A Dark and Brooding Gentleman (18 page)

‘Phoebe,’ he whispered, and her eyes were dark and filled with such love and passion. ‘Phoebe,’ he said, and there were no words to express what he felt, the enormity of it, the towering brilliant force of it. He knew only one way to show her how much he needed her, how very much he loved her.

He stripped off his tailcoat, let his waistcoat fall away to the floor. His shirt slipped easily over his head so that his chest was bared to her and he shivered with the sweet caress of her fingers against his naked skin. And then he took her in his arms once more and pressed kisses to her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks and ear.

‘My love,’ he said as he tongued the soft sweet lobe of her ear. ‘My sweet love’, as his teeth grazed gently against her throat and followed round to taste the skin at the nape of her neck.

One by one he plucked the pins from her hair, placing them in a pile beside her candle. He revelled in the loosening of that heavy auburn coil, unwinding it to hang loose against her shoulders; slid his hands into its soft length, pressed his nose to it, inhaling its scent. He kissed all the way down those lengths, his hands anchoring around her waist as his mouth caressed the
pale mounds of her breasts that peeped from her stays. A soft moan escaped her and in it he heard both her pleasure and her need.

She moaned again as his mouth left her; when he looked in her eyes they were dark and dazed with desire. ‘Sebastian,’ she pleaded as he turned her away from him.

But he reassured her with soft whispers nuzzled against the edge of her shoulder. Still she did not understand, not until his fingers touched to the laces of her stays. He schooled himself to patience, knowing that she was a virgin, knowing how very much he wanted to pleasure her, for this to be the most wonderful experience of her life. His fingers were shaking as he worked his way slowly, methodically down, unlacing the ribbon one stretch at a time, watching the stiff-boned underwear temptingly slacken and teasingly gape until at last it tumbled to land with a thud on the rug.

She turned to face him and he could see the outline of her breasts through the thin worn material of her shift. And she came into his arms and he kissed her, questing gently at first, then deepening the kiss as he felt the measure of her desire. He rejoiced in the feel of her body, stroking her, touching her to stoke her pleasure all the higher. Beneath his hands her breasts were firm, her nipples nosing at his palms. He rolled their pebbled tips between his thumb and fingers, tugging at them gently until she was gasping out loud.

Hunter knelt before the woman he loved, circled her waist with his arms and then he took one breast into his mouth. Her moan was low and deep and guttural. He kissed her slowly and sensually, flicking his tongue against her hardened nub. She gasped and quivered with
the force of sensation, threading her fingers through his hair, and clasping his head to her as if she would suckle him. He licked her, sucked her, mouthed her, caressing her hips as he did so. And everywhere his mouth had been the cotton of her shift clung tight and translucent to the bead of her nipple.

‘Phoebe,’ he groaned, knowing both torture and delight. He was shaking with his own need for her, his manhood so aroused and aching for release that the pain throbbed with an escalating intensity through his body. Yet he wanted her to be ready. He wanted her pleasure at the moment of their coupling to obscure her pain.

He reached for the ribbon of her shift and the soft worn material slid off her shoulders and down her arms, catching on her nipples before slipping all the way down her legs. She stepped out from it, naked save for her stockings and shoes.

‘Phoebe,’ he whispered as his mouth slid kisses against her stomach, her abdomen, and lower still until his mouth teased over the auburn triangle of hair between her legs.

‘Sebastian,’ she gasped and dug her fingers into the muscle of his shoulders.

He gazed up from where he knelt, his eyes sweeping over her with all of the fierce possession and adoration that was in his soul.

‘You are mine, Phoebe, now and for ever.’ And never taking his eyes from where they locked with hers he stroked his hands against her ankles. ‘Just as I am yours.’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, as his fingers began to edge slowly up the inner edge of her stockings. His caress was soft, the lightest trail of his fingers against the silk,
against her calf, over her knee and up farther to the pale blue ribbons of her garters tied. She thought he would untie the bow and let the stockings slide down her legs, but he left them intact, kissing each ribbon so that she felt the warmth of his breath against the bare skin of her thigh as he untied the bows and let the stockings slide down her legs.

His hands stroked her hips, cupping her buttocks, his eyes clinging to hers as he moved his mouth to meet what lay between her legs.

‘Sebastian!’ she gasped, but he did not release her, just worked magic on that most intimate and secret of places, until she was clutching his head to her, pulling his hair, crying out as pleasure exploded throughout her and her body convulsed and throbbed and her legs were so weak that she would have collapsed had he not stood up and swept her up into his arms.

He carried her to the bed and laid her down on the sheets.

She watched while he stripped off the rest of his clothes, stared at his nakedness, at his strength and his beauty, at a body that was so different in every way from her own. Such pale white skin, such hard defined muscle in his arms and shoulders, abdomen and thighs. His manhood was long and thick and rigid and the sight of it sent a pulsing ache through her woman’s core.

He covered her with his body and kissed her, his tongue penetrating her mouth in thrusting strokes that had her gasping and pressing her hips to him, and arching to drive her breasts against the granite of his chest. And then his fingers played upon her where his mouth had worked such magic, where she was wet and throbbing for him, her body pleading its invitation. She shuddered
her pleasure again, gasping, reeling, floating, so that she barely noticed the pain amidst the shimmering ecstasy as his manhood pierced her. Two bodies became one.

She clung to him as he held her and kissed her mouth and stroked her face. And when he moved, slowly at first, sliding so gently, she knew that this was their journey, their place, the nearing of their final destination. He moved and she met each driving stroke of his body, pulling him into her all the deeper, needing this union, wanting this man. They moved together in what was always meant to be between them. Walking, then running. Running to reach the place that each could only find with the other. Glorying in their union. Striving for the end, yet prolonging the journey in every way that they could. Until he spilled his seed within her and she was truly his and he was truly hers. A sharing of bodies. A communion of souls. A merging of hearts and minds and beings. And nothing would ever be the same again.

He eased down to lie by her side, breathless, reeling from the wonder of her and the love and passion that was between them. His mouth touched hers with all the reverence and joy and love that he felt. She snuggled against him and he wrapped her in his arms, knowing he would protect her from all the world. Phoebe Allardyce, the woman he would make his wife.

Lying there in the darkness of the night and the warmth of his arms, Phoebe wished she could stop time and make this perfect night last for ever. But the hours were passing too quickly and her mind dreaded what the morning would bring. Sebastian turned in his sleep
and the moonlight revealed his pale stark handsome features. He looked so peaceful, vulnerable almost, and her heart welled with love for him.

She knew what the men would do to him, for all his strength and resolution; they were many and he was but one man. And it seemed in the quietness of the night she heard again the whisper of his words.

Do you not know I would lay down my life for you?

And she would lay down hers for him. The thought came unbidden, a quiet certainty that it seemed had never not been there. With it came the knowledge that she could not let them harm him. She could not risk his life. And in that moment Phoebe knew that there was more than one way to lay down a life.

Her heart shrivelled at the thought of what she must do and how much it would hurt him. To think of that hurt was almost unbearable, but better that than what the men would do to him. To lose his love and gain his hatred was a price she would pay for a lifetime to save him.

‘Phoebe?’ he murmured, half-waking as she stole from beneath the sheets.

‘It will soon be dawn and I must not be found in your bed,’ she whispered. She brushed a kiss against his lips and the pain squeezed all the tighter in her heart. ‘Go back to sleep, Sebastian. I love you. Remember that, whatever should happen.’

‘I love you, too, Phoebe,’ he said and caught her hand in his own as if to keep her with him. She squeezed it gently, one last touch to last a lifetime, before releasing him. Then she moved quietly through the darkness to where their clothing lay upon the floor.

H
unter woke in a shaft of early autumn sunshine. He felt bathed in warmth and happiness. He could still smell the scent of Phoebe upon his skin, could almost still feel the softness of her body pressed to his. She was his woman in truth, his one true love. The knowledge made his heart glow and his face smile. And as he lay there a plan formed in his head of how to deal with the men who had blackmailed her.

It involved a certain amount of risk and ingenuity, but Hunter knew it would work. It would protect Phoebe and her father, and flush out the bastards who would steal his father’s ring. And he wondered again why anyone else would want the ring so very badly. Not that they had a chance in hell of taking it from him.

The note made no noise as it slipped beneath his door. Hunter saw it and thought again of Phoebe. He smiled and rose to fetch it. Once all this was done and Phoebe was safe, then he would speak to his mother.

Only his given name was written on the outside of
the folded paper and the ink smeared beneath his fingers so he knew that she had only just written it and passed it to him with her very own hand. He smiled again at the intimacy of it and at the love they shared, and opened the note to read her secret message.

There were only two words. Two words, and the smile wiped from his face and the dread and the disbelief churned in his stomach.
Forgive me.
So black and stark against the pale paper sheet.

His gaze moved to the pile of abandoned clothing, now devoid of all trace of Phoebe, and his blood ran cold with premonition.

The chain coiled alone in the pocket of his waistcoat. He did not need to search anywhere else to know that the ring was gone. Her words of the night whispered again in his head and he understood their meaning and that last breath of a kiss.

Hunter pulled on his breeches and stormed from the room.

Her bedchamber was empty, just as he had known it would be.

He ran down the stairs, yelling her name.

A maid gave a yelp at the sight of him and scurried away, but Trenton appeared in the hallway.

‘Miss Allardyce went out five minutes ago, sir.’

Hunter opened the front door and stepped outside to scan the street. There was no sign of her.

He saw the embarrassment in his butler’s face and in his urgency to find her he did not care if the whole world knew he had spent the night loving her.

‘Where did she go?’ he barked the question.

Trenton shook his head. ‘She didn’t say where, just that she was going out for a walk.’

‘Did she receive any messages this morning?’

‘Yes, sir. A letter was delivered for her not ten minutes since. The lad said it was urgent. I took it up to her myself.’

Hunter gave a nod. ‘Have Ajax saddled and brought round to the front.’ And then he took the stairs two at a time back to her room.

The cupboards and drawers were empty and her travelling bag, the same one mauled by the highwaymen on a moor so long ago, sat fully packed by the foot of the bed. Hunter stood and scanned the room.

The smell of burning hung in the air, yet no fire had been lit. He glanced over at the blackened empty fireplace, then moved closer and saw the paper upon the grate. In her haste to leave she had not stayed to watch its burning. The familiar writing was charred, but still readable.

The corner of Red Lion Street with Paternoster Row at Spitalfields Market. Come by hackney carriage immediately and wear the red shawl. Tie the ring inside a white handkerchief and hold it in your hand.

Five minutes later Hunter was dressed and galloping Ajax down the street. She had a fifteen-minute start on him, but he knew the shortcuts that a hackney carriage could not take, and he knew he could reach Spitalfields first. His face was grim with determination and he spurred his horse all the faster.

Phoebe did not look out at the passing buildings, but kept her eyes upon the white-handkerchief pouch clutched so tightly within her hand. The carriage rumbled
and lurched over the road, taking her ever closer to Spitalfields. The day was mild and the red woollen shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, but Phoebe was so cold her teeth chattered from it. She felt numb, frozen, sick with the knowledge of what she was doing. And yet not once did she contemplate turning back. It had to be done, to save Sebastian and to save her father.

She dreaded the moment the betrayal would be complete, and she dreaded even more returning to Grosvenor Street to face Sebastian and all that would stand where love had been. Wrath and hurt and contempt. And she would not blame him, not one little bit, not when she had taken everything of him and betrayed him.

She glanced down at the faded blue muslin of her skirt and she remembered the very first time she had met Sebastian, when he had rescued her from the highwaymen on the moor. All of what was between them had been there from the moment she had looked up into his eyes; she just had not known it.

She loved him. She loved him enough to betray him. And the price of her treachery was her own heart.

From his vantage point beneath the portico of Christ Church, Hunter had a clear view of the junction between Red Lion Street and Paternoster Row. Thursday was market day at Spitalfields and despite the early hour the market place was busy and the streets thronged with people. The villains had chosen well, he thought. No one would notice what was happening, and even if they did they would not care.

This was the East End and, although it had once been the affluent quarters of the Huguenot silk weavers, the area had fallen on hard times so that the faces Hunter
saw milling around the market were sharp-eyed and lean-cheeked and rough, and he feared all the more for Phoebe. He could hear the cries of the hawkers and stallholders advertising the bargains and quality to be had. Fruit and vegetables, from blackberries and apples to potatoes and lettuce. Carts and gigs and hackney carriages lined the roads, and there were no sweepers here so the horses had left their business free and plenty afoot. He stayed hidden by the church’s great stone columns and he watched and waited and a few minutes later saw the woman he loved step out of the hackney carriage.

The scarlet shawl marked her amidst the dark drabness all around. Something of her stance suggested a woman going to her doom, something of her very stillness was all speaking and the pallor of her face was stark against the brightness of the shawl. Hunter slipped from his hiding place and made his way through the crowd.

He threaded his way steadily closer, never once losing sight of the red shawl. He had almost reached her when he saw the figure move behind her, a fair-haired man with his cap pulled down low over his eyes—the same man he had last seen outside the Tolbooth in Glasgow.

He was so close and yet the throng of people between them barred his way, and he knew he would not reach her in time.

‘Phoebe!’ he shouted, ‘Do not do it!’ He saw her face turn to him, saw her shock and her anguish.

‘Sebastian!’ She began to move towards him just as the man struck, snatching the white handkerchief from her hand.

Phoebe stared in disbelief and wondered for a moment if Sebastian were real or just a figment of her imagination.

She had never seen his eyes look so dark or his face so white with fury. He grabbed hold of her, staring down at her and there was such darkness, such danger and intensity about him to raze all else in its path. Phoebe trembled at the promise she saw in his eyes.

‘Are you all right?’

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

‘Take a carriage home and wait for me there. And do not dare run away from me, Phoebe Allardyce.’ He pressed his purse into her hands and then sped off in pursuit of the Messenger.

The man knocked people flying as he fled from Hunter, cutting a swathe through the crowd to reach the road where he dodged through the mêlée of carriages and carts. Hunter did not hesitate, running between the carriages, chasing down his quarry. He ran with a cold determination that made his legs pump all the faster. The man glanced back over his shoulder and Hunter knew the villain was tiring. He pressed on harder. Another glance back and this time it cost the man his footing. The bastard slid in a pile of horse dung and almost fell, before catching his balance and running on. A third glance and Hunter caught him as he ducked into the alleyway.

The man bounced against the brick of the building as Hunter’s punch landed hard against the villain’s jaw.

‘You bastard!’ Hunter snarled and made to move in.

But the man cowered away and as he did so Hunter
felt a flash of recognition as if he knew this man from somewhere, but could not place him. ‘Don’t hurt me! Please! Just take it …’ the coward pleaded and threw the small white parcel.

Hunter felt the hardness of metal as he caught it, but he had to be sure. He ripped through the cotton of Phoebe’s handkerchief and there inside, with its emerald eyes looking up at him, was his father’s wolf’s-head ring.

He glanced up to see the man sloping away. Their eyes met and the man sprang to action and ran for his life.

Hunter tucked the ring safely away and then started after him.

The man sped from the alley, turning left to nip out onto the street just before a procession of carts and a surge in the crowd.

Hunter cursed, then realised that the villain was heading west towards Bishopsgate and for the first time in a year Hunter was glad of his rakish past, of his misspent nights in the low-life gaming dens of Spitalfields and Whitechapel. He knew the lanes round here like the back of his hand. He slipped into Duke Street and then cut along Artillery Lane, taking a short cut to bring him out on Bishopsgate only twenty yards behind the man who was no longer running, but hurrying. Hunter did not close the distance, just stayed amidst the crowd and followed. And as the market crowd thinned and they entered the banking area of London, Hunter knew the man would lead him to whoever was behind this villainy.

The man hurried on until he came to a quiet leafy street lined with a few large houses, a street down which
Hunter had never travelled. Hunter hung back, knowing that in the emptiness the man would be sure to see him if he followed too close, then used the ancient sycamores that lined the road as cover to close the distance.

The man hesitated outside the largest of the houses and, with a furtive glance around him, ran up the front steps and disappeared inside the opened door. Upon a black stone plaque on its wall the words
Obsidian House
had been carved and beneath the words were the same symbols that were carved into the lintels above the front doors of both Blackloch and his town house in Grosvenor Street. And Hunter felt the stirring of something dark.

Only once the man was inside the house did he follow. The main doors stood open, caught back and secured with a hook. There was a small porch area followed by a set of glass interior doors that led into the hallway. The glass doors were closed, but Hunter was up the stairs and his back pressed flat against the wall at the edge of the outer doors that he might inch his head round and gain a view.

Inside in the hallway, the man was talking to a gentleman. And now Hunter knew why the fair-haired villain’s face had seemed so vaguely familiar. He was a footman. And the gentleman at his side was his master. A gentleman Hunter knew very well. A gentleman Hunter had considered a friend: James Edingham, Viscount Bullford.

There were more men appearing in the hallway now. Men that Hunter or his father had counted friends. Rich men, powerful men. A high court judge, an archbishop, a member of the cabinet, even a member of the royal family. A duke clapped his hand against Bullford’s back
in a gesture of friendship. And they began filing down a corridor that led straight ahead.

They were smiling. And they were all of them wearing long black ceremonial robes identical to that of the man in the painting in Hunter’s bedchamber at Blackloch.

His eyes dropped from the receding black figures to the floor of the porch. Not tiled or wooden, but a mosaic and depicting the same hunting scene from classical antiquity as was carved into the stone fireplace of his study in his town house.

Hunter saw the footmen that came to close the outer doors. He dodged back out of the way and jumped down behind the bushes that grew in the narrow soil strips on either side of the house. Once the doors were closed he made his way back to Grosvenor Street.

Phoebe was not in her room.

He glanced down at the travelling bag that still sat by the bed and the sudden thought struck him that maybe the footman had had an accomplice waiting there to snatch her from Spitalfields. His stomach dipped with the dread of it.

‘Did Miss Allardyce return safely from her morning sojourn?’

Trenton cleared his throat ‘Indeed, sir, but she has gone out again on an errand for Mrs Hunter some fifteen minutes ago.’

‘An errand?’ Hunter frowned.

‘Mrs Hunter is suffering from a headache. I believe she dispatched Miss Allardyce to purchase a herbal remedy.’

‘From where?’

‘I do not know, sir.’

And neither did his mother.

‘Inform me immediately that she returns,’ he instructed Trenton, and aside from that there was little that Hunter could do, despite all his unease.

He went to his study to wait, blaming himself for not guarding her better, chiding himself for not realising that she would steal the ring to save him.

Phoebe made her purchase of feverfew and betony and had just left the apothecary shop when she was assailed by a familiar voice.

‘I say, Miss Allardyce, how nice to see you on this glorious morning.’

Phoebe felt her heart sink. She was in no fit state for conversation. Her stomach was churning with dread at the thought of what the villains might have done to Hunter. Hunter was tall and strong and fast and she did not doubt that he could best any man, but what chance had he against a pistol or a knife? She would not rest until he had returned, despite all that would ensue. She hid her worries and glanced up to see Lord Bullford’s coach stopped by the side of the road and the gentleman himself emerging to stand before her on the footpath.