McEwan was right, Hunter realised, but he was not about to admit it.
‘But in the space of a few weeks that has changed. You are obsessed with the girl.’
‘Hardly,’ murmured Hunter and knew it was a lie.
‘Do you deny that you want her?’
‘I make no denial,’ said Hunter coldly. ‘I have wanted Phoebe Allardyce since the moment I set eyes on her.’
McEwan gave a nod as if Hunter was confirming all that he knew.
‘But it does not mean that I will act upon it,’ finished Hunter.
McEwan gave a cynical laugh. ‘If you were not acting upon it, what then was it that I interrupted this evening?’
‘It is not as you think, McEwan. Everything is under control,’ he lied. ‘I know what I am doing.’
‘Whatever else you suspect her of, whatever else you think her, she is still your mother’s companion. Think what would happen had it been Mrs Hunter who had walked in that door instead of me.’
‘My mother never comes in here. Besides, the whole reason I am doing this is to protect my mother.’
‘Are you certain of that, Sebastian?’ McEwan said softly.
Hunter did not answer the question. Instead he walked away to stand by the window and stare out over the moor. The clock marked the passing seconds. ‘I know what Phoebe Allardyce is searching for.’
Hunter heard the change in McEwan’s tone. ‘What is it that she means to steal?’
‘My father’s ring.’ He turned and gestured towards the portrait of his father on the wall.
McEwan walked right up to the painting and studied the artist’s rendition of the wolf’s-head ring upon his father’s finger. Then he shook his head and when he looked round at Hunter his face was crinkled in puzzlement. ‘Of all the possibilities … It is not even gold. Why on earth would she want it?’
‘I do not yet know.’
McEwan came to stand before him. ‘You will have a care over how you do this, won’t you, Sebastian? You know if this goes wrong that it will touch your mother’s reputation as well as your own.’
‘It will not go wrong.’ He saw the concern on his friend’s face. ‘I know what I am doing, Jed,’ he said again quietly.
‘I pray that you do, Sebastian. You have been through enough these past months. I do not wish matters to go worse.’ He struck the top of Hunter’s arm in a manly gesture of support and then left.
Hunter stood there alone, but he did not turn back round to the window and the moor. Instead he walked up to where McEwan had stood, and Phoebe before him. Hunter stood in the same spot and looked up at the portrait. His eyes focused on the ring in the painting and he felt the same strong sweep of emotion as ever he did when he looked at it. If it had been any other item in the whole of this house … Hunter wished with all his heart that it were so. For Phoebe Allardyce was trying to steal the one thing he had sworn to guard with his very life. A shiver rippled down his spine as he remembered his father’s words—tenacious and insistent, even when Edward Hunter was dying. And Hunter could not suppress the feeling that something sinister was at work here. He moved his gaze up to his father’s face, so sober and serious.
‘What is the significance of the ring, Father, that she will risk all to steal it?’ he whispered quietly.
But his father just stared down at him with the same disapproval that had been there every time he looked at Hunter. And the room was silent save for the beat of Hunter’s heart.
Phoebe was not surprised to find Hunter’s coach, rather than Jamie and the gig, waiting when she exited the front door the next morning. The sky was a thick lilac-grey blanket of cloud, imbuing the light with a peculiar acute clarity and washing the landscape with that same translucent purple hue. For once, perhaps the only time since Phoebe had arrived at Blackloch, there was not a breath of wind. The air hung heavy and still and the atmosphere seemed pregnant with foreboding, but whether that was just a figment of Phoebe’s own guilty conscience she did not know. Hunter’s coach, a deep glossy black, luxurious and sleek, sat before her. Jamie in his black-and-silver livery pulled the step down into place. She could see the coachman already up on his seat at the front.
‘Miss Allardyce.’ She heard the crunch of Hunter’s boots across the gravel and her pulse leapt.
‘Mr Hunter.’ She hoped that nothing of the flurry of emotion showed upon her face. In the strange light of this day the contrast of his pale skin, dark dark hair and clear emerald eyes was striking. To Phoebe, Hunter had never looked more handsome or his eyes more intriguingly beautiful. Nor had he looked so worryingly dark and brooding. His gaze met hers and she felt a shiver of sensation touch her very core.
He gestured towards the waiting coach, but did not make the excuse of attending some meeting in Glasgow or the dangers of highwaymen upon the road. Neither did Phoebe make any attempt to decline his invitation. They both knew that matters were beyond that. She climbed in without a word.
Her head was thick from lack of sleep. Her eyes stung with it. The hours of the night had been filled not with rest, but with worry—over the wolf’s-head ring and her papa and Hunter.
She knew that they needed to talk, but she did not know what she could say. Give me the ring so that the villains will not kill my papa? Hardly. She could tell no one, least of all Hunter. And she was afraid that she might have roused his suspicions, that he might question her interest in the ring. She was afraid, too, of what might happen between them closed together and alone in the coach all the way to Glasgow. But Hunter did not mention the ring. Indeed, he hardly spoke at all. He spent his time staring out of the window, although she had the impression that he was not seeing anything of the passing countryside, but wrestling with some great problem that tortured him. He appeared to have such a weight of worrisome thought to dwell upon that she tried to draw him into light conversation, but Hunter would not be drawn and when he looked at her it seemed to Phoebe that he could see too much, of her, of her lies, and her feelings for him. She could not risk him seeing the truth so she left him to his brooding and turned her gaze to the other window.
There was the sound of the wheels rumbling along the road, and the horses’ hooves pounding in their rhythm … and the strange heavy silence that hung in the air. The moorland passed in a blur of colours, all grey sky and purples and earthy browns. And with every mile that passed Phoebe grew more conscious of the tension within Hunter. He had not spoken, had not moved, other than to cast the odd intense glance in her direction.
By the time the coach crossed over the River Clyde and made its way along Argyle Street the rain was drumming softly against the roof, and Phoebe could only be relieved that she would soon be at her destination. But as they reached the Trongate Hunter banged his cane on the roof and stuck his head out of the window to say something to his coachman. Reminding the man to follow up High Street to the Royal Infirmary, or so Phoebe thought. But a matter of minutes later the coach did not turn left as it should have done, but stopped directly outside the Tolbooth.
Phoebe’s heart stuttered before thundering off a reckless pace. Her blood ran cold. Deep in the pit of her stomach was a horrible feeling of dread. Through the window of the coach she could see the great sandstone blocks of the building, the rows of windows and the steps that led up to the portico over the front door. She turned her gaze to Hunter’s, trying to hide the truth from her face.
‘Why have we stopped here?’
‘Because you have come to visit your father.’
She gave a small laugh as if this was some jest he were playing. ‘My father is in the Royal Infirmary.’
‘Sir Henry Allardyce has been a prisoner in the Tolbooth gaol these past seven months,’ Hunter said.
‘You know?’ she said in a low voice from which she could not keep the horror.
‘Of course I know.’
‘For how long have you known?’
‘Long enough,’ he said.
She closed her eyes as if that could block out the
nightmare of what was happening.
‘Why did you not tell me, Phoebe?’
She opened her eyes and stared at him. ‘Why do you think?’ she demanded, incredulous that he even needed to ask the question, then shook her head. ‘I did not want to lose my position as your mother’s companion.’ She turned her head to stare out at the gaol building, raising her eyes to the tiny barred window of the third floor room in which she knew her papa waited. ‘Does Mrs Hunter know, too?’
‘She does not.’
Her gaze jumped to his.
‘Fifteen hundred pounds on a failed medicinal chemistry company …’
She balked at how much of the detail he knew.
‘Your father’s debt is nothing of your doing, Phoebe. Do you not already suffer enough for it?’
She stared at him. ‘You cannot mean that you do not intend to tell your mother the truth about me?’ she said carefully, not sure that she had understood what he was saying.
‘That is precisely what I mean, Phoebe.’
There was a dangerous swell of emotion around her heart, and then the penny dropped and she realised what he really meant. ‘Oh … I understand,’ she said and there was an ache in her heart. ‘Because of our arrangement. You wish to—’
Hunter’s eyes flashed a vivid green with anger. In one swift fluid movement he had their hands entwined and their faces barely two inches apart.
‘There is no arrangement. There was never any arrangement.’
‘But …’
‘If I were the rake you think me, you would have been in my bed the very first day that we met.’ She sucked in her breath.
‘We both know it is the truth.’ They were so close she could see each and every black lash that lined his eyes, and all of the tiny hairs that made up the dark line of his brows. Some strange force seemed to be pulling them together.
Phoebe fought against it.
‘What other secrets are you hiding, Phoebe?’ he whispered, and his breath was warm against her mouth, his lips so close yet not touching.
She stared into his eyes and she wanted to tell him, indeed, longed to tell him. To share that terrible burden that had weighed on her all of the weeks she had been at Blackloch Hall. For a moment the temptation almost overcame her, but at the back of her mind were the words the Messenger had spoken, words that haunted her every hour of every day, One word to Hunter or his mother and you know what’ll happen … I’ll hear if you’ve talked. Phoebe did not doubt that the villain would hear, for he had already more than proven the extent of his knowledge. Much as she wanted to tell Hunter, she knew she could not risk her father’s life.
She gave the tiniest shake of her head. ‘None that I can share,’ she said softly, and with a will of iron and a heavy heart she turned her face away.
Hunter did not move. She felt the weight of his eyes upon her for minutes that were too long. Until finally, at last, he turned away and opened the door and would have climbed out had she not stopped him.
‘Do not! I mean, it would be better if you are not seen here … outside the prison … with me.’ Her gaze darted to the street beyond, checking the passing bodies for a sight of the Messenger and feeling relief that he was nowhere to be seen.
She saw his eyes shift to follow where she had scanned before coming back to hers. She saw, too, the speculation in them and the hard edge of anger.
‘The visiting time is already waning. If I am to see my papa …’
He gave a nod. ‘I will wait here for you, Phoebe.’
Hunter stood with McEwan at the study window, watching the thick sheet of rain that had shrouded the moor for the last few hours since he had brought Phoebe back to Blackloch. The light was so dim that the room was grey and shadowed as if night were already falling, even though it was only six o’clock.
‘The roads will flood if this does not ease soon,’ Hunter said.
‘Most of the servants elected to leave early,’ said McEwan, ‘just as you said.’
‘They will need to work fast to gather in the livestock and secure their houses. The storm will hit tonight.’
‘Cook has left a cold collation.’ McEwan looked worried as the intensity of the rain seemed to increase as they stood there. ‘Mrs Hunter is not yet returned from her visiting,’ he noted with concern.
‘My mother is not fool enough to travel in such weather. She will stay overnight with the Fraser woman in Newmilns.’
There was a pause before McEwan said, ‘I could take Miss Allardyce to stay with me and Mairi tonight.’
‘And why should you do that?’
‘You know fine well why, Hunter,’ said McEwan softly.
Hunter looked steadily at McEwan. ‘Mairi will be worrying about you, McEwan. You should be heading back to her.’
Blue gaze held green as McEwan challenged what he was saying. The seconds passed, until at last Hunter raked a hand through his hair and glanced away.
‘I have …’ He tried again. ‘I feel …’ But he could not form the words. ‘It is none of it as you think, McEwan. I would not hurt her. I.’ Again the words tailed off.
Hunter felt his friend’s eyes scrutinising him, seeing too much. He turned his gaze away, but it was too late.
‘Lord, Hunter,’ McEwan said softly. ‘I had no idea …’ He paused, seemingly absorbing the magnitude of what Hunter had just revealed, then he met Hunter’s gaze once more. ‘I’ll leave you alone with Miss Allardyce, then.’
Hunter gave a nod and watched his friend leave.
Chapter Twelve
Phoebe was not asleep when the first clap of thunder resonated in the dark hours of the night. Indeed, she had not slept since climbing into the bed despite the fatigue that hung heavy upon her. Her mind was too active, running with images of her papa and of Hunter, and her legs were so restless that it was a discomfort to lie still.
She slipped from the bed and parted her curtains to look out over the garden and the loch and the moor. But the rain was so heavy and the darkness so complete that she could see nothing at all, not even her own reflection. She stood for a while and listened as the thunder rolled closer, its crash exploding through the air louder each time it sounded, shaking the very foundations of the moor and Blackloch and Phoebe herself.
Using the red glow of the fire ashes, she found the remains of her candle and lit it from the embers. Her dinner tray still sat on the table by the door, her single plate with its remnants of cold ham and chicken upon it. And she thought of Hunter eating alone in his study while she ate alone up here, while all of Blackloch was empty save for the two of them. And as the thunder crashed and rolled around the heavens, Phoebe pulled her shawl around her and, with her candle in her hand, moved quietly towards the door.
Hunter was not in his bedchamber. His bed had not been slept in. She made her way down the stairs and knocked lightly against the study door before letting herself in.
Hunter was standing by the window, a glass of brandy in his hand, watching the storm. The room was warm. The remains of a fire glowed on the hearth.
‘Phoebe.’ He turned to her, and she saw that he was wearing only his buckskin breeches and shirt pulled loose and open at the neck.
A fork of lightning struck out on the moor, the flash flickering momentarily to illuminate the study and Hunter in its stark white light. His hair was dark and dishevelled, and his chin and jaw shadowed with beard stubble. She walked to stand by his side.
Hunter sat his glass down on the windowsill and did not touch it again.
The curtains stirred where they hung on either side of the window. The chill of the draught that slipped through the edges of the panes prickled her skin. The candle guttered and extinguished. Between the peals of thunder the rain drummed loud and hard, and the soft moan of the wind sounded.
Phoebe and Hunter stood side by side, not touching, not looking at the other, but only out over the moor at the storm. The lightning forked, blinding and white against the darkness of the sky, stabbing down into the land.
And the thunder crashed as if the gods were smashing boulders in the heavens.
‘It is magnificent,’ she breathed. ‘The storm, the moor.’
‘Truly,’ he replied.
And neither moved their gaze from the view beyond the window.
Another strike of lightning. Another roll of thunder. And Phoebe began to speak. Her voice was quiet. She did not look at Hunter, only at the moor.
‘My father is a scientist. His interest lies in medicinal chemistry, the discovery of compounds that may be used to cure or relieve disease states. He has had a small laboratory within our house for as long as I can remember and is never happier than when he is working at his research. A year or so ago, he met a man who said he could take one of his ideas, an antimonial compound for the treatment of various toxic conditions, and manufacture it in large quantities in the factory that he owned, that they should start a company. My papa is a clever man, but his head is full of science, and when it comes to business.’ She let the words peter out. ‘The gentleman said he would look after all of that side of matters. The antimony was a great success. But the company was not. The gentleman took the monies and ran off to the East Indies, leaving all of the debts and no money to pay them. In the paperwork it all came down to my papa. There was nothing we could do.’
‘And so your father was sent to the Tolbooth,’ Hunter said.
‘To stay there until the debts can be paid.’ ‘I am sorry, Phoebe.’ She felt his hand take hers, but neither of them shifted their stance or their gaze.
‘An old friend of my papa has a sister who heard that Mrs Hunter was seeking a companion. There was nowhere for me to go and no money to keep me. Your mother’s position seemed the ideal solution. We had to lie, of course, for no lady would wish to take on a companion with the hint of scandal, let alone a papa imprisoned.’
‘I am afraid that my mother has been sensitised through the years to gossip and scandal. All of it my fault.’ His fingers were warm and supportive. ‘You must miss your father.’
A Dark and Brooding Gentleman Page 14
