A Dark and Brooding Gentleman. Margaret McPhee
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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.
Chapter Four
Phoebe hummed as she hurried up the main staircase, carrying her petticoats and dress draped over her arm. She resolved that once she was dressed she would retrace her route and wipe the trail of wet footprints she was leaving in her wake. The tension had eased from her shoulders; she was feeling clear-headed and much more positive about tackling the Messenger on Tuesday. She was padding down the corridor towards her bedchamber when one of the doors on the left opened and out stepped Sebastian Hunter.
Phoebe gave a shriek and almost dropped her bundle of clothes. ‘What on earth …? Good heavens!’ He seemed to take up the whole of the passageway ahead. She saw his gaze sweep down over her body where the thin worn cotton of her shift was moulded to the dampness of her skin; she clutched her dress and undergarments tight to cover her indecency.
‘Mr Hunter, you startled me. I thought you were gone to the seaside with the rest of the house.’ She could feel the scald of embarrassment in her cheeks and hear the slight breathlessness of shock in her voice.
‘I returned early.’ His expression was closed and unsmiling as ever.
‘If you will excuse me, sir,’ she said and made to walk past him, but to Phoebe’s horror Hunter moved to block her way.
‘My mother said you were ill abed.’ His tone was cold and she thought she could see a hint of accusation in his eyes.
‘This is not the time for discussion, sir. At least have the decency to let me clothe myself first.’ She looked at him with indignation and prayed that he would not see the truth beneath it.
Hunter showed no sign of moving.
‘I would hear your explanation now, Miss Allardyce.’ His gaze was piercing.
‘This is ridiculous! You have no right to accost me so!’
‘And you have no right to lie to my mother,’ he countered in a voice so cool and silky that it sent shivers rippling the length of her spine.
‘I did not lie.’ Another lie upon all the others. She could not meet his gaze as she said it.
‘You