A Dark and Brooding Gentleman. Margaret McPhee
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could not very well deny it. She stared at her the bareness of her feet and the droplets of water surrounding them, then, taking a deep breath, raised her eyes to his. And in their meeting that same feeling passed between them as had done on the moor and that night in his study. Hunter felt it, too, she could see it in his eyes.
And standing there, barely clothed before him, at this most inopportune of moments she understood exactly what it was. An overwhelming, irrational attraction. Her mind went blank; she could think of not a single thing to say. ‘I …’
Hunter waited.
With a will of iron she managed to drag her gaze away and close her mind to the realisation.
‘I felt somewhat feverish and took a dip in the loch to cool the heat.’ The excuse slipped from her tongue and, feeble though it was, she was thankful for it. ‘As a result I am feeling much recovered.’
He gave no sign that he did not believe her, but neither did he look convinced. The tension hummed between them. The seconds seemed to stretch for ever.
‘Sir, I am barely clothed! Your behaviour is reprehensible!’ She forced her chin up and eyed him with disdain.
Hunter did not move. ‘You were in my study today, Miss Allardyce.’ That pale intense gaze bored into hers as if he could see every last thought in her head.
Phoebe’s heart gave a little stutter. The tension ratcheted tighter between them. She swallowed hard and kept her eyes on his, as if to look away would be some kind of admission of guilt. She thought of her father and his poor battered face and the memory was enough to steel every trembling nerve in her body. She knew what was at stake here.
‘I returned your book.’ She could feel the water dripping from her hair over her shoulders, rolling down over her arms, which were bare to Hunter’s perusal if he should choose to look, but his gaze did not stray once from her own.
‘How did my mother enjoy Evelina?’ ‘Well enough, I believe.’ Phoebe spoke calmly, and stayed focused.
He said nothing, but there was a tiny flicker of a muscle in his jaw.
She shivered, but whether it was from the cooling of her skin or the burning intensity of Hunter’s eyes she did not know. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, sir.’
His gaze shifted then, swept over her bare shoulders, over the dress she clutched to her breast, down to her bare feet and the puddle of loch water that was forming around them. And she blushed with embarrassment and anger, and most of all with the knowledge that she could be attracted to such a man.
‘Really, Mr Hunter! How dare you?’ Hunter’s eyes met hers once more. He did not look away, but he did step aside to let her reach the door.
She edged past him, keeping her back to the door so that he would not see the full extent of her undress. Her hand fumbled behind at the door knob. The door did not open. Phoebe twisted it to the left. The door did not yield. Then to the right. Still nothing happened.
She rattled at the blasted knob, panicking at the thought she would have to turn round and in the process present Hunter with a view that did not bear thinking about.
Hunter moved, closing the distance between them. Phoebe gave a gasp as his hand reached round behind her. He was so close she could smell his soap, his cologne, the very scent that was the man himself. Her heart was thudding so hard she felt dizzy. And as Hunter stared down at her she could see the sudden darkening blaze in his eyes, could sense the still tension that gripped his large powerful male body, could feel the very air vibrate between them. The edge of his sleeve brushed against her arm. And part of her dreaded it and, heaven help her, part of her wanted to feel the touch of those strong firm lips. To be kissed, to be held by such a strong dangerous man. She squeezed her eyes closed and clutched the dress all the tighter.
Cool air hit against her skin and she heard the sound of booted steps receding along the passageway. She opened her eyes to find Hunter gone and the door to her chamber wide open behind her.
Hunter paused as the clock upon his study mantel chimed eight and then looked across his desk at McEwan, who was sitting in the chair opposite and waiting with the air of a man much contented. Hunter swallowed back the bitterness.
‘You are up and about early this morning, Hunter.’ Hunter saw McEwan eye the still half-full brandy decanter, but his steward was wise enough to make no comment upon it.
‘I have things on my mind,’ said Hunter and frowned again as he thought of Miss Allardyce.
‘What do you make of my mother’s companion?’
‘I cannot say I have noticed her,’ McEwan confessed.
‘Hell’s teeth, man, how could—?’ Hunter stopped, suddenly aware of revealing just how much he had noticed Miss Allardyce himself. In his time he had known diamonds of the ton, actresses whose looks commanded thousands and opera singers with the faces of angels, all of whose beauty far exceeded that of his mother’s companion. And yet there was something about Phoebe Allardyce, something when she looked at him with those golden-brown eyes of hers that affected Hunter in a way no woman ever had. He took a breath, leaned back in the chair and looked at McEwan.
‘She seems much as any other lady’s companion I have met,’ McEwan offered. ‘Why are you asking?’
Hunter hesitated.
The clock ticked loud and slow.
‘I do not trust her,’ he said at last.
McEwan’s brows shot up. ‘What has she done?’
‘Nothing … at least nothing solid I can confront her with.’ He thought of her visits to his study, and the telltale hair upon his desk so vibrant against the polished ebony of the wood. He glanced up at McEwan. ‘Let us just call it a gut feeling.’
‘Is it a question of her honesty?’
‘Possibly.’ Hunter thought of her lies about the coach fare, Evelina, her absence at the seaside trip, all of which were trivial and might be explained away by a myriad of reasons. But his instincts were telling him otherwise. And that was not all his damnable instincts were telling him of Miss Allardyce. A vision appeared in his mind of her standing in the upstairs passageway, her shift clinging damp and transparent, and the pile of clothing that hid little, and he almost groaned at the pulse of desire that throbbed through him. He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth to martial some control and felt anger and determination overcome the lust. When he opened his eyes again McEwan was staring at him.
‘Everything all right?’
Hunter schooled himself to dispassion. ‘Why would it be otherwise?’ He saw the compassion that came into McEwan’s eyes and hated it. ‘We are talking of Miss Allardyce,’ he said and knew he should curb the cold tone from his voice. Jed McEwan was his friend and the one who had helped him through those darkest days. The man did not deserve such treatment. ‘Forgive me,’ he muttered.
McEwan gave a single nod and the expression on his face told Hunter that he understood. ‘What do you want to do about Miss Allardyce?’
Hunter narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘Find out a little more about her. There is a man I know in Glasgow who should be able to help.’ A man he had used before for less honourable pursuits. ‘Would you be able to act on my behalf?’
‘Of course.’
Hunter scribbled the man’s details on a sheet of paper; while he waited for the ink to dry, he opened the drawer and extracted one of the rolls of banknotes. ‘The sooner, the better.’ He pushed the money and the paper across the desk’s surface to McEwan, who folded the paper before slipping both into his pocket.
‘And while you are gone I will see what I can discover from my mother.’
Hunter waited until his mother and her companion had finished their breakfast and were playing cards within the drawing room before he approached.
His