A Dark and Brooding Gentleman. Margaret McPhee
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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