are high but the tables are the best, and the lightskirts that run the place.’ Bullford skimmed his hands through the air to sketch the outline of a woman’s curves ‘.just your type.’
Hunter turned, grabbed Bullford by the lapels of his coat, thrust him hard against the wall of the building they were standing beside and held him there. ‘I said no.’ He felt rather than saw Linwood tense and move behind him.
‘Easy, old man.’ The sweat was glimmering on Bullford’s upper lip and trickling down his chin. ‘Understand perfectly.’
A voice interrupted—Linwood’s. ‘You go too far, Hunter.’
Hunter released Bullford, and turned to face the Viscount. ‘Indeed?’
Linwood took one look at Hunter’s face and retreated a step or two. But Hunter had already left Bullford and was covering the short distance to where his horse was tethered. The big black stallion bared his teeth and snorted a warning upon hearing his approach but, on seeing it was Hunter, let him untie his reins and swing himself up into the saddle. And as he turned the horse to ride away he heard Bullford saying softly to Linwood, ‘Deuce, if he ain’t worse than all the stories told.’
The July day was fine and dry; and Phoebe smiled to herself as, bit by bit, mile by mile, she left Glasgow behind her and passed through the outlying villages.
The bustle and crowds of the city gave way gradually to quiet hamlets with cottages and fields and cows. The air grew cleaner and fresher, the fields more abundant. She could smell the sweetness of grass and heather and earth, and feel the sun warm upon her back, the breeze gentle upon her face.
Step by step she followed the road heading ever closer to Blackloch and its moor. Rolling hills and vast stretches of scrubby fields surrounded her, all green and yawning and peaceful. Sheep with their woolly coats sheared short wandered by the side of the road, bleating and gambling furiously ahead with their little tails bobbing as she approached. Overhead the sky was blue and cloudless, the light golden and bright with the summer sun. Bees droned, their pollen sacks heavy from the sweet heather flowers; birds chirped and sang and swooped between the hawthorn and gorse bushes. Two coaches passed, and a farmer with his cart, and then no more, so that as she neared the moorland she might have believed herself the only person in this place were it not for the two faint figures of horsemen in the distance behind her.
She walked on and her thoughts turned to Mrs Hunter’s son and her papa’s warning. Dark whisperings and evil rumours, she mused as she transferred the travelling bag from one hand to the other again, in an effort to ease the way its handles cut into her fingers. You have no idea of the wickedness of some men … Her feet were hot and her boots chafed against her toes as she conjured up an image of the wicked Mr Hunter—a squat heavy-set villain to be sure, run to fat with drink and dissipation, with eyes as black as thunder and a countenance to match. Living all alone on a moor miles away from anywhere. Little wonder his mother had disowned him. A man with a soul as black as the devil’s. Phoebe shivered at the thought, then scolded herself for such foolishness.
Another mile farther and she stopped by a stile to rest, dumping the bag down upon the grass with relief and perching herself on the wooden step. She eased her stiffened fingers and rubbed at the welts the bag’s straps had pressed through her gloves. Then she loosened the ribbons of her bonnet and slipped it from her head, to let the breeze ripple through her hair and cool her scalp, before leaning against the fence of the stile. She was quite alone in the peacefulness of the surrounding countryside, so she relaxed and let herself rest for a few minutes.
The clatter of the horses’ hooves was muffled by the grass verge so that Phoebe did not hear the pair’s approach. It was the jingle of a harness and a whinny that alerted her that she was no longer alone.
Not twenty yards away sat two men on horseback. Even had they not kerchiefs tied across their mouths and noses, and their battered leather hats pulled down low over their eyes, Phoebe would have known them for what they were. Everything of their manner, everything of the way they were looking at her, proclaimed their profession. Highwaymen. She knew it even before the men slid down from their saddles and began walking towards her.
She rose swiftly to her feet. There was no point in trying to escape. They were too close and she knew she could not outrun them, not with her heavy travelling bag. So she lifted her bag from where it lay on the grass and stood facing them defiantly.
‘Well, well, what have we here?’ said the taller of the two, whose kerchief obscuring his face was black. His accent was broad Glaswegian and he was without the slightest pretence of education or money.
Although she could not see their faces she had the impression that the men were both young. Maybe it was in the timbre of their voices, or maybe in something of their stance or build. Both were dressed in worn leather breeches, and jackets, with shirts and neckcloths that were old and shabby and high scuffed brown leather boots.
‘A lassie in need of our assistance, I’d say,’ came the reply from his shorter, slimmer accomplice wearing a red kerchief across his face.
‘I have no need of assistance, thank you, gentlemen,’ said Phoebe firmly. ‘I was but taking a small rest before resuming my journey.’
‘Is that right?’ the black-kerchiefed man said. ‘That’s a mighty heavy-looking bag you have there. Allow us to ease your burden, miss.’
‘Really, there is no need. The bag is not heavy,’ said Phoebe grimly and, eyeing them warily, she shifted the bag behind her and gripped it all the tighter.
‘But I insist. Me and my friend, we dinnae like to see a lassie struggle under such a weight. Right gentlemanly we are.’
Gentlemen of the road, for they were certainly not gentlemen of any other description.
He walked slowly towards her.
Phoebe stepped back once, and then again, her heart hammering, not sure of what to do.
‘The bag, if you please, miss.’
Phoebe’s hands gripped even tighter to the handle, feeling enraged that these men could just rob her like this. She raised her chin and looked directly into the man’s eyes. They were black and villainous, and she could tell he was amused by her. That fueled her fury more than anything.
Her own eyes narrowed. ‘I do not think so, sir. I assure you there is nothing in my bag worth stealing unless you have an interest in ladies’ dresses.’
He gave a small hard laugh and behind him the other highwayman appeared with a pistol in his hand that was aimed straight at her.
‘Do as he says, miss, or you’ll be sorry.’
‘Jim, Jim,’ said Black Kerchief, who was clearly the leader of the two, as if chiding the man. ‘Such impatience. There are better ways to persuade a lady.’ And then to Phoebe, ‘Forgive my friend.’ His gaze meandered over her face, pausing to linger upon her lips.
A frisson of fear rippled down Phoebe’s spine. She knew then that she would have to give them the bag, to yield her possessions. Better that than the alternative.
She threw the bag to land at their feet.
Black Kerchief swung the bag between his fingers as he gauged its weight. ‘Far too heavy for a wee slip o’ a lassie like you.’ She could tell he was smiling again beneath his mask, but in a way that stoked
