A Dark and Brooding Gentleman (3 page)

As the horse gathered speed she gripped the pommel with her left hand, and held her bag in place with her right. The man’s arm tightened around her and their bodies slid together so that Phoebe’s right breast was hard against his chest, her right hip tight against his thigh, his hand holding firm upon her waist. Her heart was thudding too hard, her blood surging all the more and not because of the speed at which the great black
horse was thundering along the road. It seemed that the man engulfed her senses, completely, utterly, so that she could not think straight. The time seemed to stretch for ever in a torture of wanton sensations.

He did not stop until they reached the coaching inn.

The high moorland surrounded them now, bleak and barren and vast, stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see. The breeze was stronger here, the birds quieter, the air that bit cooler.

And when he lowered her gently to the ground and she looked up at him to thank him again, the words died on her lips, for he was staring down at her with such intensity she could not look away. All time seemed to stop in that moment and it was as if something passed between them, something Phoebe did not understand that shimmered through the whole of her body. Finally he broke his gaze and turned, urging the great horse out of the inn’s yard, out onto the road and, without a backward glance, galloped away across the moor.

Phoebe stood there with the dust caked thick upon her boots and the hem of her faded blue dress, the travelling bag in her hand, and she watched him until the dark figure upon his dark horse, so stark against the muted greens and purples and browns that surrounded him, faded against the horizon. And only then did she realise he had not asked her name nor told her his. She turned away and walked over to the small stone wall by the side of the inn and sat down in the shade to wait. The clock on the outside of the inn showed half past six.

O
ut on the moor the land was washed with a warm orange hue from the setting sun. At Blackloch Hall Sebastian Hunter stood, sombre and unmoving, by the arched-latticework window of his study and stared out across the stretch of rugged moor. A cool breeze stirred the heavy dark-red curtains that framed the window and ruffled through his hair. The clock on the mantel chimed nine and then resumed its slow steady tick. He swirled the brandy in the crystal-cut glass and took a sip, revelling in the rich sweet taste and the heat it left as it washed over his tongue and down his throat. He was only half-listening as Jed McEwan, his friend and steward, sitting in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, covered each point on his agenda. Rather, Hunter was thinking over the day, of Bullford and Linwood’s appearance in Glasgow, and more so over the happenings upon the road—of the highwaymen and the woman. Inside his pocket his fingers touched the small white-lace handkerchief.

‘And finally, in less than a fortnight, it is the annual staff trip to the seaside. Do you plan to attend, Hunter?’ The inflection at the end of McEwan’s voice alerted him to the question.

‘I do.’ It was a tradition passed down through generations of the Hunter family, and Hunter would keep to it regardless of how little he wanted to go.

‘We have covered every item on the list.’

Hunter moved to top up McEwan’s brandy glass, but McEwan put a hand over it and declined with thanks.

‘Mairi been giving you a hard time?’ Hunter asked as he filled his own glass.

‘No, but I should be getting back to her.’ McEwan smiled at the thought and Hunter felt a small stab of jealousy at his friend’s happiness. The darkness that sat upon his soul had long since smothered any such tender feelings in Hunter. ‘My father is arriving tonight.’

Hunter felt the muscle flicker in his jaw. He turned away so that McEwan would not see it.

But McEwan knew. And Hunter knew that he knew.

Through the open window, over the whisper of the wind and the rustle of the heather from the moor, came the faint rumble of distant carriage wheels.

Hunter raised an eyebrow and moved to stand at the window once more. He stared out over the moor, eyes scanning the narrow winding moor road that led only to one place—all the way up to Blackloch. ‘Who the hell …?’ And he thought of Bullford and Linwood again.

‘Sorry, Hunter. I meant to tell you earlier, but I got waylaid with other things and then it slipped my mind.’ McEwan picked up his pile of papers and came to stand by Hunter’s side. ‘That will be your mother’s companion, a Miss Phoebe Allardyce. Mrs Hunter sent Jamie
with the gig to Kingswell to meet the woman from the last coach.’

Hunter frowned. He did not know that his mother had a companion. He did not know anything of his mother’s life in Glasgow, nor why she had suddenly arrived back at Blackloch yesterday, especially not after the way they had parted.

Hunter watched the small dark speck of the gig grow gradually larger and he wondered fleetingly what the woman would be like—young or old, plain or pretty? To the old Sebastian Hunter it would have mattered. But to the man that stood there now, so still and sullen, it did not. What did he care who she was, what she did? Hunter glanced at McEwan.

‘My mother’s companion is of no interest to me.’ He felt only relief that it was not Bullford or any other of his old crowd. And gladder still it was not Linwood.

McEwan made no comment. He turned away from the window and its view. ‘I will see you in the morning, Hunter.’

‘That is Blackloch Hall, over there, ma’am,’ said the young footman driving the gig and pointed ahead. ‘And to the left hand side, down from the house, is the Black Loch itself, Mr Hunter’s private loch, for which the house and the moor are named.’

Phoebe peered in the direction the boy was pointing. Across the barren moorland a solitary building stood proud and lonely, sinister in its bearing, a black silhouette against the red fire of the setting sun. And beyond it, the dark waters of the loch. The gig rounded the bend and the narrow track that had been winding up to this point straightened to become an avenue of approach to
the house. At the front there was nothing to differentiate where the moor stopped and the house’s boundary began. No wall, no hedging, no garden. The avenue led directly up to the house. With every turn of the gig’s wheels Phoebe could see Blackloch Hall loom closer.

It was a large foreboding manor house made to look like a castle by virtue of its turrets and spires. As they drew nearer Phoebe saw the rugged black stonework transform to a bleak grey. All the windows were in darkness; not the flicker of a single candle showed. All was dark and still. All was quiet. It looked as if the house had been deserted. The great iron-studded mahogany front door, beneath its pointed stone arch of strange carved symbols, remained firmly closed. As the gig passed, she saw the door’s cast-iron knocker shaped like a great, snarling wolf’s head and she felt the trip of her heart. The gig drove on, round the side of the house and through a tall arched gateway, taking her round into a stable yard at the back of the house.

The young footman jumped down from the gig’s seat and came round to assist her before fetching her bag from the gig’s shelf.

‘Thank you.’ Phoebe’s eyes flicked over the dismal dark walls of Blackloch Hall and shivered. It was like something out of one of Mrs Hunter’s romance novels, all gothic and dark and menacing. Little wonder the lady had chosen to make her home in Glasgow.

The boy shot a glance at her as if he was expecting her to say something.

‘What a very striking building,’ she managed.

The boy, Jamie he said his name was, gave a nod and then, carrying her bag, led on.

Taking a deep breath, Phoebe followed Jamie towards
the back door of the house. He no longer spoke and all around was silence, broken only by the crunch of their shoes against the gravel.

From high on the roof the caw of a solitary crow sounded, and from the corner of her eye she saw the flutter of dark wings … and she thought of the man against whom her father had warned her—Sebastian Hunter. A shiver rippled down her spine as she stepped across the threshold into Blackloch Hall.

Phoebe did not see Mrs Hunter until late the next morning in the drawing room, which to Phoebe’s eye looked less like a drawing room and more like the medieval hall of an ancient castle.

Suspended from the centre of the ceiling was a huge circular black-iron chandelier. She could smell the sweetness of the honey-coloured beeswax candles that studded its circumference. The rough-hewn walls were covered with faded dull tapestries depicting hunting scenes and the floor of grey stone flags was devoid of a single carpet rug. A massive medieval-style fireplace was positioned in the centre of the wall to her left, complete with worn embroidered lum seats. A fire had been laid upon the hearth, but had not been lit so that, even though it was the height of summer, the room had a distinct chill to it. The three large lead-latticed windows that spanned the wall opposite the fireplace showed a fine view over the moor outside.

The furniture seemed a hodgepodge of styles: a pair of Italian-styled giltwood stools, a plainly fashioned but practical rotating square bookcase, a huge gilded eagle perched upon the floor beside the door, its great wings supporting a table top of grey-and-white marble,
a small card table with the austere neoclassical lines of Sheraton, and on its surface a chessboard with its intricately carved pieces of ebony and ivory. Farther along the room was a long dark-green sofa and on either side of the sofa was a matching armchair and, behind them, in the corner, a suit of armour.

Mrs Hunter was ensconced on the sofa, supervising the making of the pot of tea. She watched while Phoebe added milk and a lump of sugar to the two fine bone-china cups and poured.

‘How was your father, Phoebe? Does he fare any better?’

‘A little,’ said Phoebe, feeling the hand of guilt heavy upon her shoulder.

‘That at least is something.’ The lady smiled and took the cup and saucer that Phoebe offered. ‘And you attended to all of my matters before your visit to the hospital?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Everything is in order. Mrs Montgomery will send your invitation to Blackloch Hall rather than Charlotte Street. I delivered the sample books back to Messrs Hudson and Collier and to Mrs Murtrie. As you suspected Mr Lyle did not have your shoes ready, but he says they will be done by the end of the week.’

‘Very well.’

Phoebe continued. ‘I collected your powders from Dr Watt and have informed all of the names on your list that you will be visiting Blackloch Hall for the next month and may be contacted here. And the letters and parcel I left with the receiving office.’

‘Good.’ Mrs Hunter gave a nod. ‘And how was the journey down?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ she lied and focused her attention
to stirring the sugar into her tea most vigorously so that she would not have to look at her employer.

‘The coach was not too crowded?’

‘Not at all. I was most fortunate.’ A vision of the highwaymen and of a dark and handsome man with eyes the colour of emerald ice chips swam into her head. The teaspoon overbalanced from her saucer and dropped to the flagstones below where it bounced and disappeared out of sight beneath her chair. Phoebe set her cup and saucer down on the table and knelt to retrieve the spoon.

‘I would have sent John with the coach, but I do not wish to be at Blackloch without my own carriage at my dispos—’ Mrs Hunter broke off as the drawing-room door opened and the movement of footsteps sounded. ‘Sebastian, my, but you honour me.’ To Phoebe’s surprise the lady’s tone was acidic.

Phoebe felt a ripple of foreboding down her spine. She reached quickly for the teaspoon.

‘Mother, forgive my absence yesterday. I was delayed by matters in Glasgow.’ The man’s voice was deep and cool as spring water … and disturbingly familiar.

Phoebe stilled, her fingers gripping the spoon’s handle for dear life. Her heart was thudding too fast.

It could not be.

It was not possible.

Slowly she got to her feet and turned to face the wicked Mr Hunter. And there, standing only a few feet away across the room, was her dark handsome rescuer from the moor road.

Hunter stared at the young auburn-haired woman he had left standing alone at the Kingswell Inn. Her cheeks
had paled. Her lips had parted. Her warm tawny eyes stared wide. She looked every inch as shocked as he felt.

He moved to his mother and touched his lips to her cool cheek. She suffered it as if he were a leper, shuddering slightly with distaste. So, nothing had changed after all. He wondered why the hell she was here at Blackloch.

‘Sebastian.’ His mother’s voice was cold, if polite for the sake of the woman’s presence. ‘This is my companion, Miss Allardyce. She came down on the late coach last night.’ Then to the woman, ‘Miss Allardyce, my
son,
Mr Hunter.’ He could hear the effort it took her to force the admission of their kinship.

‘Mr Hunter,’ the woman said in that same clear calm voice he would have recognised anywhere, and made her curtsy, yet he saw the small flare of concern in her eyes before she hid it.

‘Miss Allardyce.’ He inclined his head ever so slightly in the woman’s direction, and understood her worry given that it was now obvious she had palmed the money his mother had given her for her coach fare.

She was wearing the same blue dress, although every speck of dust looked to have been brushed from it. The colour highlighted the red burnish to her hair, now scraped and tightly pinned in a neat coil at the nape of her neck. His gaze lingered briefly on her face, on the small straight nose and those dewy dusky pink lips that made him want to wet his own. And he remembered the soft feel of her pressed against him on the saddle, and the clean rose-touched scent of her, and the shock of a desire he had thought quelled for good. She was temptation personified. And she was everything proper and correct that a lady’s companion should be as she
resumed her seat and calmly waited for Hunter to spill her secret.

Not that Hunter had any intention of doing so. After her experience with the highwaymen he doubted she would make the same mistake again. He watched as she set the teaspoon she was holding down upon the tray and lifted her cup and saucer.

His mother’s tone was cool as she turned to her companion. ‘My son has not seen his mother in nine months, Miss Allardyce, and yet he cannot bring himself into my company. This is his first appearance since my arrival at Blackloch.’

Miss Allardyce looked uneasy and took a sip of tea.

His mother turned her attention back to Hunter. ‘Your concern is overwhelming. I think I can see the precise nature of the matters so important to keep you from me.’ Her eyes were cold and appraising as they took in the small cut on his cheek and the bruising that surrounded it. She raised an eyebrow and gave a small snort.

‘You have been brawling.’ He made no denial.

Miss Allardyce’s eyes opened marginally wider.

‘What were you fighting over this time? Let me guess, some new gaming debt?’

He stiffened, but kept his expression impassive and cool.

‘No? If not that, then over a woman, I will warrant.’

A pause, during which he saw the slight colour that had washed the soft cream of Miss Allardyce’s cheeks heighten.

‘You know me too well, madam.’

‘Indeed, I do. You are not changed in the slightest, not for all your promises—’

There was the rattle of china as Miss Allardyce set her cup and saucer down. ‘Mrs Hunter …’ The woman got to her feet. ‘I fear you are mistaken, ma’am. Mr Hu—’

His mother turned her frown on her companion.

‘Miss Allardyce,’ Hunter interrupted smoothly, ‘this is none of your affair and I would that it stay that way.’ His tone was frosty with warning. If his mother wanted to believe the worst of him, let her. He would not have some girl defend him. He still had some measure of pride.

Miss Allardyce stared at him for a moment, with such depths in those golden-brown eyes of hers that he wondered what she was thinking. And then she calmly sat back down in her chair.