A Dark and Brooding Gentleman

by Margaret McPhee

  ‘You have everything else. Will you not leave her this one thing at least?’ Phoebe asked the highwayman. He gave a callous laugh. ‘What do you think?’ And he closed the locket body with a snap and threw it to his accomplice.

  ‘And now for you, miss. What have you got to offer me? A coin or two?’ He pushed her hard against the polished burgundy-gloss body of Mrs Hunter’s carriage and pulled the mask down from his face to dangle around his neck. She recognised too well his face and the lust that was in it. He grabbed hold of her wrists, holding them above her head with one of his hands while the other found the pocket of her dress and rummaged. He dropped the two small plain white handkerchiefs that he found there onto the road and spat in disgust.

  ‘No purse.’

  His fingers raked roughly against her own. ‘No rings.’

  His large bulky body crowded against hers and his hand roved boldly over her bodice and down farther over the tops of her thighs, licking his lips as he did so. ‘Nothing concealed.’ Phoebe struggled against him, but he just smiled.

  ‘What payment are you going to offer me? I’ll have you know the price has gone up since the last time.’

  ‘You are a villain, sir!’ she hissed through her teeth. ‘A veritable villain. Unhand me this instant!’

  ‘Oh, little Miss Vixen, I’m nowhere near to unhanding you just yet.’ And his mouth descended hard upon her own. His kiss was nothing like Hunter’s. He tasted of tobacco and ale. He reeked of horses and sweat. She kicked out at his shins, tried to bite the thick furred tongue that invaded her mouth.

  Black Kerchief drew back, releasing his grip on her wrists to dab at the trickle of blood over his lips. ‘You shouldnae have done that, lassie.’ And his hand gripped hard to her throat, pinioning her in place against the coach door so that she could not move, could not scream, could barely breathe.

  Mrs Hunter began to sob. ‘Please do not hurt her, I beg of you.’

  ‘Tie the old lady up, strip the luggage of anything valuable and check the inside of the coach.’

  Jim’s eyes flickered towards Phoebe. ‘We havenae the time for this. Bring the lassie wi’ us. We can both hae our fun o’ her then.’

  ‘I’m havin’ her and I’m havin’ her now. So get on and do as I say, Jim. This’ll no’ take me long.’ Black Kerchief slipped the pistol into his pocket with his free hand and produced a knife in its stead. The blade was short but wicked as he held it pointed straight at Phoebe’s heart.

  Phoebe said nothing, just looked directly into the highwayman’s evil black eyes and thought it ridiculous that he could just extinguish her life so easily upon the moor. He leaned closer, then slashed the length of Phoebe’s bodice.

  Mrs Hunter screamed at the top of her lungs.

  ‘Hell, Jim, gag her before they hear her in Blackloch.’

  ‘No!’ yelled Phoebe. ‘Leave her be, you fiend! She paid what you asked.’

  But Black Kerchief released her and landed her a blow across the face, so that her head cracked against the door of the carriage. The moor breeze was cool against her skin as the highwayman ripped the remaining material open, and his hands were rough and calloused against her breasts. His mouth fastened upon hers once more, his rancid breath filling her nose so it was all she could do not to gag. The knife dropped, its handle bouncing against Phoebe’s boot, but Black Kerchief had other things on his mind. She ceased her struggle, let him think that he had cowed her, as her fingers crept into the pocket of his jacket and fastened upon the pistol. She extracted it quick as a flash, wrenched her mouth from his and pressed the muzzle hard against his belly.

  ‘Stand away, sir, or I will shoot.’

  Black Kerchief’s eyes narrowed. ‘I bet you havenae the first idea of how to fire a pistol,’ he sneered.

  ‘Shall I just pull back the cock, squeeze the trigger and see what happens?’ She did not take her eyes from his as her thumb pulled back the cock lever as far as it would go.

  Black Kerchief felt the motion and backed away, raising his hands, palms up in a gesture of submission. ‘Easy, lass, no need to get excited.’

  ‘Leave the locket, then get on your horses and ride away while you still can.’

  He laughed, but there was nothing in his eyes save wariness and malice. ‘Jim’ll have a bullet through you before you can pull the trigger.’

  From the corner of her eye she could see Red Kerchief with his pistol aimed right at her. He started to move towards her.

  ‘Stop where you are, sir, or I will shoot your friend,’ she shouted to him without taking her eyes off Black Kerchief.

  ‘And I’ll shoot you and then the old lady.’ The pistol was in his right hand. With his left he produced a knife from the leather bag slung across his chest. ‘You might no’ have a care for your own life, but I could make a right mess of her before I finally put a bullet between her eyes.’

  Phoebe did not doubt that he would do it, too. Black Kerchief’s eyes were waiting and watchful. She knew she had no choice. She lowered the pistol and the highwayman snatched it from her, the victory plain on his face.

  ‘Now where were we?’ He grabbed her and threw her onto the ground; standing over her, he unfastened the fall on his breeches.

  Hunter’s big black stallion came flying over the road. His first pistol killed the red-masked highwayman outright. Black Kerchief ducked towards the carriage and fired, the ball catching the top of Hunter’s arm as he charged up to them. But Hunter kept on coming, his second pistol’s shot hitting Black Kerchief in the chest. The highwayman tried to stagger away before crumpling to his knees and slumping face first onto the ground.

  Hunter leapt from his horse, shrugging out of his coat as he ran towards Phoebe. The blood was stark against the white of his shirt, a dense crimson stain spread across his left arm and shoulder. Phoebe gave a little cry and ran to him. He swirled his coat around her to cover her nakedness.

  ‘Sebastian! There is so much blood!’ The oozing wound clearly visible through the tear in the sleeve of his shirt. Her eyes widened in terror.

  ‘The bullet has scratched my skin only, not torn through the muscle. It does not signify.’

  His hands gripped the sides of her upper arms.

  ‘Phoebe,’ he whispered and there was such anguish upon his face. ‘My God, I thought …’

  ‘I am unharmed. But they have shot John Coachman,’ she said, ‘and tied up Mrs Hunter and Jamie.’ She gestured towards where his mother lay bound and terrified. ‘Go to her. I will free Jamie.’ She stooped and picked up Black Kerchief’s knife where it still lay upon the soil and when she stood with the knife in her hand, she saw the sudden uncertainty on Hunter’s face.

  ‘I will see to Jamie. My mother will want you, Phoebe.’

  ‘No, you are wron—’ she started to say, but he was already gone, walking away to help the young footman.

  Phoebe hurried to Mrs Hunter and dislodged the gag from the older woman’s mouth, then cut away the ropes that bit into her wrists and ankles.

  ‘Mrs Hunter,’ she began, but the lady was not even looking at Phoebe. Her eyes were trained on a spot beyond where Phoebe was kneeling.

  ‘Sebastian is bleeding,’ Mrs Hunter said. ‘Oh, Phoebe, he is hurt.’

  ‘The bullet grazed him. There is much blood, but he is not badly wounded,’ Phoebe tried to reassure Mrs Hunter, but it seemed that the lady could not hear her. Her face was ashen, her eyes wide and staring.

  ‘He is hurt,’ she said again.

  And then Phoebe felt Hunter by her shoulder.

  ‘Mother,’ he said and the bag of jewellery and money was in his hand.

  ‘Oh, Sebastian!’ Mrs Hunter sobbed and she clutched him to her. ‘My son,’ she cried. ‘My son!’

  Phoebe took the loot bag from him and recovered the locket. ‘Mrs Hunter has worn this locket day and night for all the months that I have known her.’ Phoebe opened the locket and showed the paintings within to Hunter. ‘She has never stopped loving you,’ she whispered, and, pr
essing the locket into his hand, she rose and went to help Jamie.

  ‘Should you not be sitting down, Hunter? Come take a seat.’

  Hunter glanced round at his friend from where he stood by the study window and gestured to the black arm sling he was wearing. ‘You saw the wound, McEwan; it is a scratch. I am only wearing the damn thing to pacify my mother.’ Two days had passed since the incident on the moor and in that time his mother had given him little peace.

  ‘She is most concerned over your health.’

  ‘She has not stopped fussing over me since we returned to Blackloch. She has even postponed her trip to London.’

  ‘At least matters seem resolved between the two of you.’

  ‘I am glad of it, McEwan, truly I am, but she is taking such an interest in my affairs that it has proven nigh on impossible to speak to Phoebe alone.’

  ‘Hunter, should you be …?’

  ‘When I saw that villain strike her …’ Hunter shook his head.

  ‘Your reaction is understandable,’ said McEwan.

  ‘I should have killed him the last time and none of this would have happened.’

  ‘You could not have known, Sebastian.’

  ‘She has no one to protect her, Jed. Her mother and sister are dead. Her father is imprisoned through a mess of debts that were no fault of his own. She is three-and-twenty years of age and alone.’

  ‘How is Miss Allardyce subsequent to the attack?’

  ‘As far as I can tell she is bruised, but otherwise uninjured. The bastard meant to rape her, McEwan.’

  ‘Hell,’ muttered McEwan.

  ‘I will speak with her.’

  ‘And say what?’ McEwan laid his hand upon Hunter’s good shoulder. ‘Hunter, no matter what has happened, she is your mother’s companion and there is this other business of your father’s ring to consider.’

  ‘There is an enemy at work here, Jed, but I cannot believe that it is Phoebe.’ He met McEwan’s eyes. ‘There has to be some other explanation behind it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said McEwan but he did not sound convinced.

  ‘I mean to confront her over it, to hear her side of the story.’

  Phoebe came down the stairs and was about to cross the hallway on her way to the drawing room when she saw Hunter walking towards the bottom of the stairs. A week had passed since the highwaymen’s attack on Mrs Hunter’s carriage, a week in which Phoebe’s love for Hunter had grown. Her eyes scanned over him, noting that he was no longer wearing the black arm sling and she gave a little sigh of relief that his arm was healing so well. He looked so strong and devastatingly handsome and her heart swelled with love and warmth when she saw him.

  He stopped where he was on seeing her, and such a determined look came over his face that Phoebe’s heart turned over. There was no way she could avoid him.

  ‘Mr Hunter.’ She gave a polite nod and made to pass him, but he captured her and pulled her into the shadows of the servants’ corridor at the side of the hallway.

  ‘Phoebe, we need to talk.’ His hands were gently around her waist, his body close to hers as he stared down into her face.

  ‘Mrs Hunter is waiting.’ She tried to break away, but Hunter did not yield.

  ‘Meet me tonight. Come to my study once my mother is in bed.’

  ‘I cannot,’ she whispered.

  ‘Why not?’ His green gaze bored down into hers.

  Because I love you. Because if I let myself be alone with you I do not think that I can hide that truth from you, and they will kill my papa. Because if you were to learn what I am, what I would do to you, you will hate me. But Phoebe spoke none of those truths.

  ‘I have duties to which I must attend.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning then, first thing, before breakfast.’

  ‘No, Sebastian. We cannot meet alone, not then or any other time.’

  She saw the muscle flicker in his jaw. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I … I have my position to consider. And you have yours.’

  There was a flash of fierce green fire in his eyes. ‘Damn it, Phoebe, this is nothing of positions. You know there are matters of which we must speak.’

  ‘No,’ she forced herself to say. ‘I do not.’ She could not let herself conduct an affair with him. She had to find the ring and steal it, to save her papa. But she loved Hunter. And she had not found the ring. And she did not know what she was going to do.

  Their eyes clung together, her heart was aching, but she could not let herself weaken. The distance between them seemed to shrink. His face was only inches from hers. She could smell his scent, feel his warmth. The little hairs on the back of her neck stood up at the feel of his breath against her cheek. She ached for his kiss, longed to wrap her arms around his neck and press her lips to those of this kind, strong, glorious man whom she loved.

  ‘You must let me go,’ she whispered.

  ‘For now,’ he said and pressed a fierce kiss to her lips. It was a kiss of possession, a kiss that seemed to seal all that was between them. And then he released her.

  Phoebe walked across the stone flags of the hallway just as a maid appeared on the stairs leading from the kitchen and scullery.

  ‘Mrs Hunter rang from the drawing room,’ the girl said.

  ‘I am on my way to her at this very moment.’ Phoebe smiled and hoped that nothing of Hunter’s kiss showed upon her lips. But the maid did not seem to notice anything awry. Phoebe tucked a loose strand of hair into her chignon, and accompanied the girl towards the drawing room.

  Hunter had not moved. She did not need to look back to know that he was still standing there in the shadows watching her.

  A few days later Hunter was sitting opposite his mother and Phoebe in the breakfast room, sipping at his coffee and thinking. The day was bright, a last throw of summer. Sunlight filled the room, lighting Phoebe’s face and showing too well the shadows beneath her eyes. She looked as if she were sleeping badly, and when she thought that no one was watching there was a worry in her eyes. And she had been avoiding him most successfully.

  A footman brought the mail in, setting the silver salver down by Hunter’s elbow.

  Two letters for himself. One from his tailor, the other with Dominic’s writing on the front. Three for his mother. And one for Phoebe, not from Emma Northcote; indeed the handwriting looked masculine and simplistic as if someone had taken pains to disguise their hand—the sender’s details were not recorded upon the back of the letter.

  He passed them across, threw the tailor’s letter aside unopened and broke the wax on Dominic’s note. Hunter’s eyes scanned over Dominic’s words. He smiled at the news.

  ‘Be a dear and run and fetch my reading glasses will you, Phoebe.’ Hunter felt a pang of irritation at the way his mother treated Phoebe.

  ‘We have servants for that sort of thing,’ he said drily and set Dominic’s letter upon the table before him. His mother looked up at him in surprise. A hint of colour washed Phoebe’s cheeks. ‘It is no inconvenience, I assure you, sir.’ And she slipped away before he could reach for the bell.

  There was the cracking of wax and rustle of paper as his mother unfolded her letters. She picked up the first and held it at arm’s length, peering at it with screwed-up eyes. ‘Writing the size of an ant. Cannot see a word of it. Read it to me, Sebastian.’

  ‘Hawkins writes to inform you that the decorators have finished at the town house in Charlotte Street. And that all is order for your return.’

  Phoebe came back into the breakfast room just as he was reading the words. He saw her stiffen, saw that she understood the implication of that news just as well as he. But she did not look at him, just smiled at his mother and delivered the spectacles.

  ‘So soon.’ His mother seemed surprised.

  ‘You do not have to leave,’ he said. ‘Indeed, I insist that you stay.’ He thought of what Phoebe had told him of the break-ins at Charlotte Street and of his mother’s fears. And he thought, too, of Phoebe.

  ‘You are a young man,
Sebastian.’ His mother smiled. ‘You are already burdened with an old woman’s over-long visit.’

  ‘You are neither old nor a burden. And I insist that you stay.’

  ‘I will not hear of it,’ his mother said, but she laughed and there was a sparkle in her eye that he had not seen since before his father’s death.

  From the corner of his eye, where he was surreptitiously watching Phoebe open her mail, he saw her fold the letter away almost as soon as she had opened it. Hunter glanced across at her, just as she looked up and met his gaze, and what he saw in her eyes was a fleeting glimpse of fear before she glanced down, and when she looked up again all of that was hidden and she was quite herself again.

  ‘Good news?’ his mother enquired and gestured to the letter clutched tight in Phoebe’s hand.

  Phoebe’s smile was almost convincing. ‘Nothing important,’ she said. ‘Now, what plans do you have for today, ma’am?’

  Hunter rode Ajax hard across the moor. The wind was harsh against his cheeks, the sky a bright white-grey, lighting all of the moor with that clarity that he loved. In the distance he could see a pair of eagles soaring high in the sky, the birds huge and majestic. Hunter noticed it all, even though his mind was fixed most firmly on Phoebe Allardyce.

  The letter had to be linked in some way with her search for his father’s ring, its address penned by a male hand. And he thought of the man he had seen her meet outside of the Tolbooth, and the fear that flashed in her eyes as she saw the letter’s contents. He had no intention of just letting her walk out of Blackloch, out of his life. There was too much that he still did not know. He needed answers. He needed her.

  Hunter rode faster, harder, longer. And by the time he walked Ajax into Blackloch’s stables he knew what he would do.