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?