A Dark and Brooding Gentleman (12 page)

‘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.

P
hoebe 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.’

‘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 quiet 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.