A Dark and Brooding Gentleman. Margaret McPhee

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