallery stairway. The carpets muffled her light footfalls, but it would do the same for anyone deciding to trail her, so she was careful to look out for Murdoch or any of the other frightening characters who might be in Blackwell’s employ. The front gallery must have been an older wing of the structure, because it could have been the great hall of any medieval castle. The chilly stone was warmed by lush woven tapestries and a wrought-iron chandelier dangled over a wide stone staircase.

Farah barely paid her expensive surroundings any heed as she crouched to the level of the chiseled stone railing, as a side door opened on the floor below the curved stone staircase and two booming male voices echoed through the hall. Footmen, she realized, as they crossed the foyer in their heavy boots and left by way of the impressive and ornate front doors.

Well, she hadn’t expected to escape by just walking out the front doors, had she? She remembered back to another escape attempt …

The kitchens. They’d be on the ground floor or below, and have places to hide if need be. And if she was caught on the way there, she could claim to be in search of food.

Farah didn’t breathe as she tiptoed down the grand staircase and dashed across the wide stone entry. The kitchens would be in back of the keep if this castle were built like any of those in England, which would be, thankfully, on the north and west sides. Feeling as though providence was with her, she wound her way through the ground floor among a maze of hallways, past an intriguing library, a neglected rectory, and numerous sitting rooms. When she found the dining hall, she knew she’d come in the right direction. Other than the footmen, she didn’t meet another soul.

A large, fragrant stewpot simmered over a cookstove in the kitchen, and on the flour-covered island, steaming fruit tartlets rested in neat, scrumptious rows. Farah’s mouth watered at the scent, and her fingers itched for the tarts, but she resisted, knowing that her window for escape narrowed with each passing second. Murdoch would return to her rooms eventually, to find her gone, and she needed to be at least a mile away by then.

The door across the large and well-stocked kitchen actually stood ajar next to an open pantry door adjacent to it. Perhaps the cook was down in the cellars or the larder.

Her timing couldn’t be better.

Toes barely touching the floor, she flew past the island, the ovens, and the simmering food, clutching her shawl to her chin and lifting her voluminous skirts. Sunshine spilled over the stones and touched her face for a glorious moment as she pulled the heavy door wide enough for her to slip through.

Farah’s shoulder was nearly wrenched from its socket as her only hope of escape was slammed shut by a meaty hand.

“No,” said the sloe-eyed giant, wagging his other finger as though scolding an ill-mannered hound. “No leaving.”

Farah leaped back, banging into the sharp edge of a counter. Biting back a curse and a cry, she clutched her hip and tried not to cringe away from the hulking, ill-formed bald man who resembled something like Frankenstein’s monster, complete with scars, marks, and very gentle brown eyes.

“Please,” she implored him desperately. “Please let me go. I’m being held here against my will. No one will know that you let me leave. Have pity on me.”

In response to her pleas, the man shut the pantry, and positioned himself in front of the kitchen door, a silent sentry against her escape.

“I have money,” Farah tried, dumping the coins in her purse onto the counter. “It’s yours if you’ll just let me pass.”

Frankenstein remained quiet, crossing his arms over his belly and still regarding her with a mixture of patience and pity.

Spying the cutlery, Farah lunged for the largest knife she could find, and brandished it at him. “You will let me go, this instant.”

The infuriating quirk of his lips told her she’d just amused him.

“I—I mean it. I don’t want to hurt you.” The thought of doing anyone violence made her ill, but she tried to put on the most determined expression she was capable of producing.

His amusement turned into a disconcerting smile uncovering sharp teeth spaced at alarming intervals. “You won’t,” he said in the relaxed voice of a simpleton. An English simpleton. Strange, that.

“I most certainly will if you don’t step aside and—”

With a movement much too quick for such a slow-talking beast, he relieved her of the knife without so much as touching her, and set it on the counter out of her reach.

What would he do now? Farah could feel the blood draining from her face, but the man’s eyes sparkled at her as though she’d pleased him somehow. “He needs you,” Frankenstein informed her genially. “Go to him.”

“I’d rather go to the devil!” she spat, again not needing clarification regarding just who he was. Turning from him, she faced the cook island behind her, seething with indignation and not a little bit of fear.

A sigh evoking a bovine character emitted from the bull-statured man behind her. “You were Dougan’s Fairy,” he said, his voice touched with a bit of awe.

Farah whirled back around. “What?” She gasped.

“He told me you looked like one. With silver curls and silver eyes and tiny freckles.” He pointed at her hair as though to show her the color.

Farah blinked rapidly at the hulk of a man in front of her, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “You knew Dougan Mackenzie?” she breathed.

“I’s in prison with him. We all were. Long time ago.”

“Tell me,” she begged, all thoughts of fear and escape evaporating at Dougan’s name. “Please, sir, can you tell me what he said? Tell me about—”

“Go to him, first.” Frankenstein’s meaty hand scratched a large scar on his head. “In the study. That will give me time to remember words.”

“I can stay here while you remember.” Farah stalled, wondering if this man had been born so handicapped or made so by his many obvious head injuries. Searching for anything to distract him, she eyed the tartlets. “You made my breakfast, didn’t you?”

He nodded.

“It was very good,” she said truthfully. “Do you think that maybe—”

“Go. Now. Talk later.” The cook’s expression became stubborn as he thrust a finger toward the door.

“I don’t want to go to Blackwell. I want to go home!”

“He needs you, Fairy.” He blinked at her and nodded in encouragement.

“Don’t ever call me by that name!” Without realizing what she was doing, Farah took a threatening step toward him and he backed up into the door, his eyes wide and mystified. “Do you understand me? You haven’t the right to call me that!”

Farah had the notion she’d surprised them both with the intensity of her reaction, but this situation infuriated and, she’d admit it, intrigued her. So many questions about her past were left unanswered, and perhaps those answers waited for her in this isolated castle. And yet, what if there was nothing here for her but danger? What if, behind the solicitous staff and handsome décor, awaited a Machiavellian predator who was simply playing with her before she became his next meal?

She couldn’t take much more of this. “I’ll go to him,” Farah snapped. “You leave me no choice.”

He nodded again, as though oblivious and satisfied. “You can take some tarts if you’d like,” he offered.

“Not a chance.” Farah swiped her coins back into her purse and huffed to the door, thoroughly exasperated. Why was it that every time she came close to answers, to truth, she was thwarted by thickheaded men? It was inconceivably irritating.

Pausing, she turned back around. “What kind of tarts?”

“Strawberry.” Frankenstein wiped his hands on his apron and held the tray out to her.

Cursing her inability to refuse pastries, she took one of the bite-sized confections. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you for being a kidnapping criminal.”

“’Course not,” he agreed.

“Just so we’re clear.” She popped it into her mouth, and instantly butter, sugar, and the tartness of spring strawberries delighted her palate. “Oh, Lord,” she moaned, unable to help herself.

His teeth, or lack thereof, appeared again as his lips peeled back in a genuine smile. Farah considered the man in front of her as she chewed. He looked so out of place in the Parisian-style kitchen stocked with the latest and most expensive of instruments, like he’d be better suited to a blacksmith’s stable or—well—a prison hulk. Regardless of that, he was a very talented chef.

“What is your name?” Farah couldn’t stop herself from asking.

“Walters.”

“Walters.” She took another tart, and then another. “Is that your first name, or your last?”

He took longer to answer than the question warranted. “Can’t say as I remember. Just Walters, though I’d like to have a first name, I expect.”

Farah thought about it for the space of another tart before deciding. “What about ‘Frank’?” she suggested, switching her third tartlet to her other hand before reaching for a fourth.

“Frank Walters.” He savored the name like she savored his tarts.

“A right proper name,” she told him. For a right proper Frankenstein. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I apparently have an appointment with a blackhearted criminal mastermind.”

Farah got lost taking one too many turns through the winding halls before finding the study. She’d dawdled in the library for a few minutes, distracted by the floor-to-ceiling bookcases and the iron spiral staircase leading to the second floor. The study was, as she predicted, located in a resplendent room off the grand entry. Though when she peeked her head in—apparently no one closed doors in this blasted keep—she found the handsome massive room empty.

No, not empty, per se. Though devoid of anyone else, a strange and dynamic presence lingered in every corner of the masculine study. Farah could smell it in the pungent notes of cigar smoke clinging to the supple dark leather furniture. The aroma mixed with cedar and whatever citrus oil was used to clean the enormous desk flanked by even more dark wood bookcases. No sunlight pierced through heavy drawn wine-red velvet drapes. The only light in the room was provided by two lamps on the neat desk and another fireplace that could house a small family from Cheapside.

Drawn by unseen hands, Farah took a tentative step into the study, and then another. The rustling of her skirts and rasp of her breath disturbed the halcyon purity of the stillness. The beats of her heart echoed as loud as cannon blasts in her ears as she entered the private lair of Dorian Blackwell.

Farah tried to imagine a man such as the Blackheart of Ben More in this room, doing something as pedestrian as writing a letter or surveying ledgers. Running the fingers of her free hand along a bronze paperweight of a fleet ship atop his enormous desk, she found the image impossible to produce.

“I see you’ve already attempted escape.”

Snatching her hand back, Farah held it to her heaving chest as she turned to face her captor now standing in the doorway.

He was even taller than she remembered. Darker. Larger.

Colder.

Even standing in the sunlight let in by the windows of the foyer, Farah knew he belonged to the shadows in this room. As if to illustrate her point, he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, effectively cutting off all sources of natural light.

An eye patch covered his damaged eye, only allowing glimpses of the edge of his scar, but the message illuminated by the fire didn’t need both eyes to be conveyed.

I have you now.

How true that was. Her life depended on the mercy of this man who was infamous for his lack of mercy.

The black suit coat that barely contained his wide shoulders stretched with his movements, but what arrested Farah’s attention was the achingly familiar blue, gold, and black pattern of his kilt. The Mackenzie plaid. She hadn’t known that a man’s knees could be so muscular, or that beneath the dusting of fine black hair, powerful legs tucked into large black boots could be so arresting.

She backed against his desk as he stepped toward her, evoking once more the image of a prowling jaguar. The firelight danced off the broad angles of his enigmatic face and shadowed a nose broken one too many times to any longer be called aristocratic. Of course, despite his expensive cravat, tailored clothing, and ebony hair cut into short and fashionable layers, nothing at all about Dorian Blackwell bespoke a gentleman. A fading bruise colored his jaw and a cut healed on his lip. She’d missed that last night in the storm, but knew it was Morley’s fists that had wounded him. Had that only been days ago?

What had he just said to her? Something about her escape? “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His good eye fixed on the tarts she’d all but forgotten she clutched in her hand. “My guess is you attempted to leave through the kitchens, and were thwarted by Walters.”

Oh, damn. The air in the study was suddenly too close. Too thick and full and rife with—with him. Determined not to be cowed, Farah raised her chin and did her best to look him square in the eyes—er—eye.

“On the contrary, Mr. Blackwell, I was hungry. I didn’t want to face you without being—fortified.”

That earned her a lifted eyebrow. “Fortified?” His callous tonelessness set the hairs on the back of her neck on end. “With … pastries?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” she insisted. “With pastries.” To make her point, she popped one in her mouth and chewed furiously, though she instantly regretted it as moisture seemed to have deserted her. Swallowing the dry lump, Farah hoped she hid her grimace as it made its slow and unpleasant way into her stomach.

He moved a little closer. If she wasn’t mistaken, his cold mask slipped for an unguarded moment and he regarded her with something like tenderness, if a face such as his could shape such an emotion.

Farah had thought it wasn’t possible to be more confounded. How wrong she’d been. Though the lapse proved fleeting, and by the time she blinked, the placid calculation had returned, causing her to wonder if what she’d seen had been a trick of firelight.

“Most people need much stronger fortification than a strawberry tart before facing me,” he said wryly.

“Yes, well, I’ve found that a well-made dessert can do anyone a bit of good in a bad situation.”

“Indeed?” He circled her to the left, his back to the fire, casting his face into deeper shadows. “I find I want to test your theory.”

Of all the conversations she’d expected to have with the Blackheart of Ben More, this had to be the absolute last. “Um, here.” She extended the tart toward him, offering him the delicacy with trembling fingers.

Blackwell lifted a big hand. Took a deep breath. Then lowered it again, clenching both fists at his sides. “Put it on the desk,” he instructed.

Puzzled by the odd request, she carefully set the tartlet onto the gleaming wood, noting that he waited until her hand had been returned to her side before reaching for it. It disappeared behind his lips, and Farah didn’t breathe as she watched his jaw muscles grind at the pastry in a slow, methodical rhythm. “You’re right, Mrs. Mackenzie, that did sweeten the moment.”

A burning in her lungs prompted her to exhale, and she tried to push some of her previous exasperation into the sound. “Let’s dispense with pleasantries, Mr. Blackwell, and approach the business at hand.” She put every bit of crisp, British professionalism she’d gained over the last ten years into her voice, quieting the tremors of fear with a skill born of painstaking practice.

“Which is?”

“Just what is it you want with me?” she demanded. “I thought I’d dreamed of you last night, but I didn’t, did I? And there, in the darkness, you promised to tell me … to tell me why you’ve brought me here.”

He leaned down, his eye touching every detail of her face as though memorizing it. “So I did.”