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 had taken care to slide back in the saddle to leave some room between them. He might not care for manners, but Phoebe’s 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
