Читать книгу A Dark and Brooding Gentleman - Margaret McPhee - Страница 10

The moor was bathed golden and hazy in the late evening light. Behind the house, out over the Firth of Clyde, the sun would soon sink down behind the islands, a red ball of fire in a pink streaked sky. There was no sound, nothing save the steady slow tick of the clock and the whisper of the breeze through the grass and the heather.

Hunter remembered the last day of his father’s life. When he closed his eyes he could see his father’s face ruddy with choler, etched with disgust, and hear their final shouted exchange echoing in his head, each and every angry word of it … and what had followed. Thereafter, there had been such remorse, such anger, such guilt. He ached with it. And all the brandy in Britain and France did not change a damned thing.

The glass lay limp and empty within his hand. Hunter thought no more, just refilled it and settled back to numb the pain.

Phoebe struck that night, before her courage or her anger could desert her. Mrs Hunter was in bed when she arrived back in Blackloch, having retired early as was her normal habit.

Within the green guest bedchamber Phoebe went through the mechanics of preparing for bed. She changed into her nightdress, washed, brushed her teeth, combed and plaited her hair, brushed the dust from her dress and wiped her boots. And then she sat down in the little green armchair and she waited … and waited; waiting as the hours crawled by until, at last, Phoebe heard no more footsteps, no more voices, no more noise.

Daylight had long since faded and darkness shrouded the house. From downstairs in the hallway by the front door she heard the striking of the grandfather clock, two deep sonorous chimes. Only now did Phoebe trust that all of Blackloch was asleep. She stole from her room, treading as quietly and as quickly as she could along the corridor and down the main staircase.

The house was in total darkness and she was thankful she had decided to bring the single candle to light her way. Its small flame flickered as she walked, casting ghostly shadows all around. There was silence, the thump of her heart and whisper of her breath the only sounds. Her feet trod softly, carefully, down each step until she reached the main hallway. She could hear the slow heavy ticking of the clock.

The hallway was expansive, floored in the same greystone flags that ran throughout the whole of the lower house and roofed with dark disappearing arches reminiscent of some ancient medieval cathedral. She held up her candle to confirm she was alone and saw a small snarling face staring down at her from the arches. She jumped, almost dropping her candle in the process, and gave a gasp. Her heart was racing. She stared back at the face and saw this time that it was only the gargoyle of a wolf carved into the stone. Indeed, there was a whole series of them hidden within the ribs of the ceiling: a pack of wolves, all watching her. She froze, holding her breath, her heart thumping hard and fast, waiting to see if anyone had heard her, waiting to see if anyone would come. The grandfather clock marked the passing of the minutes, five in all, and nobody arrived. She breathed a sigh of relief and looked across at the study.

Not the slightest glimmer of light showed beneath the doorway. No sound came from within. Phoebe crept quietly towards the dark mahogany door, placed her hand upon the wrought-iron handle and slowly turned. The door opened without a creak. She held up her candle to light the darkness and stepped into Sebastian Hunter’s study.

Hunter was sitting silently in his chair by the window, his eyes staring blindly out at the dark-enveloped moor when he heard the noise from the hallway outside his study. The waning half moon was hidden under a small streak of cloud and the black-velvet sky was lit only by a sprinkling of stars, bright and twinkly as diamonds. His head turned, listening, but otherwise he did not move. His senses sharpened. And even though he had been drinking he was instantly alert.

Someone was out there, he could feel their presence. A maidservant on her way down to the kitchens? A footman returning to bed following a tryst? Or another intruder, like the ones who had tried before? He set the brandy glass down and quietly withdrew the pistol from the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk, then turned the chair back to face the moor so that he would not be seen from the doorway; he waited, and he listened.

He listened to the light pad of footsteps across the stone flags towards his door. He listened as the handle slowly turned and the door quietly opened, then closed again. Within the small diamond-shaped lead-lined panes he saw the reflection of a bright flicker of candlelight. The soft even tread of small feet moved towards the desk behind him. He waited until he heard the clunk of the brass candlestick being set down upon the wooden surface of the desk behind him, then he cocked the pistol and swivelled his chair round to face the intruder.

She was standing with her back to him, looking over his desk.

‘Miss Allardyce.’

She started round to face him, gave a small shriek and stumbled back against the desk. Her mouth worked, but no words sounded. He rose to his feet. Her gaze dropped to the pistol. He made it safe and lowered it. ‘Mr Hunter,’ she said and he could hear the shock in her voice and see it in every nuance of her face, of her body and the way she was gripping at the desk behind her. ‘I had no idea that you were in here.’

‘Evidently not.’ He let his gaze wander from the long thick auburn braid of her hair that hung over her shoulder, down across the bodice of the cotton nightdress which, though prim and plain and patched in places, did not quite hide the figure beneath. His gaze dropped lower to the little bare toes that peeped from beneath its hem, before lifting once more to those golden brown eyes. And something of the woman seemed to call to him so that, just as when he had first looked at her upon the moor, an overwhelming desire surged through him. Had this been a year ago … Had this been before all that had changed him.

He saw her glance flicker away before coming back to meet his own and, when she did, he could see she had recovered herself and where the shock and panic had been there was now calm determination.

‘Mrs Hunter is having trouble sleeping. She sent me to find a book for her, in the hope that it would help.’ She made to move away and he should have let her go, but Hunter stepped closer, effectively blocking her exit.

‘Any book in particular?’

Miss Allardyce gave a little shrug. ‘She did not say.’ The backs of her thighs were still tight against the desk, her hands behind her still gripping to its wooden edge.

He leaned across her to lay the pistol down upon the smooth polished surface of the desk and the brush of his arm against the softness of her breast sent his blood rushing all the faster.

Miss Allardyce sucked in her breath and jumped at the contact between their bodies. He saw the shock in her eyes … and the passion, and knew she was not indifferent to him, that something of the madness of this sensation was racing through her, too.

He was standing so close that the toe of his left boot was beneath the hem of her nightdress. So close that the scent of roses and sunlight and sweet woman filled his nose. His gaze traced the outline of her features, of her cheekbones and her nose, down to the fullness of her lips. And the urge to take her into his arms and kiss her was overwhelming. A vision of them making love upon the surface of the desk swam in his mind, of him moving between the pale soft thighs beneath the thick cotton of her nightdress, of his mouth upon her breasts.

Desire hummed loud. He had never experienced such an immediacy of feeling like that which was coursing between him and Miss Allardyce. Hunter slid a hand behind that slender creamy neck and her lips seemed to call to his. All of his promises were forgotten. He lowered his face towards hers.

And felt the firm thrust of Miss Allardyce’s hands against his chest.

‘What on earth do you think you are doing, Mr Hunter?’ Her chest was rising and falling in a rapid rhythm, her breath as ragged as if they had indeed just made love.

It was enough to shatter the madness of the moment. He realised what he was doing.

She was staring at him, her eyes suddenly dark in the candlelight, her cheeks stained with colour.

‘Forgive me.’ He stepped swiftly back to place a distance between them. He was not a rake. He damn well was not. Not any more. He did not gamble. And he did not womanise. ‘A book, you say?’

‘If you please.’ A no-nonsense tone, unaffected, except that when she picked up the candlestick he could see the slight tremor of it in her hand.

‘Be my guest.’ He gestured to the books that lined the walls and moved away even further to the safety of the shelves closest to the window. ‘Evelina used to be a favourite of my mother’s,’ he said and drew the volume from its shelf. He offered it to her, holding it by the farthest edge so that their fingers would not touch.

She accepted the book from him, said ‘Thank you’, and made her way to the door where she paused, hand resting on the handle, and glanced round at him.

‘And thank you for both your assistance upon the moor and your discretion over the matter.’ She spoke with hesitation and he could feel her awkwardness at both the situation and the words, but there was a strength in her eyes that he had not seen in any other woman before. ‘I will catch the coach in the future.’ And before he could utter a word she was gone, leaving Hunter staring at the softly closed door of his study with a firm resolve to keep a distance between Miss Allardyce and himself for the weeks that remained of his mother’s visit.

Inside the green bedchamber Phoebe leaned heavily against the door. Her legs felt like jelly and she was shaking so badly that the candlelight flickered and jumped wildly around the room. She set the candlestick down upon her little table and tried to calm the frenzied beat of her heart, to no avail.

Her heart was hammering as hard as it had been when she had faced Hunter in his study. Standing there in just his shirt and breeches. No coat, no waistcoat, no neckcloth. The neck of his fine white shirt open and loose, revealing the bare skin beneath, a chest that she knew was hard with muscle from the hand she had placed upon it. Memories of his very proximity that made it difficult for her to catch a breath. She closed her eyes and in her mind saw again that piercing gaze holding hers, driving every sensible thought from her head, making her stomach turn a cartwheel and her legs melt to jelly. Images and sensations vivid enough to take her breath away, all of which should have shocked and appalled her. She was shocked. Shocked at the spark the mere brush of his arm had ignited throughout her body. Shocked that for the tiniest of moments she had almost let him kiss her. Phoebe had never experienced anything like it. She clutched a hand to her mouth and tried to stop the stampede of emotion.

What on earth was he doing sitting in there in the dark in the middle of the night anyway? And she remembered the rich sweet smell of brandy that had clung to his breath and the way his chair had been positioned to face out onto the moor. A man who did not sleep. A man who had much to brood upon.

She walked to the window and pulled the curtains apart. Unfastening the catch, she slid the window up and stared out at the night beyond. The bitten wafer of the moon shone silver and all around, scattered across the deep black velvet of the sky, were tiny stars like diamonds. Cool fresh air wafted in and she inhaled its sweet dampness, breathing slowly and deeply in an attempt to calm herself. Not so far away she could hear the quiet ripple of the Black Loch, its water merging with the darkness of the night. She thought of her father’s warning about Hunter and his wickedness. And no matter how much she willed it, her heart would not slow or her mind dismiss the image of a raven-haired man whose eyes were so strangely and dangerously alluring.

In the cool light of the next morning after a restless night Phoebe could see things more clearly. Hunter had discovered her about to search his desk in the middle of the night. No doubt any woman’s thoughts would be in such disarray and her sensibilities so thoroughly disturbed were a gun levelled at her heart by a gentleman with Hunter’s reputation. The important thing was that he had appeared to believe her excuse and for that she could only be thankful. Phoebe had bigger matters to worry about. She could not let the incident in the night deter her from securing her father’s safety.

Phoebe tried again the next night and the night after that, but each time she stole down the stairs it was to see the faint flicker of light beneath the door to Hunter’s study and she knew he was alone within, drinking through the night, as if he could not bear to sleep. As if he were haunted. As if he carried a sin so dark upon his soul that it chained him in perpetual torment. She shivered and forced the thoughts away, knowing that the days before Tuesday and her visit to the Tolbooth were too few. There had to be a way to search the study. Phoebe was in an agony of worry.

It was Mrs Hunter who solved the problem … when she told Phoebe of the Blackloch outing to the seaside planned for Saturday.

The morning of the trip was glorious. The sun shone down on a sea that stretched out in a broad glistening vastness before him. To the right was the edge of the island of Arran, and to the left, in the distance, the characteristic conical lump on the horizon that was the rock of Ailsa Craig. A bank of grass led down to the large curved bay of golden sand. It was beautiful, but nothing of the scene touched Hunter.

He and McEwan dismounted, tying their horses to a nearby tethering pole. The maids and footmen were milling around the carriages, chatting and laughing with excitement. McEwan looked to Hunter for his nod, then went to organise the party, to see that the blankets were spread upon the sands before collecting the picnic hampers and baskets containing the bottles of lemonade and elderflower cordial. Hunter stood there for a moment alone, detached, remote from the good spirits, and watched as the men peeled off their jackets and the women abandoned their shawls and pushed up their sleeves. There was such joviality, such happiness and anticipation amongst the entirety of his household that Hunter felt his very presence might spoil it. He moved away towards his mother’s coach where her footman was already assisting her down the steps.

She threw him a grudging nod. ‘I am glad that at least you have not let the old customs slip.’

He gave a nod of acknowledgement, his face cold and expressionless to hide the memories her words evoked.

His mother took her parasol from the maid who appeared from the carriage behind her. There was a silence as she surveyed the scene before her, a small half-smile upon her mouth there not for Hunter, but for the sake of the staff.

Hunter glanced round, expecting Miss Allardyce, but his mother’s companion did not appear.

‘The book was to your satisfaction?’ he enquired.

‘The book?’ His mother peered at him as if he were talking double Dutch.

‘Evelina,’ he prompted.

‘I have not seen that book in years,’ she said and turned her attention away from him.

Hunter turned the implication of her answer over in his mind and let the minutes pass before he spoke again.

‘Your companion does not accompany you,’ he said, as if merely making an observation. His face remained forward, watching the staff as they carried the hampers down onto the sand.

‘Miss Allardyce is feeling unwell. I told her to spend the day in bed, resting.’ His mother equally kept her focus on the maids and the footmen.

‘The timing of her illness is unfortunate.’ Or fortunate, depending on whose point of view one was considering, he thought grimly.

His mother nodded. ‘Indeed it is—poor girl.’

Once everyone was settled upon the blankets, his mother in pride of place upon a chair and rug, he and McEwan removed their coats, rolled up their sleeves and served plates of cold sliced cooked chicken, ham and beef to the waiting servants. There were bread rolls and cheese and hard-boiled eggs. There were strawberries and raspberries, fresh cooled cream and the finest jams, sponge cakes, peppermint creams and hard-boiled sweets. And chunks of ice all wrapped up and placed amongst the food and drink to keep it cool. Expense had not been skimped upon. Hunter wanted his staff to have a good time, just as his father had done before him and his father before him.

This was duty. He knew that and so he endured it, even though the laughter and light that surrounded him made him feel all the darker and all the more alone. Hunter stood aside from the rest and watched the little party, his mother in the centre of it, good humoured, partaking in the jokes and the chatter; the few staff that remained at Blackloch were as warm with her as if she had never left.

He slid a glance at his pocket watch before making his way over to his mother. The laughter on her face died away as soon as she saw him. And he thought he saw something of the light in her expire.

‘There are matters at Blackloch to which I must attend. I will leave McEwan at your disposal.’

She smiled, if it could be called that, but her eyes were filled with disdain and condemnation. She made no attempt to dissuade him. Indeed, she looked positively relieved that he was leaving.

McEwan appeared by his side as Hunter pulled on his coat.

‘Attend to my mother’s wishes if you will, McEwan. I will see you back at Blackloch later.’ Hunter brushed his heels against Ajax’s flank and was gone, heading back along the road to Blackloch Hall.

Phoebe did not know where else to look in the sunlit study. All six desk drawers lay open. She had searched through each one twice and found nothing of what she sought. There were bottles of ink, pens and pen sharpeners. There was also a packet of crest-embossed 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.