‘Very much indeed. He worries about me out here without him, and I worry about him inside the Tolbooth gaol.’
‘You are fortunate indeed to have his love.’ She heard the pain in his voice and her heart went out to him.
‘Mrs Hunter …’ Phoebe hesitated, aware of the sensitivity around the issue. ‘Relations between you and Mrs Hunter seem a little improved of late.’
‘I do not delude myself. My mother will never forgive me, nor do I ask her to.’
And she remembered Mrs Hunter’s words from across the weeks. If you knew what he had done … She brushed her thumb against his. ‘For what crime must you seek her forgiveness?’
Outside a crash of thunder rolled across the sky.
He turned to her, looking down into her face through the darkness. The thunder was fading as he gave his answer. ‘She believes that I killed my father.’
A gasp of breath escaped her. Whatever dark family secret she had imagined it was not this. All of the warnings came flooding back. All of the whispers and gossip to which her papa had alluded. ‘And did you?’ she asked.
Another fork of lightning flickered across the sky, revealing Hunter’s face in flashes of bleaching light. And upon his face was such an agony of grief and of guilt that she knew what his answer would be even before he uttered the words.
‘Yes.’
‘I do not believe you,’ she whispered.
He pulled her to him with nothing of gentleness, his hands angling her head so that their faces were almost touching. ‘I killed him, Phoebe,’ he said and his voice was raw. ‘And I must live with that knowledge for every day of the rest of my life.’ He backed away and she could see the horror in his eyes before he looked away.
Phoebe moved quickly, taking hold of his arms and guiding him down into his chair. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Tell me all, from the very beginning.’
And Hunter did. He told her the story of how he had been a rake and a dissolute in London, running with a crowd that included one of Emma Northcote’s brothers. Of how Northcote had ruined himself and his whole family, and Hunter had been blamed, chief amongst his friends, for leading the boy astray.
‘He was too young,’ said Hunter. ‘I did not realise my influence upon him. I had no idea he would go so far. It was the tipping point for my father. When he heard of the Northcotes’ ruin he cut off my allowance, called me back to Blackloch, said I was hedonistic, selfish, immature, indulged by my mother and a disappointment to him. All of it was true, of course. But my father was an exacting man and I never felt that I could live up to his expectations. I gave up trying when I was still a boy. I turned to McInnes, spent much of my youth hanging about his farmstead.’ Hunter smiled a little at the memory of his time with the old man.
Phoebe understood what she had seen on the moor that day when Hunter and his mother had visited McInness on the moor. ‘And your father’s death?’ she urged.
‘It was here in this study. We argued, my father and I, over Northcote. Everything he said was the truth, but I did not want him to see how much his words flayed me. I walked away from him, even knowing that he had been feeling unwell for those few days. I am ashamed to even think about it.’
She sat on the arm of the chair and took his hand in her own. ‘Go on.’
‘He hauled me back, gave me the rollicking I deserved. But the strain of it, the physical exertion, was too much. He collapsed. It was his heart, you see. As he lay dying he ordered me to change my ways, to take responsibility for the family.’ The lightning flickered and Hunter seemed to hear again the echo of those disjointed words that his father had struggled so hard to speak: … order … wolf … take responsibility for … ‘Ten minutes later he was dead.’
‘Oh, Sebastian,’ she whispered and leaned down to take him in her arms.
‘It was all my fault, Phoebe, both Northcote’s ruin and my father’s death.’
‘No,’ she said, but he would not look at her. ‘Sebastian,’ she said more firmly, and took his face in her hands and forced him to do so. ‘You made mistakes, heaven knows, we all do. You might have been selfish and imbued with all of those vices which you admit, but what occurred was not your fault. Emma’s brother made his own choices. And as for your father, you said yourself that his heart was weak.’ Her thumbs stroked against his jaw line. ‘You are a good man, Sebastian Hunter.’
Their eyes clung together and in the flash of lightning she saw that his glistened with unshed tears. ‘You are grieving. Your mother is grieving. You feel enraged and lost and despairing all at the same time. I felt the same for my sister. I still feel it. A soul can bear such grief, but guilt and blame and bitterness—these are what destroy a heart. You must stop blaming yourself, Sebastian.’ She felt his tears wet against her fingers.
‘Oh, Sebastian.’ She slipped from the chair arm to kneel astride him and pull him to her and she held him against her breast while he silently wept.
She held him until the thunder was just the faintest rumble in the distance and the lightning no longer flared across the sky. And when he moved to look into her face it seemed the most natural thing in the world to kiss him. Gently. Tenderly. As if her lips could mend the wound that was in his soul.
‘Phoebe,’ he whispered, and there was such a heartfelt plea in that one word. She kissed him with all the love that was in her heart. And Hunter kissed her back. There was no need for words. They needed one another. And when he unfastened the ribbon of her nightdress and let it slip low to uncover her breasts she revelled in his gentle touch. His fingers stroked and caressed, and when his mouth replaced his fingers, so that he was tasting her, kissing her, laving her, she clutched his head to her and wanted him all the more. He lifted her slightly, adjusted her position upon him, moving her nightdress to bare her before settling her down to straddle his groin. She could feel the soft buckskin of his breeches against her most intimate of places.
‘Sebastian,’ she breathed. And then he began to rock her, in a steady easy pace, so it seemed as if she were riding him. She could feel the press of his manhood straining through his breeches, could feel herself rubbing against it. And all she knew was that she needed him and he needed her. And the need was in the white-hot heat in her thighs and the slick moisture between her legs, and the ache of her breasts; all feelings that Phoebe did not understand, just as she did not understand what was happening between them except that it was right, except that there was such a warmth and love and understanding that it almost overwhelmed her.
She groaned aloud at the glorious sensation that was growing in her. Such pleasure, such need. She wanted it never to stop and yet she was poised on a knife edge of passion, reaching for something more. She rode him harder, faster and when his mouth closed over her breast to suckle her nipple an explosion of sensation burst throughout the whole of Phoebe. Such a flood of exquisite delight as if she and Hunter were lifted from the dark storminess of Blackloch and the moor to a place of golden sunlight and paradise.
She collapsed onto him, planting a myriad of butterfly kisses over his temple and eyes and cheeks. She kissed his mouth and whispered his name a thousand times over. And all she felt for him was love, pure and complete. He rolled her round so that they lay together upon the chair, her back snug against his chest, his arms around her stomach, and now that the thunder had subsided there was only the steady drum of the rain against the moorland. Hunter pulled his coat to cover them and kissed her hair and her ear and the edge of her forehead. They slept and when the slow grey dawn came they watched together while it crept across the moor.
Hunter watched his mother and Phoebe across the drawing room as Phoebe poured the tea the maid had just delivered.
‘Apparently Eliza Fraser was down in London for the Season and delighted in telling me all of the latest on dit. She was talking down to me as if I were some country bumpkin. Indeed! Well, I can tell you that the wind soon dropped from her sails when I told her that I was for London this very weekend. “Oh, but London will be qui
et this time of year. ‘Tis such a shame you missed the Season.”’ His mother impersonated Mrs Fraser’s patronising tone. ‘On the contrary, says I, only the best of the families will have returned for the Little Season. That quieted her.’
‘I am sure it did.’ Phoebe smiled and passed the first cup to his mother. He noted how careful she was not to look at him today and he could not blame her. It was only months of practice that enabled Hunter to sit there and show nothing of the fury of conflicting emotions that were vying in his breast.
‘She has a new wardrobe of gowns from Mrs Thomas of Fleet Street and insisted on telling me the vast sums that each had cost. So not the done thing!’ His mother sipped at her tea. ‘I told her I prefer Rae and Rhind of Glasgow for my dresses. When one finds a talented dressmaker I always feel it is important to retain them and not float on a whim to another.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Phoebe, who managed to pass the next cup of tea to Hunter without meeting his eye.
‘Talking of which, we are for Glasgow tomorrow to try on and collect our new dresses.’ His mother smiled broadly, the first time in over a year that he had seen such a sight. ‘I simply cannot wait to reach London. You have not visited the city before, have you, Phoebe? You must be in a veritable frenzy of excitement over our little trip.’
‘Quite,’ said Phoebe, but to Hunter’s eye she seemed to pale and there was a look of pure dread in her eyes before she masked it. He was quite certain he had not imagined it.
His mother peered closer at Phoebe. ‘You are looking a little pale and tired, my dear. I expect you did not sleep well because of the thunder.’
‘The thunder did waken me,’ Phoebe admitted and a faint peach blush washed her cheeks. She added a lump of sugar to her tea and concentrated on stirring it.
‘It is always worse out here on the moor.’ And fortunately his mother began talking of her plans for London again.
‘I thought I might come with you to London, Mother.’ Hunter nonchalantly dropped the news into the conversation.
He heard the quiet rattle of china of Phoebe’s cup against its saucer before she set them down upon the table.
His mother frowned. ‘I do not think that is a good idea, Sebastian.’
‘On the contrary, I am quite convinced of its merit.’
‘I see,’ said his mother, tight-mouthed. All of her animation had vanished. The cold haughty demeanour was resumed. ‘I had intended staying in the town house, but if you mean to—’
‘I shall stay with Arlesford if it suits you better,’ he said, cutting off her protestation.
She sniffed. ‘I suppose London is a big enough place.’
‘I am sure that it is.’ As Hunter rose to leave, Phoebe’s eyes came at last to his for just the smallest moment. All that was between them seemed to roar across the room before she looked away again.
The worst of the weather had passed by Thursday when Phoebe travelled with Mrs Hunter to collect their new dresses from Glasgow. The day was mild, with grey-white skies and a stiff breeze, but at least it was not raining, and the puddles still remaining from Tuesday’s storm soon dried.
They had spent an hour with the dressmaker and left with the promise to return later that same afternoon as there were only two small alterations to be made to an evening gown and a walking dress for Mrs Hunter. There were so many shops to be visited, shoes to be collected, stockings and reticules to be bought, fascinators, feathers and ribbons to be perused, soaps and perfumes to be selected. And Mrs Hunter’s full set of luggage to be sent down to Blackloch ready to be packed.
Phoebe had been glad of the activity; at least then she could not dwell and worry over her papa and Hunter … and the ring. Her feet had been aching by the time Mrs Hunter’s heavily laden carriage was making its way back towards the moor. Mrs Hunter had been tired, too. She had closed the curtains and laid her head back on the squabs and, lulled by the rocking of the carriage, dozed. And then there was nothing to distract Phoebe from the confusion of worries and fears that crowded her mind.
They had not long turned onto the road beyond Kingswell that would take them across the moor to Blackloch when the carriage came to a halt.
‘Stand and deliver!’
The voice was rough and horribly familiar.
Mrs Hunter’s head rolled and she came to her senses. ‘Phoebe? Are we home?’
Phoebe reached across the carriage and took the lady’s hand in her own. ‘We have not yet reached Blackloch, Mrs Hunter. I fear that we are being held up by highwaymen.’
‘Be away with you, you fiends!’ roared John Coachman and then there was the crack of pistol fire, and yells and shouting and an ominous thud upon the ground outside as if something heavy had fallen upon it.
‘Oh, my word!’ Mrs Hunter clutched instinctively to the locket that Phoebe knew lay beneath all of the layers of her clothing.
‘Stay calm, ma’am. I will not let them harm you.’
‘Phoebe!’ Mrs Hunter’s face drained of all colour as the door was wrenched open and Phoebe saw the same masked highwaymen that she had met on a journey from a lifetime ago.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Out you come, ladies. Just a brief interruption of your journey. Heading over to the big house, are yous? All nicely laden up.’
Black Kerchief grabbed first for Mrs Hunter. Phoebe swatted his hand away. ‘We need no assistance, thank you, sir. I will help the lady.’ The highwaymen stood back and watched while Phoebe jumped down, kicked the step into place and helped Mrs Hunter down onto the road.
‘Well, well, well, Jim,’ Black Kerchief said when he saw Phoebe in the full light of day and she knew that he recognised her just as readily as she had recognised him. ‘If it’s no’ the lassie that escaped without payment the last time. This here bit of the road is dead. No passing coaches or carts. No horsemen or walkers. There’s no gent to come galloping down the road to save you this time.’
‘What is he talking about, Phoebe?’ Mrs Hunter turned to her.
‘Oh, now that’s interesting. You didnae tell her of our wee encounter the other week.’
‘The first day I came to Blackloch these men tried to rob me. Mr Hunter arrived and saved me. That was why he had the bruising upon his face that first night at dinner.’
‘Hunter himself, was it?’ said Red Kerchief Jim. ‘Hell, I would have wet m’breeks if I’d known.’
‘Why did you not tell me, Phoebe?’ demanded Mrs Hunter. ‘Why did he let me think—?’
‘Save the questions and explanations for later, ladies,’ interrupted Black Kerchief. ‘For now, there are other more pressing matters to be dealt with.’
‘Such as relieving yous of your purses and jewels,’ said his accomplice and slammed the door of the carriage shut.
Only once the door was closed did Phoebe realise the full magnitude of their situation, for on the ground ahead lay John Coachman groaning faintly, a bullet in his shoulder. Jamie lay trussed on the ground, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead.
Mrs Hunter clutched a trembling hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, my good lord! You have killed him!’
‘Not quite, but that’s what happens when you dinnae do as you’re asked,’ said Black Kerchief.
‘Aye,’ said Jim and aimed a pistol at Mrs Hunter. ‘You’ve been asked for certain items and I dinnae see you doing much to deliver them. Purses and jewels, now, if you please!’
Mrs Hunter was so white Phoebe thought she would faint.
‘Jim, such impatience. Have I no’ told you before that there are better ways of persuading ladies?’ Black Kerchief said.
But Mrs Hunter had already extracted her purse and lady’s watch from her reticule and was passing them to the black-masked highwayman. She slipped the pearl earrings from the lobes of her ears and the rings from her fingers, hesitating only over her wedding band.
‘Come on,’ growled Jim as he took the jewellery from her. ‘All of it.’
‘For pity’s sake! She is a widow. Will you not eve
n leave her her wedding ring?’ demanded Phoebe.
‘A nice weighty piece of gold like that? I dinnae think so, miss.’
Mrs Hunter pressed her lips together and Phoebe knew it was to control their tremble. She eased the ring from her finger and handed it to the fair-haired highwayman. ‘That is all I have with me.’ Her fingers fluttered fleetingly to touch her dress where the locket lay hidden.
Jim checked the purse for its contents and, satisfied with what he saw, threw it to Black Kerchief, who was standing a little back.
‘Now we move to you, miss, and you better have something with which to pay the price this time.’ Jim moved towards her.
‘No’ so fast.’ The taller highwayman came to stand before Mrs Hunter. ‘You’re hiding something, lady.’
‘I have given you all that I have,’ Mrs Hunter affirmed again.
Black Kerchief’s eyes dropped to the exact spot on her chest against which her fingers had strayed. ‘Give me it willingly, lady, or I will take it from you.’
Whatever was within the locket must be precious to Mrs Hunter. Indeed, Phoebe had long suspected it to be a miniature of her husband. She moved to distract the highwayman.
‘She has nothing more to give you. Leave her be.’ But Black Kerchief ignored her and levelled his pistol at Mrs Hunter’s face.
Mrs Hunter swallowed and with fingers that were visibly shaking unfastened the gold chain at the back of her neck to slip the locket from its hiding place. The chain coiled like a snake into the highwayman’s open palm and she laid the large golden oval body on top of it.
He opened the locket.
Mrs Hunter squeezed her eyes shut as the villain looked upon her most precious of secrets.
‘Looks rather familiar, wouldn’t you say, miss?’ Black Kerchief held the locket up to show Phoebe its contents, so that she learned at last Mrs Hunter’s secret. Inside were two miniature portraits, a dark-haired handsome man with pale emerald eyes, and a boy that could only be the man’s son. For a moment Phoebe thought she was looking at Sebastian and his son, then she realized that Sebastian was the boy and the man was the same one she had looked upon in the large stern portrait within Hunter’s study—Hunter’s father. The two people Mrs Hunter loved best in the world—her husband and her son. And Phoebe knew in that moment that for all her accusations, for all that she had said, Mrs Hunter had never stopped loving Sebastian.
A Dark and Brooding Gentleman Page 15
