The Highlander's Secret, page 2
But a blade to Bolingbroke’s chest was too good an end for the general. Slade had no intention of creating a martyr. No. A slow and methodical decimation of a grand political career sounded much more enticing. And Bullfinch had given him the opportunity to do just that.
A few minutes later, the second footman arrived with a tall stack of white linen. Slade took a few of the cloths to press against the wound and instructed the footman to hold them in place while he unfolded the remaining linens and draped them over the injured man. He then took off his coat and draped it over the man’s body as well. With a hole in his chest and the substantial loss of blood, the footman’s temperature would have dropped. Slade exhaled a breath of relief, for the bleeding had ceased for the most part.
A low feminine groan sounded, and Slade turned to face the lass on the cast iron long-chair under the willow tree.
“Keep pressure on the wound until the healer gets here,” he said to the second footman. The man’s head bobbed in earnest. Slade strode over to the lass.
Her features intrigued him. They fired a response from every nerve ending in his body. Despite the groan, she still hadn’t come to. Her flaming auburn hair was swept up in a bun held by a jeweled comb. Not a maid, but not an aristocrat either. Then he recalled the general’s comment about a lady’s companion. Curled tendrils outside the chignon hung on either side of the lass’s face, framing delicate features and a complexion that was fair except for an enticing sprinkling of freckles. Slade’s instincts came alive as he took in her evenly spaced eyes, a tad sunken, giving an appearance of vulnerability. She was in her early twenties, he’d guess.
Why did she look so familiar? Could he have swived her? In his past life, he’d had a taste for innocence, but now his tastes leaned more towards the wicked and experienced. Quite a shame, for there was a dangerous hint of voluptuous curves in the way the lass’s prim gown draped her form. Just the type to spark fire in his blood.
He stood next to her and scanned the length of her still body. He couldn’t decide if her drab gown was gray or had once been black and had been laundered too many times. Her hands were bloodied, as was the front of her clothing. The blood was the footman’s, wasn’t it?
Slade gently lifted the woman’s blood-stained hands and inspected them one after the other for injuries. Delicate wrists and slender fingers, but no injuries. He was still holding her right hand when her eyes pushed open. A captivating shade of hazel. With the combination of hazel eyes and auburn hair, she reminded him of—
God’s Blood!
His stomach clenched even as light-headedness made him let go of her hand. He took a step back.
“Fifi?” Slade said, shocked.
CHAPTER 3
Slade’s body froze while his mind raced back fifteen years. Fifi had slipped while standing on a wet rock too close to the edge of Loch Duich. Without thinking, he’d dived in to save her. The last time he’d seen her, his own world had disintegrated to ashes and blood.
Dear God, had he just minutes ago imagined he could have swived little Phoebe Dunbar, whom he’d taken to calling Fifi, years ago? He should be mortified. Not only was she his friend but Egan’s sister, and she could be hurt. And yet, as his eyes swept the length of her shapely figure, he couldn’t muster the mortification. She had surely grown up nicely.
She scrambled to sit up on the bench, but stopped short, closed her eyes, and swayed for the briefest of moments, looking a tad green.
“How do you feel?” he said, his muscles tightening in concern. He made a move towards her, but she forestalled him with a raised hand. She then steadied herself at the edge of the long chair and took a few deep breaths as if gathering herself.
After a few seconds she straightened to face him. “I feel like I fainted and made a complete fool of myself,” she said. Her head shifted towards the injured footman. “How is Ludlow?”
Slade’s eyes followed her gaze. He’d momentarily forgotten the man. “We’re unable to move him until the healer gets here, which should be shortly.” He paused and turned back to her again. “Your reaction was natural for anyone witnessing a gunshot.”
A look of self-derision darkened her features. “You did not faint.”
A cool smile tugged at his lips. “I’ve fought in two wars and have seen far worse.”
Speaking of the war always brought back the images. Bloodied and broken bodies felled in booming seas of cannon smoke and musket firings. Slade swallowed the tightening in the back of his throat. The worst part had been living each day as if there’d be no more. And the smell, an acrid stench of sulfur and death.
Fifi sent him a half smile, acknowledging his attempt to make her feel better. Warmth suffused him, for her look held traces of the innocent nine-year-old girl, full of lofty ideals, who he’d saved all those years ago. It sent the images of war right out of his head.
“Is that where you’ve been all these years? Fighting in the wars?” she asked.
He nodded. “After Sylvia died …” His words trailed off as that invisible knife ripped through his heart. Slade cleared his throat, swallowed against the tightening, and started over. “After she died, I needed something to do, far away from the Highlands, that would make me forget.”
Her expression sobered. “Such a loss I imagine is difficult to forget,” she said softly.
Slade let out a weary exhale. “It is. It follows you, even in war.”
A need to divert the conversation squeezed his insides. “And you?” Slade’s glance swept the encompassing area. He gestured with an open palm to the general’s flourishing gardens, impressive hothouse, and elegant manor. “How did you end up here as a lady’s companion of all things?”
Disbelief rolled down his spine. Lasses Fifi’s age were already married with a couple of bairns. Yet she was here, working. Even more puzzling was the fact that the Dunbars were one of the wealthiest clans in the Highlands. Why would she have to work?
Fifi’s expression hardened. There was something different about her now. Her countenance suggested weariness, restraint, and sagacity; such a stark contrast to the open, vibrant, and light-hearted young friend he recalled. He’d never seen this look from her before. Granted, it had been many years. When her fetching features evened out, he wondered if he had imagined the tension in her face.
“I am here in the service of a very dear friend who would never forgive me if her secrets were revealed,” she said.
She had evaded his question. Who was this friend? And what bloody secret?
The sound of rapid wheels reached them from a distance. Slade turned from Fifi to see a black gig heading straight for them. Bloody farthing hell! He badly wanted to continue the conversation, but the footman had to be attended to.
He faced Fifi. “Are you faring better? Do you require the services of the healer?”
She shook her head. “I’m not hurt, but I would like to sit and catch my breath for a moment. I am fine. Please, attend to Ludlow.”
He hesitated for a breath before speaking. “It’s a delight to see you after all these years. I do hope we have a chance to continue our conversation. And I wish you a full recovery from this ordeal. Please, do excuse me.”
He gave her a courteous nod.
She smiled. “Seeing you has certainly been a pleasant journey into the past.”
One he hoped they could continue together. Slade turned and strode towards the approaching vehicle.
The gig pulled up next to them, and a short, stout graying man stepped out from the black transport. Why was it typical for healers to dress in black? Made them look more like undertakers, in Slade’s opinion. He appraised the healer of the situation then assisted him, the second footman, and the steward in relocating the injured man into the manor through the servants’ side entrance.
The housekeeper directed them where to carry the injured footman. They entered a prepared room at the head of a long symmetrical hallway. The servants’ quarters were clean, ornamentally restrained, and modest. After Slade was assured there was nothing else he could do to help, he picked up his coat and asked a maid named Swindlehurst, who smiled rather boldly at him as he exited the room, to direct him to the general’s study.
She gave him directions then added, “if you cannot find him in his study, then you will certainly find him in the library,” she said. Then went on to give him directions to the library as well.
“You are very helpful. How can I repay you?” Slade said, donning his coat.
“You can buy me a drink at the local tavern.” This time her smile was undoubtedly come-hither. He eyed her in a manner not unlike the Greeks must have eyed the Trojan Horse and contemplated it getting them into Troy but he’d have it easier than the Greeks, since his Trojan Horse seemed a talker and the trick would be to get her to give up the secrets. After returning her smile, he dashed off to have a final word with Bolingbroke.
CHAPTER 4
Phoebe sat for some time under the willow tree collecting herself after Slade, the second footman, the steward, and the healer carried an injured Ludlow into the manor. When her knees were less like jelly, she rose and made her way to the rear of the manor, not wanting Lady Bolingbroke to see the blood on her hands or the horrendous state of her dress. She scurried through the kitchens, circumventing the cook and maids, and headed straight for the privacy of her small but neat bedchamber.
Her hands shook and her stomach roiled as she scrubbed the dried blood off with the clean, cool water in a porcelain washbasin using a square of orange-blossom soap. She stood by the dressing stand, staring down at the resulting bloodied water stark against the whiteness of the porcelain. Flashbacks of her washing herself after the moors seven years ago hit her. The old, familiar unclean feeling followed, flooding her with self-disgust. This sensation of being soiled had long since burrowed under her skin, branded her soul, and become a part of her flesh. Certain types of filth couldn’t be scrubbed away.
Phoebe stripped off her blood-stained dress and put it aside for the laundress. The blood had not soaked through to her shift or petticoat, thankfully. She donned a black dress with a linen lining, a built-in whalebone corset, and flowing skirts. It had a modest white cotton fichu covering her all the way to her neck, just as she preferred.
After putting her hair to rights enough to face Lady Bolingbroke, Phoebe glanced around for the Daily Courant. She wanted to secure the gossip column, along with the hidden Jacobite news pamphlets which Falcon’s assistant had mailed to her. Falcon occasionally sent communications to spies via specially delivered missives or artificial notices placed in the Daily Courant’s advertisements in code, which Phoebe hadn’t quite finished sifting through.
Recalling she’d dropped the gossip column when Ludlow was shot, she made her way back outside down the pebbled path towards the rhododendron. She’d told Slade she was doing this in the service of a friend. Falcon was formidable, unassuming, and deadly, but friend? She chuckled. As Phoebe approached the rhododendron, she stop short, startled. Standing by the willow tree was Slade MacLean, his arms body width apart, palms resting on the cresting rail of the cast iron long chair, his lean body angled slightly downwards. Taut lines of tension on his forehead didn’t diminish the attractiveness of his features.
His beauty snatched away her breath, like the first time she’d met him years ago. But now he was steelier, edgier, and more dangerous. This man made her heartbeat erratic and her lower belly clench.
He must have sensed her approach, for he turned. He straightened, and his features relaxed. His warm gaze swept down her changed clothes.
“I wondered if I’d still find you here. I thought to bid you adieu before I left,” he said.
She offered him a pleasant smile. “Has your business with the general concluded?” she asked.
“For today,” he said.
Her eyes were drawn to an errant lock of thick, black hair that had escaped his queue. It wavered slightly in the wind, teasing the edge of his earlobe, which didn’t look quite right.
“You sustained an injury during the war?” she asked gesturing to her own ear with a tap of her finger, concern tightening her voice.
The need to run a finger over the uneven lobe, to see if it was as jarring to the touch as it appeared, surprised her.
“Nothing more than a minor wound. I was shot by a French infantryman during my first battle. Took half my ear lobe off. It only bothers me when I am in full gallop. The wind sounds like a screaming ghost,” he shrugged.
“I am sorry you were hurt,” she said, her voice softening, her chest warming at his humor.
Fifteen years ago, they’d shared an easy rapport, one of warmth and young friendship. Could they recapture that ease? As a young girl, she’d told him chivalrous stories of the Order of the Thistle, stories her mother used to read to her at bedtime. And she’d revealed a secret dream of hers to him, of becoming a knight errant who helped the poor Scottish farmers terrorized by the wicked English redcoats. Phoebe was now embarrassed on behalf of her nine-year-old self for such fanciful childhood imaginings. But he’d never once called her silly.
“There wasn’t time to inquire earlier, but I wanted to ask. How is your family? How is Egan?” he said, with genuine interest.
He stepped around to the front of the long chair and gestured with his palm for her to join him. She stiffened. For the past seven years she’d been careful to never be alone with a man. Brutal male strength unsettled her. It had caused her to overreact on countless social occasions over the years. She’d become abrupt with one or two of the younger and bolder manor staff, warning bells too loud in her head when they’d attempted flirtations. She’d received strange looks in return. But such overreactions had kept her safe.
But this was Slade, her old friend.
Phoebe still hesitated before sitting, taking in the surrounding gardens. If Lady Bolingbroke happened upon them, she would spout propriety because Phoebe was unchaperoned. But Phoebe spotted the gardener trimming the evergreen hedges nearer to the manor, only fifteen feet away. A groom eyed them from the end of the gardens closer to the stables. He held the reins of a bay courser, possibly waiting on Slade.
A brief conversation with an old friend in daylight while two others were nearby wouldn’t buck propriety. Would it?
CHAPTER 5
Before Phoebe moved to sit on the chair, she spotted her discarded gossip column half hidden under the rhododendron. She picked it up, then took a seat. Slade sat to her right. She shifted to face him. His tall, broad-shouldered torso was imposing, causing her to swallow hard as her eyes rose to meet his sharp emerald ones.
“Egan is busy learning the Eileanach business. He will eventually take over the running of things. Father and Mother are not fond of the fact that I am in England. They’d much rather I take a husband and settle down in the Highlands, preferably close to Eileanach Castle where they can lord over my life,” she said.
The corners of Slade’s lip twitched up, in what seemed like mirth and silent understanding. “Now I start to see why you are here. Perhaps your parents’ reach to lording over your life, as you put it, doesn’t extend to Sutton Coldfield.”
A laugh left Phoebe’s mouth, lightening her insides. “Yes. That certainly is an added attraction to my being here,” she said.
Her posture relaxed. Perhaps that old rapport was returning after all.
“And how is your family?” she said.
A shadow crossed his fine features. Phoebe sensed Slade’s hesitation in answering her question. He didn’t get along with his father, Chisolm, or brother, Lachlan and because of that Slade had revealed years ago he’d never gotten use to calling Chisolm “father.” His mother had died when Slade was a wee lad, but Phoebe never had the courage to ask what had happened.
Weariness flickered in Slade’s eyes. “They are doing well enough, from what Lachlan reports in his missives to me. Both Chisolm and Lachlan are demanding I return to Garraidh Castle. But that’s not so easy when one holds a commission in the Royal Scots Greys,” he said.
“Is that why you are at the general’s residence? Military business?” Phoebe asked, but then regret contracted her midriff. She was fishing for information on Bolingbroke, and she hated it had to be done through Slade.
His green eyes sharpened at her question. She imagined the resulting flutter in her belly was what a butterfly felt like under the inspecting gaze of a natural philosopher. Slade had never provoked this response from her before. But then again, she’d never worked as a spy while in his presence before, either.
She affected an air of insouciance she didn’t feel.
“I am attempting to arrange an arms contract betwixt the general and Hortons,” he said.
Was this one of the unsanctioned businesses the general was involved in? An arms contract didn’t sound illegal unless the general was using military funds to buy personal weapons. Or using such weapons for unavowed attacks against the rebels. But surely Slade wouldn’t be a part of that, would he?
Phoebe tilted her head, questioningly. “Hortons?”
“They’re a gunsmith company out of Birmingham, in which I hold an ownership stake,” he said.
It appeared Slade was involved in business ventures outside of the Royal Scots Greys and Garraidh Castle, his family seat.
“I assume as a general, Bolingbroke is authorized to enter into arms contracts on behalf of the English military?” Phoebe asked, aware that her question was probing. But she’d had to ask the question. Trust your instincts, Falcon had said.
Slade sent her one of those piercing gazes of his.
“At present, the general’s interest is purely personal,” he said.
At least he’d answered her question and not given her any of that male superiority nonsense about her questions being unsuitable for a gently bred young woman. Her eyes took in his expression as it changed. His sleek, well-formed brows climbed. A frown line formed between them, and his nostrils flared slightly at the end of a long, well-shaped nose. “Your interest in my dealings with the general is as puzzling to me as when Britain decided to form an alliance with Russia.”
