The Highlander's Secret, page 8
This thought lingered on her mind as exhaustion took over and she surrendered to a restless sleep.
Hours later, Phoebe faced the small, square mirror on the oak dressing stand in her bedchamber. She gasped at how Slade’s breeches accentuated the curves of her hips. Utterly inappropriate. And there was no place to conceal the dagger. She couldn’t possibly make a trip to the Royal Mail to send a missive to her mother or a coded note to Falcon looking like this!
An awareness pulsated through her at the crispness of the material touching her body, because it had touched his. She imagined she could smell his scent, clean with a hint of cloves and male surrounding her, making her insides liquid. An image of Slade’s rumpled hair, lean, muscled torso, and bronze skin from earlier made her skin flush and breath ragged. He was perfect, with a torso like Michelangelo’s David. The ink mark on his right bicep in the shape of a dark coiling viper had added an air of raw, unbridled danger, so shockingly different from the amiable lad she’d known in her childhood.
Should she have gone to Aunt Penelope or to the Movement instead of coming to him? Those distances were far greater. And her aunt would have thrown a conniption at her state of dress. Falcon had said Impromptu and direct contact for people in our line of work is unwise. That had left one remaining alternative.
When a creaking sounded from the front door to the lodge Phoebe stilled.
“Hello! Mistress Dunbar?”
Phoebe’s head perked up. The woman’s voice was almost musical. Phoebe exited the chamber and darted out towards the receiving area of the lodge.
She was greeted by a smiling, comely, round-faced young woman, dressed in a fashionable coral and rose colored open-front contouche gown, revealing a decorative stomacher and petticoat. It was finished off with scalloped ruffles, trimmed elbow-length sleeves and separate engageantes. How impractical for a lodge. The exotic feathers on the woman’s extravagant bergère hat looked about to take flight.
Phoebe stared at the woman before finding her voice. “Hello, I am Phoebe Dunbar.”
“Oh, you poor dear. You poor, poor dear. When Peter told me of your ordeal I had to come. I am Lucia Horton,” the other woman said.
Phoebe’s lips stretched into a smile at Peter’s wife. Lucia Horton’s gaze became purposeful with a downturned mouth, as if looking at a little bird with broken wings. Phoebe’s appearance must appear pitiful to someone as formally attired as Mistress Horton.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mistress Horton. Peter couldn’t stop singing your praises,” Phoebe said.
Mistress Horton pressed her startlingly white gloved hand to her chest, blushing. Peter’s wife placed the fashionable portmanteau she’d been carrying on the long table then came forward, taking both of Phoebe’s hands in her own.
“Please call me Lucia. Where is your bedchamber?”
Half an hour later, Phoebe pressed her palms against her ears as everything in the chamber spun around. She stared tongue-tied at the contents of the portmanteau that were now laid out on the bed, various items of colorful clothing, undergarments, and personal effects.
“When Peter said you not only had to make a hasty departure from your employer’s home after you found out what bad sorts they were, but that you hadn’t had time to pack, I said to myself, I must help,” Lucia said.
“But … but this is beyond generous,” Phoebe said, sounding breathless to her own ears.
“These are yours to use for as long as you wish. You are but a few inches taller than I am. Otherwise, the size is quite similar. My Peter surmised my gowns may fit you.”
Lucia held up an emerald-green muslin contouche gown next to Phoebe, then beamed.
“Most becoming. Now, take those hideous garments off so I can assist you into this,” Lucia said.
While Phoebe was grateful to Lucia, she bit down on her lip and actively refrained from crossing her hands over her chest after donning the gown. The overpowering urge to rip the shockingly revealing gown off her body warred with her need not to offend Peter’s wife. Its low-cut bodice was far too revealing.
At least the gown wasn’t red. Phoebe thanked all the saints for that. Since her attack, the color red made her break out in a sweat. Red was the one color she would never don again, ever—the color of Ross’s uniform.
After Lucia helped her to snugly wrap and knot the bandages around her palm and the back of each hand, she also assisted Phoebe with brushing out her hair. As Lucia then put up the sleek strands in a chignon, Phoebe spoke of her childhood and first meeting Slade while he fostered with Egan.
“In the Highlands, clan lairds often send their sons for training or fostering with warlords to prepare them for their duties as men. They forge bonds with other clans, train with various weaponry, acquire knowledge on how to do battle, manage their own clans, various livestock and farming plus they are given an enviable education in the process,” Phoebe explained.
Then Lucia described how she first met Peter, who was currently with Slade just outside the lodge tending to the horses. He came into her father’s apothecary on Loveday Street years ago. Then the tangible air of wealth surrounding Lucia made sense.
“Is your father either Allen or Hanbury of Allen and Hanbury’s apothecary?” Phoebe asked. That establishment was well known and thriving.
“My Father is a Hanbury.” Lucia brightened.
After Lucia was finished with her hair, Phoebe rose and walked over to the mirror. Her hand went up to cover her mouth as her eyes widened at her own reflection. Her appearance was head-turning. Weakness slithered down her body, bringing on a slight queasiness in her belly.
CHAPTER 20
For the eventide meal at the lodge, the cook laid out food in various dishes on the sideboard across from the long table. The prominent aroma of the meat and leek soup made Phoebe’s mouth water, reminding her she hadn’t eaten all day.
As Phoebe stood by the table, her hands resting on the back of a chair, she glanced at Slade across the table. He had just popped opened a bottle of wine with a polished motion of his hands. He hadn’t said a word to her, hadn’t even looked at her since he’d made an appearance. She couldn’t blame him, after the way she’d reacted in her bedchamber earlier.
Phoebe was unable to pull her eyes away from Slade, taking in his square, clean-shaven jaw. He was dressed for dinner in thigh-hugging gray breeches and a crisp white Cambria shirt, his neck missing a cravat.
The play of shadows on the angular lines of his face, cast by the flickering light of the candelabra, emphasized his breathtakingly handsome features.
Lucia shifted from dish to dish, a few feet away at the sideboard. “I am very much looking forward to keeping company with you at the lodge, Phoebe. I think it will be great fun for the two of us. A chance to get to know each other even better, as it were.” Lucia’s tone was conversational as she topped off her plate of food with an apple tart.
Phoebe hadn’t touched the fruit in seven years. Ross’s apple scented pomatum had made her cast up her accounts that night on the moors. But then again, it had been the least of the reasons for her losing her stomach content. She shook the recollection away when Lucia eyed her, expectantly.
“I very much look forward to spending time with you as well,” Phoebe said.
Lucia’s expression brightened as she set her plate of food down on the table across from Peter who, without hesitation, got up to help her with a chair.
Phoebe sensed Slade’s approach from behind.
She swung around to see his handsome face lined with worry and regret. Her eyes dipped the length of him, taking in his tall riding boots. They were polished to a gleaming shine, another one of his military habits.
“I sincerely apologize for my behavior earlier,” he whispered. “It pains me to think I caused you distress. Forgive me?”
Phoebe shook her head, her heart squeezing at his thoughtful words. “No, no, it is I who must apologize for my overreaction. I was simply exhausted and not myself.”
His eyes were warm and searching as they considered her before speaking. “Well, then, perhaps we may endeavor to forget the entire episode?”
“We should,” Phoebe said.
“Wine?” he asked. His voice smooth and hard at the same time.
A type of unrestrained energy vibrated from him. She’d never sensed it before. It wasn’t threatening, nor was it frightening—on the contrary, it invigorated the length of her. There was something raw and undoubtedly male about him, putting her senses on alert.
“Yes, please,” she said.
He proceeded to fill the goblet next to her on the table. As he poured, the full-bodied aroma of the burgundy liquid mingled with Slade’s particular scent of cloves and soap. She found herself taking a deep inhale.
“Something about you looks different this evening,” he said, his eyes still on the wine.
Had he been looking at her? Instead of hyperventilating, as she would have expected when attention was focused on her appearance, her skin tightened. Phoebe kept the pitch of her voice lower than usual.
“Necessity demanded I borrow one of Lucia’s gowns. But my hopes of not drawing attention to my attire is apparently dashed to bits,” Phoebe said.
“A man would have to be missing a pulse not to notice you in this gown.” His voice was low and gruff.
Her cheeks grew hot at his words. But was it a compliment or sarcasm?
“Are you finding everything to your liking?” he asked, looking up at her after filling the goblet.
“Yes,” she said, then thought of her earlier ablutions and how much she wanted to take a full bath. “But I would dearly love a portable tub.”
Somehow mentioning something as necessary and mundane as a bath took on an intimate quality as she blinked at him. His green gaze took on the color of emeralds in the candlelight.
CHAPTER 21
“I’ll have the stable hand bring in a tub,” Slade said with a shuttered expression, before turning and walking away.
After taking a deep steadying inhale she stepped over to the sideboard. Phoebe placed a sample of all the food on her plate, except for the apple tarts.
She did, however, serve herself a healthy portion of plum pudding. Since she was a wee bairn, plum pudding had been her absolute favorite. From the buttery cinnamon scent mixed with the sugary decadence of plums wafting up from this one, it was going to be an absolute treat. She carried her plate back to the table and took her seat.
Peter eyed Slade as he filled his glass. “Since you’ll be returning to the Highlands soon, I thought I could accompany you to drum up some more business.”
“Oh, I’d love to accompany you and help with the gunsmithy’s business. In fact, it sounds like a marvelous adventure for us all to travel to the Highlands,” Lucia cut in, in a delighted trill.
Surprise, pleasure and thoughtfulness flashed across Peter’s features. “It’s a long and grueling journey, my love.”
“But you’ll take care of me, won’t you, dearest?” Lucia pouted at Peter.
“Well … yes … of course my love.” Peter managed to look hesitant and utterly besotted all at the same time.
“Then it’s settled. Besides, the colonel will be with us. Will you be returning to Scotland, Phoebe?” Lucia said, shifting to face Phoebe.
Phoebe paused mid-chew, considering. She was very interested in Bolingbroke’s Glenfinnan mission. She would have to let Falcon know. But it was a good opportunity to warn her father about the English move to break the power of the Scottish Clan Chiefs.
“It’s quite possible that I may,” Phoebe said.
Lucia looked quite pleased with this answer.
Slade strode to the chair next to Phoebe, a full plate in his hand as he sent a cursory glance in Peter’s direction. “Do you have any specific potential customers in mind?”
The awareness of Slade returned, seeping into every inch of Phoebe’s skin. She didn’t know what to do with it or what it meant, so she concentrated on ignoring it as she took another bite of food.
“Wouldn’t your father and brother be interested in a demonstration?” Peter asked.
A grimace stretched across Slade’s features. “It’s possible. But I’m certain we’ll be able to interest some of the neighboring clans.”
For most of the meal, Phoebe attempted to ignore not only the pulsating virility of the man sitting next to her but the seamless way his beautifully rugged hands cupped his wine glass or gracefully held the knife and fork.
Phoebe finished her meal and turned all her attention to dessert. With a great degree of reverence, she scooped up a spoonful of the plum pudding, eying its rich, moist texture with an anticipatory sigh. As a connoisseur of plum puddings, she could tell, even before the spoon touched her tongue, it was going to be perfect.
When a burst of delectable flavors exploded in her mouth at the first bite, an unwitting guttural moan escaped her throat. She swallowed then glanced around. Had anyone taken note of her indulgence? Slade alone eyed her, his gaze penetrating, and his body as stiff as a board. She glanced at his plate. Why hadn’t he taken dessert?
Phoebe indicated the dessert in her plate. “Would you like to try it?”
Slade shook his head and returned his attention to the remnants of food on his own plate.
After the meal everyone sat companionably with each other and sipped their wine. Phoebe was pleased that Slade and Peter didn’t insist the ladies drink tea and leave the men to finish their wine separately, as custom dictated.
Lucia set her empty goblet down and eyed Phoebe. “My father is great friends with the local magistrate in Birmingham, and I think I should have him look into your former employer’s questionable behavior. They must have done something dreadful, if it forced you to leave so abruptly … are you up to speaking about it?”
Phoebe almost choked at the unexpected question. She quickly gulped down the wine she’d been sipping. Everyone straightened and eyed her, waiting for an answer. Falcon’s voice slammed into her awareness. Don’t ever get caught off-guard; stay in control.
She steeled herself and cleared her throat. “Admittedly, it’s an intolerable and unpleasant story, one I think would be quite upsetting to discuss now lest we all suffer painful indigestion,” Phoebe said.
“Oh, of course you are correct,” Lucia said, looking slightly chastised.
Slade considered her, his expression inscrutable. His eyes stayed on her, making her want to shift in her seat, but he then tipped his head back and finished his own wine.
On the morning of the next day, Lucia’s maid Martha, a mostly gray-haired and quiet motherly sort, arrived with Lucia’s packed bags for her stay at the Lodge. Then Lucia insisted they visit Birmingham to pick up any additional incidentals Phoebe had left at her employers’ home in her haste to depart.
After a two-hour ride in a sleek black Hanbury carriage, they arrived at the jewelry quarter in the vibrant city center of Birmingham. The footman hopped off the back to assist the ladies down.
Phoebe managed to purchase two readymade gowns despite Lucia’s criticism for their utter lack of fashion. And while Lucia was occupied with jewelry perusal, Phoebe slipped away next door to the Royal Mail. She posted a missive to her mother and paid an exorbitant sum for an express missive, which she’d written in code, to be sent by messenger to Falcon. For the past eight weeks, she’d had three sources of funds—an allowance as a lady’s companion, a stipend from her father and a discretionary allowance from the Movement. Now she was mindful that just two sources remained.
Phoebe guided their walk away from places Lady Bolingbroke or the manor staff would patronize. After the spider poison had worn off, what had Bolingbroke done? If anything. Slade had instructed the lodge’s stable hand to return the horse Phoebe had taken from his stable. Therefore, as far as horse theft was concerned, she was innocent.
As the three women exited a store and turned the corner, Lucia stopped short, Martha almost colliding with her.
“Why, it’s the colonel!” Lucia pointed across the street.
Phoebe’s gaze followed where Lucia pointed, her eyes widening. It was easy to spot the dark, familiar figure among other passersby, for Slade was head and shoulders above many. Slade, who appeared deep in thought, had stepped out of an office building. The sign on the awning above him read Harbert and Company, Private Inquiry Agents. Why would Slade require a private inquiry agent?
He’d left the lodge this morning before she’d even awoken.
Lucia waved with vigor at Slade but then stopped and dropped her hands when a boldly dressed beauty in a rather loud orange caraco jacket ran up to Slade and threw her arms around his neck. Phoebe’s body went rigid. It was difficult not to notice the capricious Swindlehurst even from this distance. Why was she hugging Slade as if they were more than friends? The notion solidified when Swindlehurst placed a bold kiss on Slade’s lips. The heat drained from Phoebe’s body. Had Swindlehurst refocused her attentions from tupping the general to targeting Slade?
Slade, who hadn’t noticed them, returned Swindlehurst’s hug and seemed surprised by her kiss. The scandalous gesture by the maid, however, didn’t seem to bother him in the least. And why would it? A kiss from Swindlehurst’s perfect lips wouldn’t be a hardship for any man to bear.
“Who is she?” Lucia said in a surprised tone.
“Omelia Swindlehurst. She’s a laundress from the manor,” Phoebe said.
“From your former place of employment? But why would she behave in such a scandalous manner towards the colonel?”
Why indeed. Although Phoebe could venture a few guesses, she shrugged in response. She had trouble understanding why the sight of a woman in Slade’s arms sharing a hug and a brief pressing of lips had the effect of making her stomach roil. Yet she couldn’t drag her eyes away from Slade and Swindlehurst.
