Margaret McPhee - A Dark and Brooding Gentleman

Hunter 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 in 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 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.

I love the rugged harsh beauty of the Scottish moorland, so much so that I’ve set A DARK AND BROODING GENTLEMAN on a moor in the West of Scotland, not so very far away from where I live. Blackloch, the fictional moor in the story, is based mainly on Eaglesham Moor (south of Glasgow), with a little touch of Rannoch Moor (near Glencoe) thrown in just for good measure. If you are interested, you can see pictures of the moors and read about the historical research behind the story on my website: www.margaretmcphee.co.uk

Blackloch is almost as dark and brooding as Sebastian Hunter. Readers who met him previously in UNMASKING THE DUKE’S MISTRESS might be surprised to find that he is a man much changed. Both Hunter and Phoebe have been in my mind for a long time, and I can only hope I’ve done them justice in the telling of their story. The story is one with many secrets, all of them to be discovered along the road to love, and I hope very much that you enjoy it.

MARGARET MCPHEEloves to use her imagination—an essential requirement for a trained scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read rather than by her experiments, she decided to put the ideas down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind, retaining only the romance—her husband, whom she met in a laboratory. In summer, Margaret enjoys cycling along the coastline overlooking the Firth of Clyde in Scotland, where she lives. In winter, tea, cakes and a good book suffice.

Previous novels by the same author:

THE CAPTAIN’S LADY

MISTAKEN MISTRESS

THE WICKED EARL

UNTOUCHED MISTRESS

A SMUGGLER’S TALE

(part of Regency Christmas Weddings)

THE CAPTAIN’S FORBIDDEN MISS

UNLACING THE INNOCENT MISS

(part of Regency Silk & Scandal mini-series)

UNMASKING THE DUKE’S MISTRESS*

*Gentlemen of Disrepute

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Dark and

Brooding

Gentleman

Margaret McPhee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Isobel, and her Glasgow.

The Tolbooth Gaol, Glasgow, Scotland—July 1810

‘Blackloch Hall?’ Sir Henry Allardyce shook his head and the fine white hair that clung around his veined, bald pate wafted with the movement. Upon his pallid face was such worry; it tugged at Phoebe’s heart that her father, who had so much to endure in this dank miserable prison cell, was worrying not about himself, but about her. ‘But I thought Mrs Hunter was estranged from her son.’

‘She is, Papa. In all the months I have spent as the lady’s companion I have never once heard her, or anyone else in the household, make mention of her son.’

‘Then why has she expressed this sudden intent to travel to his home?’

‘You know that Charlotte Street has been twice broken into in the past months, and the last time it was completely ransacked. Her most private things were raked through—her bedchamber, her dressing table, even her …’ Phoebe paused and glanced away in embarrassment. ‘Suffice to say nothing was left untouched.’ Her brow furrowed at the memory. ‘The damage was not so very great, but Mrs Hunter has arranged for the entire house to be redecorated. As it is, every room seems only to remind her that her home has been violated. She is more shaken by the experience than she will admit and wishes some time away.’

‘And they still have not caught the villains responsible for the deed?’ Her father looked appalled.

‘Nor does it look likely that they will do so.’

‘What has the world come to when a widow alone cannot feel safe in her own home?’ He shook his head. ‘Such a proud but goodly woman. It was generous of her to allow you to come here today. Most employers would have insisted upon you accompanying her to Blackloch Hall immediately.’

‘Mrs Hunter asked me to run some errands in town before my visit to you.’ Phoebe smiled. ‘And she has given me the fare to catch the mail to the coaching inn on Blackloch Moor, from where I am to be collected.’

‘Good,’ he said, but he gave a heavy sigh and shook his head again.

‘You must not worry, Papa. According to Mrs Hunter, Blackloch is not so very far away from Glasgow, only some twenty or so miles. So, she has agreed that our weekly visits may continue. As you said, she really is a good and kind employer and I am fortunate, indeed.’ She took his dear old hand in her own and, feeling the chill that seemed to emanate from his bones, chafed it gently to bring some warmth to the swollen and twisted fingers. ‘And she enquires after your health often.’

‘Oh, child,’ he murmured, and his rheumy eyes were bright with tears, ‘I wish it had not come to this. You left alone to fend for yourself and forced to lie to hide the scandal of a father imprisoned. She still believes that I am hospitalised?’ Phoebe nodded.

‘And it must stay that way. For all of her kindness, she would turn you off in the blink of an eye if she knew the truth. Anything to avoid more scandal, poor woman. Heaven knows, there was enough over her son.’

‘You know of Mrs Hunter’s son? What manner of scandal?’

He took a moment, looking not at Phoebe but at the shadowed corner of the cell, his focus fixed as if on some point far in the distance and not on his ragged fellow inmate who was crouched there upon the uneven stone flags. The seconds passed, until at last he looked round at her once more, and it seemed that he had made up his mind.