Phoebe watched as the Marquis’s face flushed puce. He stood there for a moment with such a look of murder upon his face that she feared for Sebastian’s safety and then, to her amazement, the Marquis got down on his knees and kissed the ring.
Hunter longed for nothing more than to go to Phoebe, to cut her down from that awful cross, but he knew that he must first ensure the loyalty of all the members; without that he doubted that either of them would leave the hall alive. His heart tightened as he met her eyes and he could only hope that she understood. He stood there and the first man pushed back his hood, dropped to his knees and vowed his allegiance with his lips upon the ring. The circle began to slowly rotate as each dark figure in turn followed suit.
The swearing ceremony was only half-completed when he heard Phoebe cry out. The circle gave a collective gasp and stopped. Hunter looked up to see Willaston standing behind Phoebe, one hand gripping her hair, wrenching her head back, while the other held a ceremonial knife pressed against her throat. Everything in that moment seemed to slow. Hunter felt his gaze narrow and sharpen. He could hear the call of outraged voices. He could hear the beat of his own heart and that of the woman he loved.
‘She knows our secrets,’ shouted Willaston. ‘And as a woman she cannot be admitted to our order. Therefore Miss Allardyce must die. Unless you wish to tell everyone here how you mean to bend the rules for your own fancy piece, Hunter.’
Hunter’s words were like ice. ‘The rule states that no man may know of our existence and live. Miss Allardyce, as you have just said, is a woman, and she is no fancy piece but the woman who will be my wife.’ Hunter turned so that he was facing the Marquis and Phoebe squarely across the chamber. His eyes gauged the distance that separated him from them. Thirty feet of clear space. He could feel Phoebe’s gaze, but he did not allow himself look at her. Instead, he kept his focus on Willaston.
‘Release her or I will kill you, sir,’ Hunter growled.
Willaston was panting heavily; his face was flushed and sweating.
Hunter saw the tiny flicker in the older man’s eyes that preceded the movement of his hand. In the space of one heartbeat Hunter had drawn the pistol from his pocket and fired.
There was the flash of the powder in the pan and an almighty deafening roar and through the blue smoke Hunter watched the knife fall away to clatter on the floor. And Willaston crumpled in its wake, a red stain spreading over the arm that had held the knife.
Hunter was across the distance in seconds, grabbing the ceremonial knife and cutting the ropes that bound Phoebe. Relief surged through him and his love was all the fiercer for it. He pulled her into his arms and clutched her to him.
‘Phoebe,’ he whispered. ‘My love.’
‘Sebastian.’ She clung to him, pressing her face against his chest.
‘I am taking you home.’
‘No.’
Hunter’s heart gave a lurch. And then she looked up into his eyes and he saw the love that was there.
‘Not until you finish what must be done here,’ she said.
And Hunter wanted to weep for love of her. There had never been a woman like Phoebe Allardyce and there never would be. She had sacrificed her own heart and all chance of happiness for him. She would have given her life for him. She was his heart, his life, his very existence. And their love for each other would burn bright beyond the aeons of time.
He kissed her and, with Phoebe by his side, completed all that his father had asked of him.
The house in Grosvenor Street had been decked in flowers and greenery. The vases in every room were brimful and overflowing. Great garlands festooned the banisters and mirrors and mantels. Outside the sky was a cloudless powder blue and the sun shone in glorious splendour. The events in Obsidian House seemed far in the past, although only two weeks had elapsed.
Phoebe stood before the full-length looking glass in her bedchamber and stared at the woman who looked back with eyes sparkling with such happiness. She looked radiant dressed in Mrs Hunter’s gift. The bodice of the new ivory gown seemed to shimmer in a haze of tiny pearls and iridescent beads. Its neckline was square and cut low enough to hint at the swell of her breasts. Its skirt was of smooth Parisian silk that dropped away to hang perfectly and from beneath which peeped the toes of new ivory silk slippers. Her hair had been caught up in a cascade of curls and threaded with fresh cream roses. And on her arms she wore a new pair of long ivory silk gloves.
‘You look quite, quite lovely, my dear girl.’ Mrs Hunter dabbed a little tear from the corner of her eye. ‘I am so glad to be gaining you as a daughter.’
‘And I, you as a mother,’ said Phoebe and smiled warmly at the woman who had helped her so much.
‘You are almost ready to go down to Sebastian, but for one last thing he bade me give to you.’
Mrs Hunter took out a small cream-leather box and pressed it into Phoebe’s hands. Within the box was a gold heart-shaped locket with a wolf’s head engraved upon it, and when Phoebe opened the locket, there, inside, were two tiny portraits, one of Sebastian and the other of herself.
Mrs Hunter’s fingers moved to touch her own dress where her oval locket lay beneath. ‘Such things are precious, Phoebe,’ she said as she fastened the locket around Phoebe’s neck. And the little golden heart lay above the gentle thud of Phoebe’s own.
‘Quite perfect.’ Mrs Hunter smiled.
Phoebe felt the tears well in her eyes.
‘Why, whatever is the matter, my dear?’ she asked gently.
Phoebe shook her head. ‘I was just thinking of my papa and how much I would give that he could be here this day to see me married.’
‘You must be brave on your wedding day, Phoebe. It is what your father would want. And upon our return to Scotland Sebastian will see that Sir Henry’s debts are cleared and that he is released.’
Phoebe nodded. ‘You are right.’ She dried her tears and let Mrs Hunter lead her down the stairs. And as she reached the bottom of the staircase, Mrs Hunter smiled and stepped aside, and there, waiting across the hallway, was her own dear papa, dressed in his best wedding finery. Phoebe ran to him, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks as she threw her arms around him.
‘Papa! Oh, Papa!’
‘Child!’ Sir Henry laughed and hugged her to him as if she were still his little girl. ‘Mr Hunter was insistent that a father ought not to miss his daughter’s wedding day. And I do believe that he was right.’
Mrs Hunter pressed a posy of flowers into her hands and her papa led her through to the drawing room where two tall dark-haired, dark tailcoated men stood waiting.
The Duke of Arlesford, who was standing by Sebastian’s right-hand side, gave her a smile, then looked at Sebastian. Her papa handed her to Sebastian and left her there.
In both Sebastian’s and Arlesford’s buttonholes was a fine sprig of purple heather.
‘From our own moor, Phoebe,’ Sebastian whispered as he smiled at her, and Phoebe’s heart was flooded with happiness and she thought there had never been a better man in all the world. She faced to the front, where the old priest stood, and she married the man that she loved.
Phoebe and Sebastian had set off back to Blackloch alone the next day. Both had been of the opinion that there was nowhere else in the world that they would rather be for their honeymoon than the beautiful Blackloch Moor.
As their coach travelled over the narrow winding moor road they could see the great dark house that was Blackloch Hall, silhouetted black against the fiery orange glow of the setting sun. On the horizon was the purple haze of the distant islands. The moor was quiet and the breeze gentled in welcome, and the air was sweet and fresh and scented with heather. And when the coach drew to a halt outside the great studded front door Phoebe and Sebastian climbed out.
Sebastian drew her against his chest so that they stood together and stared out over the blushing moorland.
‘We are home, Phoebe,’ he whispered as he nuzzled her ear.
‘To our moor,’ she sa
id and the golden heart-shaped locket nestled between her breasts seemed to glow warm as she turned her mouth to meet his.
And Sebastian scooped her up into his arms and carried her, as his dearly beloved wife, across the threshold into Blackloch.
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II BV/S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
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First published in Great Britain 2011
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited,
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR
© Margaret McPhee 2011
ISBN: 978-1-408-92367-2
Table of Contents
Cover
Excerpt
Author Note
About the Author
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Copyright
A Dark and Brooding Gentleman Page 24
