The Highlander's Secret, page 25
“We’re here to witness Hawley’s sale of stolen army weapons to mercenaries and take proof of his illegal dealings to my Jacobite friend, who has the means to expose his treachery where it will cause the most damage to his reputation,” she said.
Slade was facing forward as both their horses slowed to a walk alongside each other. His jawline hardened.
A flash of intense worry crinkled his brows, shifting to anguish as he glanced at her. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. I don’t think I could bear it,” he said.
A breath stealing emotion crowded her chest as her heart compressed painfully. The intensity of love that washed over her was so overpowering it stung the back of her eyes as she met his gaze. “I promise to take care. Please don’t worry. But we have to do this. Hawley must be stopped.” Her voice cracked with raw emotion, but it was also laced with steely determination.
When they were close enough, they tethered their horses to trees well off the road and crept the final hundred or so yards to Hawley’s manor. Then they settled quietly out of sight behind the thick trunk of an alder tree, an excellent vantage point from which to view the gray manor and barn where Phoebe had spotted the crates previously with Aila. Ten crates were visible, each the perfect size for holding Brown Bess muskets. They observed at length the two able-bodied plainly dressed guards patrolling the property’s perimeter.
It surprised her how well she and Slade had worked together so far, as they waited on the arrival of the musket buyers. There’d been no discussion about how far away they should leave their horses from the site, or the best location to hide and wait, or the fact that they had to mark the comings and goings of the manor while they watched from their hiding spot. Nor had they agreed to count the number of weapons the guards carried, or how best to surreptitiously approach the barn from their location. They just did it.
Two hours later, a military-looking wagon built to transport troops and weapons came down the lane with three occupants. The driver and one of the men at the back were what Phoebe would expect cutthroat Irish mercenaries to look like. But the third man was wide-eyed, much younger, and seemed out of place.
Phoebe pulled her vizard from the special pocket she’d sewn in her coat. As she donned it to conceal her facial features, her muscles went weak, and her mouth dropped open. Words failed her as Slade donned a similar mask.
She hadn’t much time to process Slade’s mask, because her gaze was yanked back to the occupants of the wagon entering the manor’s front yard and making their way to the barn and the two Hawley guards.
A moment later, Phoebe saw Hawley himself strutting out the front of the manor towards the barn with a surly smile.
“That’s Walter Hawley, lieutenant general of the British Army, second to Bolingbroke himself,” Phoebe whispered.
Slade took the man in, then faced her. She couldn’t tell his expression behind the mask. “You’ve clearly done reconnaissance here before.” He paused then continued, “It appears we are two against the six of them. I would think, for proof of Hawley’s illegal dealings, all that’s needed is the muskets and perhaps one or two of their men to give witness?”
Phoebe nodded. “Yes. Let’s wait for them to get far from the wagon before we do anything. Those wagons make for a quick getaway.”
Slade’s directness was in his eyes and in the curtness of his nod. “Agreed.”
As adrenaline pumped through her veins, she positioned her previously loaded pistol and the musket within easy reach. Slade had clearly done this sort of work before. Was the army’s training similar to the Movement’s? But that wouldn’t explain his mask, would it? Phoebe’s brain screamed something at her, but she ignored it. She couldn’t afford to be distracted.
Phoebe, musket in hand, quickly worked the angles, deciding on the best position for shooting as Slade drew his own pistol and musket, and laid them next to where she’d put her own.
Phoebe eyed him quizzically, a heavy cold sinking into her belly. “What are you doing?”
Slade considered, but it was difficult to read him through the vizard. “Once the alarm is raised, I want you to incapacitate as many men from this position as you can. I’ll leave you the firearms. I will go and see how many I can quietly eliminate before they know we are here.”
Something hummed inside Phoebe’s chest as she voiced one of Falcon’s mantras. “I agree. Secure success by subduing the enemy before the fighting begins.”
There was amusement in his voice when he spoke. “Yes, but if fighting is required, you fight.”
Phoebe eyed him for a breath before speaking. “I’m good at close combat. I can help if I go with you.”
His jawline hardened. “Yes. But here you will have a bird’s eye view of everyone and can incapacitate more effectively. I know how good you are disarming your opponent face-to-face and with a pistol. I recall Hortons shooting range. But I don’t want you getting hurt or distracted.”
“I don’t want you getting hurt either,” she said, pushing past the blockage in the back of her throat. She couldn’t imagine her life without him.
CHAPTER 63
Phoebe’s gaze darted from the manor back to her husband. Slade was trying to protect her, and she loved him for it, but he was taking the most risk. This was her mission, she should be in the line of fire.
Yet, there was no time to discuss. They either moved forward as a cohesive force, or not at all. The delay could cost them the success of this mission.
Her chest tightened, torn between fear and logic, blood racing through her veins.
“All right, I’ll remain here with the guns, but at least take one of them,” she said.
“I’m better with a blade,” he said.
They’d wasted enough time discussing it, and she didn’t want any delays with further discussions, so she acquiesced.
As she positioned all the firearms within easy reach, he grabbed the collar of her cloak. Yanking her to him, his mouth crushed hers. His tongue plundered her mouth. It was quick, rough, and exacting. Her head spun, and her breath was coming fast and hard when he released her.
“Stay safe, my brave love,” he whispered, his eyes boring into hers. Before she could speak or catch her breath, Slade had already slipped away behind the next tree trunk, and then to the next, staying low, like a graceful predator on the prowl, all the way to the back of Hawley’s barn.
With heartbeats hammering in her ears and her body starting to sweat under her cloak despite the cold, she took up her position behind the trunk of the tree and waited. She’d risked her own safety before on missions but had never risked the safety of someone she loved. The danger of it hovered around her, thinning the air. She realized her knuckles had gone numb with her death grip on the musket before she relaxed her fingers. She wouldn’t give in to the fear because then it would make her useless, slowing her reaction and mental clarity which would be a sure way to increase the risk to them both.
Hawley and one of his armed guards were now standing closer to the manor, next to two mercenaries, one armed, all deep in discussion.
Phoebe made out the remaining two men, one unarmed mercenary and an armed Hawley guard, by the back of the barn. Just then, a tall, dark, broad-shouldered figure slipped out from behind a tree, approaching the men from their rear. It was Slade. He silently drew his rapier and thrust it swiftly into the back of the mean-looking armed guard, the bloody blade protruding from the man’s stomach. The unarmed mercenary standing next to the now-slumping guard bellowed a loud invective, raising the alarm.
Stunned, her heart pounding her chest, Phoebe didn’t have time to react to Slade’s second move as he knocked the bellowing man in the head with a blow only a trained spy would use. She was already taking aim closer to the manor and firing at the chest of the guard standing next to Hawley. Her musket ball dropped him. Phoebe grabbed the second musket and shot the armed mercenary in the head as he bolted, acrid tangy smoke wafting from her musket’s barrel.
She dropped the second expended musket and grabbed the two loaded pistols. With pure adrenaline pouring through Phoebe’s veins and fear a forgotten emotion, she bolted for the fray.
Between her and Slade, they’d eliminated four opponents. Only Hawley and the out-of-place mercenary remained. Recalling the informant’s confirmation that there were usually two to three men with Hawley, she was confident they’d accounted for everyone who’d be a threat to them from the manor, except Hawley himself. The former had disappeared into the manor and the latter was scrambling towards the wagon.
She positioned herself in front of the mercenary just as he rushed for the seat of the wagon. Terror and wildness were plastered on his young face.
“Move that wagon and I’ll shoot you,” she said, training her pistol straight at his head.
The young mercenary’s eyes bulged, and his hands went up in the air in total surrender just as Slade sprinted past her from the barn on his way to the manor and Hawley. “Situation in hand?” Slade asked.
“Situation in hand,” she said, her breath coming fast. In that second, Hawley stepped out the manor’s front door with a loaded musket trained right on Slade’s chest.
Several things happened all at once. Blistering heat and cold fear collided in Phoebe’s stomach as Hawley fired on Slade. An excruciating pain in her chest almost stopped her heart. But Slade had already ducked out the way. She drew breath again, as the bullet hit the edge of the wagon. A deafening roar in her ears made her head snap towards the young mercenary, making sure he was not running, and then her eyes found Slade again. Praise all the saints, Slade wasn’t shot.
Hawley tossed his expended musket. With pure hatred on his twisted features, he went for the rapier sheathed at his waist. But from Slade’s half-risen position, her husband whipped out a trident dagger from a sheath at his waist and jabbed forward just as Hawley unsheathed his rapier.
The dagger went through Hawley’s shoulder, and the man bellowed curses, dropping his rapier. Slade immediately followed up with a steely punch straight into Hawley’s face, felling the man.
After finding rope in the wagon, Phoebe and Slade restrained Hawley, the guard Slade had knocked out cold, and the young, scared mercenary, leaving them out of sight inside the barn. The other three men were already dead.
“One of us has to alert the constables while the other keeps an eye on the three men,” Slade said to Phoebe.
At that very moment a wide-eyed, ashen faced man nervously stepped out from the front door of the manor waving a white handkercher, and Phoebe remembered Bullfinch’s missive and its description of the informant.
“We can send him to bring the constables,” she said to Slade, pointing to the small-boned man with the handkercher.
Slade nodded his approval and said as much to the man. After pocketing the white handkercher, and the coins Slade handed him, the man scampered off towards the village to get the constables.
“I’ll wait here until he returns. But I think it’s safer for you to return home. If it was any other woman I wouldn’t let her travel alone, but now that I’ve seen you fight, I pity the brigand who tries to interfere with you,” Slade said.
Phoebe sent her husband a long assessing look. She was grateful they’d both done this with nary a scratch. All due to the same training, she realized.
Adrenaline still warred with blood in her veins from what they’d just accomplished. So did shock and amazement.
“You’re Eagle, aren’t you?” she said, swallowing back the moisture in her mouth.
He sent her a cocksure grin as he took her in his arms. “I wondered when you’d figure it out.” His voice was soft, almost teasing.
“You worked as a double agent during the wars?” she asked.
He nodded, his eyes darkened. “I did.”
Phoebe blinked up at her husband, astonished and breathless, just as his lips landed on hers, not giving her much time to react to his admission. The kiss sent a blaze of fire straight through her body, singeing her to the core while her spinning head grappled with her new reality and struggled to bring her back to earth.
CHAPTER 64
With reluctance, Phoebe left Slade at Hawley’s manor waiting for the constables with three dead men and three men physically restrained. She slipped her vizard back into its pocket and was just about to guide her horse onto the main road from Bayview Crest when the hoofbeats of another rider caught her attention. Her grip on the reins tightened when she took note of his red uniform. Instinct told her the redcoat was heading for Hawley’s manor. But when she made out the empty blue eyes and fair hair of Faye Ross with a musket pistol hanging off the holster at his waist, she froze in ice cold terror. No. No. No. This couldn’t be.
Her knee-jerk reaction was to flee. This snake had broken her spirit, made her feel unclean, and dragged something nefarious into her soul. But Phoebe inhaled against the tight terror blocking her windpipe. Slade was at Hawley’s manor. She had to delay Ross.
If she hadn’t just thwarted an illegal firearms deal orchestrated by a corrupt lieutenant general and come out unscathed, and if Slade wasn’t still waiting at the manor, she might have run. But then, she was a lot more capable now than she had been seven years ago.
Pure hatred and malevolence emanated from the twisted scowl on Ross’s face as he reined in his white stallion, right next to her black gelding.
“I don’t imagine bumping into you twice in this exact spot is any coincidence, is it?” he asked, his tone tight with suspicion.
Phoebe’s teeth clenched. Her chin lifted. “Your imaginings are none of my concern,” she said.
Something unhinged shone in his expression. A wildness in his eyes that made chills run up her spine. With teeth bared, he reached across and backhanded Phoebe across the face.
“Insolent little bitch.” He hissed.
Phoebe gasped as her entire face screamed in pain. Her eyes stung, and even her nostrils smarted. But no more. Enough of this snake’s intimidation.
Fury roared in her ears and pounded against her ribs. Phoebe pulled out the primed pistol, previously hidden in the pocket of her thick black cloak and pointed it at his head. She pulled the trigger the second he whacked it out of her hand.
The shot went wild, and her horse reared up, emitting a piercing neigh. Phoebe’s grip on the reins tightened, and her booted feet held fast in the stirrups as her hip and abdominal muscles engaged so she could stay seated. And she would have remained on her horse, but Ross grabbed the collar of her cloak and viciously yanked her off.
The breath was knocked right out of her as she landed, pain shooting out from her side through the rest of her. Her horse’s hooves kicked out in fear, connecting with Phoebe’s leg. Phoebe screamed at the unholy pain as her horse bolted for the trees.
She lay on her side gasping, her body howling in agony and shock. Phoebe’s leather-gloved palms pushed against the ground to lift herself up, but she didn’t get very far. The debilitating pain in her leg wrenched a growl from her, and she dropped back to the ground. Frustration, anger and hatred burned her belly as Ross sauntered towards her, having dismounted. His animal, no doubt used to gunfire, stayed calm.
A twisted smirk stretched his pale mouth. “I recall having you on your back seven years ago. Apparently, you liked it so much, you readily got on your back again.”
“The only reason a woman would get on her back for a vile piece of excrement like you is if you paid her,” Phoebe said, her teeth clenched.
His expression turned malicious and he pulled back his booted leg and slammed it into her side.
Phoebe gasped at the sharp pain. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. A trace of his apple scented pomade from his close proximity caused a stomach spasm. She swallowed against the need to retch. Phoebe would fight this serpent with her last breath before she let him hurt her again.
“You are like your parents, thinking you are better than me. They didn’t agree to my proposal seven years ago for your hand, but I had you anyway, didn’t I?” Ross said, contempt lifting the left side of his mouth.
Phoebe blinked at him, shock, and confusion churning in her belly, amidst the pain riveting through her injured leg.
“Wha … what proposal?” she asked, her voice weak.
A mirthless laugh escaped his mouth. “Didn’t they tell you? I asked for your hand seven years ago. And again, three weeks ago. But your parents denied me. We wouldn’t suit, they said.” He scoffed.
Anger flashed in his eyes, similar to seven years ago, and again three weeks ago.
Pieces of a sickening puzzle started to drop into place. His seething anger that day seven years ago when he’d attacked her. He wasn’t just angry she’d refused to stop riding when he’d called after her on the moors seven years ago. He’d been seething because her parents had refused him. She’d thought it was anger from her slight. And then again three weeks ago her mother had said she had to marry Slade because they’d been seen kissing. And because the other options for a husband were not worth mentioning. At the time the words had struck her as peculiar, but she’d dismissed it in her panicked state.
Phoebe’s eyes bulged. “Why in all that is holy would you want to marry me?”
Hostility and rancor curled his lips into a sneer. “Because I had been watching you for weeks after Hamish and Broden first told me who you were. Riding the moors seven years ago, without a care in the world. Wild and uncultured like an animal. Animals like you must be controlled, broken in,” he said, coming to stand directly above her, his chin raised sending her an unnatural smile. Its eeriness unsettled her.
“I liked the look of you, I imagined I could take you for my wife, but you needed to be trained, like a man must train a horse or a dog how to take commands and behave when in the presence of their masters,” he continued, his eyes traveling the length of her, making that unclean feeling crash over her like a tidal wave.
