A Dark and Brooding Gentleman (13 page)

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.

‘O
ut 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 even 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.

‘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, pressing 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.’