A Dark and Brooding Gentleman. Margaret McPhee

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,