A Dark and Brooding Gentleman

by Margaret McPhee

  She walked to the window and pulled the curtains apart. Unfastening the catch, she slid the window up and stared out at the night beyond. The bitten wafer of the moon shone silver and all around, scattered across the deep black velvet of the sky, were tiny stars like diamonds. Cool fresh air wafted in and she inhaled its sweet dampness, breathing slowly and deeply in an attempt to calm herself. Not so far away she could hear the quiet ripple of the Black Loch, its water merging with the darkness of the night. She thought of her father’s warning about Hunter and his wickedness. And no matter how much she willed it, her heart would not slow or her mind dismiss the image of a raven-haired man whose eyes were so strangely and dangerously alluring.

  In the cool light of the next morning after a restless night Phoebe could see things more clearly. Hunter had discovered her about to search his desk in the middle of the night. No doubt any woman’s thoughts would be in such disarray and her sensibilities so thoroughly disturbed were a gun levelled at her heart by a gentleman with Hunter’s reputation. The important thing was that he had appeared to believe her excuse and for that she could only be thankful. Phoebe had bigger matters to worry about. She could not let the incident in the night deter her from securing her father’s safety.

  Phoebe tried again the next night and the night after that, but each time she stole down the stairs it was to see the faint flicker of light beneath the door to Hunter’s study and she knew he was alone within, drinking through the night, as if he could not bear to sleep. As if he were haunted. As if he carried a sin so dark upon his soul that it chained him in perpetual torment. She shivered and forced the thoughts away, knowing that the days before Tuesday and her visit to the Tolbooth were too few. There had to be a way to search the study. Phoebe was in an agony of worry.

  It was Mrs Hunter who solved the problem … when she told Phoebe of the Blackloch outing to the seaside planned for Saturday.

  The morning of the trip was glorious. The sun shone down on a sea that stretched out in a broad glistening vastness before him. To the right was the edge of the island of Arran, and to the left, in the distance, the characteristic conical lump on the horizon that was the rock of Ailsa Craig. A bank of grass led down to the large curved bay of golden sand. It was beautiful, but nothing of the scene touched Hunter.

  He and McEwan dismounted, tying their horses to a nearby tethering pole. The maids and footmen were milling around the carriages, chatting and laughing with excitement. McEwan looked to Hunter for his nod, then went to organise the party, to see that the blankets were spread upon the sands before collecting the picnic hampers and baskets containing the bottles of lemonade and elderflower cordial. Hunter stood there for a moment alone, detached, remote from the good spirits, and watched as the men peeled off their jackets and the women abandoned their shawls and pushed up their sleeves. There was such joviality, such happiness and anticipation amongst the entirety of his household that Hunter felt his very presence might spoil it. He moved away towards his mother’s coach where her footman was already assisting her down the steps.

  She threw him a grudging nod. ‘I am glad that at least you have not let the old customs slip.’

  He gave a nod of acknowledgement, his face cold and expressionless to hide the memories her words evoked.

  His mother took her parasol from the maid who appeared from the carriage behind her. There was a silence as she surveyed the scene before her, a small half-smile upon her mouth there not for Hunter, but for the sake of the staff.

  Hunter glanced round, expecting Miss Allardyce, but his mother’s companion did not appear.

  ‘The book was to your satisfaction?’ he enquired.

  ‘The book?’ His mother peered at him as if he were talking double Dutch.

  ‘Evelina,’ he prompted.

  ‘I have not seen that book in years,’ she said and turned her attention away from him.

  Hunter turned the implication of her answer over in his mind and let the minutes pass before he spoke again.

  ‘Your companion does not accompany you,’ he said, as if merely making an observation. His face remained forward, watching the staff as they carried the hampers down onto the sand.

  ‘Miss Allardyce is feeling unwell. I told her to spend the day in bed, resting.’ His mother equally kept her focus on the maids and the footmen.

  ‘The timing of her illness is unfortunate.’ Or fortunate, depending on whose point of view one was considering, he thought grimly.

  His mother nodded. ‘Indeed it is—poor girl.’

  Once everyone was settled upon the blankets, his mother in pride of place upon a chair and rug, he and McEwan removed their coats, rolled up their sleeves and served plates of cold sliced cooked chicken, ham and beef to the waiting servants. There were bread rolls and cheese and hard-boiled eggs. There were strawberries and raspberries, fresh cooled cream and the finest jams, sponge cakes, peppermint creams and hard-boiled sweets. And chunks of ice all wrapped up and placed amongst the food and drink to keep it cool. Expense had not been skimped upon. Hunter wanted his staff to have a good time, just as his father had done before him and his father before him.

  This was duty. He knew that and so he endured it, even though the laughter and light that surrounded him made him feel all the darker and all the more alone. Hunter stood aside from the rest and watched the little party, his mother in the centre of it, good humoured, partaking in the jokes and the chatter; the few staff that remained at Blackloch were as warm with her as if she had never left.

  He slid a glance at his pocket watch before making his way over to his mother. The laughter on her face died away as soon as she saw him. And he thought he saw something of the light in her expire.

  ‘There are matters at Blackloch to which I must attend. I will leave McEwan at your disposal.’

  She smiled, if it could be called that, but her eyes were filled with disdain and condemnation. She made no attempt to dissuade him. Indeed, she looked positively relieved that he was leaving.

  McEwan appeared by his side as Hunter pulled on his coat.

  ‘Attend to my mother’s wishes if you will, McEwan. I will see you back at Blackloch later.’ Hunter brushed his heels against Ajax’s flank and was gone, heading back along the road to Blackloch Hall.

  Phoebe did not know where else to look in the sunlit study. All six desk drawers lay open. She had searched through each one twice and found nothing of what she sought. There were bottles of ink, pens and pen sharpeners. There was also a packet of crest-embossed writing paper, books of estate accounts, newspapers and letters, a brace of pistols and even a roll of crisp white banknotes, but not the object she must steal. She had searched all of the library shelves, even sliding each deep red leather-bound book out just in case, but behind them was only dark old mahogany and a fine layer of dust.

  The faint aroma of brandy still hung in the air, rich and sweet and ripe, mixed with the underlying scent of a man’s cologne—the smell of Hunter. She thought of him sitting in this room through the long dark hours of the night, alone and filling himself with brandy. And despite her father’s words, and whatever it was that Hunter had done, she could not help but feel a twinge of compassion for him.

  She slumped down into Hunter’s chair, not knowing what to do. The man had said it would be in Hunter’s study. But Phoebe had been looking for over an hour without a sight of it. She leaned her elbows on the dark ebony surface of Hunter’s desk and rested her head in her hands. Where else to look? Where? But there were no other hiding places to search.

  The sun was beating through the arched lattice windows directly upon her and she felt flustered and hot and worried. A bead of sweat trickled between her breasts as she got to her feet, her shoulders tense and tight with disappointment and worry. There was nothing more to be gained by searching yet again. The Messenger, as he called himself, had been wrong; she could do nothing other than tell him so.

  She thought of Mrs Hunter, and the man who was her son, and of all the staff down at
the seaside, with the cooling sea breeze and the wash of the waves rolling in over the sand, and up to the ankles of those who dared to paddle. Her fingers wiped the sweat from her brow and she felt a pang of jealousy. And then she remembered the loch with its still cool water and its smooth dark surface. She rubbed at the ache of tension that throbbed in her shoulders as she thought of its soothing peacefulness and tranquillity.

  She knew she should not, but Mrs Hunter had said they would not be back until late afternoon, and there was no one here to see. Phoebe felt very daring as she closed the door of Hunter’s study behind her.

  The glare of the mid-day sun was relentless as Hunter cantered along the Kilmarnock road. He would not gallop Ajax until he reached the softer ground of the moor. Sweat glistened on the horse’s neck, but the heat of the day did not touch Hunter, for he was chilled inside, chilled as the dead. In the sky above it was as if a great dark cloud covered the sun, the same dark shadow that dogged him always.

  He thought of Miss Allardyce and he spurred Ajax on until he reached Blackloch.

  Hunter stabled his horse and then slipped into the house through the back door. All was quiet, and still; the only things moving were the tiny particles of dust dancing in the sunlight bathing the hallway. He made his way into his study, his refuge. And, dispensing with his hat and gloves, scanned the room with a new eye.

  Nothing looked out of place. Everything was just as he had left it. The piles of paperwork and books perched at the far edge of his desk, the roll of banknotes in the top drawer, the set of pistols in the bottom. He pulled out the money, counted the notes—not one was missing. Upon the shelves that lined the room the books, bound in their dark red leather with gold-lettered spines, sat uniform and tidy. No gaps caught the eye. His gaze moved to the fourth shelf by the window, to the one gap that should have been there. Evelina sat in its rightful place.

  Hunter poured himself a brandy and sat down at the desk. She had been in here. He mused over the knowledge while he sipped at the brandy. Returning a book that she had lied about needing to borrow. His gaze moved over the polished ebony surface of his desk, and he saw it—a single hair, long and stark against the darkness of the wood. A hair that had not been there this morning, on a desk that she had no need to be near in order to return the book to its shelf. He lifted it carefully, held it between his fingers and, in the light from the window, the hair glowed a deep burnished red. Hunter felt a spurt of anger that he had allowed his physical reaction to the woman cloud his judgement. He abandoned his brandy and made his way to find Miss Allardyce.

  It was no surprise to find the bedchamber empty and the bed neatly made. He undertook a cursory search of her belongings, of which it seemed that Miss Allardyce possessed scant few. A green silk evening dress, the bonnet she had been wearing upon the moor road the day he had encountered her with the highwaymen. A pair of well-worn brown leather boots, one pair of green silk slippers to match the dress. A shawl of pale grey wool, a dark cloak, some gloves, underwear. All of it outmoded and worn, but well cared for. A hairbrush, ribbons, a toothbrush and powder, soap. No jewellery. Nothing that he would not expect to find. And yet a feeling nagged in his gut that something with Miss Allardyce was not quite right. And where the hell was she?

  He stood where he was, his gaze ranging the room that held her scent—sweet and clean, roses and soap. And then something caught his eye in the scene through the window. A pale movement in the dark water of the loch. Hunter moved closer and stared out, his eye following the moorland running down to the loch. And the breath caught in his throat, for there in the waters of the Black Loch was a woman—a young, naked woman. Her long hair, dark reddish brown, wet and swirling around her, her skin ivory where she lay beneath the surface of the water, so still that he wondered if she were drowned. But then those slim pale arms moved up and over her head, skimming the water behind her as she swam, and he could see the slight churn where she kicked her feet.

  He stood there and watched, unable to help himself. Watched the small mounds of her breasts break the surface and fall beneath again. He watched her rise up, emerging from the loch’s dark depths like a red-haired Aphrodite, naked and beautiful. Even across the distance he could see her wet creamy skin, the curve of her small breasts with their rosy tips, the narrowness of her waist and the gentle swell of her hips. She stood on the bank and wrung out her hair, sending more rivulets of water cascading down her body before reaching down to pull on her shift. Hunter felt his mouth go dry and his body harden. He knew now the whereabouts of Miss Allardyce—she was swimming in his loch.

  Chapter Four

  Phoebe hummed as she hurried up the main staircase, carrying her petticoats and dress draped over her arm. She resolved that once she was dressed she would retrace her route and wipe the trail of wet footprints she was leaving in her wake. The tension had eased from her shoulders; she was feeling clear-headed and much more positive about tackling the Messenger on Tuesday. She was padding down the corridor towards her bedchamber when one of the doors on the left opened and out stepped Sebastian Hunter.

  Phoebe gave a shriek and almost dropped her bundle of clothes. ‘What on earth …? Good heavens!’ He seemed to take up the whole of the passageway ahead. She saw his gaze sweep down over her body where the thin worn cotton of her shift was moulded to the dampness of her skin; she clutched her dress and undergarments tight to cover her indecency.

  ‘Mr Hunter, you startled me. I thought you were gone to the seaside with the rest of the house.’ She could feel the scald of embarrassment in her cheeks and hear the slight breathlessness of shock in her voice.

  ‘I returned early.’ His expression was closed and unsmiling as ever.

  ‘If you will excuse me, sir,’ she said and made to walk past him, but to Phoebe’s horror Hunter moved to block her way.

  ‘My mother said you were ill abed.’ His tone was cold and she thought she could see a hint of accusation in his eyes.

  ‘This is not the time for discussion, sir. At least have the decency to let me clothe myself first.’ She looked at him with indignation and prayed that he would not see the truth beneath it.

  Hunter showed no sign of moving.

  ‘I would hear your explanation now, Miss Allardyce.’ His gaze was piercing.

  ‘This is ridiculous! You have no right to accost me so!’

  ‘And you have no right to lie to my mother,’ he countered in a voice so cool and silky that it sent shivers rippling the length of her spine.

  ‘I did not lie.’ Another lie upon all the others. She could not meet his gaze as she said it.

  ‘You do not look ill and abed to me, Miss Allardyce. Indeed, you look very much as if you have been swimming in the loch.’

  She could not very well deny it. She stared at her the bareness of her feet and the droplets of water surrounding them, then, taking a deep breath, raised her eyes to his. And in their meeting that same feeling passed between them as had done on the moor and that night in his study. Hunter felt it, too, she could see it in his eyes.

  And standing there, barely clothed before him, at this most inopportune of moments she understood exactly what it was. An overwhelming, irrational attraction. Her mind went blank; she could think of not a single thing to say. ‘I …’

  Hunter waited.

  With a will of iron she managed to drag her gaze away and close her mind to the realisation.

  ‘I felt somewhat feverish and took a dip in the loch to cool the heat.’ The excuse slipped from her tongue and, feeble though it was, she was thankful for it. ‘As a result I am feeling much recovered.’

  He gave no sign that he did not believe her, but neither did he look convinced. The tension hummed between them. The seconds seemed to stretch for ever.

  ‘Sir, I am barely clothed! Your behaviour is reprehensible!’ She forced her chin up and eyed him with disdain.

  Hunter did not move. ‘You were in my study today, Miss Allardyce.’ That pale intense gaze bored into hers as if he could
see every last thought in her head.

  Phoebe’s heart gave a little stutter. The tension ratcheted tighter between them. She swallowed hard and kept her eyes on his, as if to look away would be some kind of admission of guilt. She thought of her father and his poor battered face and the memory was enough to steel every trembling nerve in her body. She knew what was at stake here.

  ‘I returned your book.’ She could feel the water dripping from her hair over her shoulders, rolling down over her arms, which were bare to Hunter’s perusal if he should choose to look, but his gaze did not stray once from her own.

  ‘How did my mother enjoy Evelina?’ ‘Well enough, I believe.’ Phoebe spoke calmly, and stayed focused.

  He said nothing, but there was a tiny flicker of a muscle in his jaw.

  She shivered, but whether it was from the cooling of her skin or the burning intensity of Hunter’s eyes she did not know. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, sir.’

  His gaze shifted then, swept over her bare shoulders, over the dress she clutched to her breast, down to her bare feet and the puddle of loch water that was forming around them. And she blushed with embarrassment and anger, and most of all with the knowledge that she could be attracted to such a man.

  ‘Really, Mr Hunter! How dare you?’ Hunter’s eyes met hers once more. He did not look away, but he did step aside to let her reach the door.

  She edged past him, keeping her back to the door so that he would not see the full extent of her undress. Her hand fumbled behind at the door knob. The door did not open. Phoebe twisted it to the left. The door did not yield. Then to the right. Still nothing happened.

  She rattled at the blasted knob, panicking at the thought she would have to turn round and in the process present Hunter with a view that did not bear thinking about.