A Dark and Brooding Gentleman

by Margaret McPhee

  ‘We thought we would wait up for the master to return,’ added Polly.

  ‘Where are the rest of the servants?’

  ‘Most dinnae live in, miss, but come over fae Blackloch village in the morning,’ said a dark-haired maid by the name of Annie, standing beside Martha Beattie.

  ‘Well, I am sure we will manage as we are,’ said Phoebe. ‘Jamie and Gavin, fetch some more coal in and up to the guest bedchambers and then lay the fires ready to be lit. Lay the fire in my room, too, as I may need to move elsewhere if a large enough number of injured persons are brought to Blackloch. And light the fire in Mr Hunter’s bedchamber.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Tam and Stewart, check the accommodation in the stables for extra horses and carriages and then return to your room above the stables. Get what sleep you can before Mr Hunter returns.’

  ‘Polly and Annie, prepare a pile of the oldest linen that would be suitable to be used as dressings and bandages, and some drying cloths, too. Mr McCabe, are there any old clothes suitable for gentlemen and lady passengers to borrow?’

  ‘I will check, miss.’

  ‘And you had best set out some drying cloths and night clothes for Mr Hunter in his chambers; he will need them upon his return.’ As if to emphasise her point the rain drummed harder against the great front door and the wind gave a howl as if moaning across the moor.

  ‘Martha and Sally, come with me. We will boil up plenty of water. There may be wounds to be cleansed or baths required. And prepare a pot of soup for the simmer.’ Phoebe began to roll up her sleeves.

  ‘Cook doesnae come in until the mornin’,’ said Martha.

  ‘I am sure we will manage between us.’ Since the loss of Papa’s money Phoebe had become adept at managing their household on the most meagre of coins. She could make a very palatable pot of soup, even if she did say so herself.

  Phoebe and the servants worked hard, but when two hours later there was still no sign of Hunter she sent the servants back to bed, telling them to get some sleep and that she would wake them upon Mr Hunter’s return. Phoebe wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and sat down in the night-porter’s chair in the hallway to wait for Hunter.

  The first hint of dawn was lighting the charcoal from the sky as Hunter and his men handed their horses and the gig across to the grooms in the stable. The rain was still falling, albeit lightly, and Hunter could feel the heavy ache of fatigue in his muscles as he entered Blackloch through the back door with the rest of his menservants.

  The smell of the broth hit him as soon as he opened the door. His stomach growled its response. They peeled off their sodden coats and over-garments and left them to dry in the scullery. Not a single maid was in evidence so Hunter and his men helped themselves to the soup, ladling the broth into bowls, gulping down the warming liquid. The great pots of water were still warm to the touch although they had been moved off both the range and the open fire. On the long table at the side of the kitchen sat piles of linen sheets and some of his old clothes neatly folded. The big kitchen clock on the wall showed a little after four. All of Blackloch slept. Hunter left his men to find their quarters and went to seek his own bed.

  He did not doubt that Miss Allardyce would have used his absence and his mother’s sleeping draught to continue her search. Would he find her in his bedchamber again? Part of him hoped it would be so. And right at this moment he was too tired to be angry or to fight the temptation she embodied.

  His boots made no noise upon the stairs up from the kitchen. But when he reached the hallway and glanced across at the porter’s chair, he knew he had been mistaken. Phoebe Allardyce was not conducting a search of any room in Blackloch, for she was curled up fast asleep in the chair.

  In the faint light of the dawn she looked very young, her face creamy pale and unlined in sleep, her lips pink and infinitely kissable, her auburn lashes long against the unblemished skin of her cheeks. She was dressed in the same blue muslin dress as ever, but her hair snaked over her shoulder in the long thick braid that she wore for bed. And from beneath the hem of her skirts, tucked up on the chair, peeped her stockinged toes, where she had curled her legs beneath her on the seat of the chair. His gaze dropped lower to the worn boots that sat neatly by the chair’s wooden leg. He stepped closer, his own boots making a small noise against the stone flags of the floor and she stirred, her eyes fluttering open, yet still heavy-lidded with sleep.

  ‘Mr Hunter,’ she whispered sleepily, and the sound of his name on her lips was as if she had trailed her fingers teasingly down the length of his spine. She uncurled herself, yawned and stretched, the thin muslin stretched tight across her breasts. Hunter’s mouth went dry.

  ‘What happened with the accident?’ She rose from the chair and stood in her stocking soles on the cold stone of the floor before him. ‘Were there many injuries?’ She looked up at him, her face filled with concern and he thought he had not realised just how much smaller than he she was. The top of her head barely reached his chin.

  ‘Mr Hunter?’ she prompted, and he realised he was staring.

  ‘It was a town coach travelling too fast in the rain, the driver misjudged the corner and overturned the coach across the road. There were two young gentlemen passengers, both shaken, but neither of them hurt.’ ‘Do they return to Blackloch with you?’ He shook his head. ‘They were in a rush to reach Glasgow—one of them is the bridegroom in a wedding this morning. I sent them on in my coach.’

  She met his eyes before her gaze shifted to take in the dirty wet state of his clothes. ‘I thought you were wearing your greatcoat …’

  ‘The coach had to be cleared from the road to prevent another accident.’

  Her gaze dropped lower to take in the scrapes and cuts and dirt on his hands where he had been helping to lift the carriage and change the wheel.

  ‘Your hands …’ She took his hands into hers, her fingers small and slender beside his, her touch gentle as a caress. And when she looked up at him there was something in her eyes that made him think he had got Phoebe Allardyce all wrong.

  ‘They should be cleansed.’

  Her fingers felt chilled to his touch. He pulled his hands away, feeling suddenly confused.

  ‘It is late, Miss Allardyce, go to bed,’ he said and he knew that his voice was too hard.

  He saw the small flicker of hurt before she masked it and walked away without a word, and he wished he could call back the harshness.

  In his bedchamber, McCabe was snoozing in the corner chair.

  ‘Mr Hunter, sir.’ The valet wakened and got to his feet.

  ‘What are you doing here, McCabe?’ ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but Miss Allardyce sent me.’

  Hunter’s eyes scanned the room that appeared so different to the one he had left earlier that night. The fire had been lit, casting a warm glow to cheer the darkness. A nightshirt was hanging over the second fireguard to warm and his bed had been neatly made.

  McCabe saw the direction of his gaze. ‘She thought as how you might be feeling the cold upon your return … wi’ the weather and all.’

  ‘Miss Allardyce organised this?’ Hunter could not keep the sharpness from his voice.

  ‘Aye, sir. She organised everything—the guest chambers, the linens in case there was a need for bandages and dressings, the hot water. On account o’ Mrs Hunter havin’ taken one of her pooders. She made the soup with Martha and Sally, too—in case there was a need for it.’ McCabe removed a warming pan from the bed as he spoke.

  Hunter could scarcely believe what he was hearing.

  And later, after McCabe had gone and he finally found sleep, the thought on his mind was not the coaching accident or the moor, or the usual nightmare that haunted him, but Miss Allardyce … liar and would-be thief … who had held his household together for him this night.

  In Mrs Hunter’s dressing room Phoebe and the lady stood before the opened wardrobes trying to select a dress suitable for the rout that evening.

  ‘Polly in
formed me there was something of an incident in the night.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Phoebe related the details of the carriage accident.

  ‘I am surprised that Sebastian could drag himself from his slumber to attend the scene.’

  ‘Ma’am, Mr Hunter not only relayed the gentlemen passengers to Glasgow in his own equipage, but personally participated in righting the damaged vehicle and removing it from blocking the road.’ She thought of the cuts and scrapes upon his hands, of how wet his clothes had been and the fatigue that had shadowed beneath his eyes. And of the strange expression in his gaze before the dark pensive chill had returned.

  Mrs Hunter waved away her words with an airy hand. ‘Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe.’

  ‘It is the truth, ma’am.’ Whatever dark deeds Hunter had committed, his mother deserved to know that he had acted most honourably last night.

  ‘And you would know this how precisely?’ Mrs Hunter peered at her.

  ‘I was wakened by the knocking at the front door of those who came to fetch Mr Hunter.’ Phoebe hesitated over admitting her part in the night’s proceedings.

  Mrs Hunter peered more closely at her. ‘Indeed, you look as if you have not slept a wink.’

  ‘I did have some trouble finding sleep once more,’ she offered and was saved from further explanation by Polly’s arrival with Mrs Hunter’s breakfast tray.

  ‘Miss Allardyce, Cook was wondering if she might have a word with you in the kitchen,’ said Polly.

  Phoebe thought of the pot of soup that Cook must have come in to find this morning. She glanced at Mrs Hunter.

  ‘Go on, girl, go and see what she wants,’ said Mrs Hunter in a grumpy tone. ‘And let us hope that I feel a deal better after my chocolate. I shall see you in the drawing room in an hour.’

  Cook wished to know the recipe of the soup. Phoebe smiled and was only too happy to share. She was heading back up the stairs to her own chamber when she met Hunter coming down.

  ‘Miss Allardyce.’ He bowed. ‘Mr Hunter.’

  ‘I owe you thanks for all that you did last night,’ he said stiffly. ‘It was much appreciated.’ He sounded ill at ease. He did not speak of their arrangement, nor did he try to take her hand or to kiss her. She wondered at the change in him.

  Those pale haunting eyes held hers and there was something different in them this morning, as if he were looking at her for the first time. A footman passed in the hallway below. Hunter gave her a little nod of the head and carried on down the stairs, but a few steps later she glanced back at Hunter at exactly the same time as he looked back at her. A feeling of recognition and something shared, something binding, passed between them.

  Hunter leafed through the pile of newly delivered letters.

  The day was warm and sunny; the sky outside his window, blue and cloudless. There were two letters for his mother and all the rest were addressed to himself, all save the one at the bottom of the pile. The small neat handwriting on the front had directed it to Miss Phoebe Allardyce, care of Blackloch Hall. Both the handwriting and the slight scent of violet perfume indicated a female sender. He turned the letter over, and on the reverse written in small script at the top right-hand corner was the sender’s name.

  Hunter stilled. The shock kicked in his chest. The rest of the letters tumbled forgotten to the floor. He read the name again and again, and still the taste was bitter in his mouth and his stomach felt a small tight knot. Miss Emma Northcote. All he saw of the name was Northcote. It had been the start of the whole of this sorry mess. And the nightmare played again through his mind and he gripped so hard to the letter that his knuckles shone white. And then, quite deliberately, carefully, he set it down upon his desk. It sat there, a small pale square stark against the ebony; he reached for the brandy decanter and filled his glass, and with his eyes still fixed upon the letter, he drained it just as quickly. And outside the clouds moved across the sky to block the sun, and all of the darkness had returned.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Damnation!’ Mrs Hunter cursed. ‘There is never a servant to be found in this wretched place when I need one. Should I have to run my own errands? Have I not reached the stage in my life when I warrant a little comfort and ease? And instead I find myself in this … this mausoleum of a house.’ Mrs Hunter winced and rubbed her fingers against her forehead. ‘Perhaps it is time that we went back to Charlotte Street, even if the decorating is not yet complete.’

  ‘No!’ Phoebe said a little too forcefully and found her employer peering round at her. She forced a smile and picking up Mrs Hunter’s shawl draped it around the lady’s shoulders. ‘What I mean to say is, would it not be better to wait just a week or two more? You know how sensitive your head is to strong vapours. The smell of the paint would not be good for you, ma’am. Perhaps you should wait until it has dispelled somewhat before returning to Charlotte Street.’

  Mrs Hunter nodded, but her face was all discontentment. ‘You are probably right, Phoebe.’

  ‘And Polly is preparing you a sleeping draught so you should rest well tonight.’

  ‘For that, at least, I am thankful. Be a dear, Phoebe, and fetch my fashion journals from the drawing room. I left them in there earlier.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Phoebe was passing Hunter’s study with the journals in her hand when he appeared in the doorway. She started, but then smothered the butterflies in her stomach to walk past him. He could not kiss her here in broad daylight where anyone might chance to see them.

  ‘Miss Allardyce,’ he said and her heart gave a little somersault. His face was paler than normal, his eyes glittered in the sunlight and there was something very cold and very dangerous in the way he was looking at her.

  ‘I have a letter for you.’ ‘A letter?’

  A movement of his hand and she saw the small folded parchment there. He held it out to her.

  ‘Thank you.’ The cool brush of his fingers against hers as she accepted the letter made all of the butterflies and tingles reappear. Her heart began to thud as ever it did when Hunter was around. She turned to hurry away, desperate to escape the madness of the feelings surging through her body.

  ‘I could not help but notice the sender,’ he said and beneath his usual coolness was an edge of something else. ‘I did not know you are an acquaintance of the Northcote family?’

  She glanced at the back of the letter and saw Emma’s name. ‘Miss Northcote is a friend of mine. We were at school together.’ She folded the letter and slipped it into her pocket.

  He stepped out into the corridor, walked closer until he was standing right before her, staring down into her eyes. ‘So many things I do not know about you, Phoebe Allardyce.’

  And there was something in his voice that sent a shiver down the full length of her body. She swallowed, feeling her stomach dance at his proximity, both wanting and dreading his kiss.

  She grasped around for something to say. ‘Are you acquainted with Miss Northcote, or perhaps one of her brothers?’ She knew the moment the words were out of her mouth that she had chosen wrongly. Gone was the cool quiet intensity and in its place was pure and unadulterated anger. She saw the sudden tension that ran through Hunter’s body, saw the tightening of his jaw, the sudden flare of fury that darkened his eyes. She edged away until her spine touched against the stone of the corridor wall. But Hunter saw the move, and in an instant his hands were leaning against the wall on either side of her head, his body so close to hers yet not touching, effectively trapping her where she stood.

  ‘What manner of game are you playing with me, Miss Allardyce?’ he demanded and his voice was low and guttural and tortured.

  Her heart was racing in earnest now, thudding so hard she could feel the vibration of it throughout her body. She shook her head with the tiniest motion. ‘I do not know what you mean.’

  He leaned so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek and smell the sweet rich aroma of brandy. ‘If you do not already know it, I give y
ou fair warning, Phoebe.’

  Her heart stuttered to a halt before racing off at full tilt again. He could not know, could he? She stared up into his eyes, and the intensity that was in them, the anger, and such tortured pain made her forget all about her own fears. ‘Sebastian,’ she said softly.

  He squeezed his eyes closed as if aware he had inadvertently revealed too much, and when he opened them again the hurt was gone, hidden well away, and his anger was reined under some measure of control.

  ‘Do you not know that you are playing with fire?’ he said and his voice was harsh. ‘If you are such good friends with Miss Northcote, you must know what I am.’

  She shook her head. ‘I …’ she said, but something in his eyes stopped her.

  He took her lips and this time there was nothing of gentleness, only of urgency and a need so overwhelming that it razed everything in its path. His mouth was hard and possessive as it claimed hers. He took her without mercy, his tongue plundering, his lips pillaging, ravishing her with his kiss as thoroughly as in the dreams that plagued her nights. It was a kiss that should have frightened, a kiss that should have punished, but in it she felt the measure of his desperation and hurt.

  She knew she should have resisted, despite their ‘arrangement’. All that was right and proper decreed that she should have made some excuse to escape him, but Phoebe reacted instinctively, responding to Hunter and the hurt in him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave herself up to his onslaught, salving his pain with her gentleness, meeting his passion with her own. Losing herself in the ecstasy and power of his kiss.

  When he eventually raised his face from hers, he retreated, breathing heavy, leaning against the wall and staring at her with an unreadable expression upon his face. And Phoebe stared back, as aghast at what she had just done as Hunter looked. Her heart was thudding fit to burst. Her body felt molten from his touch. Everything was in tumult, everything, wild and overwhelming.