A Dark and Brooding Gentleman

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.

Hunter moved, closing the distance between them. Phoebe gave a gasp as his hand reached round behind her. He was so close she could smell his soap, his cologne, the very scent that was the man himself. Her heart was thudding so hard she felt dizzy. And as Hunter stared down at her she could see the sudden darkening blaze in his eyes, could sense the still tension that gripped his large powerful male body, could feel the very air vibrate between them. The edge of his sleeve brushed against her arm. And part of her dreaded it and, heaven help her, part of her wanted to feel the touch of those strong firm lips. To be kissed, to be held by such a strong dangerous man. She squeezed her eyes closed and clutched the dress all the tighter.

Cool air hit against her skin and she heard the sound of booted steps receding along the passageway. She opened her eyes to find Hunter gone and the door to her chamber wide open behind her.

Hunter paused as the clock upon his study mantel chimed eight and then looked across his desk at McEwan, who was sitting in the chair opposite and waiting with the air of a man much contented. Hunter swallowed back the bitterness.

‘You are up and about early this morning, Hunter.’ Hunter saw McEwan eye the still half-full brandy decanter, but his steward was wise enough to make no comment upon it.

‘I have things on my mind,’ said Hunter and frowned again as he thought of Miss Allardyce.

‘What do you make of my mother’s companion?’

‘I cannot say I have noticed her,’ McEwan confessed.

‘Hell’s teeth, man, how could—?’ Hunter stopped, suddenly aware of revealing just how much he had noticed Miss Allardyce himself. In his time he had known diamonds of the ton, actresses whose looks commanded thousands and opera singers with the faces of angels, all of whose beauty far exceeded that of his mother’s companion. And yet there was something about Phoebe Allardyce, something when she looked at him with those golden-brown eyes of hers that affected Hunter in a way no woman ever had. He took a breath, leaned back in the chair and looked at McEwan.