The Highwayman by Kerrigan Byrne Page B

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.
    â€œOn 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?”
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œMost people need much stronger fortification than a strawberry tart before facing me,” he said wryly.
    â€œYes, well, I’ve found that a well-made dessert can do anyone a bit of good in a bad situation.”
    â€œIndeed?” 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.
    â€œWhich is?”
    â€œJust 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