Hunter waited until he heard the clunk of the brass candlestick being set down upon the wooden surface of the desk behind him, then he cocked the pistol and swivelled his chair round to face the intruder.

She was standing with her back to him, looking over his desk.

‘Miss Allardyce.’

She started round to face him, gave a small shriek, and stumbled back against the desk. Her mouth worked but no words sounded.

He rose to his feet.

Her gaze dropped to the pistol.

He made it safe and lowered it.

‘Mr Hunter,’ she said, and he could hear the shock in her voice and see it in every nuance of her face, of her body, and in the way she was gripping at the desk behind her. ‘I had no idea that you were in here.’

‘Evidently not.’ He let his gaze wander from the long thick auburn braid of hair that hung over her shoulder down across the bodice of the cotton nightdress which, though prim and plain and patched in places, did not quite hide the figure beneath. His gaze dropped lower to the little bare toes that peeped from beneath its hem, before lifting once more to those golden brown eyes. And something of the woman seemed to call to him, so that, just as when he had first looked at her upon the moor, an overwhelming desire surged through him.

AUTHOR NOTE

I love the rugged harsh beauty of the Scottish moorland, so much so that I’ve set A DARK AND BROODING GENTLEMAN on a moor in the West of Scotland, not so very far away from where I live. Blackloch, the fictional moor in the story, is based mainly on Eaglesham Moor (south of Glasgow), with a little touch of Rannoch Moor (near Glencoe) thrown in just for good measure. If you are interested, you can see pictures of the moors and read about the historical research behind the story on my website: www.margaretmcphee.co.uk

Blackloch is almost as dark and brooding as Sebastian Hunter. Readers who met him previously in UNMASKING THE DUKE’S MISTRESS might be surprised to find that he is a man much changed. Both Hunter and Phoebe have been in my mind for a long time, and I can only hope I’ve done them justice in the telling of their story. The story is one with many secrets, all of them to be discovered along the road to love, and I hope very much that you enjoy it.

About the Author

MARGARET MCPHEE loves to use her imagination—an essential requirement for a trained scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read rather than by her experiments, she decided to put the ideas down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind, retaining only the romance—her husband, whom she met in a laboratory. In summer, Margaret enjoys cycling along the coastline overlooking the Firth of Clyde in Scotland, where she lives. In winter, tea, cakes and a good book suffice.

Previous novels by the same author:

THE CAPTAIN’S LADY

MISTAKEN MISTRESS

THE WICKED EARL

UNTOUCHED MISTRESS

A SMUGGLER’S TALE

(part of Regency Christmas Weddings)

THE CAPTAIN’S FORBIDDEN MISS

UNLACING THE INNOCENT MISS

(part of Regency Silk & Scandal mini-series)

UNMASKING THE DUKE’S MISTRESS*

*Gentlemen of Disrepute

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Dark and

Brooding

Gentleman

Margaret McPhee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Isobel, and her Glasgow.

Chapter One

The Tolbooth Gaol, Glasgow, Scotland—July 1810

‘Blackloch Hall?’ Sir Henry Allardyce shook his head and the fine white hair that clung around his veined, bald pate wafted with the movement. Upon his pallid face was such worry; it tugged at Phoebe’s heart that her father, who had so much to endure in this dank miserable prison cell, was worrying not about himself, but about her. ‘But I thought Mrs Hunter was estranged from her son.’

‘She is, Papa. In all the months I have spent as the lady’s companion I have never once heard her, or anyone else in the household, make mention of her son.’

‘Then why has she expressed this sudden intent to travel to his home?’

‘You know that Charlotte Street has been twice broken into in the past months, and the last time it was completely ransacked. Her most private things were raked through—her bedchamber, her dressing table, even her …’ Phoebe paused and glanced away in embarrassment. ‘Suffice to say nothing was left untouched.’ Her brow furrowed at the memory. ‘The damage was not so very great, but Mrs Hunter has arranged for the entire house to be redecorated. As it is, every room seems only to remind her that her home has been violated. She is more shaken by the experience than she will admit and wishes some time away.’

‘And they still have not caught the villains responsible for the deed?’ Her father looked appalled.

‘Nor does it look likely that they will do so.’

‘What has the world come to when a widow alone cannot feel safe in her own home?’ He shook his head. ‘Such a proud but goodly woman. It was generous of her to allow you to come here today. Most employers would have insisted upon you accompanying her to Blackloch Hall immediately.’

‘Mrs Hunter asked me to run some errands in town before my visit to you.’ Phoebe smiled. ‘And she has given me the fare to catch the mail to the coaching inn on Blackloch Moor, from where I am to be collected.’

‘Good,’ he said, but he gave a heavy sigh and shook his head again.

‘You must not worry, Papa. According to Mrs Hunter, Blackloch is not so very far away from Glasgow, only some twenty or so miles. So, she has agreed that our weekly visits may continue. As you said, she really is a good and kind employer and I am fortunate, indeed.’ She took his dear old hand in her own and, feeling the chill that seemed to emanate from his bones, chafed it gently to bring some warmth to the swollen and twisted fingers. ‘And she enquires after your health often.’

‘Oh, child,’ he murmured, and his rheumy eyes were bright with tears, ‘I wish it had not come to this. You left alone to fend for yourself and forced to lie to hide the scandal of a father imprisoned. She still believes that I am hospitalised?’ Phoebe nodded.

‘And it must stay that way. For all of her kindness, she would turn you off in the blink of an eye if she knew the truth. Anything to avoid more scandal, poor woman. Heaven knows, there was enough over her son.’

‘You know of Mrs Hunter’s son? What manner of scandal?’

He took a moment, looking not at Phoebe but at the shadowed corner of the cell, his focus fixed as if on some point far in the distance and not on his ragged fellow inmate who was crouched there upon the uneven stone flags. The seconds passed, until at last he looked round at her once more, and it seemed that he had made up his mind.

‘I am not a man for gossip. It is a sinful and malicious occupation, the work of the devil, but …’ He paused and it seemed to Phoebe that he was picking his words very carefully. ‘It would be remiss of me to allow you to go to Blackloch Hall ignorant of the manner of man you will find there.’

Phoebe felt the weight of foreboding heavy upon her. She waited for the words her father would speak.

‘Phoebe,’ he said and his voice was so unusually serious that she could not mistake the measure of his concern. ‘Sebastian Hunter was a rake of the very worst degree. He spent all his time in London, living the high life, gambling away his father’s money, womanising and drinking. Little wonder that old Hunter despaired of him. They say his father’s death changed him. That the boy is much altered. But …’ He glanced over his shoulder at the cellmate in the corner and then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘There are dark whisperings about him, evil rumours …’ ‘Of what?’

He shook his head again, as if he could not bring himself to convey them to her. But he looked at her intently. ‘Promise me that you will do all you can to stay away from him at Blackloch.’

She looked at him, slightly puzzled by his insistence. ‘My job is with Mrs Hunter. I doubt I will have much contact with her son.’

‘Phoebe, you are too innocent to understand the wickedness of some young men.’ Her papa sounded grim and his implication was clear. ‘So do as I ask, child, and promise me that you will have a special care where he is concerned.’

‘I will be careful. I give you my word, Papa.’

He gave a satisfied grunt and then eyed the bulging travelling bag that sat by her feet. ‘You are well packed. Does Mrs Hunter not transport your portmanteau with the rest of the baggage?’

She followed his gaze to the worn leather bag that contained every last one of her worldly possessions. ‘Of course, but it does not travel down until tomorrow and I thought it better to take my favourite dresses,’ she said with a teasing smile.

‘You girls and your fashions.’ He shook his head in mock scolding.

Phoebe laughed but she did not tell him the truth, that there was no trunk of clothes, that all, save her best dress and the one she was now wearing, had been pawned over the months for the coins to pay her father’s fees within the gaol so that he would not be put to work.

‘I have paid the turnkey the garnish money and more, so you should have candles and blankets, and ale and good food for the next week. Be sure that he gives them to you.’

‘You have kept enough money back for yourself?’ He was looking worried again.

‘Of course.’ She smiled to cover the lie. ‘I have little requirement for money. Mrs Hunter provides all I need.’

‘Bless you, child. What would I do without you?’

The turnkey had reappeared outside the door, rattling his keys so Phoebe knew visiting time was at an end.

‘Come, Phoebe, give your old papa a kiss.’

She brushed his cheek with her lips and felt the chill of his mottled skin beneath.

‘I will see you next week, Papa.’

The turnkey opened the door.

It was always the hardest moment, this walking away and leaving him in the prison cell with its stone slab floors and its damp walls and its one tiny barred window.

‘I look forward to it, Phoebe. Pray remember what I have said regarding …’

The man’s name went unspoken, but Phoebe knew to whom her papa was referring—Hunter.

She nodded. ‘I will, Papa.’ And then she turned and walked away, along the narrow dim passageways, out of the darkness of the gaol and into the bright light of Glasgow’s busy Trongate.

On the right hand side was the Tontine Hotel and its mail coaches, but Phoebe walked straight past, making her way through the crowds along Argyle Street, before heading down Jamaica Street. She kept on walking until she crossed the New Bridge that spanned the River Clyde. Half of Mrs Hunter’s coins for the coach fare were squirreled away inside her purse for next week’s visit to her father. The rest lay snug in the pocket of one of the Tolbooth’s turnkeys.

The road that led south out of the city towards the moor lay ahead. She changed the bag into her other hand and, bracing her shoulders for the walk, Phoebe began her journey to Blackloch Hall.

‘Hunter, is that you, old man? Ain’t seen you in an age. You ain’t been down in London since—’ Lord Bullford stopped himself, an awkward expression suddenly upon his face. He gruffly clapped a supportive hand to Hunter’s shoulder. ‘So sorry to hear about your father.’

Hunter said not one word. His expression was cold as he glanced first at Viscount Linwood standing in the background behind Bullford, and then at where Bullford’s hand rested against the black superfine of his coat. He shifted his gaze to Bullford’s face and looked at him with such deadly promise that the man withdrew his hand as if he had been burnt.

Bullford cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘Up visiting Kelvin and bumped into Linwood. Thought we might drop in on you at Blackloch while we were here. The boys have been worried about you, Hunter. What with—’

‘They need not have been.’ Hunter glanced with obvious dislike at Linwood as he cut off the rest of Bullford’s words and made to step aside. ‘And visitors are not welcome at Blackloch.’

He saw Bullford’s eyes widen slightly, but the man was not thwarted.

‘Kelvin knows an excellent little place. We could—’

‘No.’ Hunter started to walk away.

‘Stakes are high but the tables are the best, and the lightskirts that run the place.’ Bullford skimmed his hands through the air to sketch the outline of a woman’s curves ‘.just your type.’

Hunter turned, grabbed Bullford by the lapels of his coat, thrust him hard against the wall of the building they were standing beside and held him there. ‘I said no.’ He felt rather than saw Linwood tense and move behind him.

‘Easy, old man.’ The sweat was glimmering on Bullford’s upper lip and trickling down his chin. ‘Understand perfectly.’

A voice interrupted—Linwood’s. ‘You go too far, Hunter.’

Hunter released Bullford, and turned to face the Viscount. ‘Indeed?’

Linwood took one look at Hunter’s face and retreated a step or two. But Hunter had already left Bullford and was covering the short distance to where his horse was tethered. The big black stallion bared his teeth and snorted a warning upon hearing his approach but, on seeing it was Hunter, let him untie his reins and swing himself up into the saddle. And as he turned the horse to ride away he heard Bullford saying softly to Linwood, ‘Deuce, if he ain’t worse than all the stories told.’

The July day was fine and dry; and Phoebe smiled to herself as, bit by bit, mile by mile, she left Glasgow behind her and passed through the outlying villages.

The bustle and crowds of the city gave way gradually to quiet hamlets with cottages and fields and cows. The air grew cleaner and fresher, the fields more abundant. She could smell the sweetness of grass and heather and earth, and feel the sun warm upon her back, the breeze gentle upon her face.

Step by step she followed the road heading ever closer to Blackloch and its moor. Rolling hills and vast stretches of scrubby fields surrounded her, all green and yawning and peaceful. Sheep with their woolly coats sheared short wandered by the side of the road, bleating and gambling furiously ahead with their little tails bobbing as she approached. Overhead the sky was blue and cloudless, the light golden and bright with the summer sun. Bees droned, their pollen sacks heavy from the sweet heather flowers; birds chirped and sang and swooped between the hawthorn and gorse bushes. Two coaches passed, and a farmer with his cart, and then no more, so that as she neared the moorland she might have believed herself the only person in this place were it not for the two faint figures of horsemen in the distance behind her.

She walked on and her thoughts turned to Mrs Hunter’s son and her papa’s warning. Dark whisperings and evil rumours, she mused as she transferred the travelling bag from one hand to the other again, in an effort to ease the way its handles cut into her fingers. You have no idea of the wickedness of some men … Her feet were hot and her boots chafed against her toes as she conjured up an image of the wicked Mr Hunter—a squat heavy-set villain to be sure, run to fat with drink and dissipation, with eyes as black as thunder and a countenance to match. Living all alone on a moor miles away from anywhere. Little wonder his mother had disowned him. A man with a soul as black as the devil’s. Phoebe shivered at the thought, then scolded herself for such foolishness.

Another mile farther and she stopped by a stile to rest, dumping the bag down upon the grass with relief and perching herself on the wooden step. She eased her stiffened fingers and rubbed at the welts the bag’s straps had pressed through her gloves. Then she loosened the ribbons of her bonnet and slipped it from her head, to let the breeze ripple through her hair and cool her scalp, before leaning against the fence of the stile. She was quite alone in the peacefulness of the surrounding countryside, so she relaxed and let herself rest for a few minutes.

The clatter of the horses’ hooves was muffled by the grass verge so that Phoebe did not hear the pair’s approach. It was the jingle of a harness and a whinny that alerted her that she was no longer alone.

Not twenty yards away sat two men on horseback. Even had they not kerchiefs tied across their mouths and noses, and their battered leather hats pulled down low over their eyes, Phoebe would have known them for what they were. Everything of their manner, everything of the way they were looking at her, proclaimed their profession. Highwaymen. She knew it even before the men slid down from their saddles and began walking towards her.

She rose swiftly to her feet. There was no point in trying to escape. They were too close and she knew she could not outrun them, not with her heavy travelling bag. So she lifted her bag from where it lay on the grass and stood facing them defiantly.

‘Well, well, what have we here?’ said the taller of the two, whose kerchief obscuring his face was black. His accent was broad Glaswegian and he was without the slightest pretence of education or money.

Although she could not see their faces she had the impression that the men were both young. Maybe it was in the timbre of their voices, or maybe in something of their stance or build. Both were dressed in worn leather breeches, and jackets, with shirts and neckcloths that were old and shabby and high scuffed brown leather boots.

‘A lassie in need of our assistance, I’d say,’ came the reply from his shorter, slimmer accomplice wearing a red kerchief across his face.

‘I have no need of assistance, thank you, gentlemen,’ said Phoebe firmly. ‘I was but taking a small rest before resuming my journey.’

‘Is that right?’ the black-kerchiefed man said. ‘That’s a mighty heavy-looking bag you have there. Allow us to ease your burden, miss.’

‘Really, there is no need. The bag is not heavy,’ said Phoebe grimly and, eyeing them warily, she shifted the bag behind her and gripped it all the tighter.

‘But I insist. Me and my friend, we dinnae like to see a lassie struggle under such a weight. Right gentlemanly we are.’

Gentlemen of the road, for they were certainly not gentlemen of any other description.

He walked slowly towards her.

Phoebe stepped back once, and then again, her heart hammering, not sure of what to do.

‘The bag, if you please, miss.’

Phoebe’s hands gripped even tighter to the handle, feeling enraged that these men could just rob her like this. She raised her chin and looked directly into the man’s eyes. They were black and villainous, and she could tell he was amused by her. That fueled her fury more than anything.

Her own eyes narrowed. ‘I do not think so, sir. I assure you there is nothing in my bag worth stealing unless you have an interest in ladies’ dresses.’

He gave a small hard laugh and behind him the other highwayman appeared with a pistol in his hand that was aimed straight at her.

‘Do as he says, miss, or you’ll be sorry.’

‘Jim, Jim,’ said Black Kerchief, who was clearly the leader of the two, as if chiding the man. ‘Such impatience. There are better ways to persuade a lady.’ And then to Phoebe, ‘Forgive my friend.’ His gaze meandered over her face, pausing to linger upon her lips.

A frisson of fear rippled down Phoebe’s spine. She knew then that she would have to give them the bag, to yield her possessions. Better that than the alternative.

She threw the bag to land at their feet.

Black Kerchief swung the bag between his fingers as he gauged its weight. ‘Far too heavy for a wee slip o’ a lassie like you.’ She could tell he was smiling again beneath his mask, but in a way that stoked her fear higher. ‘Search it,’ he instructed his accomplice and did not move, just kept his eyes on Phoebe. ‘Best relieve the lassie of any unnecessary weighty items.’

Red Kerchief, or Jim as he had been called, lifted the bag and, making short work of its buckle fastenings, began to rake within. He would find nothing save her clothing, a pair of slippers, a comb and some toiletries. Thankfully her purse, and the few coins that it contained, was hidden inside the pocket of her dress.

Phoebe eyed the man with disdain. ‘I have no money or jewels, if that is what you are after.’

‘She’s right; there’s nothin’ here,’ Jim said and spat his disgust at the side of the road.

‘Look again,’ instructed Black Kerchief. ‘What we’ve got here is a bona fide lady, if her accent and airs and graces are anythin’ to go by. She must hae somethin’ o’ value.’

His accomplice emptied the contents of her bag out onto the verge and slit open the lining of her bag. Further rummaging revealed nothing. He dropped the bag with its ripped lining on top of the pile of her clothes and spat again.

‘Nothin’.’

Phoebe prayed a coach would pass, but the road ahead remained resolutely empty and there was silence all around. ‘I did tell you,’ she said. ‘Now if you would be so kind as to let me pass on my way.’ She held her head up and spoke with a calm confidence she did not feel. Inside her heart was hammering nineteen to the dozen and her stomach was a small tight knot of fear. She made to step towards the bag.

‘Tut, tut, darlin’, no’ so fast.’ The black-masked highwayman caught her back with an arm around her waist. ‘There’s a price to pay to travel this road, and if you’ve nae money and nae jewels …’ His gaze dropped lower to the bodice of her dress and lower still to its dusty skirt before rising again to her face.

Phoebe felt her blood run cold. ‘I have nothing to give you, sir, and I will be on my way.’

He laughed at that. ‘I think I’ll be the judge of that, hen.’ He looked at Phoebe again. ‘I’ll hae a kiss. That’s the price to continue on your way.’

She heard the other man snigger.

The villain curled his arm tighter and pulled her closer. The stench of ale and stale sweat was strong around him. ‘Dinnae be shy, miss, there’s no one here to see.’

‘How dare you, sir? Release me at once. I insist upon it.’

‘Insist, do you?’ The highwayman pulled his mask down and leered at her to reveal his discoloured teeth. It was all Phoebe could do not to panic. Vying with the fear was a raging well of fury and indignation. But she stayed calm and delivered him a look that spoke the depth of her disgust.

He laughed.

And as he did she kicked back as hard as she could with her stout walking boots against his shins. He was not laughing then.

A curse rent the air and she felt the loosening of his hands. Phoebe needed no further opportunity. She tore herself from his grip, hoisted up her skirts and, abandoning her bag, began to run.

The man recovered too quickly and she heard his booted footsteps chasing after her. Phoebe ran for all she was worth, her heart thudding fast and furious, her lungs panting fit to burst. She kept on running, but the highwayman was too fast. She barely made it a hundred yards before he caught her.

‘Whoa, lassie. No’ so fast. You and I havenae yet finished our business.’

‘Unhand me, you villain!’

‘Villain, am I?’ With rough hands he pulled her into his arms and lowered the stench of his mouth towards hers.

Phoebe hit out and screamed.

A horse’s hooves sounded then. Galloping fast, coming closer.

Her gaze shot round towards the noise, as did the highway man’s.

There, galloping down the same hill she had not long walked, was a huge black horse and its dark-clad rider—rather incongruous with the rest of the sunlit surroundings. He was moving so fast that the tails of his coat flew out behind him and he looked, for all the world, like some devil rider.

Black Kerchief’s hand was firm around her wrist as he towed her quickly back to where his accomplice still stood waiting. And she saw that he, too, had pulled down his mask so that it now looked like a loose ill-fitting neckerchief. Jim grabbed her and used one hand to hold her wrists in a vice-like grip behind her back. She felt the jab of something sharp press against her side.

‘One sound from you, lady, and the knife goes in. Got it?’

She gave a nod and watched as Black Kerchief stood between her and the road, so that she would be obscured from the rider’s view as he sped past.

Please! Phoebe prayed. Please, she hoped with every last ounce of her will.

And it seemed that someone was listening for the horseman slowed as he approached and drew the huge stallion to a halt by their small group. Not the devil after all, but a rich gentleman clad all in black.

‘Step away from the woman and be on your way.’ Hunter spoke quietly enough, but in a tone that the men would not ignore if they had any kind of sense about them.

‘She’s my wife. Been givin’ me some trouble, she has,’ the taller of the men said.

Hunter’s gaze moved from the woman’s bonnet crushed on the grass by the men’s feet, to the neckerchiefs around the men’s collars, and finally to the woman herself. Her hair glowed a deep tawny red in the sunshine and was escaping its pins to spill over her shoulders. She was young and pretty enough with an air about her that proclaimed her gentle breeding, a class apart from the men who were holding her, and she was staring at him, those fine golden-brown eyes frantically trying to convey her need for help. He slipped down from the saddle.

‘She is no more your wife than mine. So, as I said, step away from her and be on your way … gentlemen.’ He saw the men glance at each other, communicating what they thought was a silent message.

‘If you insist, sir,’ the taller villain said and dragged the girl from behind him and flung her towards Hunter at the same time as reaching for his pistol.

Hunter thrust the girl behind him and knocked the weapon from the highwayman’s hand. He landed one hard punch to the man’s face, and then another, the force of it sending the man staggering back before the villain slumped to his knees. Hunter saw the glint of the knife as it flew through the air. With the back of his hand he deflected its flight, as if he were swatting a fly, and heard the clatter of the blade on the empty road.

The accomplice drove at him, fists flying. Hunter stepped forwards to meet the man and barely felt the fist that landed against his cheekbone. The ineffective punch did nothing to interrupt Hunter’s own, which was delivered with such force that, despite the villain’s momentum, the man was lifted clear off his feet and driven backwards to land flat on his back. The shock of the impact was felt not only by the accomplice, who was out cold upon the ground, but seemed to reverberate around them. The taller highwayman, who had been trying to pick himself up following Hunter’s first blow, stopped still and, as Hunter turned to him, all aggression evaporated from the scoundrel.

‘Please, sir, we were only having a laugh.’ It was almost a whimper. ‘We wouldnae have hurt the lassie; look, here’s her purse.’ The highwayman fished the woman’s purse from his pocket and offered it as if in supplication.

‘Throw it,’ Hunter instructed.

The man did as he was told and Hunter caught it easily in one hand before turning to the woman.

She was white-faced and wary, but calm enough for all her fear. In her hand she gripped the highwayman’s knife as if she trusted him as little as the villains rolling and disabled on the ground before him.

Hunter’s expression was still hard, but he let the promise of lethality fade from his eyes as he looked at her.

He held the purse aloft. ‘Yours, I take it?’

She seemed to relax a little and gave an answering nod of her head. The man must have taken it from her pocket while they were struggling.

He threw the purse to her and watched her catch it, then barked an order for the highwayman, who was leaning dazed upon the stile, to pack the jumble of women’s clothing lying in a heap at the side of the road into the discarded travelling bag. Only when the filled and fastened bag was placed carefully at his feet did Hunter move.

‘To where are you walking?’ His voice was curt and he could feel the woman’s stare on him as he swung himself up into the saddle.

She glanced over at the highwaymen and then back at Hunter.

‘Kingswell Inn.’ A gentlewoman’s voice sure enough. The pure clarity of it stirred sensations in Hunter that he thought he had forgotten.

He urged Ajax forwards a few steps and reached his hand down for her.

She hesitated and bit at her lower lip as if she were uncertain.

‘Make up your mind, miss. Do I deliver you to Kingswell, or leave you here?’ Hunter knew his tone was cold, but he did not care.

She took his hand.

‘Place your foot on the stirrup to gain purchase,’ he directed and pulled her up. As he settled her to sit sideways on the saddle before him the woman glanced up directly into his eyes. The attraction that arced between them was instant, its force enough to make him catch his breath. The shock of it hit him hard. For one second and then another they stared at each other, and then he deliberately turned his face away, crushing the sensation in its inception. Such feelings belonged to a life that was no longer his. He did not look at her again, just pressed the travelling bag into her hands and nudged Ajax to a trot.

‘Did they hurt you?’ The chill had thawed only a little from his voice.

Phoebe stared and her heart was beating too fast. ‘I am quite unhurt, thank you, sir. Although it seems you are not.’ She smiled to hide her nervousness. Clutching her bag all the tighter with one hand, she found her handkerchief with the other and offered it to him.

His frown did little to detract from the cold handsomeness of his face, but it did make it easier for Phoebe to ignore the butterflies’ frantic fluttering in her stomach and the rush of blood pounding through her veins. The bright morning sunlight cast a blue hue in the ebony of his hair and illuminated the porcelain of his skin. Dark brows slashed bold over eyes of clear pale emerald. Such stark beautiful colouring upon a face as cleanly sculpted as that of the statues of Greek gods in her papa’s books. A square chiselled jaw line and cleft chin led up to well-defined purposeful lips. His nose was strong and masculine, his cheekbones high, the left one of which was sporting a small cut that was bleeding. Phoebe could feel the very air of darkness and danger emanating from him and yet still she felt she wanted to stare at him and never look away. She ignored the urge.

‘You have a little blood upon your cheek.’

He took the handkerchief without a word, wiped the trickle of blood and stuffed the handkerchief into his own pocket.

She could feel the gentleman’s arm around her waist anchoring her onto the saddle, and was too conscious of how close his body was to hers even though he had taken care to slide back in the saddle to leave some room between them. He might not care for manners, but Phoebe’s papa had raised her well.

‘Thank you for your intervention, sir.’ She was pleased to hear that her voice was a deal calmer than she felt.

The pale eyes slid momentarily to hers and she saw that they were serious and appraising. He gave a small inclination of his head as acknowledgement of her gratitude, but he did not smile.

‘They meant to rob me and steal a kiss.’

‘That is not all they would have stolen.’ She could almost feel the resonance of his voice within his chest so close was she to it, deep and rich and yet with that same coolness in it that had been there from the very start.

She looked up into those piercing eyes, not quite certain if his meaning was as she thought. She was so close she could see the iris, as pale and clear a green as that of glass, edged with solid black. She could see every individual dark lash and the dark wings of his brows. The breath seemed to lodge in her throat.

‘If you have no mind to lose it, then you will not travel this road alone again.’ He looked at her meaningfully and then he gee’d the horse to a canter, and there was no more talk.

As the horse gathered speed she gripped the pommel with her left hand, and held her bag in place with her right. The man’s arm tightened around her and their bodies slid together so that Phoebe’s right breast was hard against his chest, her right hip tight against his thigh, his hand holding firm upon her waist. Her heart was thudding too hard, her blood surging all the more and not because of the speed at which the great black horse was thundering along the road. It seemed that the man engulfed her senses, completely, utterly, so that she could not think straight. The time seemed to stretch for ever in a torture of wanton sensations.

He did not stop until they reached the coaching inn.

The high moorland surrounded them now, bleak and barren and vast, stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see. The breeze was stronger here, the birds quieter, the air that bit cooler.

And when he lowered her gently to the ground and she looked up at him to thank him again, the words died on her lips, for he was staring down at her with such intensity she could not look away. All time seemed to stop in that moment and it was as if something passed between them, something Phoebe did not understand that shimmered through the whole of her body. Finally he broke his gaze and turned, urging the great horse out of the inn’s yard, out onto the road and, without a backward glance, galloped away across the moor.

Phoebe stood there with the dust caked thick upon her boots and the hem of her faded blue dress, the travelling bag in her hand, and she watched him until the dark figure upon his dark horse, so stark against the muted greens and purples and browns that surrounded him, faded against the horizon. And only then did she realise he had not asked her name nor told her his. She turned away and walked over to the small stone wall by the side of the inn and sat down in the shade to wait. The clock on the outside of the inn showed half past six.

Chapter Two

Out on the moor the land was washed with a warm orange hue from the setting sun. At Blackloch Hall Sebastian Hunter stood, sombre and unmoving, by the arched-latticework window of his study and stared out across the stretch of rugged moor. A cool breeze stirred the heavy dark-red curtains that framed the window and ruffled through his hair. The clock on the mantel chimed nine and then resumed its slow steady tick. He swirled the brandy in the crystal-cut glass and took a sip, revelling in the rich sweet taste and the heat it left as it washed over his tongue and down his throat. He was only half-listening as Jed McEwan, his friend and steward, sitting in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, covered each point on his agenda. Rather, Hunter was thinking over the day, of Bullford and Linwood’s appearance in Glasgow, and more so over the happenings upon the road—of the highwaymen and the woman. Inside his pocket his fingers touched the small white-lace handkerchief.

‘And finally, in less than a fortnight, it is the annual staff trip to the seaside. Do you plan to attend, Hunter?’ The inflection at the end of McEwan’s voice alerted him to the question.

‘I do.’ It was a tradition passed down through generations of the Hunter family, and Hunter would keep to it regardless of how little he wanted to go.

‘We have covered every item on the list.’

Hunter moved to top up McEwan’s brandy glass, but McEwan put a hand over it and declined with thanks.

‘Mairi been giving you a hard time?’ Hunter asked as he filled his own glass.

‘No, but I should be getting back to her.’ McEwan smiled at the thought and Hunter felt a small stab of jealousy at his friend’s happiness. The darkness that sat upon his soul had long since smothered any such tender feelings in Hunter. ‘My father is arriving tonight.’

Hunter felt the muscle flicker in his jaw. He turned away so that McEwan would not see it.

But McEwan knew. And Hunter knew that he knew.

Through the open window, over the whisper of the wind and the rustle of the heather from the moor, came the faint rumble of distant carriage wheels.

Hunter raised an eyebrow and moved to stand at the window once more. He stared out over the moor, eyes scanning the narrow winding moor road that led only to one place—all the way up to Blackloch. ‘Who the hell …?’ And he thought of Bullford and Linwood again.

‘Sorry, Hunter. I meant to tell you earlier, but I got waylaid with other things and then it slipped my mind.’ McEwan picked up his pile of papers and came to stand by Hunter’s side. ‘That will be your mother’s companion, a Miss Phoebe Allardyce. Mrs Hunter sent Jamie with the gig to Kingswell to meet the woman from the last coach.’

Hunter frowned. He did not know that his mother had a companion. He did not know anything of his mother’s life in Glasgow, nor why she had suddenly arrived back at Blackloch yesterday, especially not after the way they had parted.

Hunter watched the small dark speck of the gig grow gradually larger and he wondered fleetingly what the woman would be like—young or old, plain or pretty? To the old Sebastian Hunter it would have mattered. But to the man that stood there now, so still and sullen, it did not. What did he care who she was, what she did? Hunter glanced at McEwan.

‘My mother’s companion is of no interest to me.’ He felt only relief that it was not Bullford or any other of his old crowd. And gladder still it was not Linwood.

McEwan made no comment. He turned away from the window and its view. ‘I will see you in the morning, Hunter.’

‘That is Blackloch Hall, over there, ma’am,’ said the young footman driving the gig and pointed ahead. ‘And to the left hand side, down from the house, is the Black Loch itself, Mr Hunter’s private loch, for which the house and the moor are named.’

Phoebe peered in the direction the boy was pointing. Across the barren moorland a solitary building stood proud and lonely, sinister in its bearing, a black silhouette against the red fire of the setting sun. And beyond it, the dark waters of the loch. The gig rounded the bend and the narrow track that had been winding up to this point straightened to become an avenue of approach to the house. At the front there was nothing to differentiate where the moor stopped and the house’s boundary began. No wall, no hedging, no garden. The avenue led directly up to the house. With every turn of the gig’s wheels Phoebe could see Blackloch Hall loom closer.

It was a large foreboding manor house made to look like a castle by virtue of its turrets and spires. As they drew nearer Phoebe saw the rugged black stonework transform to a bleak grey. All the windows were in darkness; not the flicker of a single candle showed. All was dark and still. All was quiet. It looked as if the house had been deserted. The great iron-studded mahogany front door, beneath its pointed stone arch of strange carved symbols, remained firmly closed. As the gig passed, she saw the door’s cast-iron knocker shaped like a great, snarling wolf’s head and she felt the trip of her heart. The gig drove on, round the side of the house and through a tall arched gateway, taking her round into a stable yard at the back of the house.

The young footman jumped down from the gig’s seat and came round to assist her before fetching her bag from the gig’s shelf.

‘Thank you.’ Phoebe’s eyes flicked over the dismal dark walls of Blackloch Hall and shivered. It was like something out of one of Mrs Hunter’s romance novels, all gothic and dark and menacing. Little wonder the lady had chosen to make her home in Glasgow.

The boy shot a glance at her as if he was expecting her to say something.

‘What a very striking building,’ she managed.

The boy, Jamie he said his name was, gave a nod and then, carrying her bag, led on.

Taking a deep breath, Phoebe followed Jamie towards the back door of the house. He no longer spoke and all around was silence, broken only by the crunch of their shoes against the gravel.

From high on the roof the caw of a solitary crow sounded, and from the corner of her eye she saw the flutter of dark wings … and she thought of the man against whom her father had warned her—Sebastian Hunter. A shiver rippled down her spine as she stepped across the threshold into Blackloch Hall.

Phoebe did not see Mrs Hunter until late the next morning in the drawing room, which to Phoebe’s eye looked less like a drawing room and more like the medieval hall of an ancient castle.

Suspended from the centre of the ceiling was a huge circular black-iron chandelier. She could smell the sweetness of the honey-coloured beeswax candles that studded its circumference. The rough-hewn walls were covered with faded dull tapestries depicting hunting scenes and the floor of grey stone flags was devoid of a single carpet rug. A massive medieval-style fireplace was positioned in the centre of the wall to her left, complete with worn embroidered lum seats. A fire had been laid upon the hearth, but had not been lit so that, even though it was the height of summer, the room had a distinct chill to it. The three large lead-latticed windows that spanned the wall opposite the fireplace showed a fine view over the moor outside.

The furniture seemed a hodgepodge of styles: a pair of Italian-styled giltwood stools, a plainly fashioned but practical rotating square bookcase, a huge gilded eagle perched upon the floor beside the door, its great wings supporting a table top of grey-and-white marble, a small card table with the austere neoclassical lines of Sheraton, and on its surface a chessboard with its intricately carved pieces of ebony and ivory. Farther along the room was a long dark-green sofa and on either side of the sofa was a matching armchair and, behind them, in the corner, a suit of armour.

Mrs Hunter was ensconced on the sofa, supervising the making of the pot of tea. She watched while Phoebe added milk and a lump of sugar to the two fine bone-china cups and poured.

‘How was your father, Phoebe? Does he fare any better?’

‘A little,’ said Phoebe, feeling the hand of guilt heavy upon her shoulder.

‘That at least is something.’ The lady smiled and took the cup and saucer that Phoebe offered. ‘And you attended to all of my matters before your visit to the hospital?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Everything is in order. Mrs Montgomery will send your invitation to Blackloch Hall rather than Charlotte Street. I delivered the sample books back to Messrs Hudson and Collier and to Mrs Murtrie. As you suspected Mr Lyle did not have your shoes ready, but he says they will be done by the end of the week.’

‘Very well.’

Phoebe continued. ‘I collected your powders from Dr Watt and have informed all of the names on your list that you will be visiting Blackloch Hall for the next month and may be contacted here. And the letters and parcel I left with the receiving office.’

‘Good.’ Mrs Hunter gave a nod. ‘And how was the journey down?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ she lied and focused her attention to stirring the sugar into her tea most vigorously so that she would not have to look at her employer.

‘The coach was not too crowded?’

‘Not at all. I was most fortunate.’ A vision of the highwaymen and of a dark and handsome man with eyes the colour of emerald ice chips swam into her head. The teaspoon overbalanced from her saucer and dropped to the flagstones below where it bounced and disappeared out of sight beneath her chair. Phoebe set her cup and saucer down on the table and knelt to retrieve the spoon.

‘I would have sent John with the coach, but I do not wish to be at Blackloch without my own carriage at my dispos—’ Mrs Hunter broke off as the drawing-room door opened and the movement of footsteps sounded. ‘Sebastian, my, but you honour me.’ To Phoebe’s surprise the lady’s tone was acidic.

Phoebe felt a ripple of foreboding down her spine. She reached quickly for the teaspoon.

‘Mother, forgive my absence yesterday. I was delayed by matters in Glasgow.’ The man’s voice was deep and cool as spring water … and disturbingly familiar.

Phoebe stilled, her fingers gripping the spoon’s handle for dear life. Her heart was thudding too fast.

It could not be.

It was not possible.

Slowly she got to her feet and turned to face the wicked Mr Hunter. And there, standing only a few feet away across the room, was her dark handsome rescuer from the moor road.

Hunter stared at the young auburn-haired woman he had left standing alone at the Kingswell Inn. Her cheeks had paled. Her lips had parted. Her warm tawny eyes stared wide. She looked every inch as shocked as he felt.

He moved to his mother and touched his lips to her cool cheek. She suffered it as if he were a leper, shuddering slightly with distaste. So, nothing had changed after all. He wondered why the hell she was here at Blackloch.

‘Sebastian.’ His mother’s voice was cold, if polite for the sake of the woman’s presence. ‘This is my companion, Miss Allardyce. She came down on the late coach last night.’ Then to the woman, ‘Miss Allardyce, my son, Mr Hunter.’ He could hear the effort it took her to force the admission of their kinship.

‘Mr Hunter,’ the woman said in that same clear calm voice he would have recognised anywhere, and made her curtsy, yet he saw the small flare of concern in her eyes before she hid it.

‘Miss Allardyce.’ He inclined his head ever so slightly in the woman’s direction, and understood her worry given that it was now obvious she had palmed the money his mother had given her for her coach fare.

She was wearing the same blue dress, although every speck of dust looked to have been brushed from it. The colour highlighted the red burnish to her hair, now scraped and tightly pinned in a neat coil at the nape of her neck. His gaze lingered briefly on her face, on the small straight nose and those dewy dusky pink lips that made him want to wet his own. And he remembered the soft feel of her pressed against him on the saddle, and the clean rose-touched scent of her, and the shock of a desire he had thought quelled for good. She was temptation personified. And she was everything proper and correct that a lady’s companion should be as she resumed her seat and calmly waited for Hunter to spill her secret.

Not that Hunter had any intention of doing so. After her experience with the highwaymen he doubted she would make the same mistake again. He watched as she set the teaspoon she was holding down upon the tray and lifted her cup and saucer.

His mother’s tone was cool as she turned to her companion. ‘My son has not seen his mother in nine months, Miss Allardyce, and yet he cannot bring himself into my company. This is his first appearance since my arrival at Blackloch.’

Miss Allardyce looked uneasy and took a sip of tea.

His mother turned her attention back to Hunter. ‘Your concern is overwhelming. I think I can see the precise nature of the matters so important to keep you from me.’ Her eyes were cold and appraising as they took in the small cut on his cheek and the bruising that surrounded it. She raised an eyebrow and gave a small snort.

‘You have been brawling.’ He made no denial.

Miss Allardyce’s eyes opened marginally wider.

‘What were you fighting over this time? Let me guess, some new gaming debt?’

He stiffened, but kept his expression impassive and cool.

‘No? If not that, then over a woman, I will warrant.’

A pause, during which he saw the slight colour that had washed the soft cream of Miss Allardyce’s cheeks heighten.

‘You know me too well, madam.’

‘Indeed, I do. You are not changed in the slightest, not for all your promises—’

There was the rattle of china as Miss Allardyce set her cup and saucer down. ‘Mrs Hunter …’ The woman got to her feet. ‘I fear you are mistaken, ma’am. Mr Hu—’

His mother turned her frown on her companion.

‘Miss Allardyce,’ Hunter interrupted smoothly, ‘this is none of your affair and I would that it stay that way.’ His tone was frosty with warning. If his mother wanted to believe the worst of him, let her. He would not have some girl defend him. He still had some measure of pride.

Miss Allardyce stared at him for a moment, with such depths in those golden-brown eyes of hers that he wondered what she was thinking. And then she calmly sat back down in her chair.

‘Ever the gentleman, Sebastian,’ said his mother. ‘You see, Miss Allardyce, do not waste your concern on him. He is quite beyond the niceties of society. Now you know why I do not come to Blackloch. Such unpleasant company.’

He leaned back in his chair. ‘If we are speaking bluntly, what then has prompted your visit, madam?’

‘I am having the town house redecorated and am in need of somewhere to stay for a few weeks, Sebastian. What other reason could possibly bring me here?’ his mother sneered.

He gave a bow and left, vowing to avoid both his mother and the woman who made him remember too well the dissolute he had been.

After the awfulness of that first day Hunter did not seek his mother out again. And Phoebe could not blame him. She wondered why he had not told Mrs Hunter the truth of the cut upon his face or revealed that his mother’s companion had not spent her money upon a coach fare after all. She wondered, too, as to why there was such hostility between mother and son. But Mrs Hunter made not a single mention of her son, and it was easy to keep her promise to her father as Phoebe saw little of the man in the days that followed. Once she saw him entering his study. Another time she caught a glimpse of him riding out on the moor. But nothing more. Not that Phoebe had time to notice, for Mrs Hunter was out of sorts, her mood as bleak as the moor that surrounded them.

Tuesday came around quickly and Phoebe could only be glad both of her chance to escape the oppressive atmosphere of Blackloch and to see her father.

The Glasgow Tolbooth was an impressive five-storey sandstone building situated at the Cross where the Trongate met High Street. It housed not only the gaol, but also the Justiciary Court and the Town Hall, behind which had been built the Tontine Hotel. There was a small square turret at each corner and a fine square spire on the east side, in which was fitted a large clock. And the top of the spire arched in the form of an imperial crown. The prison windows were small and clad with iron bars, and over the main door, on the south side, was built a small rectangular portico on a level with the first floor of the prison, the stairs from which led directly down onto the street.

Phoebe arrived at the Tolbooth, glad of heart both to be back in the familiar cheery bustle of Glasgow and at the prospect of seeing her father. She hurried along the street and was just about to climb the stone steps to the portico and the main door when a man appeared by her side.

‘Miss Allardyce?’

She stopped and glanced round at him.

He pulled the cloth cap from his head, revealing thick fair hair beneath. He was of medium height with nothing to mark him as noticeable. His clothes were neither shabby nor well-tailored, grey trousers and matching jacket, smart enough, but not those of a gentleman. Something of his manner made her think that he was in service. He blended well with the background in all features except his voice.

‘Miss Phoebe Allardyce?’ he said again and she heard the cockney twang to his accent, so different to the lilt of the Scottish voices all around.

‘Who are you, sir?’ She looked at him with suspicion. He was certainly no one that she knew.

‘I’m the Messenger.’

His eyes were a washed-out grey and so narrow that they lent him a shifty air. She made to walk on, but his next words stopped her.

‘If you’ve a care for your father, you’ll listen.’

She narrowed her own eyes slightly, feeling an instant dislike for the man. ‘What do you want?’

‘To deliver a message to you.’ He was slim but there was a wiry strength to his frame.

‘I am listening,’ she said.

‘Your father’s locked up in there for the rest of his days. Old man like him, his health not too good. And the conditions being what they are in the Tolbooth. Must worry you that.’

‘My father’s welfare and my feelings on the matter are none of your concern, sir.’ She made to walk on.

‘They are if I can spring him, Miss Allardyce, or, should I say, give you the means to do so. Fifteen hundred pounds to pay his debt, plus another five hundred to set the pair of you up in a decent enough lifestyle.’

A cold feeling spread over her. She stared at him in shock. ‘How do you know the details of my father’s debt?’

The man gave a leering smile and she noticed that his teeth were straight and white. ‘Oh, we know all about you and your pa. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. Just think on the money. Two grand in the hand, Miss Allardyce, and old pop is out of the Tolbooth.’

‘You are offering me two thousand pounds?’ She stared at him in disbelief.

He threw her a purse. ‘A hundred up front.’ She peeped inside and felt her heart turn over as she saw the roll of white notes. ‘The rest when you deliver your end of the bargain.’

‘Which is?’

‘The smallest of favours.’ She waited.

‘As Mrs Hunter’s companion you have access to the whole of Blackloch Hall.’

Her scalp prickled with the extent of his knowledge.

‘There is a certain object currently within the possession of the lady’s son, a trifling little thing that he wouldn’t even miss.’

‘You are asking me to steal from Mr Hunter?’

‘We’re asking you to retrieve an item for its rightful owner.’

The man was trouble, as was all that he asked. She shook her head and gave a cynical smile as she thrust the purse back into his hands. ‘Good day to you, sir.’ And she started to climb the steps. She climbed all of four steps before his voice sounded again. He had not moved, but still stood where he was in the street.

‘If you won’t do it for the money, Miss Allardyce, you best have a thought for your pa locked up in there. Dangerous place is the Tolbooth. All sorts of unsavoury characters, the sort your pa ain’t got a chance against. Who knows who he’ll be sharing a cell with next? You have a think about that, Miss Allardyce.’

The man’s words made her blood run cold, but she did not look back, just ran up the remaining steps and through the porch to the front door of the gaol.

‘Everything all right, miss?’ the door guard enquired.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she said as she slipped inside to the large square hallway. ‘If I could just have a moment to gather myself?’

The guard nodded.

Her hands were trembling as she stood aside a little to let the other visitors pass. She took several deep breaths, leaned her back against one of the great stone columns and calmed her thoughts. It was an idle threat, that was all. The villain could not truly hurt her father within the security of a prison as tough and rigorous as the Tolbooth. The man was a villain, a thief, trying to frighten her into stealing for him. And Phoebe had no intention of being blackmailed. She tucked some stray strands of hair beneath her bonnet, and smoothed a hand over the top of her skirts. And only when she was sure that her papa would not notice anything amiss did she make her way through the doorway that led to the prison cells. Once through that door she passed the guard her basket for checking.

He removed the cover and gave the contents a quick glance. ‘Raspberries this week, is it?’ With her weekly visits over the last six months Phoebe was on friendly terms with most of the guards and turnkeys.

‘They are my papa’s favourite.’

‘Sir Henry’ll fair enjoy them.’

‘I hope so.’ She smiled and followed him up the narrow staircase all the way up to the debtors’ cells on the third floor in which her father was held.

But the smile fled her face and the raspberries were forgotten the moment she entered the cell.

‘Papa!’ She placed the basket down on the small wooden table and ran to him. ‘Oh, my word! What ever has happened to you?’ She guided him to stand in the narrow shaft of sunlight that shone down into the cell through the bars of the small high window. And there in the light she could see that the skin around Sir Henry’s left eye was dark with bruising and so swollen as to partially conceal the bloodshot eye beneath. The bruising extended over the whole left side of his face, from his temple to his chin, and even on that side of his mouth his lower lip was swollen and cut.

‘Now, child, do not fuss so. It is nothing but the result of my own foolish clumsiness.’

But the man’s words were ringing in her head again. Dangerous place is the Tolbooth. All sorts of unsavoury characters, the sort your pa ain’t got a chance against.

‘Who did this to you?’ she demanded; she did not realise her grip had tightened and her knuckles shone white with the strain of it. ‘Who?’ Her eyes roved over his poor battered face.

‘I tripped and fell, Phoebe. Nothing more. Calm yourself.’ ‘Papa—’

‘Phoebe,’ her father said, and she recognised that tone in his voice. He would tell her nothing. He did not want to worry her, not when he thought there was nothing she could do.

Her gaze scanned the cell. ‘Where is the other man, your cellmate?’

‘Released,’ pronounced her father. ‘His debt was paid off.’ Sir Henry nodded philosophically. ‘He was interesting company.’

Who knows who he’ll be sharing a cell with next?

Phoebe felt her stomach clench and a wave of nausea rise up.

‘You are white as a sheet, child. Perhaps this travelling up from Blackloch Hall is too much for you.’

‘No. Really.’ She forced herself to smile at him brightly, so that he would not be concerned. ‘I have been taking very great care to keep my complexion fair. A difficult proposition with red hair and the summer sun. I do not wish to end up with freckles!’ She pretended to tease and managed an accompanying grin.

He chuckled. ‘You have your mother’s colouring, and she never had a freckle in her life, God rest her soul.’

Her eyes lingered momentarily on his bruising and she thought for one dreadful minute she might weep. It was such a struggle to maintain the façade, but she knew she had to for his sake. The smile was still stretched across her mouth as she took his arm in her own and led him back to the little table they had managed to save from the bailiffs. Her blood was cold and thick and slow as she pulled off the basket’s cover to reveal the punnet of raspberries within.

‘Oh, Phoebe, well done,’ he said and picked out the largest and juiciest berry and slipped it into his mouth. ‘So, tell me all about Blackloch Hall and the moor … and Hunter.’

‘Oh, I have rarely seen Mr Hunter.’ It was not a lie. ‘But he seems to be a gentleman of honour, if a little cold in manner perhaps.’ She thought of how Hunter had rescued her from the highwaymen and his discretion over the same matter.

‘Do not be fooled, Phoebe. From all accounts the words honour and Sebastian Hunter do not go together in the same sentence. Why do you think his mother has disowned him?’

‘I did not realise there was such …’ she hesitated ‘… bad feeling between them,’ she finished as she thought of the one interaction she had witnessed between Hunter and his mother. ‘What is the cause of it, I wonder?’

‘Who can know for sure?’ Her father gave a shrug, but there was something in his manner that suggested that he knew more of the matter.

‘But you must have heard something?’

‘Nothing to be repeated to such innocent ears, child.’ She saw the slight wince before he could disguise it. He eased himself to a more comfortable position upon the wooden stool and she saw the strain and pain that he was trying to hide.

She pressed him no further on the matter, but tried to distract him with descriptions of the Gothic style of the house and the expansive ruggedness of the moor. And all the while she was conscious of the raw soreness of her father’s injuries. By the time she kissed her father’s undamaged cheek and made her way down the narrow staircase, her heart was thudding hard with the coldness of her purpose and there was a fury in her eyes.

The man was leaning against the outside of the gaol, waiting for her.

He pulled off his hat again as he came towards her. ‘Miss Allar—’ he started to say, but she cut him off, her voice hard as she hid the emotion beneath it. She looked at him and would have run the villain through with a sword had she one to hand.

‘I will do it, on the proviso that no further harm comes to my father.’

There was a fleeting surprise in those narrow shifty eyes as if he had not thought her to agree so quickly.

‘What is it that you want me to steal?’

And he leaned his face closer and whispered the words softly into her ear.

She nodded.

‘We have been told Hunter keeps it in his study—in his desk. Bring it here with you when you visit next Tuesday. And keep your lips sealed over this, Miss Allardyce. One word to Mrs Hunter or her son and your old pa gets it.’ He drew his finger across his throat like a knife blade to emphasise his point. ‘Do you understand?’

‘I understand perfectly,’ she said and as the crowd hurried past, someone jostled her and when she looked round at the man again he was gone.

Her heart was aching for the hurts her father had suffered and her blood was surging with fury at the men who had hurt him. She knew she must not weaken, must not weep, not here, not now. She straightened her shoulders, held her head up and walked with purpose the small distance to the Tontine Hotel to wait for the mail coach that would deliver her to the moor.

Chapter Three

The moor was bathed golden and hazy in the late evening light. Behind the house, out over the Firth of Clyde, the sun would soon sink down behind the islands, a red ball of fire in a pink streaked sky. There was no sound, nothing save the steady slow tick of the clock and the whisper of the breeze through the grass and the heather.

Hunter remembered the last day of his father’s life. When he closed his eyes he could see his father’s face ruddy with choler, etched with disgust, and hear their final shouted exchange echoing in his head, each and every angry word of it … and what had followed. Thereafter, there had been such remorse, such anger, such guilt. He ached with it. And all the brandy in Britain and France did not change a damned thing.

The glass lay limp and empty within his hand. Hunter thought no more, just refilled it and settled back to numb the pain.

Phoebe struck that night, before her courage or her anger could desert her. Mrs Hunter was in bed when she arrived back in Blackloch, having retired early as was her normal habit.

Within the green guest bedchamber Phoebe went through the mechanics of preparing for bed. She changed into her nightdress, washed, brushed her teeth, combed and plaited her hair, brushed the dust from her dress and wiped her boots. And then she sat down in the little green armchair and she waited … and waited; waiting as the hours crawled by until, at last, Phoebe heard no more footsteps, no more voices, no more noise.

Daylight had long since faded and darkness shrouded the house. From downstairs in the hallway by the front door she heard the striking of the grandfather clock, two deep sonorous chimes. Only now did Phoebe trust that all of Blackloch was asleep. She stole from her room, treading as quietly and as quickly as she could along the corridor and down the main staircase.

The house was in total darkness and she was thankful she had decided to bring the single candle to light her way. Its small flame flickered as she walked, casting ghostly shadows all around. There was silence, the thump of her heart and whisper of her breath the only sounds. Her feet trod softly, carefully, down each step until she reached the main hallway. She could hear the slow heavy ticking of the clock.

The hallway was expansive, floored in the same greystone flags that ran throughout the whole of the lower house and roofed with dark disappearing arches reminiscent of some ancient medieval cathedral. She held up her candle to confirm she was alone and saw a small snarling face staring down at her from the arches. She jumped, almost dropping her candle in the process, and gave a gasp. Her heart was racing. She stared back at the face and saw this time that it was only the gargoyle of a wolf carved into the stone. Indeed, there was a whole series of them hidden within the ribs of the ceiling: a pack of wolves, all watching her. She froze, holding her breath, her heart thumping hard and fast, waiting to see if anyone had heard her, waiting to see if anyone would come. The grandfather clock marked the passing of the minutes, five in all, and nobody arrived. She breathed a sigh of relief and looked across at the study.

Not the slightest glimmer of light showed beneath the doorway. No sound came from within. Phoebe crept quietly towards the dark mahogany door, placed her hand upon the wrought-iron handle and slowly turned. The door opened without a creak. She held up her candle to light the darkness and stepped into Sebastian Hunter’s study.

Hunter was sitting silently in his chair by the window, his eyes staring blindly out at the dark-enveloped moor when he heard the noise from the hallway outside his study. The waning half moon was hidden under a small streak of cloud and the black-velvet sky was lit only by a sprinkling of stars, bright and twinkly as diamonds. His head turned, listening, but otherwise he did not move. His senses sharpened. And even though he had been drinking he was instantly alert.

Someone was out there, he could feel their presence. A maidservant on her way down to the kitchens? A footman returning to bed following a tryst? Or another intruder, like the ones who had tried before? He set the brandy glass down and quietly withdrew the pistol from the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk, then turned the chair back to face the moor so that he would not be seen from the doorway; he waited, and he listened.

He listened to the light pad of footsteps across the stone flags towards his door. He listened as the handle slowly turned and the door quietly opened, then closed again. Within the small diamond-shaped lead-lined panes he saw the reflection of a bright flicker of candlelight. The soft even tread of small feet moved towards the desk behind him. He waited until he heard the clunk of the brass candlestick being set down upon the wooden surface of the desk behind him, then he cocked the pistol and swivelled his chair round to face the intruder.

She was standing with her back to him, looking over his desk.

‘Miss Allardyce.’

She started round to face him, gave a small shriek and stumbled back against the desk. Her mouth worked, but no words sounded. He rose to his feet. Her gaze dropped to the pistol. He made it safe and lowered it. ‘Mr Hunter,’ she said and he could hear the shock in her voice and see it in every nuance of her face, of her body and the way she was gripping at the desk behind her. ‘I had no idea that you were in here.’

‘Evidently not.’ He let his gaze wander from the long thick auburn braid of her hair that hung over her shoulder, down across the bodice of the cotton nightdress which, though prim and plain and patched in places, did not quite hide the figure beneath. His gaze dropped lower to the little bare toes that peeped from beneath its hem, before lifting once more to those golden brown eyes. And something of the woman seemed to call to him so that, just as when he had first looked at her upon the moor, an overwhelming desire surged through him. Had this been a year ago … Had this been before all that had changed him.

He saw her glance flicker away before coming back to meet his own and, when she did, he could see she had recovered herself and where the shock and panic had been there was now calm determination.

‘Mrs Hunter is having trouble sleeping. She sent me to find a book for her, in the hope that it would help.’ She made to move away and he should have let her go, but Hunter stepped closer, effectively blocking her exit.

‘Any book in particular?’

Miss Allardyce gave a little shrug. ‘She did not say.’ The backs of her thighs were still tight against the desk, her hands behind her still gripping to its wooden edge.

He leaned across her to lay the pistol down upon the smooth polished surface of the desk and the brush of his arm against the softness of her breast sent his blood rushing all the faster.

Miss Allardyce sucked in her breath and jumped at the contact between their bodies. He saw the shock in her eyes … and the passion, and knew she was not indifferent to him, that something of the madness of this sensation was racing through her, too.

He was standing so close that the toe of his left boot was beneath the hem of her nightdress. So close that the scent of roses and sunlight and sweet woman filled his nose. His gaze traced the outline of her features, of her cheekbones and her nose, down to the fullness of her lips. And the urge to take her into his arms and kiss her was overwhelming. A vision of them making love upon the surface of the desk swam in his mind, of him moving between the pale soft thighs beneath the thick cotton of her nightdress, of his mouth upon her breasts.

Desire hummed loud. He had never experienced such an immediacy of feeling like that which was coursing between him and Miss Allardyce. Hunter slid a hand behind that slender creamy neck and her lips seemed to call to his. All of his promises were forgotten. He lowered his face towards hers.

And felt the firm thrust of Miss Allardyce’s hands against his chest.

‘What on earth do you think you are doing, Mr Hunter?’ Her chest was rising and falling in a rapid rhythm, her breath as ragged as if they had indeed just made love.

It was enough to shatter the madness of the moment. He realised what he was doing.

She was staring at him, her eyes suddenly dark in the candlelight, her cheeks stained with colour.

‘Forgive me.’ He stepped swiftly back to place a distance between them. He was not a rake. He damn well was not. Not any more. He did not gamble. And he did not womanise. ‘A book, you say?’

‘If you please.’ A no-nonsense tone, unaffected, except that when she picked up the candlestick he could see the slight tremor of it in her hand.

‘Be my guest.’ He gestured to the books that lined the walls and moved away even further to the safety of the shelves closest to the window. ‘Evelina used to be a favourite of my mother’s,’ he said and drew the volume from its shelf. He offered it to her, holding it by the farthest edge so that their fingers would not touch.

She accepted the book from him, said ‘Thank you’, and made her way to the door where she paused, hand resting on the handle, and glanced round at him.

‘And thank you for both your assistance upon the moor and your discretion over the matter.’ She spoke with hesitation and he could feel her awkwardness at both the situation and the words, but there was a strength in her eyes that he had not seen in any other woman before. ‘I will catch the coach in the future.’ And before he could utter a word she was gone, leaving Hunter staring at the softly closed door of his study with a firm resolve to keep a distance between Miss Allardyce and himself for the weeks that remained of his mother’s visit.

Inside the green bedchamber Phoebe leaned heavily against the door. Her legs felt like jelly and she was shaking so badly that the candlelight flickered and jumped wildly around the room. She set the candlestick down upon her little table and tried to calm the frenzied beat of her heart, to no avail.

Her heart was hammering as hard as it had been when she had faced Hunter in his study. Standing there in just his shirt and breeches. No coat, no waistcoat, no neckcloth. The neck of his fine white shirt open and loose, revealing the bare skin beneath, a chest that she knew was hard with muscle from the hand she had placed upon it. Memories of his very proximity that made it difficult for her to catch a breath. She closed her eyes and in her mind saw again that piercing gaze holding hers, driving every sensible thought from her head, making her stomach turn a cartwheel and her legs melt to jelly. Images and sensations vivid enough to take her breath away, all of which should have shocked and appalled her. She was shocked. Shocked at the spark the mere brush of his arm had ignited throughout her body. Shocked that for the tiniest of moments she had almost let him kiss her. Phoebe had never experienced anything like it. She clutched a hand to her mouth and tried to stop the stampede of emotion.

What on earth was he doing sitting in there in the dark in the middle of the night anyway? And she remembered the rich sweet smell of brandy that had clung to his breath and the way his chair had been positioned to face out onto the moor. A man who did not sleep. A man who had much to brood upon.

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.

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