Two weeks later, early in the morning, after the kitchen packed their saddlebags with food and other supplies, a fully armed Phoebe and Slade trotted atop horseback. They rode alongside each other north bound from Garraidh, parallel to the coastline of Skye. The briny scent of sea water filled the air, and seagulls’ wings fluttered above them before swooping down towards the rocky, tempestuous shoreline to their left.

  For the past two weeks, Slade had brought her to a body melting release during every single one of her baths, his deft fingers unleashing multiple climaxes from her. Gently at first, but fierce and intense during the past few nights. She was conflicted she’d had to abandon control to experience pleasure. But willingly giving up control for pleasure wasn’t the same as suffering violent abuse when control is taken from you.

  Slade’s kisses, while sweet, had been restrained. Why was he keeping such a tight hold on his emotions? She’d found her release every single time, he hadn’t. She’d been on edge, sensing Slade’s body was wound so tight it could snap at any second. She had to do something but was out of her depth.

  A distant sound of thunder made Phoebe look up, taking in the sunless sky and rolling dove-gray clouds far beyond the Isle of Skye. With any luck, the cold northern winds would blow the clouds past them.

  She’d been shocked at first that he’d insisted on coming with her. What if he learned that her Jacobite friend was really her spymaster. He already suspected she was a spy, based on their discussion at the lodge. A sliver of something sharp pierced her gut.

  Phoebe’s eyes strayed to Slade. He sat strong and solid a few feet from her, his greatcoat billowing in the breeze from Destroyer’s momentum, her own mount keeping pace. Her husband’s magnificent visage was thrillingly disheveled, tense energy vibrating from each and every inch of his stiff and quiet frame.

  Her heart squeezed with aching warmth for her childhood friend, now her husband. He’d been tender with her, considerate, patient, and gentle, albeit merciless in his pursuit of her pleasure. Like she was precious to him, not like he’d been forced to marry her. He’d made her want things she’d never wanted for the past seven years, like to touch and be touched.

  After two hours of riding, her face was cold and her legs had started to cramp. And it occurred to her that Slade was leading them away from the wharf where they could charter a boat for Beinn na Faoghla and instead towards the Claigan fishing village.

  A short while later they arrived at a manse. Its stone walls looked pristine from having been recently whitewashed. Puffs of gray smoke rose up from one of its chimneys.

  The sheathed rapier and holstered pistol on Slade’s hip clicked against each other as he dismounted.

  The cottage was charming, but she sent him a questioning look. “Do you know the local minister?”

  “Yes, the minister and his wife are auld and dear acquaintances. More importantly they know every one of the villagers, those with boats and those who can be trusted,” he said, tying Destroyer’s reins to a post next to the gate.

  Phoebe dismounted and followed suit with her own reins. They went through the gate and strode up to the front door. Slade knocked.

  The door was opened by a homely older woman. Her wrinkled lips stretched into a warm wide smile. “M'eudail—my dear, boy, it’s good to see you.”

  Her charcoal gray hair was held beneath a white linen coif, a few strands out of place. The front of her comfortable-looking black dress was covered in a white pinafore. Her open, even features and warm maternal countenance drew a sense of respect and friendship from Phoebe.

  Slade took the small-statured woman in his arms and gave her a gentle hug. “Margaret, it’s been too long.”

  He released her, and she palmed his cheeks in a maternal gesture. “Congratulations are in order, for you are now a married man,” the woman said to Slade, fondness making her voice melodious.

  Slade smiled and leaned into the woman’s touch. His entire countenance softened. He welcomed this woman’s warmth and tenderness. Whoever she was, she was important. This was a side to her husband Phoebe hadn’t seen before.

  CHAPTER 54

  Slade’s lips thinned. “I was devastated to hear of Isaac’s death.”

  Pain registered on the woman’s lined face. “The good Lord giveth, and He can taketh as well.” Her voice thickened with emotion.

  Slade gave her another hug but held her for a few breaths longer this time. The lines of pain on her face eased.

  He released the woman and beckoned with a gesture of his palm to Phoebe. “I’ve brought my bride to make your acquaintance. This is Phoebe.”

  Margaret stepped forward with a welcoming smile. Phoebe was getting ready to extend her hand in greeting when the woman pulled her in for a warm hug instead, as if they were old friends.

  “I’m happy to meet the woman Slade has chosen to be his wife.”

  A whiff of lavender and clean linen tickled Phoebe’s nose as her arms encircled then released the woman. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, mistress.”

  The other woman took her by the arm and gently nudged her inside. “Please call me Margaret, m'eudail.” Her tone was warm and soft.

  The cozy interior of the cottage, heated by a crackling fire in the hearth, removed the chill from Phoebe’s cheeks. Eggshell-white lace curtains were pulled open, letting in the early afternoon light, which reflected off modest oak furniture.

  Margaret indicated the chairs near the fireplace. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

  Phoebe removed her cloak, hung it on one of the wooden pegs by the door then took a seat in one of the well-worn but comfortable chairs. Margaret took the one across from her.

  After Slade removed his coat and closed the door, he took the chair next to Phoebe. “Where’s Raghnall?” Slade asked Margaret.

  Margaret gestured towards a window facing the back of the cottage. “He’s in the back feeding the chickens. We were so busy this morning with taking supplies to the orphanage then the service right after. We just returned. Isaac used to feed the chickens …” Margaret broke off, tight pain flashing across her features again.

  Her expression tugged at Phoebe’s heart. Who was Isaac, and what was he to Slade and to Margaret? Phoebe quirked a brow, feeling helpless and looking sidelong at Slade.

  He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, as if berating himself internally. “Forgive me for being so remiss, my dear. Isaac is … was Margaret and Raghnall’s only son. He was a friend and a great reader. Through him I learned of Robinson Crusoe, Gulliver's Travels and the Odyssey. He was killed months ago in a skirmish led by Bolingbroke’s men.”

  The flash of sadness in Slade’s eyes brought a heaviness to her chest. But then his nostrils flared at the mention of Bolingbroke.

  She’d sensed a dark, deep-rooted hate for Bolingbroke from Slade at the lodge. It was now there in his scowl.

  She took his hand giving it a gentle squeeze. “I hadn’t realized you lost a friend, dearest, I’m so very sorry ….” Her words drifted off as she dragged her gaze away from the pull in Slade’s eyes to face Margaret. “I am so very sorry for your loss, Margaret.”

  Margaret offered a tight-lipped smile yet looked resigned to her grief.

  A few minutes later, a tall graying man entered from the back. He was dressed in dark clothing but had a pleasant, albeit tired countenance. His expression lit up, and a smile stretched his lips on seeing Slade. “M'eudail—my dear, boy.”

  Slade stood up and went towards the man. They greeted each other like the closest of friends. The man’s presence was exceedingly paternal and comforting, the kind that could put you at ease enough to confess your sins. Did this man know of Slade’s past? Of Sylvia? Her husband introduced the man to Phoebe as Minister Raghnall Edwards, Margaret’s husband.

  After introductions were made and condolences expressed, Slade returned to his seat, eying Raghnall. “Phoebe and I were sorry you couldn’t make the wedding, but it’s understandable under the circumstances,” Slade said, looking from Raghnall to Margaret then back to Raghnall.

  Raghnall sat next to his wife to whom he smiled warmly before raising his eyes to Slade. “The truth is we would have attended, but we didn’t want to upset Chisolm and cause any unpleasantness on your wedding day,” Raghnall said.

  Puzzlement at the minister’s comment caused a tightness in Phoebe’s throat. She glanced from Raghnall to Slade then back to Raghnall. “But why would your presence upset Slade’s father?” Phoebe asked the minister.

  Raghnall studied his hands for a brief second before eying Phoebe. “It’s a long story, starting years ago. Elizabeth, Slade’s mother, used to attend Sunday service at my church before she died. She confided in me as her minister. Chisolm loved his wife deeply but also wanted her to confide in the minister used by the MacLeans instead. Both Margaret and I had known Elizabeth since she was young, she was accustomed to us. But it was a point of contention between Chisolm and Elizabeth.”

  Phoebe shook her head in confusion. “But surely to confide in one’s minister and friend is natural,” Phoebe said.

  Slade’s voice broke through Phoebe’s confusion. “My father loved my mother very much, in his own way. But he was possessive and controlling to the point of obsession. It was important to him that my mother fully embraced becoming a MacLean when they got married, which meant using the MacLeans’ minister. This was important to him because he wanted his clan to accept her as one of their own. He was unyielding with this and many other things. I was too young to realize what was happening of course, but I heard the stories growing up. My father’s regret for the way he behaved while my mother lived put him in a very dark place in the years after her death. It made Garraidh, during my childhood, a very cold place. Something that has only recently started to change,” Slade said, staring at the fire in the hearth as if revisiting the past in his thoughts.

  Phoebe’s chest tightened as she eyed her husband. “Oh, how very sad for your father, and your dearest mother. Regret is a terrible thing, especially when the opportunity for remedy is lost forever.”

  When they were younger, she’d often heard Egan say how difficult it was for Slade at Garraidh, which is why he was at Eileanach so often. Not only did he have to contend with losing his mother at a young age, but with a father who was heartbroken and bitter.

  Margaret shifted in her chair, her expression soft and maternal. “Chisolm was young when he got married. His idea of a marriage was to control everything his wife did. He loved her dearly, but I don’t think he understood until after her death, that to love someone is to give them the freedom to be happy,” Margaret said.

  After a few more minutes of conversation, Slade inquired about a boat to Beinn na Faoghla.

  Raghnall’s gaze turned questioning to Slade. “Beinn na Faoghla? Are you sure?”

  The Minister gestured outdoors. The earlier dove-gray clouds had turned ominous and a few threatening shades darker. Instead of blowing the clouds further out to sea, it appeared the northern wind was in fact bringing the storm right to them.

  CHAPTER 55

  Slade and Fifi bid farewell to Margaret and Raghnall, left their horses in the chapel house’s stables, then grabbed their saddle bags and set out on the earthen path towards the wharf.

  A decade ago, having an understanding and sympathetic ear to unburden his woes after Sylvia’s death had helped him to keep his sanity, to drop his habitual use of opium and overindulgence in whisky. Yet Slade hadn’t revealed the whole truth of his intentions to the Edwards or to Fifi. Raghnall would have told him to dig two graves before he sought revenge against Bolingbroke; one grave for Bolingbroke and one for himself. And that soft glow of friendship in Fifi’s eyes all those years ago would have died, because in telling her he would have revealed to her the monstrous things of which he was capable. But the only way for him to revenge Sylvia’s death and redeem himself was to knock Bolingbroke off his pedestal. Then he would take immense pleasure in revealing to Bolingbroke exactly for whom he’d done it.

  Slade now glanced in Fifi’s direction as they walked. The alluring pink lines of her lips and the gentle curve of her delicate jaw were the only things visible under the black hood of her cloak. Flashbacks of him bathing her lush body hit him. Recalling the sounds of pleasure she’d made even now stiffened his nethers. His perpetual stiffness over the past two weeks was slowly making him lose his mind. When he wasn’t with his wife, his thoughts were of her. When she was near, he couldn’t take his eyes off her, wanting so badly to make love to her. When he dreamt, it was only of her. Her smell, taste and feel were consuming him and slowly driving him mad. But they would go at her pace, even if it killed him.

  When they reached the wharf and asked after Master Ames, a wee lad scraping barnacles off an upturned skiff pointed them in the direction of a stout, bearded man at the end of the pier.

  Ames was an older man, barrel-chested and paunchy. His craggy features were every bit the weather-beaten fisherman. Slade inquired about passage to Beinn na Faoghla.

  Master Ames raised his eyes, disbelief in his unshaven oval face as he pointed skywards. “Haven’t you noticed the black clouds?” Ames asked.

  Clouds had indeed blanketed them in an unusually eerie darkness, yet it was still day. Sunset wouldn’t come for another three hours.

  Before Slade could respond, Fifi spoke. “Please, sir, it’s a matter of great importance. You did come with high recommendations from Minister Edwards.”

  Ames pulled himself up to his full height, his chest puffing out in what looked like self-importance. “The minister sent you to me? Well then, I suppose I can take you. But we must be quick about it. Where on the island are you heading?”

  Fifi leaned in closer to Ames as if revealing a secret. “We’re going to Saint Mary’s. Do you know of it?”

  Ames nodded. “Aye. It’s on the east side of the island. Lucky for you, because I hate going to the west side. The redcoats are garrisoned there, and they ask too many questions.”

  Fifi’s shoulders visibly tensed at the mention of redcoats. “Yes, lucky indeed.”

  They boarded Ames’ jolly boat, just as the rain started to drizzle.

  The journey to Beinn na Faoghla took just shy of an hour. As they neared the wooden jetty stretching over part of the sandy shore and the water, the rain turned from a drizzle to a heavy downpour. Slade’s hair was soaked. Cold rivulets ran down the back of his neck, dampening his cravat.

  Despite the gusty winds and thick fog, Slade managed to make out a pair of short birches not far from the shore on a mostly treeless isle, the wind violently tossing their branches. The only sign of human habitation was an empty wooden canoe bumping up and down in shallow water tenuously tied to the jetty.

  Slade reached into his pocket, took out a few coins, more than the price Ames had quoted, and handed them to Ames. Slade then grabbed their saddle bags and helped Fifi from the small boat onto the wet sand of the shore. He thanked the Lord she had a hood, for it seemed to be protecting her from a complete drenching. Slade was starting to think it was not only ill-advised to come to the isle, but doubly so in a storm. But Slade had done it for Fifi. He suspected if she had to go to the moon, he’d find a way to do that as well.

  Slade stood next to Fifi a few feet in from the rolling waves and turned back to Ames.

  “How far is the church?” He had to shout above the gusts of wind and pelting rain.

  Ames remained standing next to his boat on the wet sand and pointed west. “Straight inland, about an hour’s walk.”

  Slade eyed Ames, raising his brows in question. “Will you wait for us?”

  Ames shook his head. “I can’t. I have to get back to my wife and bairns.”

  Slade swore under his breath but cocked his head at the man. “When can you come back?”

  Ames patted his pocket where he’d deposited the coins and smiled. “I’ll return a couple of hours after dawn. You can wait for me in Glenn’s cave.”

  Slade looked around with uncertainty. “Where is Glenn’s cave?”

  Ames pointed to their left, past the sandy shore, where weathered slabs of limestone stood atop a hill behind the twin birch trees.

  The fisherman then pushed off his jolly boat, rowing back in the direction they’d come from.

  The whipping wind was now causing water to crash violently against the jetty. Slade tasted the salt of the sea on his lips.

  He turned to Fifi. “Can you run?”

  Fifi’s rain drenched face was half covered by her hood, but she readily nodded. “Of course.”

  They made a mad dash for the trees. Then Slade guided them around the thick trunks, where for the first time he noted a narrow, almost hidden vertical opening in the limestone. They slipped through and found themselves standing inside a cave.

  It was wider than it was tall, the floor sandy and about twenty paces across and half that in height. But because of the angled entrance the interior was mostly dry. It smelled of musty earth, briny sea, and fresh rain. He leaned back against the cold rock wall not far from the entrance to catch his breath after their exhilarating sprint.

  A smile tugged at the sides of his mouth as a soft laugh escaped Fifi’s lips. She’d enjoyed their little charge through the rain as much as he had.

  Her hood was swept back revealing lustrous hair which had come undone from its pins, its wet fiery tendrils clinging to the sides of her freckle-kissed face. Fifi’s hazel eyes sparkled, and her skin glowed with moisture, even in the dimming light. Her long, thick lashes seemed darker, a few clumped together with rain drops, one such drop hanging precariously off the tip of her nose. Slade couldn’t resist the pull to close the distance between them and kiss her nose’s tip. His mind fixated yet again on the previous night when she’d been wet and naked. The stiffening beneath his breeches caused him to pull back.

  She smiled intimately at him but also hugged herself.

  His shoulder muscles tightened in concern. “Are you cold?”

 

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